⋆ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ⋆

You're good at detecting change. Especially in Nate Jacobs.

The first time you could confidently say you'd noticed a change in Nate Jacobs was when he went from thinking he was too cool for you whenever you knocked on his door and asked to play outside, to accepting when his mother pushed him because "she's a sweet girl and you shouldn't be cooped up in here all the time".

He had begrudgingly accepted, but when he realised that you were also being forced to knock on his door by your own mother, he chilled out pretty quickly. "My Dad's gonna come back from work and play catch with me, but I guess it'll be good to practice with you beforehand."

His Dad never actually played catch with him, so he eventually just ended up knocking on your door from then on.

The next time you'd noticed a change in Nate Jacobs was in the sixth grade. Until then, the two of you had been pretty close, and had created some kind of neighbourhood gang that consistently met to play street football. But in sixth grade, when he was eleven, suddenly, he was no longer interested in being part of any group. He'd been interested in keeping you away from them, for some reason. He'd darkened, is the only way you could explain it to your mother. He became dark, and you weren't sure why or how. He didn't like you coming over, either, and didn't like if you did that secret handshake thing you always did with his Dad. He didn't like you going over to other friends' houses, either — girl or boy, so you'd ruled out a crush — and he also didn't want you sitting with anyone else in class.

Naturally, you were forced to be closer.

The third time you'd noticed a change in Nate Jacobs was when he'd desperately clung onto you one night when he was fourteen, the summer before high school. It had been weeks since you'd spoken outside of school. At school, the dynamic hadn't shifted. He was still funny, charming, chill. But outside? Radio silence. Even on social media, the most you'd ever done was follow each other. No DMs, no reel-sending, nothing. So him sneaking into your room through your window at two a.m, the morning of his fourteenth birthday, was very startling.

After calming down from your initial shock, you'd asked him what he was doing there. He broke down.

You had nothing else you could do, but listen and stroke the back of his hair as you attempted to pick up whatever he was mumbling at your neck.

"What was actually on those tapes, Nate?", you'd asked, gently, trying to drown out the sound of your heartbeats syncing.

He pulled away from your neck, straining his head so he could glare down at you, brows furrowed. "What?"

"What was on the tapes that made you 'hate your Dad', like you just said?"

"Shut up."

"What? Nate, it's a simple ques—"

And that was when you'd noticed the fourth change in Nate Jacobs, because normally, he'd just punch at your shoulder and scoff, telling you to shut up. But instead, he kissed you.

You weren't new to affection from Nate. He was pretty lax with boundaries. He'd hug you, call you "baby" non-sarcastically, and even try helping you out with choices of clothing, sometimes, if you asked.

But he'd never kissed you.

You shoved him away by his chest, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "You stole my first kiss!"

He raised a brow, as if that was the last thing he'd expected you to say after something like that. "What?"

"You stole my first kiss! You didn't even ask!"

"Did you like it?"

"No."

He fought a smile. "Then shut the fuck up or I'll do it again."

"What happened to you? You're cursing and you're kissing and you're being weird!" It's like he was trying to speed-run childhood and become an adult overnight, and it was spooking the hell out of you, who was still reeling from the high of having an Instagram account.

He'd looked down at you, then, before tapping a finger on your nose. "Grow up, baby, okay? And shut the fuck up about my Dad's tapes or I'll do it again. I'll do a helluva lot worse."

The fifth change you'd noticed in Nate Jacobs came just a few weeks after that, in freshman year. Because he'd apparently started dating, now. You knew he'd had a thing for Sophie since she'd first joined your football-gang — he'd told you as much — but it was still weird to see the guy who, a week ago, was still secretly obsessed with Hot Wheels, cosplay some super-jacked hot guy.

You started ignoring him after that, and he hadn't cared.

The sixth and final change you'd noticed was in sophomore year, when he'd started dating Maddy Perez. After that, you'd stopped giving a shit, and he'd started giving way too many. At least he was super-jacked and hot, just like freshman-year him had pretended to be. And he made QB, which was good, you thought. Maybe? You didn't know what constituted as a good development in Nate Jacobs' life anymore, and you'd stopped caring.

But you can't quite do that right now, when there are innumerable changes that are left unaccounted for, that you're not sure how many trips down memory lane, and scrupulous analyses, would help you chart out. Because in theory, yes, you know that six years is a long time. Not in the grand scheme of things, but in the small scheme of interpersonal relationships, yes, it's a gargantuan amount of time.

And in theory, yes, you know what the difference between sympathy and empathy is.

But most importantly, in theory, yes, you know what second-hand embarrassment is. It's a term — also known as vicarious embarrassment — that refers to feeling mortified at someone else's humiliating predicament, even when it's got nothing to do with you.

But second-hand embarrassment has never slapped you in the face so hard as when you walked into Nate Jacobs' wedding to Cassie Howard. You hadn't really known much about Cassie during high school, only that she rolled with Maddy's crew, who was in an on-again, off-again thing with Nate. Her, you knew, for dance-planning reasons, even before knowing about Nate. But Cassie Howard is just, uh... kind of a blank, to you. You'd thought she was cute with McKay, who's... weirdly enough not present, which is interesting, considering Maddy is. For all the shit Nate used to talk about Cassie, calling her a community pussy, a slut, a bop, and kinda even shaming McKay for liking her? Him marrying her is just... hypocritical, to say the least.

But what's actually embarrassing is that they invited Maddy.

That's something else to unpack.

Maddy Perez is the first one to meet your gaze, and she, for all intents and purposes, looks like she's doing well. Of course, the whole my-ex-is-marrying-my-ex-best-friend thing aside, she looks great. Snatched. Awesome. She also smirks at you like you're both in on some kind of joke — the entire wedding — and it's taking everything she can not to burst out laughing. She hugs you and kisses your cheek.

"Hi, Maddy. How have you been?"

"Great. You?"

"Fine."

Small talk, pleasantries, the works. Just practice for the inevitably awkward moment where you'll have to address the bride and groom.

"So. This is, uh... somethin', right?", she asks, eyes moving around the room.

"Yeah. I mean, it's beautiful."

"So beautiful.", she agrees, before those eyes come right back to you.

The two of you laugh like you've just ding-dong-ditched someone.

"I missed the actual ring-switching."

"You didn't miss much. Don't worry. I've heard that they, uh... have a dance. Should be fun."

"Nate dancing?"

"Mm-hm. C'mon, let's get front-row seats."

Unfortunately, Maddy doesn't stay long enough to see it through. You stay long enough to wish you hadn't. You're not sure what's happened between sophomore year and now, but you hope his insurance has covered this clearly severe-head-trauma-induced behaviour.

You suddenly feel underdressed and overwhelmed, and you last felt that way during the Winter Formal of your junior year, where you'd had to console some girl called Natalie, who'd been abandoned by some jock she couldn't identify through her sobs. You've always had a striking suspicion that that had been the groom of tonight.

"Holy shit.", you mumble, slipping away from the throes of reunion with people you never actually fucked with — Jules Vaughn. Marsha Jacobs. — to lean against a far enough pillar so you can, at the very least, have a little sip of the mini-bottle of Absolut that you'd brought along just in case this wedding was... well... exactly like this.

It'd always been this way, now that you think about it. Nate simultaneously surprising the fuck outta you and also... not at all, and you clutching your head in absolute whiplash.

You're not sure why he's invited you — or if Cassie Howard had just looked up the class of 2019 and invited you — to this gaudy shitshow of a wedding, but if it's to rub it in your face that he's still everything he thinks he is, then you're just gonna take your ass back to New York and your 6-figure job and leave these pathetic assholes to their... whatever this was.

You take one more sip, ready to fucking leave until you hear voices right behind you, like a fucking movie or something. You're rooted to your hiding place like a fucking cartoon mouse.

"...I'm fucked, I'm burnin' through money right now, Fred."

Was that Nate?

"Can you fuckin' believe it? A flower, Fred."

Your life is clearly just one big experiment for the universe or something. You're a firm believer in shit happens for a reason, but... what the fuck could you do with this information? You're not Lexi Howard, you can't write a fuckin' play. Whoa. Wait. You might be able to. Maddy works in management or something, she told you. Hey. Business idea.

Whoever this Fred character is, though, he's clearly not buying it. Or, at least... is reluctant to. But you have this gnawing feeling that the Nate Jacobs you grew up with is buried inside this cheesy-dancing, kitschy-wedding version, and he's about to claw his way out of that suit.

"Say it with me. Say it with me. Fuck the flower."

As expected, Fred does. "Fuck that flower."

After hearing 'fuck that fucking flower' an unnecessary amount of times, you nearly snort and give away your position, because this Fred guy, who you've gathered is a major investor in whatever failing venture Nate's on even congratulated him. You've always known Nate was good at manipulation — you've seen it, firsthand — but he's still got it, and it's kinda impressive.

You hear a muttered 'Fuck.' and you wait for the receding footsteps. None come. You're not dumb enough to peer over the edge of the pillar and check, so you decide you're fine staying put and watching the birds in the trees fall and die because they don't have enough food, thanks to the copious amounts of flowers in this goddamn wedding.

The anticipated footsteps come closer, in fact, and you hope to god it's Ruby Bennett or even fucking BB. You decide it might be the latter, when you see some smoke from your peripheral, but it's your fault for assuming she's the only one in your past that smokes.

It's Nate.

It seems like it's something that he hasn't done in a long time, properly, like a guilty-pleasure relapse, so you try not to breathe too hard, but you're basically feet away. He doesn't turn to you immediately, and instead, lets the nicotine fill his lungs for one, fleeting, satisfying moment. Then, he turns to you. Nate Jacobs, in all his assholic entirety.

"Hey."

"Hey, beautiful ceremony."

"Thank you. Uh, for coming, as well."

It's awkward, formal, and exactly what the initial small talk with Maddy had prepped you for.

"You look good. It's... been a while.", is his next attempt at acting like six years haven't gone by since he's spoken to you.

"Thank you. It has."

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm based in New York."

He raises a brow in expectation, before laughing, gesturing for more. "And...? C'mon, you gotta give me more than that. Where's my little troublemaker gettin' her paychecks from?"

Wow, he's really pulling out all the stops to get you to smooth shit over with him, huh? "My little troublemaker"? Desperate attempt at nostalgia.

"I work in finance.", you reply, before rolling your eyes at his still-anticipating face. "Wall Street.", you relent.

He whistles, lowly, all teasing fading from his face. "Wall Street? Damn, what happened to 'I wanna be underworked and overpaid' and 'fuck capitalism' ?"

You chuckle, shaking your head politely at his offer of his cigarette. "I realised I like money. A lot of it."

"Welcome to the realm that the rest of us stay in. Reality. How's it feel?"

"You're talkin' about reality?", you scoff, rapping your nails against the pillar behind you. "This whole wedding's like a '70's fever-dream."

"You sayin' it's not good?"

"I'm saying it's not you."

He tilts his head at that for a moment, before shrugging. "Well, a lot's changed. Just like you.", he says, smiling a bit softer at the last part. "How long you in L.A for?"

"Uh, I fly out tomorrow night."

Then, it's back to watching the birds starve, but this time, with smoke clouding your view and Nate's breathing on your left.

It's nice. You two used to do this kinda stuff in middle school. Of course, not the substances, but you'd occasionally sneak out to watch his older brother play in the high school football matches in said brother's Jeep. As long as you promised not to get his tires fucked. You'd secretly wager your Halloween candy on how much he'd fuck up — Aaron played, but he was shit — in each game.

"Hey, uh...", he begins, scratching at the top of his nose in more awkwardness than discomfort. "You didn't happen to... hear any of that, back there, did you?"

"The toasts? Yeah, they— um, you know I respect your Mom, but that was just rude, what she said about Maddy when she was right fuckin' there, y'know?", you tell him, leaning your head against the pillar.

"Oh, yeah, no, I'll... that was way out of line, I thought so, too. I'll have a word with her, I was going to, anyway.", he assures, nodding. Then, he thumbs behind him. "But I meant, did you catch, like, any of the conversation with my friend Fred?"

Oh, shit. Fuck. "Parts.", you inform, bringing the bottle back up to your lips. "I was more focused on demolishing this.", you chuckle, breathily, nervously, before taking a sip.

"Right. Right." A pause. "You were the first one I wanted to call, you know? After Lexi's play."

You frown at that, and you lean on the railing in front of the pillar that makes this whole situation very claustrophobic, before focusing your eyes on the treeline. "Really? After the play in senior year? Why?"

"That — that was my lowest point. And the only person who had seen all of my other lowest points before that... was you."

"So... why didn't you?" It's stupid, and you don't really actually give a flying fuck. But still. Curiosity is humanity's curse.

"Cassie, she... she got jealous. Didn't want me calling other girls."

Is it too early to call bullshit? There's no way Cassie Howard knew you. Even you knowing Maddy was entirely unrelated to Nate, so this was just... absolutely implausible.

"So you made up for that dissonance by putting me on the guest list?"

He snorts, shaking his head as he leans his back against the railing so he could better look at you. "Kinda-sorta. It's working. I feel like we're eleven again."

Does he? You personally feel like this is some scripted personal hell of yours, but what do you know? Maybe you're abnormal, and this type of stuffiness is all the rage these days.

He scratches at his nose again. Is this one of his new tics? To your knowledge, when he was shifty or nervous, he'd scratch the back of his neck. Maybe he didn't think the neck-scratch was bougie enough. Another change.

"I missed you."

Okay, now you're convinced he's just trying to butter you up. "Yeah?"

"So much shit happened that you'd have loved. I stuck it to my Dad. Called him a faggot to his face."

"Then got him put in jail, amazing."

"Deserved it.", he retorts, before taking a longer drag of the cigarette, eyes up at the inky sky directly above him as he releases the smoke. "You're the one I wanted to call, during all of it. You're my day one, like it or not."

Not, you wanna say.

"Yeah, well.", is what you actually say.

"Thanks again for coming. My face lit up as soon as I saw you."

"No problem.", you say, patting his shoulder before moving back to the party — and the exit.

Like Fred, you add a "congratulations", before attempting to get the fuck outta there.

But then, he looks down, desperately trying to scramble up something to say, before his eyes trail from your shoes up to your face. "You're here tomorrow, right? You should come over for lunch."

"Uh..."

"Hey. It won't be as awkward as tonight, trust me."

Did he not just say Cassie was some jealous, overprotective bitch? Or were you tripping?

"I'll see."

He smiles, winking at you as he crushes the cigarette under his foot. "Can't wait. Here, take this.", he mutters, reaching for your phone so he could put his number into it and calling it, immediately after. "Fresh start, right?"

"Yep."

You leave without congratulating Cassie, too, because you're not sure what to say, seeing as she's practically making out with a bottle of wine.

Their threshold crossing would probably be very interesting.

You're desperately searching for your fucking room key when you hear the buzz of your phone on the bed. What now? You'll riot if it's work calling — you specifically took three days off because you knew this would be the fever dream it was, so you're well-within your rights to ignore it. But you figure it's probably just your mother checking to see if you're all packed and ready for the flight.

When you see Nate Jacobs pop up on your screen, you grimace involuntarily. Right. You'd hoped you could leave quietly before he remembered you had lunch plans, but he's clearly very much still into the whole reunion schtick.

You pick up. "Hello?"

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Uh huh. Who else would it be?"

"No, I just, uh... I... are you still coming over?"

"Yeah, about that, sorry, I... made plans to meet up with a friend before going to the airport, so—"

"Could you please cancel them?"

"What?"

"It's— it's, like, really urgent, like... trip-to-the-ER-urgent. Please?"

He's being scarily polite. Cordiality? Sure. Formality? Expected. Politeness? Concerning.

"I... don't know if I can—"

"Please. Please, okay? Please?"

He seems shaken. You decide maybe Cassie's beat his ass up for inviting you over because of her envious tendencies, and is probably forcing him to make this call so she could poison your food or something.

"Okay. Sure, I'll stop by."

When you reach the place, there's a car besides your cab, and Maddy Perez is sitting in it. Uh... okay? She gives you a sort of confused nod, before letting you stalk your way up to the front door. There, Cassie Howard — well, you suppose Jacobs, now — barrels past you with like, seven whole bags and a fur coat. She doesn't acknowledge you much. In fact, doesn't seem like she even knows who you are. Maybe she thinks you're the new help.

"Hello?", you call, like you're a cliche in a fucking horror movie.

"In here." A groan.

You reach the living room, and he's sitting there, foot propped up on the table, medicine around him, face all beat up, scars, and plasters, a split fucking lip, and even blood on his floors. "Oh, hey.", he grunts, attempting to shuffle up. He sits back down immediately, clearly fatigued.

"Holy shit! You weren't kidding when you said 'the ER'! What happened?", you hiss, rushing to his side as quickly as you could while avoiding the blood stains in the carpet.

"Um, Cassie found out."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Cassie hasn't known that you're in debt?"

"Is that really important right now? Point is : she found out."

"And beat you up?"

"No, my loan shark did. He took my big toe."

His who took his what now? Your eyes sprint down to his foot, where the toe's clearly been stitched back on and is now a revolting bluish purplish black.

"A loan shark?! Nate, are you insane? You're lucky to have your whole fuckin' foot! What were you thinking?"

"I... I know you're leaving tonight and that this was supposed to be a nice lunch, and I hate to be that guy, but..."

He better not be asking you to help tend to his wound now that Cassie's, to your knowledge, left him.

"Listen, I'm not... asking for handouts, I'm good for it, but I'm just... it's stressful, y'know? She can't— I can't let her... I don't want her to worry.", he mumbles, grimacing as he leans over to dab some of the ointment on his toe himself.

He hopes the sad-newlywed tone undercuts the fact that he currently feels two inches tall (and big).

"Nate, listen, I'm sorry you're going through this, and I wish you and your marriage all the best, but I really can't get caught up in this, okay? I won't tell anyone, but I'm sorry, I'm not gonna involve myself.", you manage to say, while reigning in your metaphorical hand from reaching into your metaphorical reserve of empathy, specially labelled Nate Jacobs.

"Please? Just a little bit. I'm good for it." No, he's not, and his 9/10 toes are proof.

"I'm sorry, Nate, I'm not giving you any fuckin' money."

That... comes out wrong. Too sharp. Too direct. Too harsh.

He blinks at you, still clutching at his head with one hand and wiping at his foot with the other. "Ouch. Okay."

"I meant that a loan would just... be temporary. It'll pacify Cassie and it'll shut up your shark for a little while."

"Naz."

"I don't give a fuck what his name is. Point is, you're not gonna be scot-free because I give you a couple hundred thou'. What you can do is go to the board of directors, convince them to help you out, especially with getting some lawyers, and then work your way up from there. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We good?"

"Do you... know any lawyers? Who could help me?"

You roll your head toward him, so you can see him with minimal effort. He's still audacious, that son of a bitch. "Lawyers? Yeah, but they're all corporate."

"Yeah, that's exactly who I need."

You shake your head, as gently as possible. "From what I gather, no, you need a finance lawyer with good enough knowledge in environmental law."

"No, no, I'm against environmental law. Fuck that flower."

"Yeah, for sure, but, like— it's gonna be much worse if something happens with that flower. Is yours a two-income household?"

"No." Right, your bad, it's barely a one-income household. Hell, it's barely a household.

"Right, well, I'm sure your Dad has shit saved up, he'll help you."

"My Dad? You— I know you missed a lot, but you were there when shit went down, weren't you? It's— out of the question."

Okay, you're not his fucking advisor, you're someone he barely wanted at his wedding, so you're not sure why he's arguing with you about this like you actually care that he's in crippling debt.

"Will you help? You're in finance. You could help me with the plea, y'know?"

"Uh... for sure." Least you can do.

He smiles through severe pain, eyes twinkling in the light from the lamp directly next to his head — he's leaning, he can't sit up straight — before he speaks. "Thanks, troublemaker."

Dude. The buttering-up makes sense, suddenly.

Yet another instance of second-hand embarrassment slaps you on the face in the form of Nate's plea deal. He gets on his fucking knees, and you're not sure whether you should run up and yank him up, or just up and leave his unprofessional ass there. You do secret option number three, and wait for the whole debacle to be over.

Then comes the awkward car ride back.

"I shouldn't have done that."

You wait till he's switched lanes before responding. "No, you shouldn't have."

"Am I fucked?"

"Brutally."

"What do I do now?"

"Wait for the environmental lab results."

"Naz will kill me before they come. Please, Y/N, you gotta help me."

"I can connect you with one of my lawyer friends."

"Could you?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Thank you so much."

"But I've only taken today off, so I'm on the next flight out."

He looks distraught at that. "But—"

"I'm sorry, Nate.", you tell him, thumb pressing down on the side button to silence the text from your boyfriend.

"No. You're not. You're gonna leave.", he mumbles, eyes darting from your phone screen back to the road.

"I kinda have to. Work. Employment. You know?"

"Right."

"Nate—"

"No, no, I get it, totally, I just— I'm scared, y'know?"

"I — yeah, I know.", you nod, watching him swerve to the other lane again, dangerously. "Hey, should I drive?"

"I mean, this Naz guy's crazy, y'know? He cut my fucking toe off, he threw my wife onto the floor and broke her nose— she was bleeding, y'know? And—"

The car skids, audibly, as he changes lanes again, on the fucking highway, and you decide maybe life is a little too precious for you to be sitting in the passenger seat of a car with a madman who's currently got nothing to lose at the wheel. "Nate.", you warn. "Nate, slow down."

"—And I've got nothing left to live for, and my wife left me, and I'm in debt, and I'd rather die with dignity than at the hands of Naz—"

"Whoa, Nate, slow down, we're practically flying.", you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady as your eyes keep running between the speedometer and him. "Nate."

"I just wanna..."

"NATE."

"It would be so easy to..."

"NATE!", you yell, manoeuvring the steering wheel by cementing your hands on his, like some kind of fucking action movie that can't afford CGI. You wince at the whizzing sounds of horns passing aggressively by you as you do so.

"I have no one. At all, who cares, and..."

"I'll stay! Nate, I'll stay! Just... DON'T be a fucking idiot!"

He breathes out a sigh of relief, then, like he'd been planning this shit, or counting on it. You briefly wonder if this is a grosser, larger-scale version of the manipulation he'd done on Fred during the wedding, but you chalk it up to suicidal ideation thanks to a hopeless predicament.

Nate slacks his neck, resting his forehead on your forearm that's on the steering wheel doing the driving he's meant to be doing. "This is why I love you.", he murmurs, voice muffled against your sleeve as he takes several deep, relieved, breaths.

You watch him gently swat your hand away before he takes safe control of the steering wheel again.

You don't wanna think about how he did the exact same thing after prom in senior year just to fuck with you and give you a half-assed apology for him being a full-assed prick.

Was all of this just a nostalgic kick for him?

Nate's hair has grown softer, you feel like. Maybe because his heart had grown harder over the years, and this was to make up for it? You don't know, and maybe it's just something in the water of this place, but compared to when he was fourteen, his hair's softer between your fingers.

He'd fallen asleep on you after chugging an entire bottle of wine, and you'd been pretty helpless after that.

"Thank you."

Your body tenses. Had he not been asleep? Was it fake? Was he trying to get your guard down? You're not sure why you're this suspicious of a man that had lost everything, but the man was Nate Jacobs, and you know him far better than he'd expect you to.

"It's no problem."

"No, seriously. Thank you.", he repeats, leaning up momentarily to kiss your cheek before laying back down. You smile politely, and you know he can feel it. He leans back up, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Seriously."

Before you can reply, his lips press against yours. You don't kiss back.

"You're married."

He laughs against your lips, sitting up and turning the lamp on behind you. "Am I? Where's my wife? See her anywhere?"

"Yeah, but—"

"She left me. Guess who didn't. You."

"Nate—"

"You and I were technically married before Cassie and I, if you think about it. You remember? We planned separate weddings but then merged them because of budgeting?"

"Budgeting.", you snort.

"I know, the irony is stabbing me. But seriously. Remember? Pizza party — Quatro Formaggi? You kept telling me to pronounce it like the Italians do."

You're not sure how he's got the audacity to use something you'd made up at twelve years old against you as an excuse for him to commit adultery with you now, like, a week after his wedding, but he's doing it.

You watch him sit up, and reach for the beer that you'd had to abandon when he collapsed on you, wine-drunk, ten minutes ago. "I'll tell you what.", he says, knuckles trailing up your arm to your cheek. "I'll pronounce it like the Italians do if you kiss me like the French do."

That was so disgustingly Nate to say.

"Nate."

He kisses you without asking, this time, which should be enough to raise a couple alarm bells in your head. But as with everything with Nate, they get drowned out by his capability of being so noxiously himself.

"Did I steal your first real kiss, again?"

He knows nothing about Mark and you. He doesn't know that Mark has an engagement ring in his closet that you found and kinda-sorta-maybe hid. He doesn't know that Mark and you live together. He doesn't know you've been together for a considerable three years.

"No."

"Did you like it?"

Fourteen-year-old you said no. It's a little harder for burnt-out, romantically-unsatisfied, twenty-four year old you to be that quick in denying that something was new, exciting, and exactly what you needed to get Mr. Bare-Minimum out of your system.

The silence is enough for Nate to grin, teeth glistening in the mixture of lamplight and moonlight. He looks angelic. "Trust me.", he says, thumb rubbing at your cheek, gaze roving over your eyes with adoration pooling into them like it'd been saved just for you.

And so you let him tilt your head with just one finger — because it was cooler, apparently? — so that he can prod even further, brushing your tongues together.

A spark.

You're not sure you've ever felt that kind of spark before — sorry, Mark — and it only grows when he yanks you onto his lap, after pulling down the zipper to your pants.

"Being a saint must be exhausting.", he murmurs, his breathing growing heavier and heavier so as to give him an excuse to steal oxygen from your mouth.

It gets messy fast. Not like it's not already messy, but that's just the morality of it. The mechanics of it is worse, because it's like someone else is puppeteering you and you're helpless to Nate's whims. He trails his hands up your bra? You help him by taking off your shirt. He gently drags your hand down to his belt? You help him by unbuckling it, letting him do absolutely fucking nothing except kiss your neck while you do. Is it weird you're more annoyed about the imbalance in division of work given than anything?

"What?", you ask, frowning slightly. What an odd thing to say.

"This Mark guy. Is it Mark Logan from high school?"

Had he read your notification in the car?

"What if it is?"

"Baby, I remember Mark Logan. He's the poster boy for puritan propaganda.", he tells you, laughing as he bites the end of your earring and tugs at it. "Hence : your saint-schtick must be exhausting."

"No, he's not."

"No? How many positions you guys do?"

"A lot."

He raises a brow, clearly fucking amused, before grazing his fingers over your bare shoulders so lightly that it tickles, almost. "Yeah, probably because none of them make you come. It's me, c'mon. You love him?"

"Yeah."

He nods, corners of his lips turning down as he shrugs, considering that answer. "Are you in love with him?"

You need to stop giving Nate these silences. He seems to misread them as invitations to fuck up your life.

"Let go."

"You're married."

"And you're half-naked on me. ", he whispers, before he kisses you once again. "Listen to me. Fuck that flower. Fuck him. And instead, fuck me."

"Yes, I know what I said, Mark, but—"

"You said it was a wedding. Even with fatigue, it shouldn't take more than three days."

"Mark, I'm sorry, just... please just cover for me. I don't do this often, tell them it's an emergency. It is, by the way. The groom had to go to the ER."

That's partially true. Sure, the groom had gone to the ER. And now he's home, stretching one foot to curl his toes (the foot that has all of them) into the leg of your pants to tug you closer.

"So let the bride take care of it."

"...She left him."

Nate does his best sullen jilted face.

"In one day?"

"I swear, I can't make this shit up."

"Sounds like you are."

"Mark, please."

"Okay, but... tell me the whole thing when you're back. Love you."

"Thank you. Love you too."

You hang up, clenching your jaw as you toss the phone onto the couch.

"'Love you'?"

"Shut up, Nate."

"You didn't tell me you were in love."

"Does that help you win your white fritillaries case and keep the rest of your toes?"

He grins, shrugging playfully. "Who knows? Might help me achieve self-actualization."

"It won't. Now. I have a friend Felix from Uni, but he's kind of a headcase."

"Oh, yeah, head—"

You roll your eyes, instead poring over the documents of his business ventures.

His hands land flatly onto the arms of the couch he's on. "Really, Mark from A.V club?"

"Really, Cassie from the SlutPages?"

He scoffs. Touche, he wants to say. Fuck off, is what he actually says.

"This Sun Settlers thing is... ambitious. When'd you start hemorrhaging money? Definitely not after the fritillary thing.", you ask, flitting through his plans.

"Before."

"How far before?"

"I, uh... had the plans but not the..."

"The intellect?"

"Easy.", he warns, before grinning at you. "Dating Mark Logan and you talk about intellect?"

"You're really chipper for someone one failed OnlyFans payment away from imminent death."

"I guess I'm just happy you're here. I trust you, you'll help me out of this."

You're a little rusty, so you can't quite identify if that's just a statement or if Old Nate, the one who manipulated grocery store owners into not asking for I.D back in high school, had resurfaced in his time of survival needs.

"I... I'm not sure I know how, Nate."

"What?" His face falls, and he moves to stand behind you, looking down at his documents in your hands as he rests his chin on your shoulder like this is some romantic card-reading and not his entire fucking life at stake. "Yes, you do. C'mon. You're a little troublemaker, you know how to get out of it, too, yeah?"

You've forgotten to let him know you fucking hate that fucking nickname. You always have. He'd seen you at Fezco's convenience store — about a month after his sophomore-year-lobotomy that led him to pretending you didn't exist — and dapping him up before he handed you a bottle of Bacardi. You'd shouldered right past him, but not fast enough to hear him say "...trouble". Now, you'd never figured out what the first part of that sentence had been. You'd assumed 'you're in trouble', or 'someone's in trouble', but then he'd started calling you "trouble", so you decided he'd said "you're becoming trouble", that day.

But then... at the wedding. He'd completely switched up. Troublemaker. The fuck did that come from? Had he just forgotten the nickname? Or did he mean something else?

No time to think about it.

"No, Nate, you don't get it. Loans sharks work by setting unnecessarily high interest rates. You needed money fast, he gave it to you, and now you need to give him, what, ten times what he gave you because you didn't even have a third of it when he asked you to pay him back the first time?", you ask, letting him turn you around before you thrust the paper into his chest.

He grabs it, scanning it like a sudden inheritance from a dead relative might make itself known on it. "You can't help me? At all?" Nate kisses the side of your cheek like he gets to.

Uh-uh. You shove him away, snatching the paper back. "What gives? What is this? Sleeping with me? Are you whoring yourself out so I get you out of this mess?"

"You know why I'm doing this."

"It's not the truth, Nate."

"I've— since we were eleven —"

"Shut up, Nate, FUCK! I've seen you do this exact shit to Maddy! Do you think I'm dumb, or someth—"

Nate doesn't seem to take that well. For someone in imminent mortal danger, he seems to still hold himself up on a pedestal. He shoves you right back, like you're both still nine and fighting over who gets to be striker and who has to be goalie. "You don't fucking LISTEN! Your problem has ALWAYS been that you don't fucking LISTEN!"

"Yeah? I LISTENED to you tell me your Dad's a fucking pedo! I LISTENED to you make YOUR shitty financial planning MY problem! I LISTENED to you insult my fiancee! When have I ever NOT listened to your bullshit, Nate, huh?!"

He laughs sardonically, gesturing wildly at you. "So this is about your dumbass fucking the only guy that'd look at you in high school? You know WHY?" It's hilarious how he only grasps onto the part that makes you sound stupid.

"Why WHAT?"

"Why he was the only guy in that entire school that asked you out? Hm? You think they didn't wanna fuck you till you were spent and knocked up? They DID. Guess why only Mark came up to you?", he yells.

You expect him to say something about Mark being a pussy with no self-awareness of the concept of leagues. But then, he says : "I told them they'd have no fucking dicks left if they tried to stick theirs in you."

It's crude, it's horrendous, and it's definitely the Nate you remember from high school. "What?"

"Mark was a little punk who I didn't think would be your type. Didn't look like a threat, so I left him be. Guess he's the fucking fritillary, except he's both endangered and invasive, huh?", he spits, moving back to you like nothing's ever happened. "So no, dumbass, I'm not whoring myself out, I'm living for high-school-me, who I think has been denied far too fucking much so far, huh?"

Realisation hits you harder than you want to hit him. You don't even want to think about the implications of Nate threatening guys to stay away from you while he was actively and publicly dating someone else. It's moot, it's manipulative, it's Nate.

Your eyes trace the lines between his ugly ass tiles while he busies himself with your hair, kissing your forehead. "I do like you. You know that. Been in love with you since we were eleven. And I'm falling back in now."

You're tired, seriously. "Stop bullshitting."

"I'm not, but it's okay, baby, it's fine.", he murmurs against the top of your hair, pulling you into his chest like you needed comforting. "Help me out, and I'll make sure there's no consequences for us."

"What 'us', Nate? We fucked once, we're not in some clandestine relationship, Jesus!"

"Yeah? Where was my phone when we fucked?"

You pause at that. The entire world stills. The air stops. The starving birds seem to drop. "What?"

"You handed it to me during, right?"

"Nate."

"I know for a fact that Mark's more loaded than the other idiots you were about to call up, right? I had to do this, baby."

"No, you didn't. I was helping you."

He squeezes you tighter.

"After you get me the money from Mark, I get to pay Naz back and you get to pay Mark back for taking so many years off your life.", he tells you, like he's reciting a nursery rhyme. "Or I send him the video I took from my phone."

And suddenly, it's all clear. He fucked you for blackmail. You can't pull away now, can you? You've fucked Nate Jacobs. You've fucked a married man. You're also helping financial fraud, infidelity, and if dumbassery was a charge, that as well.

"Say it with me. Fuck Mark. Fuck Naz. Fuck that fucking flower."

"Fuck off.", you reply, swatting his hand away as he tries to kiss you again. You don't think you have the strength or the energy for anything more than that. Maybe if you got a restraining order?

He smiles, shaking his head. "Close. We'll work on it. You'll be here the whole time, anyway. I'm sure Mark has no problem with that."

You take a couple steps back. You briefly wonder if he slept with you because Naz has eyes everywhere and some of the heat would be transferred onto you instead of him, because he's no longer looking like a victim of financial fraud and shitty fortune.

He's looking like a puppeteer. "So, I'll ask again. Can you help me?"

You try not to let your voice shake in pure rage. "I can try. Like, maybe talking to a couple buddies of mine that aren't out to cheat the fuck out of you?"

"You'd do that?"

"I— I'll try. I can't promise anything."

Nate's smile looks genuine, but you can't be sure. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's enough."

You're such an idiot. The wedding was an act, of course!

Whole time, Nate Jacobs was the exact same.

Maybe you're not as good at detecting changes in him as you'd thought.

The package had been tiny, actually, and surprisingly unassuming. Just there. The purple box was a light purple, oddly muted for something that came from the Capitol, with an elegant silver ribbon tied onto it, under which was tucked a note : Finnick Odair. Writing, not print. He undid the ribbon, turning the note over in his hand. Nothing on the back.

Then, he'd uncovered the box.

Three tiny glass boxes, each with a single chocolate in them. Huh. Okay, weird that this came separate from all the other confectionery presents he'd received after his Games, but he'd not thought much of it.

The chocolates had been slightly enormous — at least, bigger than any he'd ever seen before — and each had a label stuck neatly to it. First : District, then Capitol, and finally, Avox.

He'd thought that was a little weird. He'd heard of chocolates being categorised by type — dark, milk, white — and by flavour — nougat, caramel, and his personal favourite, sea-salt — and hell, even District — don't tell his District, but he personally liked District 8's shit. But he'd never before heard of them being categorised by makers.

He'd decided he could get on board with that. Identifying the crafters would also humanize them. He figured that the people who are involved in making half the shit people in Panem eat on a daily basis aren't acknowledged nearly enough as they should be.

So, he decided he'd try these out.

He'd started with the Capitol one, to get that shit over with.

Only thing he remembers is that it had been disgustingly bitter, like someone had ground cigarette ash into hard liquor and then decided to add some juice in, because why the fuck not? He'd spluttered and gagged and spit half of it out. Still, the back of his tongue had tinged a bit, as though reaching desperately for more — for something magnetic within the chocolate that was buried deep under layers and layers of sugar and what he figured was sherry.

Then came the Avox-chocolate.

He'd only ever met an Avox once before this incident, and it had been to escort him onto the train for his Victory Tour. That had been it. He'd never seen another Avox again, and had been... guiltily glad. It made him uncomfortable, the sight of them, tongueless and permanently silenced. Briefly, he wondered if they could taste-test their own chocolates, without tongues. But he threw that thought away quick enough that he didn't need to picture it. The Avox chocolate was better than the Capitol one, that's for sure, but it still contained a sort of lingering note of darkness, some sort of melancholy, though he wasn't sure when he'd become such a chocolate connoisseur.

Finally, best for last? District. High hopes for this one.

And it didn't disappoint. The magnetic twang was there, as with the Capitol and the Avox chocolates, but it was much stronger, sweeter, more decadent, this one. Felt truer. More familiar. Like the classic chocolate he'd grown up with, not the Capitol's bullshit gourmet shit.

He reached his tongue back to his molars to pick at any lingering pieces of chocolate as he looked into the box once more — oh. A little card he'd missed.

He scraped it up, tilting his head to read its tiny script. "To filter out your tastes. Enjoy immortality."

Signed President Snow.

It had taken him a minute, however. This card did have something on the back. "In order to receive your desired type of blood, contact the following. They will arrive in vials, canisters, or bottles, depending on your preferences."

Blood?

Finnick had dropped the card and the box, and the half-eaten "District" chocolate onto the couch before sprinting his way across the house to the bathroom, sticking his fingers down his throat immediately. He'd retched and grunted and groaned, but nothing had come out, and he'd had a nasty feeling that that was also somehow made possible by Snow.

Sobbing on the floor, the fourteen-year old version of him had clung onto the rim of the toilet seat, taking heavy gasps in between his sobs. He'd consumed blood. Human blood. And what's worse? He'd liked it. Even the disgusting Capitol shit, he'd liked it, whatever magnetic allure that was.

Then, he sorrowfully walked back to the living room, shakily scraping the note off the floor so he could read it in its entirety.

And the situation made heaps of sense, now.

Apparently, he'd actually flatlined right after his Games — a little before his Victory Tour, and Snow couldn't have that. So, as a last resort, he was gifted life and homicidal tendencies.

It's been eight years.

He's been a bloodsucker for eight years.

He thought he'd found a way to cope.

Finnick's not proud of it, not by any means, but yes, he's found a way to cope with the bloodlust that his conscience won't make him regurgitate. Planning murders.

He didn't choose to become a bloodsucker, but it's got its pros and cons.

Con : Snow gets to tell him to get on his knees and thank him, instead of just the instruction.

Pro : He's found a new hobby.

It's not ideal, to need to feed off blood when you're the pacifist that Finnick (sort of) is. And when you've just come out of an arena where you'd had to murder — and run away from being murdered by — twenty-three other kids. And your fight-or-flight is already at a dangerous high.

In other words, Snow had planned this. Maybe not his flatline, but he'd definitely wanted to make Finnick remember who he actually fucking was — a Capitol charity case that's only alive because he deemed it alright. And so here he was. A freak who could never age (and wanted to grow old with someone), never die (who fights the urge every day) and had to drink innocents' blood to survive (and had his own innocence stripped from him at fourteen).

But he's found a way to cope. It's a hypothetical right now, more of a theory than anything, but he figures if he's given some time, he can do it.

"What are you thinking about?"

Shit. His head turns to you, at the other end of the same pillow. Your eyes are closed, but your hand's tracing circles on his chest.

"Why are you here?"

You frown, one eye opening as you stretch. "You called."

"No, I mean, are you here voluntarily? Do you wanna be here?"

You stiffen, your fingers stilling on his chest.

"I'm not asking as Finnick Odair, I'm... just asking."

You nod, rolling away from him onto your back. "Initially, no. But now... yeah."

He smiles. That's enough, for now. He sits up, one finger gently manoeuvring your jaw back to face him. Your eyes. Yes. Salvation. "Do you trust me?"

"Uh—"

"Right, right, sorry.", he mutters, quickly, pressing one kiss, and then one more onto your lips. "Less serious. Do you love me?"

"Finnick.", you warn, grinning despite yourself.

"Fine, god forbid a man's lovesick.", he mumbles, his kisses pressing up and down your cheek, now. "Do you at least like me?"

He watches a slow smile spread on your face, and he almost gasps. You pinch two fingers together, save for a little gap. "A bit."

Finnick kisses you properly, then, his fingers behind your head bringing you to sit up, too. When you do, he pretends he isn't distracted by how the sheets fall off you.

But the truth is... he's always been distracted by you.

Finnick had long decided that he didn't want a single District person to die just because he was now stuck with this disgusting proclivity. And he also didn't really want an Avox to be drained as well as already having gone through the trauma of their tongue being cut out.

So, he'd told Snow — and the company that had been written on the back of the card — that he preferred Capitol blood.

Snow's response had been sending him a list of Capitol children in the orphanages that wouldn't be missed.

Finnick explained that he didn't want anyone dead.

So, Snow had sent you.

Finnick hadn't needed a card to detail anything this time. It was clear. Bloodbag. He couldn't recall what you had thought you were supposed to be, so he decides he'll ask you now.

"What did Snow send you to me for?"

"Company."

"Prostitution?"

"No, just company. Said you were lonely and I was to give my blood, sweat and tears to make you happy. Comfort you, because living in the Capitol was new."

Right. Blood, sweat and tears.

"So that's why you don't trust me. You don't know exactly what it is you're supposed to be doing here."

"I mean... I've kinda figured it out."

"You are not a prostitute.", he replies, trying his best to keep the conversation light, but his voice cracks at the last word. He clears his throat.

"Yeah, no, but I mean, I'm doing that part voluntarily.", you assure, thumbing at his jaw. He turns his face over to kiss your palm.

"You like sleeping with me?"

"Yes."

"You don't feel like we did it just because we've been stuck together for 3/4s of this year?"

You shake your head. "I mean, maybe that contributed, but... no coercion."

"So, whenever I sleep with you, you want it? You enjoy it?"

"You're making this sound like you're talking about offering me fresh fruit."

"No, I—", he cuts off, laughing. Leave it to you to unravel him. "I just mean, like, you like it, right?"

"I do." And then you kiss him to prove it, as if you're finally remembering that you're currently naked. He has to muster up all his willpower to pull away from you while you're in his lap.

"Hey, I need to, um, come clean about a couple things."

"Mhm?"

You're so expectant, like you know he's not going to say anything that might ruin the good thing you've got going. Like he's going to admit to shoplifting once at nine years old, not being a murderous, bloodsucking monster.

He thumbs a tuft of your hair from your eyes, gazing at your lips. "Don't freak out."

"Okay...?"

"I've got a plan that hurts some people, but at the end of the day, is best for the greater good."

He supposes he could've worded it better, because you look extremely confused.

"I mean... I've got a plan to get rid of the Games, altogether."

"The Hunger Games? You're going to stop the Hunger Games? How will you manage to do that, may I ask?"

He sits up at that, handing you the blanket for you to cover yourself up, much to his own despair. It's not a pretty conversation to be having, so he doesn't deserve to look at pretty things like you.

"I'm going to kill the Gamemakers."

"They change every year." You don't miss a beat. No "you're going to kill someone?", no "murder is wrong, Finnick!", not even a "what the fuck?". Just a "nah, you're missing an important caveat there, buddy boy".

"Good thing I know on what basis they change."

You raise a brow. "Okay. Fine. Good. So, how will you do that? How will you kill them?"

"I'll drain them."

"Sorry?"

"I'm a vampire."

This is... not how he expected his big reveal to go. He'd expected to be across the room from you, wearing your favourite of his shirts, right after a candlelit dinner where he confessed that he loved you, and then slowly moved to the opposite side of the room so he didn't spook you with his revelation.

"What?"

You're laughing. You think it's a metaphor.

"A vampire."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time."

"I'm a vampire."

"Okay."

"You don't believe me."

"Can you blame me?"

He shakes his head, before moving a safe distance away from you — in case you uppercut him on reflex — and then sprouting his fangs.

Finnick grimaces at your scream, at the way you scramble away from him, nearly falling off the bed. He knows that it's not what you want, but he sprints over to catch you before you do. "What the fuck?! What the fuck?!"

"I'm sorry— I— I'm really sorry—"

"That you hid this, or that you are this?"

Whoa. That question cuts right into his heart that had stopped before being pumped full of reserve vampire blood.

"Both?"

"How long?"

"Eight years."

"Have you ever thought of hurting me?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever killed anyone innocent?"

"No."

"Have you ever wanted to?"

"Yes. But only certain people. Not you."

"How have you been getting your blood?"

"I have a supplier."

"What was my true purpose here?"

"Bloodbag."

"Why didn't you feed off me?"

"I fell in love with you."

You pause the rapid-fire interrogation questions at that, letting him gently and safely deposit you back onto the bed before moving back the respectful distance that he'd been in before.

"Do you fight the urge to feed off me?"

"Yes. When you have strong feelings for someone, their blood becomes more appealing."

"Do you want to?"

"Are you offering?"

A pause. He loves how you take it all in stride. You're gonna murder some Gamemakers? Here's a potential aspect you might've missed. You're a vampire? Okay, but prove it. "I'm curious. Will it hurt?"

"A bit. But I can be gentle."

A silence, that he decides he's not going to fill with words, but rather, by gently moving closer to you and pushing some hair off your neck. "You can always back out."

"I know."

"So, you're not going to?"

"Not unless it hurts like a bitch."

He smiles, with a short, breathy laugh at that. "I'll make sure it doesn't."

Finnick rests his thumb on the artery in your neck — your carotid — to feel the pulse he's spent so many nights trying to drown out. It's faster now. "Last chance."

"Do I need to take a breath?"

"It's probably helpful. I mean, I wouldn't know, I'm not really a live-feeder."

Finnick's never felt as euphoric as when his fangs sink into your neck, clicking into place like a fucking puzzle piece, because he's never actually felt anything this perfect before.

The first drop of your blood hits his tongue — beautiful, delectable, mind-boggling — and he yanks himself back, thumb over his lip in sheer horror. He's still aware of the fact that you might faint if he spits your blood or dribbles it out of his mouth, so he swallows it. Every enchanting drop.

"Whoa, you okay?", you ask, after a slightly pained sharp suck of breath.

"You're not Capitol."

"Yeah, no shit.", you retort, still pressing two fingers at your neck.

"No, I mean you're District."

"Yeah, I'm aware.", you snort. "That's why I was sent to you as company."

"No, no, I specifically asked for a Capitol bloodbag."

"I don't follow."

"I told Snow I prefer Capitol blood so less District people got hurt. Do you— where were you from?"

"District Four? Like you?"

Oh, he's gonna fucking cry. He shoots up, hurriedly shoving his pants on and buttoning them before yanking his drawer open, foraging through it for his vials. "Do you know this person?", he asks, throwing the vial at the bed, before tossing three more. "And them, and them, and them?"

"Viona Welling. Yeah, she's from District 9. We were in the same training program, to be like, service-animal type people to homesick Victors like you.", you mumble, rolling the first vial in your hand before you drop it like it burned you. That's her fucking blood.

Your eyes slowly move to the other three on the bed. "Franz Hortic, District 11.", you say, your nails pushing one vial away. "Uh... Briar Port. District 6." One more vial is gently rolled over to him. "Bronwyn Silk. District 8."

Finnick breathes slow and long through his nose, but he can't stop the eruption. He throws the stand on which each of the vials were placed across the room, causing it to shatter across the wall. You flinch, eyes closed. "I TOLD HIM CAPITOL BLOOD!"

"Can't you tell the difference?"

"I— I thought I could, but... he must've exaggerated the taste the first time, when he put it into chocolate. Maybe he knew Capitol blood would taste like shit and the District blood would taste better, or... or something."

"Chocolate?"

He shakes his head, waving your question away. "Long story. Point is : Snow FUCKING outsmarted me!"

"Okay, hey — he's the President, I wouldn't expect anything less."

"The SHIT I have on him! I could RUIN him!"

"So do it."

He stands there, still gasping, chest rising and falling as he narrows his eyes. "What?"

You shrug, like you don't need to repeat yourself. You were heard loud and clear, and you know it. He swallows for a moment, in sheer mesmerisation, before clearing his throat. "I had a plan — would you want to hear it?"

You nod, earnestly. He bends one knee to sit on the bed as he watches you. Watching you. All he ever wants to do.

"I'm going to drain more of them. One by one. I have a list. They're gonna die one by fucking one." You pull him to you so he can slot his lips against yours.

"More of them? You already started? Is that where you go every other week?"

He grins, nodding. "I can stomach Capitol blood just fine, you see? Acquired taste."

"What if Snow catches on?"

"He'll assume I really do hate District blood.", he responds, thumb rubbing right under your eye.

"But you don't."

"No. It's fucking delicious."

You frown for a moment, before removing hair from your neck and your fingers from the puncture wound.

He doesn't hesitate anymore.

"I'll heal."

"You're hurt."

"Yeah, like, check back in half an hour, it'll be gone."

"I don't care. A human did that to you?", you ask, yanking him closer to you by tugging at his arm, gesturing for him to unbutton his shirt. He does, begrudgingly, giant laceration sticking out, angry, scarlet and vivid. You suck a breath in sharply and he's not sure if he should cover up and leave, or compel you to leave. He chooses to stay frozen as you dab gingerly around it.

"Yeah, he saw me coming. Apparently I'm some sort of urban legend in the highest circles of the Capitol."

"Only Snow knows about vampires. You're the only one.", you murmur, another dip of the cotton into antiseptic before you sting it onto his wound. He doesn't respond, so you look up at him, immediately. "...Right?"

"Johanna Mason might be one."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"She hinted at it when she was talking about how technically her entire District's profession could kill her. Kinda pieced it together."

"Why's she not in the Capitol?"

"She refused Snow."

"What?"

"In exchange for immortality, he wanted some... favours now and then." He doesn't want to go in detail, so he's mildly glad you're distracted by marvelling at how his wound's like... ten times smaller than thirty seconds ago. "Yeah, cool, huh?"

"Uh huh."

"...So, Johanna. She didn't want to do these favours."

Your eyes glance back up at him, hand still hovering over the heat of his injury.

"So, unlike me, she doesn't get supplied. She has to hunt for herself. In her own District. She has to actively hurt people she loves. Fight the bloodlust."

Your hands fall to the tops of your thighs as you kneel on the floor before him. "Oh."

"Yeah.", he says, sniffing. "But hey. Hey, it's okay."

"You're framing her. They hate her, they love you."

"No, she won't be—"

"Finnick."

Yes, he'd thought of this. How is he supposed to tell you it's kinda a term Johanna herself agreed to? How can he tell you there's a pivotal Gamemaker not on the list — Heavensbee? How can he tell you he's been doing a fuckton more than crossing names off a list? He can't. He's just got you in on the whole vampirism concept, he's just got you okay with accepting that he's in love with you — he knows you won't say it back, but he also knows you feel it — but he knows it'll take a hell of a lot more time for him to get you in on a rebellion. Mainly because he knows you haven't been to the Districts in a long while and blowing them up for the greater good is probably not something you'd be down for.

"I know."

"Even Snow's death won't—"

"Justify that? Yeah, I know.", he sighs, rubbing his eyes. God.

His abdomen no longer hurts, and his skin twitches lightly under your touch when you graze your fingertips across where the gash had been. "How do you deal with it?"

"What?"

"The guilt?"

"I convert it into love and pour it into you."

He's not sure why he said that.

It's bullshit because it's true and severely mistimed.

"Finnick."

"Sorry."

"Are you?"

For basically making you an accomplice? No? Yes?

"No.", he says, leaning down to be nose-to-nose as he reaches into his back pocket. "You scared?"

"Of?"

"The homicidal vampire currently trying to sneak a necklace onto your neck right now.", he murmurs, clasping the shell pendant chain onto you.

"Kinda."

"You trust me?"

"No."

"You love me?"

A pause. "No."

"I'm taking the hesitation as a win."

"I figured you would."

"You still like me?"

You nod. "Why do you suppose Snow hasn't stopped you yet?"

"Probably hasn't put two-and-two together yet. You're still alive, so he probably thinks I'm tame and no longer plagued by bloodlust.", he mutters, shrugging.

"How does one turn into a vampire?"

Finnick shakes his head, standing up immediately, hand dropping from the chain on your clavicle. "No."

"Finnick—"

"Uh-uh, forget it. I love you too much for that shit, alright?", he cries, shouldering past you so aggressively that he needs to battle the compulsion to turn back and apologise for nearly knocking you over.

"Finnick! I love you as well, so please—"

"You can't say that to get what you want, that's cruel!"

"I'm not! I just need you to listen to me!"

"It's not gonna help you! You're not gonna be more powerful, or more in control!"

"Yes, I will! It'll make sure I'm safe!"

He groans, running his hands across his face. "I'm not turning you into a fucking bloodsucker, okay? I didn't struggle desperately to get your blood out of my head for 3/4s of this entire fucking year just to end up killing you and resigning you to the same fate! You're safer as a human!"

"What about in the rebellion? When I fight?"

He pauses in his desperate circling around the room. No fucking way. "The what?"

"The rebellion.", you repeat, now suddenly tense and gently backing up as he stalks closer to you, one click of his heel after the other.

"How do you know about that?"

"I heard whispers of the Katniss girl being the Mockingj—"

"Bullshit. You've been cooped up with me in here for almost ten months."

"I read your journal."

"No, I have no paper trail."

"You're killing specific Gamemakers. Uh, one Mr. Beetee's, then Mags', and then Ms. Wiress. And you've saved yours for last."

"That tells you nothing.", hisses Finnick. He's not sure why he's so angry. Maybe because he's never checked if you've been wired this entire time. Maybe because he may have fucked up the whole plan by falling for a fucking Capitol spy.

"I followed you one of those days you disappeared."

That... makes sense.

"You met up with Plutarch Heavensbee. Then, I read your list and he wasn't on it. He's the next Gamemaker. I kinda... built from there."

Okay, so not a Capitol spy. But dangerous in your own, sexy little right.

He nods, before he grasps your jaw. Not rough or unkind, just... there. Like "hey, it's Finnick, who you just admitted to loving, albeit for a life-altering favour".

"Are you angry?"

Your attempt at looking vulnerable is kinda cute and moot. You don't need to look the part, you are vulnerable. But humans don't acknowledge that shit, ever. He lets out a little snort.

Using his grip on your jaw, he pulls you closer so he can lean down to stay eye-to-eye with you. "How can someone this smart simultaneously want to be a fucking vampire?"

"Duality of man?", you suggest.

He grins, all teeth. "Do you actually love me? 'Cause that was so funny I can't even pretend I don't want that shit to have come out of the mouth of the girl I love — that loves me back."

"I do."

"I'm not turning you."

"I still do."

Finnick smiles. "I can't turn you. But you know what I can do?"

"Introduce me to Plutarch? Make me part of the rebellion?"

He laughs out loud at that, flicking gently at your forehead. "Fat fucking chance. You're gonna be cooped up in this insanely reinforced suite until the last bomb drops. Can't let you die." He's kidding, but he needs you to know that he'd rather get trapped in a loop of a wooden stake up and down his heart but never piercing in some sort of vampire Prometheus situation than let you die in the fucking rebellion he was only participating in to protect you.

"What, then?"

"I'm gonna bring you along to kill Johanna's Gamemaker."

"Yeah? Why him?"

"Her. And I think you'll enjoy this one.", he tells you, pulling the list out from his pocket, smoothing it down flat on the table. He clicks his pen open before scribbling a name on.

"Antia Routhful?"

Finnick watches your face carefully as your eyes move from the letter A to the letter L, and then back across the length of her name, again and again and again. "She took me from my District to be 'company' for rich Capitol patrons. And people like you."

Okay, he'll pretend that doesn't sting.

"Whaddayasay, beautiful?"

"Drain her."

Oh, you've never looked sexier to him.