𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Finnick had every reason to not believe in God, but every reason to believe in her.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1,406
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Religious themes, Mentions of torture and canon typical violence, Angst, Brief mention of Finnick’s su*c*dal ideology, Bittersweet reunion.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Cried while writing this so enjoy my tears. This was requested by @heroinhchicblog222. You gave me creative freedom with this, so I hope it lives up to your expectations! <3
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Finnick Odair had never been a religious man. No matter how many Sunday services at the little coastal church his mother made him attend. He humored her for the most part. Because even though he thought her faith was futile, it was important to her.
There had been a time when he enjoyed going to church with her. When he was still a small child full of notions of grand tales and curiosity. But that was before he was eaten alive by the Games. Before, it’s huge jaws closed around him and crushed his bones and spirit alike. The arena had made sure that even if he survived, he’d never be whole again.
And how could he believe in any god with only half a soul? Why would he have faith in a god who let that happen? No higher power was watching over him or any of the other children who became victims of the Games.
He remembered a tiny silver cross his mother wore. It was always hanging around her neck on a dainty chain. His little brother loved to wrap his chubby toddler fingers around it.
Finnick had asked once if she had always had that necklace. She wore it so often that it seemed like a part of her. Just like her eyes, that always looked at him with tender affection, and her hands, that always stroked his cheek after a nightmare. His mother told him it had belonged to her mother. That she’d had it since before the war, and she told her it kept her safe. When his grandmother passed when Finnick was still a baby, she left it to her daughter.
“Nana said that as long as she wore this, she knew God would guard against any evil,” his mother recited.
But how could she believe that? When he himself knew how people starved during the war. When so many lost everything. His grandmother was an orphan by the end of the war. God did not protect her or anyone else. Because a god who would let all that suffering happen wasn’t a deity worth worshiping. And that same cosmic being sits idly by and allows child after child to be sacrificed to the whims of those who think themselves better.
Though now, he thinks he’s found something that he could put his faith in. Something that could show him the blind devotion that his nana and mother relied so heavily on.
Hope was a big part of having faith because to have one, you have to believe in the other. He gives his mother and nana a little slack now that he’s tasted that euphoric cocktail of conviction. It’s a potent thing, and to Finnick, it’s the worst thing that could have happened to him. It’s more powerful than the hatred he has for Snow and the Capitol. He likens it to nervousness, to fear. Except it doesn’t cripple him. It weeps inside of him, crawls up his throat, and pours out of him like the sweetest honey.
It gives him the gift of volition—the drive to break away from the terror that haunts him. The will to live. The hunger for change.
And that is why it’s the most awful thing that could have befell him. Because not only does he have himself to concern with, he has her.
She changes him. Makes him into this man that wants again. He dreams and he hopes, but right now he’s trying to convince himself that his faith won’t be ripped away from him.
He’s spiraling down the dark abyss of fear because, what if? What if he goes to the med bay and the one person, he believes for is taken from him? His will, his hunger, his want. What if it’s all gone? Because she’s gone, and she’s taken everything with her.
It is an agonizing thing to be half dead and half alive. So many times, he thought about how he could end it. Just a few minutes too long under the water. Or if he needed it to be quick, a bullet for his last meal would work just fine. But he can’t think like that anymore.
Because he doesn’t know if she’s gone or not. If she’s left him and stole away everything good in the world with her. There’s a chance, he tells himself. He could see her again, hold her, kiss her, love her.
So he’s pushing past everyone running around in the halls. Paying no mind to all the people he’s bumping into, and all the annoyed looks thrown his way. He aches still, and his body screams at him. But he’d been to hell and back more times than he could count. His joints and muscles could complain all they wanted. Knowing mattered more. She mattered more.
He can picture her the way she was before. Because he’s sure that if she survived, Snow at least got his fill of ruining her. The girl Finnick adores more than the salt in the air or the smell of Mag’s peach cobbler. For that alone, they would have butchered her. He’s falling again, so instead of that, he thinks of her smile, her laugh, and the way her nose scrunches when she is annoyed at him.
Fuck, how he wants to see that smile again. Hear that giggle and coax out that scrunch.
He runs, then, faster than he ever has before. He knows he’s going to have to make some serious apologies at some point. But courtesy can wait. She can’t.
The harsh lights of the med bay hurt his eyes, but he looks around. Turning a circle and staggering like a drunk.
Hands catch him by the shoulders, and he almost throws a punch. But then Gale turns him around to face him. “Where-where is she?” Finnick asks. His voice sounds foreign, like the breaking of glass almost.
“I think you need to calm down first.” Gale answers, not unkindly, but Finnick is so wound up that it angers him. Because no, he needs to see her. Until then, there is no calm. So, he pushes Gale away from him. Eyes darting widely around the med bay once again.
“Where is she?” He asks out loud to anyone who could tell him. “Where is she?” He wonders if this is what being hijacked feels like. But then he tells himself maybe it’s just being in love. Love can make a person insane, and right now, that’s what he feels like. He’s going to fly off the handle if someone doesn’t start talking to him. Because why aren’t they?
A doctor walks right past him, nose in a clipboard with some paperwork on it. Finnick imagines gripping that doctor by the hair and tearing his throat out with his bare hands. He starts yelling her name over and over and over. His voice breaks among the syllables.
But then…
“Finnick!” He hears her voice so loud and clear, like a crack of lightning across the sky. He doesn’t see her until she collides with him, almost knocking him down. But he clutches her to him, probably too tightly, but she says nothing. She tears at his back, her nails digging into his skin under the fabric of his shirt. But he doesn’t care because if he’s feeling that, then that means he’s feeling her.
"Finnick." She whispers quietly this time as if convincing herself that he's really here. Her face is buried in his neck, and he can feel her breath fan out across his skin.
She pulls back, and Finnick thinks he might cry, but then she’s kissing him, so he knows he’s going to cry. He can’t breathe between the tears and her lips still on his. He doesn’t give a fuck, though. He lets her kiss him for as long as she needs, because he knows she needs that right now. Being without her here in Thirteen was hard enough. What she went through in the Capitol paled in comparison.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He’s mumbling against her lips. Salty tears falling into their mouths.
And she’s saying back, “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
It’s not okay; nothing bad that’s ever happened to her was okay. But she’s here now, and he’s got her, and he’s never letting her out of his sight again.
Standing there, drinking in her holiness, Finnick finally realizes what true devotion feels like.
The words just poured out of me with this one. Love when that happens.
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A quick one before the eternal worm (writer's block) devours Connecticut (me)
My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.
Based on this (and exactly 7 other) asks !
Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings: Cuss words
Desc. : Stockholm Syndrome (?)
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Finnick's always been in awe of you. You've slipped through the gaps he'd never been able to even peep through. Finnick's got about a billion words he would use to describe you — all of which slip his conscious right now — but he thinks that the tabloid titles are enough.
Unabashedly District.
This could've gone wrong for you, this whole strategy. You're beautiful, sure, you've got that going for you, but besides that, you're not as endearing as that Peeta Mellark kid is, not intriguing like Katniss Everdeen, you're not unfairly likeable like Finnick is, and you're definitely not as iconic as the Gloss-And-Cashmere-sibling-duo that's had the Capitol in a chokehold ever since the 63rd and 64th Games, that's for sure. You've got no star-crossed-lover-backstory, you don't appear in adverts and host parties, and you sure as hell aren't a counterpart in a dynamic duo. Hell, you've never even participated in the Games. That should have Snow reeling, that should have matches be lit after dousing your house in oil.
Yet... there's an invisible struggle between the two of you for the darling title. You'd first been spotted with Johanna Mason, as a little promo to show Panem what awaited a Victor of the Games, and what the Victor of the 71st was up to right after the Victory Tour. Well, with Johanna was a stretch. You'd been in a still of the town square, playing guitar with a couple other delinquent District 7 teens, and as Johanna passed by, you'd high-fived her. That was it. Thirty seconds of footage, thirty weeks of discussion, and thirty months of obsession. Although Snow seemed mildly opposed to putting a music group under the Panem spotlight, for whatever reasons he had, eventually you and your band were all the Capitol craved.
And boy, did you deliver.
So, yes, your paths had crossed at many a Capitol party, and Finnick had tried to figure you out. He likes to think he's the only one who's actually kept your interest long enough to have a proper conversation with you. No wonder Plutarch had deigned him with the impossible task of keeping you with him until he could come back from District 13 and properly speak to you about the Second Rebellion. How the fuck was he going to go about doing that, when he didn't even actually know you? The offhanded dating rumour aside, all you've shared was whiskey, a conversation, and a trauma bond.
He's been spiraling, Finnick has, and it's showing in his work. Every time he's in front of a camera, he's storming off, needing an entire hour of a break and a vodka, as well. He's grateful the directors do not get tired of him, that they all think he can do no wrong because he's Finnick Odair, because if they weren't like that, he'd have been fired ages ago. Or, at the very least, killed off. He hasn't been allowed to go home for nearly half a year, now, and it's probably the main cause of said spiral.
Thankfully, this spiral leads him to you, in this twisted bonding opportunity you two apparently shared — daydrinking.
"Long time, no see. You had a gig today, yeah?"
It's deafening in the silence of the desolate bar, and he nearly cringes, but he powers through, because you've just looked up at him.
"Yes."
"I thought you guys were awesome. Props.", he offers, his hand out in expectation. You shake it.
"Nice to see you again.", he tries.
You nod in return. "And you."
You seem distracted, so he follows your line of sight to the screen fastened precariously loosely to the back wall of the bar. Ah. The Victory Tour recap. You must've missed it, what with your performance here at the Capitol, so you're watching.
He leaves you be until District 7 comes, because he knows the nerve-wracking experience it is to watch the new Victor (in this case, Victors) rub it in your own District's face that their child is dead.
Finnick notices things, as always. He notices the layers of silences that permeate through the bar. He notices the disgusting taste of the beer he's just ordered. He notices the way you stiffen when one of the Victors mentions the male tribute from District 7. He notices how his instinct tells him not to speak, to allow you to feel this. He notices how his own lips part in direct disobedience to his gut. "Stele Mason. Is he related to Johanna Mason?"
You blink, seemingly snapping out of whatever horrific visions flashed past your eyes just then. "Wh— uh, no. There are lots of Masons back in 7."
"Oh. Did— do you... know him?"
You nod, turning to grab your drink, downing it. "Yeah." It's clipped.
Got it, he'll shut up now.
He stretches, inconspicuously leaning over and emptying the contents of his little pouch — courtesy of Plutarch — into your drink, before going back to normal and shrinking his attention back to his own.
He watches you drink it.
But then you order another. And another. And, oh, look at that, another. And soon enough, a spectacle that Finnick's been expecting — through mindfully quiet, restricted sips of his own drink — occurs. You're drunk.
And he doesn't know if this is because he's from District 4, or simply because he's Finnick, but he's drawn to shipwrecks like this, where the outside is perfectly preserved, all the pieces look put in place, but he knows that the inside of the ship's damaged. Floorboards have been sprung out of their places, the helm is cracked in two, and the engines are crashing in on themselves.
There ain't nothing he's ever been gravitated to that didn't require him to donate his own barely-functional parts to in order to get it started again, but he'll still do it, if to ease his own conscience and qualms about being a good person. He is, he hopes. He's always only ever wanted to be.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?"
You don't — can't — respond, and so he asks the bartender where your band is right now. He tries to find any sort of clues on you as to where your friends might be, or if you've been given a lodging to perform more. None. Nada. He's got a gnawing feeling all of this is thanks to Plutarch.
"Okay, up you get.", he mutters, hauling you up onto your feet, gripping onto the bar stool to support both of you as you suddenly dip down. "There we go, c'mon. I've got you."
He's got to get this bartender fired, he notes, internally. He'd just watched some girl get scooped up by a guy she clearly didn't know, and did fuck-all about it.
The walk to his flat's not far, by any means, but it is difficult, with a drunk girl — and her guitar case — in tow.
He flops you down on the bed, keeping his eye on you as he shoots across the room to his drawer, fishing out the white band Plutarch had given him, before gently fastening it around your wrist. He doesn't know what it does, — he'd just assumed it would be some form of tracking device.
Okay.
Finnick can breathe now that he's got the wristband on you. He's done his part, and he'll actively — to the best of his abilities — try to stop you from leaving before Plutarch says all he needs to say. But if you manage to lock him in a door and gnaw or saw the wristband off and leave? Well, then he'll be helpless and impressed.
He pads around his kitchen, grabbing a glass, opening the fridge, grabbing his juice, pouring it out. He doesn't drink it yet, though. A thought. The least he could do is play the gracious host. He's sure when you wake up, he'll look like the bad guy. And that's not him. Not who he wants to be. He takes out another glass. Pours some juice out for you.
Some time passes. He's eaten half his leftover pizza — saved the rest for you like the kind soul he is — and is currently nursing a glass of wine as he stares idly at the TV. God, for such a huge apartment, he perpetually feels like the walls are closing in on him. Today's no different, especially since he's day-drinking again. It's about eight, and he'd brought you home at about six-thirty. He's getting worried. You haven't woken up. Did the sketchy bartender also put something in your drink? Who would he be if he didn't go check?
He sets the glass down, stretches, and walks to the guest bedroom door. Tilts his head. He doesn't remember leaving it open. He'd closed it specifically so that he'd hear you coming. He knocks. "You decent?"
He'd hoped you'd have changed into the clothes he'd left out on the armchair if you'd woken up. But you don't respond. Meaning you haven't. Which is even more alarming.
Finnick presses his hand down on the handle, swinging it inwards to open it— fuck! That object — whatever the everloving fuck it was — just hit his stomach like a mother! Fuck!
Okay. So you're up.
He looks down. He did not know an alarm clock could pack that much pain, for being so compact.
He looks up. Yeah, no, they could, if thrown from a distance, and you're still next to the bed. Odd strategy, but it's okay, because you lower the hand holding your next launch-object — a fucking nightlamp — down when you see his face.
"Finnick?"
"Yeah. Nice to see you again."
"You spiked me?!"
"No, no! You just... kept going, with the liquor, I—"
"You spiked me!"
"I did not!" Little white lies, Finnick's learned, are better than teary eyes.
"What did you do to me?! Where's my coat?!"
"Nothing! And it's probably back at the bar!"
Not really. He'd accidentally torn it. The long sleeves had been fucking with his ability to get the wristband on you, so in a fit of rage, he'd grabbed a pair of scissors and got it off.
"So how am I here?! What did you do to me?! DON'T— Don't come near me!"
"I didn't fucking take advantage of you or anything, okay? That's not me! You passed out. I asked around, but no one knew where your band was, where you guys were staying! What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?!", he tries to explain, still needing to pause every two seconds and soothe his fucking abdomen, because of the alarm clock injury. God, he'd never live this down, if anyone found out.
You seem to believe him, and fully set the lamp back down, eyes still on him. "I don't believe you."
"You don't have to. This is just a misunderstanding."
"A misunderst— you abducted me!"
"I helped you! I—", he cuts himself off, running his hands over his face. "You don't need to trust me. Here.", he declares, tossing you the keys to the guest bedroom, as a last fucking resort. "You've had a long night. I think you should freshen up, and I'll get you food so you can get rid of the hangover. You probably have lots of gigs lined up at all the Hunger Games rewatch-parties, huh?", he suggests, voice softer, duplicitously so, but you don't need to know that. "My sister left some clothes here. Uh, so.", he adds, gesturing at the clothes he'd laid out on the armchair. "If you wanna get out of those."
He doesn't have a sister. These were left over from a Capitol afterparty that just had to — had to — be kept here, because what Snow wants, Snow gets.
You catch the keys mid-air, still glaring at him like he's done the things you're accusing him of. He knows what you're thinking. There's no guarantee he doesn't have another set. But he doesn't, and the fact that he's even given you these is a big deal. "I'll be out there making lunch-slash-dinner. Fuckin'.... linner. If you wanna join me when you're done.", he mumbles, gently closing the door behind him.
Fuck's sake, that was surreal. Though, he needs to applaud your survival skills. Soon as he gave you the keys, you held them between your fingers like claws. If he'd have come closer, even to set the alarm clock back on the bedside, he'd have had very nasty lacerations painting his body.
He should probably get to work on this linner thing, huh? Offering you heated-up-leftover-pizza was absolutely a kidnapper thing to do.
Pasta. Safest bet. He hasn't met anyone who didn't like it, and it was easy to make. Great. He's got some sauce leftover from a week ago in the fridge, and he'd heard it was 5-7 days, that was the accepted time to do so. Brilliant. Okay. Off to a good start.
He hears you before he sees you. He focuses on the pasta, because he's suddenly afraid that if he makes eye contact, your fight-or-flight will kick in again and he'll get the glass jar of pasta sauce that he's left out to cool thrown at him.
"I, uh..."
That'd better be a fucking apology.
"I need to go."
Or a statement that he can't allow to come true.
"Please. I feel really bad, for scaring you. Just... eat and then do whatever."
He's careful not to say 'and then leave', because he can't let you do that.
You're about to protest, but then you probably see the sheer desperation, mixed with fatigue pooling in his eyes, and then you nod, gingerly sitting at his dining table.
"What's this?"
"What's what?", he asks, though he already knows what. He deflects. "Oh. Yeah, bit of an alcoholic, I've become. But help yourself. It's really good stuff. I don't know what year it's from, but it's delicious. Here's a wine gl—"
"Not the wine, Finnick. This thing."
Yeah, the wristband. He turns, his face demonstrating tame confusion. "I dunno, thought it was some weird chic style-thing you had."
"Wasn't on before."
"Really? I remember it being on when I brought you home from the bar.", he says, with faux thoughtfulness. "You don't remember it? You were pretty out of it."
"I've never seen this thing before in my life. It— huh.", you grit, and he can tell it's through a clenched jaw, because you say his name with some effort. You're trying to get it off. "It won't come off."
"What? Hold on.", he mutters, turning the stove off before stalking over to you, at his dining table. "I'll help you."
He trusts Plutarch, so he genuinely does use all his might, all of yours, and even a spoon, to help pry it off, but it doesn't budge. "Is it hurting you?"
"No, it's just... I don't like it. It's mysterious and tacky."
"Killer combo, yeah.", he muses, rubbing his hand across the nape of his neck. "You'll need to have that surgically removed, I guess."
You groan, resting your palms onto the dining table, before looking up at him, slightly weirded out by his guilty lingering. "I'll live. Pasta's burning."
"Oh, fuck—" Finnick rushes back, slowing down when he sees the stove. Wait, he just turned it off. He hears the hurried footsteps, and pieces together that you're trying to run.
Then comes the scream. It's terrifying. If he had neighbours, they'd think he was killing someone in here. He dashes over to where you are — the door, and is met with the horrifying sight of you laying there, spasming and twitching.
And then he sees it. Your wristband. It's lit up.
Great, Plutarch Heavensbee had convinced him to put the equivalent of a shock collar on a human.
The pasta's steaming and forgotten.
The wristband's beeping and Finnick wishes it'd be forgotten.
You're fuming, and will probably be trying to remember details you have forgotten.
"Eat—", he begins, cut off by you throwing yet another plate full of pasta at the wall in a fit of rage. He closes his eyes, attempting to conjure up some strength. "Starving isn't going to help your state, honey. You're hungover and triggered."
"And fucking kidnapped! I'm not fucking eating your food!"
He fights the urge to say 'fine, do whatever the fuck you want then' because technically, he can't let you fucking die. He stands, not bothering to clean up what is the third bowl of pasta you have hurled across his living room, before scooping more pasta up from the pot and transferring it into a new bowl.
"This will stay right here.", he declares, placing the bowl at a safe distance from you on the kitchen island. "You can eat it when you want."
"What do you want from me?!"
"I told you, it's only until Plutarch comes back."
"You realize I don't know who the FUCK that is?! I have no way of knowing if this 'Plutarch' — stupid fucking name, by the way — character is even real! For all I know, there is no 'Plutarch from the Capitol who only wants a word'!"
Oh. Oh, fuck. Yeah, he hadn't realised that. You probably couldn't know he was real, because it's not like Finnick had framed photos of him around the apartment or tapes of him on his TV or anything.
"He's a Gamemaker?", he offers, gently. "Heavensbee?"
"I don't follow the fucking Games!"
He wishes you'd stop screaming, but it's not like he has neighbours who'd complain, and technically, you're well-within your rights to go apeshit on him. Still, he's got to match your energy if he's going to tire you out enough that he can gently explain that the fate of Panem depends on you chilling the fuck out until Plutarch gets here. "You were watching at the bar!"
"I knew Stele, so I paid my respects! What am I, not supposed to honour kids of my District who died because of a rebellion they weren't even around for?!"
There's a silence that he allows to slowly settle onto the apartment like a feather steadily falling from miles high. The rage was good. It meant you might be open to what Plutarch had to say.
"No.", he replies, evenly. "No, you can. But... for what it's worth, I didn't know the wristband would do that."
"Great comfort, Finnick!", you yell, clapping sarcastically and loudly. It's clear this is just a response to whatever imminent danger you think you're in, and probably stupid, considering that if he were a kidnapper, he'd have shut you up much more painfully.
"Okay, no need to be fucking annoying about it, okay? If I wanted to hurt you, I would've, but I haven't because I don't, alright?", he tries, for the last time. Honestly, if you don't start complying, he'll just leave the house and let you rot in there, until Plutarch comes . He's definitely not above that, and you know him enough to know that, too. Anything but you making him feel guilty for something he didn't even do.
"How about you j—"
The phone rings, and he narrows his eyes at you for one moment, before you sprint across the living room to it, picking it up and pleading into it, so much so that Finnick kind of feels bad for being pissed off at you. You're just panicked and trying to keep your life. He might feel a sickeningly embarrassing parasocial, delusional closeness to you because he's probably — maybe ; jury's still out — got a crush on you, but to you, he's just this guy you've spoken to a couple of times, some Victor-sellout. This is like the Games to you, except in a mildly claustrophobic apartment with only one other person who you don't actually know is going to kill you.
He stays where he is, picking up the cordless he has on the kitchen island, pressing a button with a tiny beep before the line's on speaker. Plutarch's voice comes steady from the other end. "Ma'am, you can calm down, I know, it must be scary for you—yes, but he won't hurt you, neither of us will. Trust me. I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, gamemaker, at your serv— can I speak to Finnick, please?"
He almost feels guilty, with how your face falls once you realise you're not getting rescued.
Finnick shakes his head, eyes still on you as he clears his throat. "Yeah, go ahead."
"I'll be there at dawn."
"Alright."
"Why is she so—"
"Give her a break, alright? It's a lot. Put yourself in her shoes."
"Take care of her."
"I will."
Beep. Finnick sets the phone back into place before he sighs, fingers drumming on the counter. "And he means actually take care of you. Like feed you, not eliminate you.", he tells you, eyes slowly travelling from the floor up to yours.
You look like hell.
"Plutarch is real, and I— I'm really not supposed to say anything, but if you want to know why we need your cooperation, I'll tell you. Over a nice bowl of sort-of-hot-pasta."
"You okay?"
"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay.", you mumble, before stuffing your mouth with pasta. He sighs, continuing his aggressive brooming to get even the most minute shards of broken bowl from your hurling-escapade off his beautiful hardwood floors. "You won't tell me anything concrete."
"I told you as much as I can."
"Oh, yeah — 'We need your help in something of national importance' is very—", you scoff, setting the pasta down, but fixing your gaze onto the muted TV, now playing static Reaping reruns like your own personal looping torture chamber. "That could be anything from a new gig to overthrowing the President."
Hey, he'll give it to you, you're smart. If this had been a game show like Tribute Trivia, you'd have gone home with the gold for how on-point your guess was. He pathetically tries wetting another washcloth and scrubbing his nail at the sauce on his walls, which, unfortunately, hadn't even remotely come off once in the past hour. Fine. Can't say he didn't try.
"Yeah."
"What do you mean, 'yeah', which one is it?"
"Which one do you think it is?"
"Well, you brought my guitar, so it could be the first.", you spit, sitting up on his couch, setting the pasta down. "But you also somehow hacked the phone lines so it's only incoming calls — from Plutarch — so it could also be the second."
Finnick stands at that, tossing the cloth into the washing before stalking over to the sink. "Who do you think I am?"
"A kidnapper."
"Yeah, I got that. I mean me. Who do you see in your mind when someone says 'Finnick Odair'?", he asks, running his hand under the faucet for a second before drying it.
You watch him make his way to the living room, watch the couch indent where he settles down onto it, opposite you. "I don't know."
"There's no right or wrong answer to this, honey."
"I don't know. You, I guess."
"Me, the person or me the concept?"
"You the concept."
"Right. But you know who 'me the person' is? It's a boy from District 4 that desperately misses the sea, and can't go a single day without a drink because he knows his District thinks he's a sellout. I hate the Capitol. That's who me-the-person is."
You bite the inside of your cheek, watching his face carefully for anything new. "Who from the District doesn't hate the Capitol?"
"I hate Snow."
"Again, you're not special, sweetheart. Everyone and their mother hates him. They just can't do anything about it because he's the President and he'll burn your house down or something."
He's not sure why this is turning into a competition. Maybe he needs it to feel like one, just so he can prove to you that he's not a sellout. That his being here, in this borderline kitschy apartment, has nothing to do with him. But to do that, to prove that he was deserving of your time, your trust, he'd have to tell you everything. And, uh, that's a bit above his pay grade.
So, new approach. He licks his lips, frowning down at you as he formulates his next sentence. "You know what I see when I see you?"
A subtle shake of your head.
"I see a promising young girl who refuses to give up her District identity for the Capitol. I see defiance. I see—"
"Oh, my god, you're trying to start a second rebellion." It's a whisper of surprise, a gasp of realisation, a musing of horror. "No, no, no, I'm taking NO part in this!", you yell, and he's standing up suddenly, trying to chase you away from the window, which may not be burdened by the same electrical field the door was.
Okay, he knew you were smart, but come on !
"Listen— hey! Listen before you refuse!"
"No, are you fucking insane?! I'm not putting my family on the line because some Capitol-bred Gamemaker wants to play god!"
"Plutarch is good! He's g— he's a good man, Y/N, alright? And we have the entire plan figured out. Entirely— hey, hey!", he grits, holding your arms over your chest so you couldn't flail about.
"I won't let you get more people killed! I won't do it!"
"We're making sure no one else gets killed, okay? We're not—"
"No! No, Haymitch warned me, he said Heavensbee tried this before, and—!" You're hyperventilating and he can feel tears on his sleeve.
"No, shh-shh. No. He failed, last time, but this time, we have something else, we have a Mockingjay, a poster, alright?"
"Who?!"
"Katniss Everdeen!"
"NO! She's a KID! You can't do that to her, no! I'll tell Haymitch!"
"He's IN ON IT! He knows! Everyone knows, and it's happening, everyone even JOHANNA is in on it, it's happening whether you like it or not! Okay?! Will you calm the FUCK down?!"
He doesn't like that you break down in his arms when he can't see your face and kiss your tears off.
He doesn't like that he genuinely doesn't know what to do anymore now that the lid is now blown off and you're less than impressed.
You're opposed.
Fuck.
Finnick thinks the lights of his apartment make you look younger. He thinks the stage lights that the Capitol sets up for all of your gigs and performances wash you out, age you up. He thinks his apartment's perfect for highlighting someone's actual age. The gold beams off your eyes and frames your face, like illuminating your youth.
It's been two hours. The sun's closer to rising , which is annoying, considering it was just about setting when he'd brought you home. Your silence does a very good job at illustrating the devastatingly consistent passage of time. Who cares if your world's crumbling around you? The sun will set. It will rise.
But he also thinks your silence is heavy, like you're holding back your words — no matter how sharp, how brazen — for someone more worth it. And all Finnick's wanted since he first laid eyes on you was to be worthy of your words, because you seem to have only valuable things to say.
"Hey."
"You're going to get that kid and her entire family killed. For some deluded dream of a free Panem."
Okay, whoa. You're not even giving him a minute to breathe.
"Hey. No. It's not like that. There were two Victors in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, do you know how insane that is?", he asks, with a sort of fascinated hiss to his tone, as he wipes tears and probably fears off your cheek. "It's crazy, okay? You know that. But she managed it. She's a symbol of hope."
"She's a child!"
"So was I. So was Johanna. So was Stele."
"Hey!"
"I'm—", he states, moving back with his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying. It's children they're taking from us, so what if it's our children who take from them? Him?"
"Children.", you scoff, shaking your head as you pull away from the subtle proximate comfort you'd both created by being knee-to-knee on his couch. "So I suppose this Heavensbee character has hidden shit from you, too."
Huh?
"What? No."
"Next year's the Quarter Quell. What is it exactly that you think's 'special ' about the Seventy-Fifth Games, Finnick?", you ask, and he's suddenly mentally backpedalling because yeah, actually. Good question. Heavensbee hadn't even mentioned it. He had no clue.
"What do you know and how do you know it?"
"If you think Heavensbee is just talking about making Katniss continue this marriage facade in order to get the rebellion going, then you're an even bigger idiot than you are sellout.", you scoff. He clenches his jaw. Fine, you're hurt and scared and you can't really beat him up, can you? So, you're doing the next best thing, he supposes.
"I'm not a sellout."
"Yeah? Then why are you here blindly holding me captive for a man that's constructing a deathly Arena that he plans on throwing already-reaped Victors into?"
It's like the wind just stops, you know? A moment, that's all it takes, and all the air particles freeze. The pulse in Finnick's vessels dulls into a mild throb, the breaths he'd been sharply letting out now still and cease. Because he's... he's got to go back in. Into the Arena. Again. After a decade. He'll have to go in.
"Oh, this Heavensbee character didn't tell you that? How sad. Now you know how I feel. Hurts, doesn't it? When someone you trust fucks you over and traps you where you can't escape?"
"You trust me?"
It's silent, this question, and did nothing to demonstrate the internal turmoil he was undergoing at that very moment, what with the re-exposure to traumatic events and all, but it's potent, it's salient, to him.
"Well... yeah."
"Why?"
"You're real. I thought I told you this."
"No, actually, you told me I was a sellout, that you only saw me as a concept!", he snaps, shoving you to sit back down onto the couch. "So tell me, how do I know this isn't just manipulation to get me to turn on Plutarch?!"
"I don't give a fuck whether you turn on Plutarch, Finnick! But you better fucking know that it's that kid's blood on your hands if this deranged plan fails. It's hers, that kid Peeta's, Haymitch's, Johanna's, every other Victor in that arena, as well as every single person in Panem who'll be punished for your treason! That blood's on your hands!"
"You think you're the epitome of a clean conscience? Well, news-flash, honey, every time you pluck at that stupid fucking guitar for a Capitol asshole, or every time you take a countdown cue for the Capitol cameras, your hands are fucking painted with red! Alright?", he spits, kneeling before you to be eye-level to glare at you better as he holds your hands down onto his couch. "You think wearing your District 7 garb is some form of silent sticking-it-to-the-man? Ha. The man's loving this little show you're putting on, because it's making him fucking money, sweetheart. You're only helping the system!"
"FUCK off!"
"You're as culpable as we are, honey, but at least we are trying to do something. You're just drinking and performing. You're the worst parts of both Abernathy and Trinket. And I'm the sellout.", he scoffs, softly, his fingers playing delicately with some of your hair before he puts it over your ear.
Truth is, Finnick doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth, but it's better to yell and insult and tear into someone else's psyche than confront the fact that he's supposed to go right back into the Arena once again. Sure, he'll know the layout because Plutarch will tell him, but how many times can he lose himself? If it's not the Arena, it's the booze. If it's not the booze, it's darkened, sickening rooms with the Patrons, and if it's not that, it's... it's the Arena again, now. He no longer recognizes himself in the mirror, and chances are, he may never live to even see one again.
So he gently leans back against the coffee table a short distance away from you, and you're in the subtle proximate comfort of the knee-to-knee again, except he's on ground-level with his knees propped up to tether himself to yours. And the two of you just sit there. In the chaos of the promise of the whim of the possibility of an impending rebellion, an upcoming Games, and a potential mass murder that costs thousands of innocents their lives.
"I hate you."
"The feeling's mutual."
Another silence.
Then : "Do you actually think I'm real?"
"I don't talk to people I don't think are real."
"I'm not a sellout?"
"You're not a Capitol sellout. You're a Plutarch sellout."
Finnick's eyes snap up to yours, running between them like his salvation was stored in the salt of your tears. Then, a small crook of the corners of his lips. A snort. Then a laugh. "I can live with that."
It's funny because he won't. He won't live with that. He won't live at all.
"How did you know Stele?"
"I only became frontman after he died."
Whoa. Ouch.
"What was he? To you?"
"Everything. Who did you lose?"
"My District partner. She was everything to me, too."
This is rich. This is funny. This is ridiculous. This is devastating. Two minutes ago, you were at each other's throats, threatening each other's conscience, sanity, morality and integrity, and yet, here you are. Reminiscing over loss like you've lived through each other's worst phases.
"Are you still hungover?", he asks, after a moment, tired, spent, breathless, tame.
His spiral's come to an end. It's a cavernous pit of despair and he's got no rocks to throw to see how deep it is.
"Yeah."
"Oh, we can't have that, can we?", he asks, scrambling up and making his way to the liquor cabinet to fish out something to drink.
"At least we're not day drinking anymore. Cheers, us.", you mutter, running your hands across your face until it reaches into your hair.
He squints up at the clock. "Hey, look at that.", he remarks, sitting down next to you on the couch as he pours some out for you. "You okay?"
"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay. You just told me something far too concrete."
"Yeah, well, so did you. But I trust you.", he declares, holding his glass up to you. "Sellout or otherwise. You're District. And that's something. To selling out."
He waits. It'll kill him swiftly and painfully if you don't accept this olive branch. Your eyes — fatigued, sorrowful and oh-so-fragile — meet his as you clink your glass with his.
Desc. : Couples that plot murder together stay together.
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
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."
This is essentially a blurb, but then again, it's too long to be one. Just go with it.
My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.
This was from my poll .
Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings: Cuss words + mentions of what they did to Finnick.
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Desc. : Showing you the ropes.
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The mirror lies to him. It always has, always will.
Finnick looks away from it, head snapping at the sound of the door clicking. Smile, smile, smile. He watches the hinges as the sight of them slowly gets covered by the actual door , and continues smiling as his eyes move to who enters.
His smile drops. As does yours.
"Odair?"
"You?", he asks, his eyes no longer surprised but ferocious, the pain that usually takes reign of them overthrown by fury. "What are you doing here?"
His favourite and most troublesome tribute. You seemed to hate him for reasons lost on him. He had helped you win, hadn't he? Why the animosity? Perhaps that was not something he was to learn in this lifetime.
Your eyes look down, then around.
Okay, no. You were lost, you poor kid. "Yo, I think you got the wrong room. You lost or sum'n?", he asks, willing himself not to look over to the mirror and ensure that his eyes don't give it all away.
"No.", you sneer. "I'm not." Classic. He almost tells you to relax.
"Why are you at the Capitol then, kid?"
"I told you, you're almost the same age as me, don't call me that."
"And I told you, that doesn't matter. What matters is that I won the Games five years before you. So, there. Now, answer me. Why are you at the Capitol? You should be at home, being a nuisance to your mom and dad.", he says, adding in the insult that keeps your interactions as familiar as possible.
"Why are you at the Capitol? You should be at home packing your trinkets from the Victor's Village so that you continue being a shitty mentor.", you spit back.
Okay, everything is going as normal as he could hope for it to. Animosity, check. Snappiness, check.
"Wow. Remember, I was your mentor, and you won. So, I probably did something right."
"No, all you did was drink and party with Capitol people. On the off-chance that you did talk to me, you just told me the bare minimum.", you hiss, narrowing your- fuck - beautiful eyes. But there's something else. You're fidgety, constantly looking halfway out at the hallway, and halfway to him.
Okay, ouch. But... fair. He can't fault that, seriously. That is what he was doing back then.
"Alright. You win this one. Now, shoo."
"What do you mean, shoo? I'm supposed to be here.", you mutter, though you make no effort to actually walk in, as if you're waiting for him to do something first.
"No, you're not. You looking to raid the pantry before you leave for home with all your Victor-riches? I know where it is."
"No. This is room 580, right? I'm meant to be here."
No. No. No. No.
It takes a while. Perhaps a whole minute.
"Sweetheart...", he breathes finally, unable to trust himself to say your name, as though that would cement this moment to reality. Fuck.
Your eyebrows furrow. You've never been called that before. And definitely not by him.
"What?", you ask, still attempting to maintain the hostility you're both so used to, your unrelenting gaze betraying it. You're curious. You're worried. You're realizing.
"Are you... here 'cause of Snow?" He can barely get those blasted words out without coughing up blood, all Snow-esque.
Your eyes widen. He grips the edge of the vanity, his nails digging in, just as you grasp the door handle, clenching your jaw.
"No. Pfft. What? What does that even mean?"
Okay, now is not the time for this 'pfft, no' bullshit. He's been through the same dose and it's not a pretty sight.
"Y/N. Look at me. Answer me."
You shrug. "Okay, yeah. Uh, he assigned me this room to stay in for a while, okay? My family has to move out, first, right? They're renovating the Victor's Village house, so I gotta hang out here till it's done. What's it to you?"
That was almost the same excuse he'd used.
"How much you going for?"
"What? How much am I going for? You know the prizes that Victors get isn't varied , right? It's the same for everyone. You probably got the same thing. Actually, I remember the year you won. You definitely got the same thing. A house, food, and—"
"Jesus, Y/N, how much is Snow renting you out for?!"
You absolutely freeze, grip loosening on the handle, and your sanity, too, it seemed.
He doesn't meet your eye. How could he? After he'd just essentially summarized the cause for his (and now your) internal turmoil in about eight words? He really needed to be patient, but he wasn't particularly that sort of person, especially in matters like this. Time was literally running out, because in two seconds, the door behind you would widen and some Capitol freak would walk into his fucking wet dream come true.
You're quiet for a long while, and he can't help but chew on the inside of his cheek. He'd fucked up. He was more used to it than you were, that's for sure, but it didn't help to just say it so casually. It might land in your head that this was somehow less terrible than it actually was.
He turns back to the mirror, preferring to see his own face than yours, but that just makes it worse, because the fucking asshole in the mirror had just made an already traumatic ordeal sound like a casual Tuesday.
Shit, shit, shit.
He goes back to working on himself. The hair. It should be strategic and sexy. It should be—
"Five hundred thousand.", you whisper, voice hoarse and shame-filled.
Fuck. He was about to kill himself. He did that. He did that to you. He'd figured if he acted like you didn't matter to him, or that you were rough around the edges, Snow would've spared you, but clearly not.
He swallows, pursing his lips as he nods, sniffing slightly and adjusting his hair before saying, "I go for six."
He doesn't even have to have been turning around to know that your jaw has dropped. That everything's clicking. Why he was a shitty mentor. Why he was always drinking or partying with Capitol residents. Why he was almost never seen around the District. Why Snow had (probably) said that the experience was going to be familiar.
"So you requested me?"
His eyes widen, and he swivels around in record speed. "Excuse me?"
"So it was you who requested me. So that you could have one night of peace instead of with a Capitol Resident."
He can't even scoff anymore. He's just staring at you incredulously. He understands your mind's immediately going to what you would do, but seriously. You can't possibly think he would toy with your emotions like that.
"You think that I would willingly put someone through that anxiety? No, sweetie, we were both requested."
Okay, he's coming off kinda condescending, but he didn't have time to brace you for everything. He can't just show you the ropes here. It's not like mentoring for the Games. Though, it's very much like the Games. The not knowing who will attack. The survival instinct. The fear.
"Both? Like... us ?"
"Yes, us. You, me, and some Capitol sicko."
"Three people? How would that even—", you cut yourself off, closing the door and locking it behind you.
Like that'll help.
"You got the tattoo yet?"
"The what?", you snap, glaring up at him. As if he did this to you. Actually, yeah, he did do this to you, passively. And he'll beat himself up for the rest of his life.
"The tattoo.", he repeats, frowning. "Y'know, the, uh... wait, hold on. Is this your first... ever ?"
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
You frown, immediately at the same defence that he'd been in when he was fourteen. "Yes. So? I'm eighteen, it's weird that it's not yours.", you spit, before your face softens slightly. At least it softened. At least you clearly didn't mean that.
You don't even have to say sorry. It's not like it's going to change anything anyway.
"Well, I meant is this your first time with a Capitol cunt , or the first time ever?"
It takes a moment. He can't imagine what this conversation must feel like as a girl, so he gives you the moment gladly.
"Ever."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jesus. Do you, uh..."
"Yeah, I know how it works .", you say, clenching your jaw once more as you stare straight ahead, at the bed that you're going to lose your virginity - and part of your soul- in.
"I was going to ask , do you want me to cover for you?"
"Cover for me? What, you'll do all the work?"
"No, I mean... actually, yeah. I'll do it. I'll say you're unable to make it, or you're late. And once the hour is up, they'll leave, and you'll be in the clear. This time."
He needs to add that last part, because it's more likely you're going to have to go it alone most of the time. Such weird-ass requests were rare. Too rare to expect this to always be the case, but at the same time... too common to brush off.
"They'll get mad. You know they will. They'll say this isn't what they paid for."
"Then I'll fucking blindfold them! Seriously, Y/N. Just... let me handle this, alright?"
His magnanimity would be short-lived if you kept smart-mouthing him. He was this close to just letting you face the whole thing the way it was supposed to be ; the way he'd had to. With no cushion and no easing the blow.
But he wasn't even remotely that cruel.
"Go. No, wait, wait. No, don't leave, there's cameras outside. In there. In the restroom. Go."
He may have lost your respect then, but as long as you also lost your animosity, he was fine.
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It took a while for you to stop apologising, and an even longer while for him to show you the ropes. Like, actually show you the ropes. How to while away time to make sure most of the hour was just you talking, no matter how filthy your words were. How to get them to talk for longer. How to live with yourself, though he hadn't particularly mastered that one yet.
And thus evolved a pattern. After every single sickening time a Capitol cunt paid to touch you, you walked straight out the door and into Finnick's arms once the hour was up. You never spoke about it, and it both irked him and soothed him. Because one, how could someone go through that with no protest? Even he'd lost some sanity his first month or so. But two, he couldn't handle hearing it happen to you, so perhaps that was a blessing in disguise.
You changed, too, and in a strange sort of dichotomy, these miniscule differences were both exactly what he'd gone through, and the opposite.
For instance, you spoke less. Ditto.
However, you became colder. Not just to the touch, but your heart, as well. That did not happen for Finnick, in fact, he'd go so far as to say he became someone with much greater appreciation for the humanity of doing something with your entire heart, with emotion.
The only indication that you were still you was if you two were on his couch and an advertisement with him came on it and you let out a scoff, because 'his hair isn't even good enough to promote that'.
He'd smile. "Green's a beautiful colour on you."
You'd flip him off and he'd side-hug your shoulder.
It was worse, though, when Snow was on TV.
Which he almost always was, because the dear President was the light of Panem's lives, yes? Because then, you'd throw absolutely anything in your line of sight at the TV and his hard work of bringing things back from Four all preserved and lovely would go to waste.
The first couple times it happened, he'd just watched.
That being said, maybe about the fourth time, he held you back, didn't let you scream, didn't let you feel anything but his arms around you and his chin on your head. You kicked and screamed, and honestly? Finnick had taken a huge risk.
That move could've gone either way.
You could've felt the same as you did with the Capitol patrons and been severely triggered.
Thankfully, though, you didn't. You just writhed and struggled until you couldn't anymore, and when you went limp against his chest, you allowed him to stroke your tear-streaked hair out of your face, and look into your reddened eyes with concern so insurmountable you almost pushed him away and hid yourself from him forever.
But with his grip on you like a vice, you really couldn't.
"Breathe.", he coached, his thumbs rubbing arcs on your cheeks.
"Don't do that."
He tilted his head in question, though he didn't have a question, truly. He knew. "Don't what?"
"Make me look crazy."
"You're not crazy."
"I know, but you're acting like I am."
"I'm just helping you out. It's not an attack on you."
"You're holding down my arms and legs."
"You'd have broken the TV."
"So? It's a Capitol TV."
He nodded, letting go of you. "You're right. Go ahead. Throw the remote at the TV. Poetic justice or something."
"What?"
Schooling his face, he shrugged, spreading his arms over the back of the couch. "I totally get it."
"Well, I'm not doing it now. The moment's over."
"Mm-mm. No, you wanna make a scene, you commit to the bit."
"The bit?!"
"Yes, the bit of you being a fucking idiot and breaking an extremely expensive Capitol TV and turning my floors into a hazard by having glass shards all over it."
Silence.
"This is the part where you impart wisdom?"
"No, this is the part where I tell you something and you choose whether to go with it or not. We don't get many choices, you and I, do we? But I'm giving you the luxury of one now."
He waited, and when the nod came and you hugged your arms around your knees, he sat straight. "You can keep your composure and show that no matter what, you're stronger. District Four is, and always will be, stronger than anything the Capitol can throw— that Snow can throw at us. But then again, you could also smash pictures of him and bad mouth him and— hell yeah, break TVs whenever they show their face until even the static goes static."
"Those are my choices? Stoic or stupid?"
"Stoic or stupid.", he snorted, nodding. "Exactly. Unless you can think of a better one. And if you say Second Rebellion—"
"I'm not that idiotic.", you mumbled.
"So? What's it going to be?"
"Does it hurt?"
"What?"
"To be stoic? Because I, uh... I don't want everyone back home to think I'm some sort of—"
"Sellout?"
You nodded.
"It hurts. Yeah. But it hurts Snow more."
"I doubt it. He probably just sends more and weirder patrons."
"I get secrets, sometimes.", he offered.
"What?"
"Information. I get it. You could probably get something else you want. Access to things you want to send home? Hell, you could even get one of the treasurers to wire money to specific—"
"Finnick."
"What?"
"I'll be stoic. But only because of your whole District Four pride spiel. I don't need any special things. I don't need a thing from the Capitol."
A smile slowly took hold of his face. "Yeah?"
"You're really good at this giving-speeches thing. On TV, and in real life. Bleh."
"Green's a beautiful colour on you."
It all went great, actually. He successfully averted a crisis of you going apeshit and getting you and the rest of your District annihilated, and he didn't lose an arm doing it.
But then he did what he'd trained himself not to do.
He got personal. He got attached.
Fancy talk for he fell in love with you.
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"Seashells."
"The sea."
"The marketplace."
"Mera's Reaping Day casserole?"
"Oh, yeah, no, you win.", you relented, your hands up in mock surrender.
"I figured. Checkmate."
"That's officially the best thing about being back in the District."
"'Seashells' you said.", he scoffed, shaking his head, his mind saturated with his tirumph.
"Have you seen a single seashell in the Capitol that wasn't a replicated, plastic, flimsy piece of gaudiness? The seashells here are real and imperfect, as they should be."
"That's true.", he nodded. "But still. I want it now. The casser—hey, don't do that, come on, c'mere, I won the Games once, I can do it again.", he sighed, bringing your head to rest on his chest so you didn't seethe or cry or whatever it was you were about to do at the prospect of losing him. You'd never been in this position before, and he didn't want to find out what your reaction would be, because it'd just lead to him breaking down, too.
"You're not supposed to be going back in."
"Yeah, well, I'll be sure to file a complaint. I don't get too long, you know that. We need to go, Mags and I, okay? I promise, the destination's much better than the journey. Yeah?"
"What?" Now was not the time for this cryptic riddle bullshit.
He sighed, shaking his head. "You'll get it. Don't worry, alright? I got this."
"You said the same thing before my Games."
"And you did 'got this'. Aka, I was right. We're both strong. Okay? We're gonna change the world, Y/N, okay?"
You didn't understand what he was talking about then. If you had, you wouldn't have let him walk out that room.
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"Where the fuck is he?! Where— Where is he?!"
Yes, you were hysterical, feral even, because the Mockingjay had blown up the fucking arena, and you now had absolutely no idea where Finnick was, and yes, this fucking 'Haymitch' character had to get the hell out of your way, and— who the fuck was this guy? 'Plutarch'? Fuck him! "MOVE! I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING!"
"He needs space, he needs to recover."
"You don't know shit about what he needs, where is he?!"
"If she's that eager, just tell her."
The two men glanced at each other. You were ready to throttle them both.
"Room 13."
Three nights and two days you stayed in that infirmary bed with Finnick. You startled awake whenever District 13 med teams came in, and you shot up, shaking your head and asking them each and every thing they were putting into his body, each and every instrument that wanted to touch Finnick had to be approved by you.
You avoided his gaze - not that there was much eye contact going on. He was far too spent to even stay awake for too long.
And then one night, you felt a nudge.
Your eyes desperately attempted to adjust to the light - or lack thereof - in the room, the only things around you the beeping and buzzing of whatever machines were keeping him alive, and you were just about ready to go back to sleep (if it was an axe murderer, you'd deal with it later) when you heard it.
Fatigued. Strained. Feeble. Quieter than a ruffle of feathers.
"Green's a beautiful colour on you."
You almost gasped when slightly trembling fingers gripped your wrist with all the might they had, and you glanced down to see them. Your green District 13 'Visitor' band.
"Don't ever do that to me again."
"Then you're going to listen to me."
No. You knew him well enough to know what was going to come out of that mouth of his.
"Finnick, I swear if y—"
"I love you."
Silence.
"I love you. Listen.", he repeated, kissing your hair as gentle as a breeze.
Reluctantly, you did. Because who'd argue after that revelation?
"You're going to go back out, and tell them I'm up. Alright?"
"But then they'll make you go on missions. And besides, the Mockingjay isn't even up yet!"
"She has a name."
"I don't care. She's the reason we're in this mess!"
"Is she?" Okay. Yes. You knew she wasn't. She was just a kid. But still. Fuck this shit!
"Finnick, we could just, like... okay, listen, the rebellion is causing unrest, right? The Capitol is more focused on the districts that rebels have got control of, like Three and Eleven, so they're not going to be focused on if you and I—"
"What? If you and I what?"
"Escape! Leave! Come on, Finnick.", you hissed, sitting up and glancing momentarily at the door to ensure no one had heard. "We don't need this shit, you know that. We could just slip out under their noses and t—"
"And leave everyone behind?"
"No, obviously! Bring our families, and then—"
"You're making no sense, beautiful. No sense at all."
His thumb grazed your jaw where it clenched, and he shook his head. "We owe it to them. Don't we?"
"We don't owe anyone shit, we've both sacrif— less me, more you, but we've sacrificed enough."
He smiled sadly, resigned, and there was no valid reason for how much it irked you. "Maybe you should be the Mockingjay. You've got the fire for it.", he remarked, bringing his thumbs behind your ears so he could pull you down to meet his lips for the first time ever, and it shut you up, but only for a moment.
"I'd make a shitty Mockingjay. I know too much about Snow, I'd just walk into his quarters - because I know when he's there - and shoot him between those beady little eyes, point-blank."
"Scarily enough, I believe you. Are you a good shot?"
"Who cares? I'll have to learn anyway."
"What? Here?"
"Well, yeah, when we go on missions—"
He snorted, shaking his head. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. You're not going on missions."
"Excuse me?"
"Not a chance in hell."
Oh, you were about to throttle this man until you saw the life go out of those sea green eyes. "Finnick, I swear—"
He cut you off by brushing his lips against yours again, gently shifting onto his elbows to sit up and deepen it as if this were a new power he had just discovered he could wield to get you to shut the fuck up. And then he held you against his forehead, almost like bracing you for impact. And impact it was. "I need your brain, that beautiful, rage-filled, slightly psychotic brain of yours here, okay? In District 13, so that you can be the mastermind and—"
"No! No, no, no, Finnick, no! It's not funny anymore, the whole patronisation thing, alright? It's not! I'm not staying here when there's a rebelli—"
"When Katniss wakes up - which she will - she will see that her entire district is... it's gone. And she will be —hey, stop that, stop!", he warned, grabbing onto your wrists to make sure you didn't cause a scene and storm off. He did not need your misery on his conscience. "She will be the Mockingjay, you know she will. I'm not letting you go out there, when you're much more useful here!"
"Letting me? Okay, listen, Finnick, I'm not letting you go out and do missions and whatever the fuck else Coin has planned! Propos or whatnot, I won't let you!"
He shakes his head, once again, tracing his finger across your features. "This is no longer a rebellion, alright? It's a war. I'm not letting you be in the frontlines of a war, alright?"
"If you think I'm letting you go back to the Capitol and be Coin's lapdog, you're very wrong!"
"You don't trust Coin?"
"No! I don't trust anyone here except you."
He nodded. "Same. Alright? Same. Which is why I need you here, to make sure they're not setting us up, alright? Be part of the mission assigning and I'll be safe."
You're quiet for a moment as his knuckles brush your cheek.
"I overrule Coin, okay?"
He raised a brow.
"Your primary mission is coming back safe. Alright? Hey, stop grinning. I'm serious. Don't be a hero, or a martyr. You're coming back safe."
He let you hold his face. "Did I just hear you say you overrule Coin? Because I think that's blasphemy around these parts.", he muttered, in a mockingly hushed tone.
"Don't change the subject. Finnick, if I lose you—"
"Coming back to annoy you is my primary mission. And hey. Speaking of subject changes, was this your first kiss?"
First real kiss, he meant. But you always knew what he meant.
"Yeah. So?"
"So that means this is your second?", he murmured, accompanied by one more press of his lips to yours. "And this is your third?" Another one. "And your fourth— lucky number four, huh?"
"You're changing the sub—"
"I know, I warned you.", he reminded, moving his kisses to your cheek. "Tell me when."
"When what?"
"When to stop.", he replied, his kisses now blooming down your jaw.
"Stop."
He did. He pulled back, and smiled down at you. "Done. What's wrong?"
"I just wanted to see if you'd stop.", you admitted.
"I'm Finnick. I listen to rules. Ask Snow.", he grinned, earning an eye roll from you. "Come on, give me your fifth."
You allowed him to kiss you a fifth, sixth, seventh, hell, a hundredth time, probably, attempting to pull away so you could tell him to swear he'd come back, but he shook his head. "Give me all your kisses. Kiss me forever, come on."
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵
Finnick wasn't heartless, alright? He yearned, actively yearned for what you whispered to him in the dead of night - every night since he'd been moved to the Training Center while you all waited for the Mockingjay to wake up, your forehead against his temple and your breaths against his neck as you clung to him like the scent of all his sins.
"Last chance, Finnick. We could run."
"And do what?"
"Leave Panem. Come on, there's no chance they'll even know—"
"District 13's security is hardly lax."
"We'll find a way."
He inhaled deeply, reaching for the side of your head as he gently moved it to his cheek. "We'll find a way to win. You'll be here, waiting for me after hatching a master plan so outrageous, Coin will be slow-clapping, and I'll come back here after I execute said outrageous plan. And we'll be free."
"Snow's not dumb. He's only quiet now because he knows he has to stack up his offences against Katniss like dominos.", you sighed, watching dim silhouettes of his fingers playing with yours. "First it's District 12 gone. And then who knows what's next? She may not even agree to be—"
"You said Katniss.", he smiled, a faint phenomenon in the dark. "You said her name."
"We were kids, she's a kid. None of this is an inch fairer for her than it was for us. And you're changing the topic again, Finnick. She's only seventeen, she really can't be the Mockingjay if Snow throws her a curveball. I mean, her husband isn't even here! You think she's going to react rationally to that?"
"No. No, she isn't. But she's a smart kid. She'll know the importance. And we'll win."
"We have to."
"We have to. You realize how lovely it will be? Hm?"
"What?"
"Oh, come on. Panem without a Snow? Panem without the Capitol? It's going to be beautiful. We could roam the Districts, do whatever we wanted, when we wanted to."
"Mm. That does sound nice."
"And without all the guns and firing, I mean, maybe mother nature will heal? Bring back the number of fish we had in Four at the beginning of the Games? That was, like, what double?"
"Ten times."
"Ten times the number of fish we have now. Oh, and, and maybe mother nature brings back the trees. Oh, green's a beautiful colour. Just picture it."
You hated Finnick for being able to so easily convince you of such - in retrospect - unrealistic things.
You hated Finnick for not allowing you to do anything but go over strategies with Plutarch, Coin and Haymitch.
You hated Finnick for leaving on the mission, and the unneccessarily short kiss he gave you before doing so, because 'I'll finish that when I get back'.
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stfu i lit do this. i think of it in a sense of like how would i perceive this person if i knew them deeply and genuinely they start to look not like a stranger and its kinda cool TT i do it with the energy of like those weird visual illusion things where you cross your eyes and an image appears? it feels like that but warmer and less eye straining lmao
Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Cuss words. Slightly longer. Not proofread.
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Desc. : You're just a little too similar for his liking.
・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・
Age : Fourteen.
"Finnick Odair?"
It was a rude shock, that name not being followed by "Victor Of The Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games!"
His eyes shot up from the gaudy carpeted floor of the lobby. Oh, god, not you. Anyone but you.
"Yes?"
"We have your room ready."
Finnick tried his best not to look disgruntled, no, he truly did, but this wasn't a situation where he'd get in trouble for letting his emotions show on his face — where they were supposed to be — and it seemed that this knowledge fuelled his body into not caring what he looked like.
Which, in turn, prompted : "Are you alright?"
Finnick didn't glance at you. He was told not to, by his friends. The same friends who were probably being asked to fix up his house in the Victor's Village, which is why he was stuck here, at a fucking hotel.
He hated a lot of things about you, sure. He hated your clothes. The fact that there was a little stubborn hint of Capitol in your accent that it seemed you didn't care enough to shake off. He hated that you went to school with everyone else but then didn't have to undergo Games Training from four to six in the evening like the rest of them.
But nothing compared to how much he hated your hotel.
He'd never understood the point of hotels. They only catered to a certain sect of people — Capitol citizens, who, as far as he knew, clearly thought their little sect of Panem was superior to all Districts, even One. So why did they need hotels to come to? And besides, your father was the highest ranking official in the District. What job did he have owning a hotel? As if you didn't have enough money.
"Yes. I am fine."
"Shaken?"
Why were you like this, honestly? He just said he was fine.
"No. Why would I be?" He already knows what you're going to say. 'Victory Tour', or 'Winning the Games' or 'Life of Luxury', or something.
"The Games. Must have taken a toll.", you said, gesturing for him to follow you to the elevator.
Huh?
"Well, yeah. No shit. Where's your father?"
"He's helping refurbish your house down at the Victor's Village, so it's just me here today.", you informed, clicking the button for the seventh floor.
An entire hotel, and you — a fourteen year old — were basically running it? Insane. If what his friends told you was any indication, you were bitch enough for it, though.
"He's a huge fan. Sent you sponsor gifts during the Games."
He tried not to huff. So far, you've been cordial to him, so he had no reason to ignore you, avoid you, or insult you. You obviously couldn't quite tell how strung-out he was, and that was alright. He'd had training. He was good at masking it.
"Oh. Uh, tell him thanks."
"Will do. Give me a shout if you need anything, alright?", you told him, handing him a key. He forced a smile.
"Yeah."
He didn't see you for the rest of his stay, and he was glad, actually.
・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・
Age : Sixteen.
The sand flew behind his heels as he ran, dimpled grin widening with every stride closer that he got to the inviting shoreline.
From his peripheral, he could tell that he'd nearly shoved sand into someone's eyes, but since there was no complaint, he decided to let it g—
"Hey!"
Was that a "hello"-hey, or a "hey-I'm-blind-pay-for-my-treatment"-hey?
He turned and, honestly with his luck, he's not sure who else he expected instead of you.
As for you? God, this guy pissed you off. The way he acted on camera, like he belonged at the Capitol? Eurgh. No, he didn't, that was your home, and he always seemed like he yearned to be back here at District 4, anyway, so this ungrateful little prick had irked you more than anyone else here.
"Hi.", he mumbled back, waving. "I'm not gonna sit by you. Don't really believe in sitting by the shore when you should be swimming.", he added, matter-of-factly, before turning back to the shoreline he'd just nearly reached.
"I wasn't gonna ask you to sit by me, I didn't want you to, but whatever." The audacity.
It barely touched his ears, but it did. Well, if you didn't want him there, where else would he be?
He stomped back and plopped himself down next to you.
"I thought you didn't—"
"Well, I am now."
You lifted up your hands in resignation, before shuffling a tiny bit to give him space. He couldn't really help but lean over and look at what you were reading. "What's that?"
"A book."
He flicked at your forehead to distract you before snatching the book away from you, eyes scanning over your page. "I-ca-rus. What a weird name."
"He's Greek."
"Greek? What's that?"
"It was a country, from centuries ago.", you informed, and he flicked recklessly through pages. "Hey, stop, I don't have a bookmark!"
"I didn't think Capitol citizens even liked books. Don't you just, like... watch Panem Properties and comment on penthouses and villas and shit?", he sneered, tossing the book back to your lap.
You snorted, shaking your head before covering your eyes up with your arm. "That's rich. Literally."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Where do you live, Finnick?"
He didn't reply, instead opted to run his hands through his now-sand-streaked-hair. "Do you have a point?"
"The Victor's Village. That's where you live. With money, more than anyone else from your District—"
"Not more than you.", he scoffed.
"Yes, but I'm not District. You said it yourself."
"So?"
"So, I understand your need to try to insult me to feel some sort of solidarity with your friends, but you're closer to me than you are to them, and you're just being rude for no reason.", you explained, with a little sympathetic pat on the shoulder that he shrugged off.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
You shrugged, and he scoffed. The waves crashed even louder, in order to mitigate the silence.
"You should swim. Since you're, y'know, dead-against sitting at the beach.", you muttered.
He scoffed, scratching his nails into the sand and squinting into the horizon.
"Tell me about Icarus.", he said, quickly.
"What?"
"The Geek."
You hid a smile. "Greek. And yeah, sure." So you did.
He didn't like that he felt like you were talking about him. Just like this Icarus character, he'd thought he'd been doing some amazing thing, honouring the Capitol, big-shot tribute, and then he won the Games, and now he was a Victor, plus, Capitol Darling, most-loved, still invited to things, and yet. And yet, he'd only seen the extent of the Capitol's cruelty, had his entire world-view shaken, his hopes crushed — his wings melted down.
"He was an idiot.", he grumbled, running his hands over his face before laying down onto the sand with a tiny thump.
"He was a kid."
His head swivelled around, straining his neck to look up at you. "What was that?"
"He was just a kid.", you muttered, shrugging. "Flying's really cool, and clearly he thought so, too. Only idiots would not try to soar."
"So...", he began, slowly, cautiously, his voice level. "You'd soar?"
"You kidding me? I grow up my whole life thinking I'm stuck on this island and suddenly I get wings? Hell yeah."
Alright, wasn't he supposed to hate you? Weren't you supposed to be out-of-touch, over-privileged? Why were your ramblings somehow comforting him?
"I suppose so."
"What, you wouldn't?"
"If I knew how it ended, no."
"That's why we never know how anything ends, I guess. Or else we wouldn't do half the things we do."
Okay, he was having a great time going through life assuming every Capitol-bred idiot out there was dumb, shallow, one-dimensional. But now here you were, accidentally (on purpose) causing undeniable havoc to his world-view and everything he knew about society. It was pissing him off.
"Maybe."
Finnick found himself glancing around for you every time he got a chance after that interaction. Passing by your mayor-father's hotel or during a reaping, or during Winter celebrations. But one thing he'd learnt was never to actively look for you. It was social suicide. Not because of you, but because it'd make him a dime a dozen. He'd be one of, like, every person in District Four (be it because they were in love with you or because they hated you) who was looking for you.
Glimpses of you helped him. Do what, exactly, he doesn't know. But they helped him sort of get through his day. With your wacky theories about whatever, he often asked himself what you'd make of certain things that happened to him on a daily basis.
If you'd noticed the glances, you didn't say anything.
Which was good, because what would he have even done?
He hadn't even spoken to you in two years, what did he expect?
・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・
Age : Eighteen
It started with the press of a button.
"Hello?"
"It's Finnick. Uh, Odair."
God, god, god, what the hell was he even doing?! He didn't know, and it was too late to undo it now!
But hey, it worked out for the best, because unlike him, you tend to be cordial when people call your telephone.
So, yes, something huge and catastrophic and stunning started with the lift of a receiver.
With late night phone calls that were specially for the two of you, because not a lot of others in his District could get a phone connection, not truly.
So it was just the District 4 kid (that was tethered to the Capitol) and the Capitol girl (that was tethered to District 4) being tethered to each other through a flimsy phone line.
"Tell me more about Icarus."
"I told you all I know."
"Then tell me again."
The problem with this little arrangement was that nothing came of it, and there was no way of knowing whether that frustrated him more or you more.
Yes, that's right, you. Fucking falling for Finnick fucking Odair, just like about a million other girls in the Capitol and District alike. You liked to think you were special, that he called you for a reason, but honestly, he probably just needed practice using telephones and you were the only person with one.
But every time he hummed to show you he was still listening, every time he described his view from the Victor's Village using words you'd only heard in poetry (it was closer to the ocean), every time he gave an offhanded compliment about how you should wear more blue because he'd seen you 'at the market, and you looked beautiful', every time he told you he'd make a pair of wings and fly away like Icarus, you doubted his lack of interest.
And then he ends with : "Uh, this still stays between us, right?". and you were right back where you started. Fiddling with the cord and gnawing on your lips long after he disconnected and static rang through your ears. Because what the fuck?
Tonight, though, it was different. Because when you picked up, he didn't say hello, he called your name.
"Yes?"
"What do you think love is?"
Silence. You'd misjudged him. You hadn't liked him, when you'd first met, and you knew the feeling was mutual, but if he'd shown you this side of him? You'd have been even nicer.
"Like... me-me or Greek-Myth-Me?"
He gnawed the inside of his cheek for a moment. He wasn't ready to shrug off the disguise of Greek Mythology in your conversations. It was a cloak that, when absent, left him mortifyingly exposed.
"Greek Mythology."
"Orpheus and Eurydice."
"You haven't told me that one."
So you did. And you expected the usual : "WHY did he look back? That was stupid!"
But no. No, there was nothing on the other end besides his soft, contemplative breathing that indicated that he was even there.
Nearly an eternity later, though :
"That's love."
It's gentle, not obnoxious, didn't sound like a realisation or a declaration, just a silent statement that was as true as grass is green.
But just as you were about to reply, to tell him "Yes, exactly! No one else gets it!", he pulled out his famous line.
"Uh... this..."
This still stays between us. Fuck. Why were you thinking he would say something meaningful? Not like you'd just had a conversation about the meaning of love, right? Fuck, you were a different level of stupid.
"Yeah, this still stays between us."
He'd wanted to say : "This weekend is New Year's, right?", and keep the conversation going, but no, small talk really couldn't help him, not anymore. He was done for. He was gone.
It was probably for his own good that you cut him off with that.
"Yeah. Good night, sweet dreams."
"'Night."
You tried not to be curt. No, truly, you did. But it's just so in character of his persona (one that you'd foolishly thought wasn't what he portrayed on TV) to do this to someone's psyche.
Never speaking to him again. That'd probably be your resolution.
--New Years--
Finnick usually didn't drink. No, seriously, all those promos you see of him promoting Jabberjay Beer or the Capitol parties where he's sipping champagne? No, no, that's sparkling water in his cup.
But sometimes, y'know, he needs to... he... okay, seriously, WHY?!
WHY did it physically clench him to see you kissing someone else when the clock struck twelve on New Years? Weren't you a PRICK? Wasn't he supposed to hate you and just be using you to get information on Icarus like you're some sort of unpaid therapist?
WHY?!
Okay, he was drunk and his friends were getting fed up of holding him back. They thought he was reaching for the liquor on the table. He was reaching for the girl in front of the table, and the guy glued to her lips.
You know what? Fuck you. Whatever. What fucking ever. He was still not a Capitol cunt like you were, and that gave him enough comfort to scoff and look away.
But the rest of the night, you didn't even speak to that boy again, and Finnick started to wonder what the hell that was about. Could it be for his jealousy? No. No. Not possible.
Finnick's body suddenly overflowed with anger. So you were toying with District 4 boys, now?! Poor, bored Capitol girl using District 4 boys as her personal jesters? Wow! WOW!
He was filled with red, hot, rage.
So, when he saw you by yourself at the shore that night, gently kicking and splashing at the waves all innocent and cute like you didn't play with District peoples' livelihoods, money and hearts for sport, he had to, had to confront you about it.
"HEY!"
He hated how you looked in the moonlight.
"Hey?"
"What the HELL was up with that?"
"With?"
"You and Cove!"
"Who?!"
Wow. The fucking audacity to act like you didn't even know who that boy was after probably making his night - no, his entire week.
"I see. Alright. And you wonder why we all fucking hate you."
"What?!" What was he even talking about?
"Don't talk to me anymore, alright? Don't call!", he yelled, shoving sand from his feet as he moved away - stormed away, rather.
"RIGHT, 'cause it's always me who calls, yeah?!", you called back, glaring at his retreating figure. Who even was this idiot to tell you what to do, whatever it was that he thought you did?
Fuck Finnick Odair.
・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・・✫・
True to his word, your phone stopped ringing. For months. Months. You'd stopped expecting the ring. Fine. Fuck him. Stupid sellout with a superiority complex. Idiot. Asshole. Basta—
The wrong ring filled your suite. The doorbell.
You had half a mind to swing the door open and tell the cleaning lady to fuck right off, it's one in the morning, but seeing the sea he'd so lovingly described swirling around in his eyes sort of deterred you from that. In fact, you couldn't speak at all.
So, he did.
"Let me in."
That snapped you back into your senses. You glared at him, in his stupid coat and boots that he'd probably never worn before in his life.
"No. Fuck you."
Your scoff echoed through his ears like a taunt. "Let me in, Capitol."
"No way, District."
"Let me in. I have a gift."
"Is that supposed to entice me?"
"Doesn't it?"
"No. I probably already have it."
He sucked on his teeth, nodding as his eyes danced around your private suite. "You're rich, yeah, you probably have twice as many things as I do."
Alright, you hadn't meant it like that, you just wanted him to leave.
"But I promise, this, you don't have."
"It's fine, I don't need it."
That was the last straw for him. Rolling his eyes, he gripped the nape of your neck to bring you eye-to-eye. "Why do you act like this?"
It's a murmur, a scream in a tornado.
"Like what?"
He gripped tighter, pulled you closer, and your breaths mingled. "You know you're stunning. You know even if you were dirt poor, you're the belle of the ball. So why do you act like this? Like what you do doesn't matter?"
Okay, now you were completely lost.
"Is this your way of telling me the phone lines got tapped and now I've got to be in some fake news headline with you, posing as a couple?"
A tilt of his lips. "Would you like that?"
"No, I'd hate that."
"Good, because that's not why I'm here."
"No, you're here to ask me 'why do I act like this' with absolutely zero context."
"The context is Cove. New Years. Ring a bell?"
His forehead is nearly on yours now, and you're really fucking worried that you're about to do something significantly catastrophic, because he's right there.
"What?"
"You were kissing him."
Oh. Right. That Cove.
"It's a New Year's tradition at the Capitol. Everyone was doing it for some reason this year, too, so I-."
"I know that it's a New Year's tradition at the Capitol. Please. They're doing it because I had an advertisement about it last year.", he spat, his thumb now digging into the underside of your jaw.
"Is that why you're here?", you scoffed, clenching your jaw when he grabbed it to keep your eyes on his. "To blackmail me by threatening to tell my father I was kissing a District boy?"
"No, I'm here to kiss you senseless."
You snorted, partly in surprise, partly to mask the surprise on your face. Is he alright, mentally? Why did he keep switching up? He was giving you whiplash. "Why are you like this?"
"What?", he murmured, absentmindedly placing a palm on your forehead as he brought you closer.
"Either you're shit scared to even interact with me in public, or you're like this. Have you finally grown a pair?"
"No, I've grown wings."
Oh, this cheesy, cheesy man. "Like Icarus, I suppose.", you muttered, mockingly.
"Yes. And mine won't burn or fall off. Because you nurtured them."
"You hate me. And the feeling is mutual.", you replied, curtly.
"Did I say I was in love with you?"
"No."
You didn't even get the word out before he pressed his lips to yours. It was one moment, one split second, and then he pulled back. "Did that?"
"Did that what?"
"Say that I was in love with you?"
"Yes."
He stared at you for a good while before he kissed you again. "You're wrong."
"What?"
"Here, let me show you what it really said."
And he used that excuse to kiss you again.
This back and forth went on for a good while, actually, him telling you your interpretations of his kisses were tragically wrong, and you rolling your eyes and telling him you'd try again.
Finally, after tiring yourselves out, Finnick tilted his head. "I'm not fucking in love with you."
"Feeling is really fucking mutual."
He stared at you for a while, the ocean of his eyes once again, swallowing you whole.
He shook his head. "Yes, I am."
You didn't respond, so he pulled you to his chest. "Don't think there was a time I wasn't.", he murmured, glaring at the telephone in your suite as his chin rested on your head.
"I thought I was a Capitol cunt."
"Yeah. You are. And I'm a Capitol sellout. But neither of us are in the Capitol right now, are we?"
"So?"
A moment of silence. "I'll make sure to look back.", he muttered.
You rolled your eyes, and he leaned forward to gently kiss them closed. "Shut up. It was a good analogy."
"Sure it was."
How pathetic. You were in love with Finnick Odair. Yes, that's right, you. Fucking falling for Finnick fucking Odair, just like about a million other girls in the Capitol and District alike.
My other Finnick fics, if you have the time. Based on this ask , as well as this one (@aestheticallygaming ) <3
Part 1 : Birds Of A Feather
Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Finally wrote a happy ending. Are you proud?
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Desc.: beautiful souls and blobcakes.
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
Everyone knew where you lived. The entirety of Panem, surely.
It's a huge reason you'd been cooped up in your home since the Games, since Rue's death. You've been so terribly worried that the hatred for your failure during your first time as a mentor was a nationwide phenomenon.
In reality, no one cared much. As much as 11 were worthy contenders in the Games, some 12 year old girl who sang like a mockingjay but hid during the majority of the Games — not to mention, formed an alliance with District Twelve — wasn't exactly the national focus.
The only memory of Rue, unfortunately, was linked to the alliance, to the Twelve Victor.
Katniss had made a poster out of Rue, a form of defiance to the Capitol. And as much as you couldn't blame this sixteen-year-old-girl for grieving the way she did, you just wished she could have defied the Capitol and kept Rue alive.
Not like she couldn't, right?
She kept her District partner alive.
Fine. No use being bitter. Two Victors — yes, two! — was enough of a fuck-you to the Capitol. You were just glad you didn't have to see it all this while.
But now it's time. Victory Tour.
Rue's family couldn't follow you back into the Victor's Village, could they? So they couldn't come to shoot you in the night.
That's being harsh on them. Really fucking harsh. They were lovely people. They wouldn't do anything of the sort.
So, bravely, you stumbled out into the square to watch the speeches. It seemed that the boy recognized you, but didn't want to comment on it. The girl seemed like she was this close to commenting on it. It. Not you. No, it, the bottle you were clutching to your heart. She probably got deja vu, seeing as her mentor was married to the thing.
Another reason that the hiding away from everyone left you completely protected : Finnick Odair couldn't take your bottle away from you. Yeesh. It's been a while since you thought about him. Fucking weirdo, is what your muddled brain could recall. Holier-than-thou Capitol bootlicker. Right, that made more sense than the first impression you'd had of him — that he actually cared. Right. Like that thing could care.
And then the shot.
Bang.
Dead.
Oak!
You'd have gone and throttled that Peacekeeper onto the ground had Rue's dad not yanked you back and dragged your kicking and screaming form back home. His home, not your Capitol-sanctioned abode.
"Peacekeeper my fucking ass!", you shrieked, trying to have another go at the square again, see if you can't knock a couple teeth out of him at least, so he could never say 'Peacekeeper' without being mocked for his lisp.
"Hey, hey, hey, easy, easy."
It took a couple more 'easy's for you to actually ease up.
And then it came all at once. The tears, the apologies, the trembles, the screams. And, in an entirely cruel and ironic twist of fate, it was Rue's family comforting you.
The guilt that came after that would never leave you, for sure.
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
Nearly a year later, and you're still clutching the bottle, but more in hopes that the glass would crack and you'd be declared injured. Or dead. Depends.
Seeder gently takes the bottle off your hands, and strokes your hair. "Hey. Hey, if you get reaped, I'm volunteering, baby, okay?"
She's gotta be fucking kidding. What is it with everyone and treating you like you were fragile? It'd be a much more dignified death if you died in the arena than if you died here, glass in your wrist and bleeding out in a fucking Capitol-crafted bathtub.
"No, I'm not letting you do that, Seeder, no."
"Hey. Listen, I'm not letting you go in there again, baby, okay? You've barely had any time to process losing your first set of tributes."
"Seeder, I can't let someone else die again when I could've stopped it!"
She sighs, smiling sadly as she lowers herself down next to you in the bathtub. "You couldn't have stopped Rue's death, or Thresh's, or Old Man Oak's death out in the square last year. You couldn't have, to put it simply. And as for me, it's my time, baby. Who knows, I could win. Fingers crossed that the other Victors are all senile, huh? All the Careers past their primes? Hm? I'll volunteer for you, baby."
No. You'd decided. You weren't fucking letting her do this shit.
"No, no. You're not—"
Both your heads whip around at the same time. The phone.
"How about you get that, alright? We'll talk about this later."
"Alright, but you're not volunteering!"
"Love you, baby, pick up, the ringing gets to me, you know that!", she grunts, standing up and dusting herself off.
"SEEDER! Listen to me, I— hey, I'm NOT letting you volun— fuck , shut up, alright, I'm coming!", you cut yourself off, ripping the phone from its stand.
You pick up the phone and he swears the universe paused.
"Hey." Discomfort. Not because of him, thank god, but discomfort was present in your voice nevertheless.
"How are you?" It's Reaping Day, you absolute fuckass, she's losing her mind.
"Okay. I mean, it's Reaping Day, so I guess as good as can be."
He smiles. He can work with that.
"You receive any more blobcakes?"
He's pretty sure he'd added them in, special request, to your monthly Victor-loot since he'd met you. He'd made it a priority.
"No. Why, you wanted some?" What the fuck? You hadn't? Oh, a couple ex-District 1 Avoxes were going to get a talking-to.
He shrugs. "Yeah."
Whoo, there he was, Finnick Odair, king of nonchalance. He's glad Finnick, normal old District 4 Finnick isn't showing up. He's the kind that would have an aneurysm if he'd known a pretty girl like you had picked up voluntarily.
Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling, his suaver persona, was active when the two of you were in the Capitol, and he's pretty sure that's the only reason you tolerated him.
"Well, y'know. Surviving Reaping Day was kinda higher on my bucket list."
"Right, right. Well, relax, you'll be fine. The odds are, like, astronomical."
"Weren't they astronomical for you, too?" Fuck.
"Yeah, but I'm me."
"Meaning? I can't win?" WHOA. Whoa, Finnick Odair, king of nonchalance needed to be a bit more 'chalant'.
"No, I mean, like, bad luck kinda follows me around. So."
"Oh. But, um, on the off chance that I..."
"Whoa, no. You won't get picked."
You can't. Finnick would genuinely pass out.
"Okay, but if I do, you— uh, honestly, as a mentor. Do I have a chance?"
Finnick was at a loss here and so was Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling. He genuinely had no clue. "I haven't seen you figh—"
"No, like, I mean, do I have the ability to be a favourite?"Oh.
"Yeah. You do. You have a good personality, you look good, so I don't think you'll have trouble with sponsors so long as your physical prowess is alright."
"I hate the Capitol.", he hears you say.
"Shh. These lines are tapped."
"Right, like Snow doesn't know that we hate the Capitol." Valid point.
"You're fine. Can I just... I just feel like you..."
"I'm overreacting? Is that what you're going to say, Finnick?"
He was about to say 'I feel like you're the only reason I'm not hanging from the fucking ceiling right about now', but that might have just been a tad too dramatic.
"No, I just... I just think that you're not—"
"Because you do realize the position you're in, right? I've said it before, I'll say it again! You get everything, Finnick Odair! The adoration, the glory, the pity, the money, the— fuck, y'know what? You probably didn't even care about your tributes, but I actually liked Rue!"
And just like that, he's dragged back into the spotlight of reality.
You'll never see him as more than a Capitol sellout.
"I'll see you at the Games."
The phone slams. Fine, whatever.
But something Seeder had said dragged your mind out of a stupor, albeit momentarily. Careers. Careers. Ugh. Finnick Odair. Finnick fucking Odair! No, no, no, as much as you hated him — did you hate him? — you didn't want him to go back, his pretty boy self would never fucking survive in the arena after thriving on cushy Capitol beds and mushy Capitol meals for the past ten years.
Okay, now you 100% had to go in and bail his ass out.
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
FUCK SEEDER. DAMN her to wherever the hell people go to get damned! You couldn't even argue, because the Capitol audience loves when a volunteer gets to become tribute and honour the Capitol. So, she'd volunteered, you yelled 'no, no, I got reaped, I get to go!', but all that was cut out, naturally.
You got sent home, she got sent to die.
You had to wait for a couple hours before you could see the rest of the reaped Victors, and when you got to Five, your breath hitched. Not because you particularly knew the Victors, but because next up was possibly Finnick Odair trying to be the same kind of hero you'd been denied the right to be in your own Reaping.
But for him, it was clean. Smooth. He'd been Reaped, his dimpled grin had emerged, and there. That's it. Everything was coming up Finnick, wasn't it?! You could scream. But that was redundant and stupid. You weren't seriously jealous that he got his way, were you?
No. He was, in fact, going to the Arena, again, and what fate's worse than that? But once again, he got to help his fellow Victors from facing that fate, and you hadn't been.
Restraining yourself from throwing the remote on the screen, you continued watching. Your own Reaping flashed before you on the reruns, and you scoffed, watching District 12's Reaping emerged. SEE?! Even Peeta Mellark got to save Haymitch! This was so unfair!
At least you'll get to be a mentor again, and possibly find an in to help out Seeder. Saving grace.
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
Finnick doesn't let you breathe for even a second when he sees you. He doesn't wave, he doesn't smile, he doesn't handshake.
He just makes for you with the determination of lightning to a tree, and embraces you with the desperation of the sea repeatedly reaching for the shore.
And you hug back. For no apparent reason other than this is a dying man's wish, evidently.
"I didn't get to watch your Reaping, did you get Reaped?"
There's no way he didn't get to watch it. It's the second fucking one that's aired. What was he, taunting you with the fact you couldn't protect Rue and Thresh, and now you couldn't even protect Seeder?
You shake your head, and he sighs in relief, now seemingly deeming it okay to kiss your temple. "I was worried."
Bullshit. But you don't comment. What's the point? Either he or your mentor or both were going to die in a week or so.
He bites the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed as though trying to size up whether you knew something, a particular something, or not. "How you feeling?", he asks, pointedly choosing to ignore the fact that you were slurring, your eyes were droopy with sleep, and you seemed to be hurtfully bored of the conversation.
So typically Finnick. He's about to go back into the Arena, but no, of course he'll go ahead, keep up the 'charming' act. Buy yourself sponsors. Psych me out.
"Me? I wasn't Reaped.", you retort.
"Doesn't mean you're alright."
Finnick, for the life of him, can't understand why you're acting like this is a game. And not even a fun one. The kind where both players are trying to get something out of the other. And he's not sure what you're trying to get from him, because he sure as hell isn't trying to get anything from you.
Well, that's a lie. He is trying to get an explanation out of you, for how you talked to him.
Now, listen. He knows enough. The Mockingjay's husband, Peeta, told Haymitch — who told Finnick, of course — that you've been drinking. Guzzling. And he's seen this happen before —hell, he's gone through it.
But he doesn't like things like this happening to people he likes.
Watching a beautiful soul unravel isn't a pleasing affair. He should know. He's been the soul, and now he's being forced to be the audience.
"I don't look alright?"
He tilts his head, seemingly deciding that you didn't know the 'particular something' that he did. And you can't tell if he seems more relieved, or worried at that knowledge. But he covers it up pretty well.
"Yeah.", he nods, humming as he continues to hug you. "You've changed."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm." He pulls away, an odd amusement to his eyes. "Your voice is different. Don't tell me you've been ruining your beautiful voice with trying to take those bullshit 'singing lessons' from Capitol TV."
It's like he knew you, better than you knew yourself. What to avoid, what to say to make you laugh, make you cry, make you hug him. This was the 'make-you-laugh' one, evidently. You snort softly, and he kisses your forehead before wrapping his arm loosely around your shoulder. "Ooh, guess what I brought for you?"
"What are you gonna do, Finnick?", you sigh. As much as your brain's muddled about whether you trust him or not, you do have some form of human decency that has you worried.
He cocks his head, brows furrowed. "I was hoping... give you these blobcakes?"
"I mean in the Arena."
Squinting up at the sunlight and instinctively pulling your shoulder closer, he shrugs. "Deal with it, I guess."
"Have I told you you're not even remotely funny?"
"No, but I've got that vibe from you. Very cruel, the Capitol adores my comedic genius."
"I'm not the Capitol."
He gazes down at you a moment, pride, amusement and possibly fascination seeping through his gaze, before he snorts, softly. "I know. Exactly."
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
There's no way. There's no way you and Chaff just saw Finnick Odair talking to Haymitch Abernathy. An alliance between Four and Twelve? That's never happened before in the history of the Games, you don't think.
You're seconds away from storming up to him. Wasn't he technically supposed to continue pretending he cared for you? Shouldn't he be talking himself up to Seeder and Chaff?
Ugh. Teach you to trust a lapdog. This was probably the "particular something" he wanted to find out if you knew or not.
You're at the food stalls, subconsciously lingering at blobcake-laden-One and glancing subconsciously at Four. But overall, you were glaring at the monitor. There's no point looking at the scoring, because it's less likely they've gotten worse, actually. They're either the same score as their first Games, or better.
"Hey, there."
Ugh. "Hey."
"Noticed you've been avoiding me."
"Noticed you've been betraying me."
His dimpled grin flashes, and he makes a point to chew slowly on the blobcake he's just ripped from your hands. "Yeah? How'd I manage that?"
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Never mind."
"Hey. Don't do that. What? How'd I betray you? I'll fix it right away."
"Abernathy? Really?"
"Why? You two at odds over who can drain the liquor supply fastest?"
Low fucking blow, but you know you deserve it. "Katniss and Peeta are both at scores of 12. Do you not think there's a reason for that?"
He gasps in mock astonishment. "It can't be... skill?!"
You smack his shoulder and he chuckles, rubbing at it. "The Gamemakers are singling them out, making them targets."
"Is this you telling me you actually do care if I live or die?"
"Do you really think Katniss is a good choice, anyway?"
He's fully smirking now, amusement and mock curiosity and perhaps even, again, a hint of fascination on his lips. As well as a bit of frosting. "Oh, please elaborate."
"Pregnant sixteen-year-old in the Arena, who we know cares only about Peeta."
"And this is the part you're going to say I'm not a good choice for her.", he mumbles, not even turning as he reaches back for a blobcake and hands it to you.
You nod, pointing in between swallows. "Yeah, I'm sorry, but fan-favourite Career, who has to take care of an 80-year-old District partner, and is most likely the one everyone's wanting in the spotlight, anyway?"
"You telling me you wouldn't want me as an ally?", he pouts, his elbow on your shoulder as he leans in. "Hurts my feelings."
You try not to instinctually shove him away, because you've already been unintentionally rude to him once this entire Games, and if he's going to die, least you can do is humour him.
Instead, you count to ten, close your eyes, take deep breaths, then open them. "Alright. How are you even going to convince her to ally with you?"
He shrugs. "Give her a blobcake."
"She'll hate them."
He frowns. "Or, you just hate the idea because blobcakes are a 'you-and-I thing.", he teases, waggling one finger to gesture between the two of you.
You scoff once more.
"I'll give her a sugar cube or somethin', then, alright? Relax."
Relax. Three out of four (minus Haymitch) of your "inner circle" (barely) were going back into the Arena, and one of them was telling you to 'relax'.
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
You're not sure what you expected. Logically, Seeder's past her prime, but... to not even make it past the bloodbath?
You're not sure how many tears you've supressed over the years — you didn't even cry after your games — but the fact that you're, for some reason, unable to shed any for Seeder, the woman who meant the world to you? It puts you in a special personal hell .
And your hell's confirmed when you realise Haymitch isn't even drinking this time. It's serious serious.
And one of your Victors is dead. It's all up to Chaff, now. Though, he does seem to be doing well, so you allow yourself one minute of checking-on-Finnick-time.
If you could fucking find him, that was.
"You lookin' for your fishy friend?"
It takes you a moment to register that Haymitch is talking about District Four. You're so used to people referring to Finnick as "Capitol Darling" or "Golden Boy", that you're thrown off, brows furrowing in confusion as Haymitch drags you to his screen. "There. He's with Katniss."
Death fucking sentence.
"She okay doing all that?"
"Yeah. District 12 ladies are crazy hormonal when pregnant, so expect hell for any attackers."
Well, at least Finnick's okay. Not that he can't hold his own, but you'd rather he use as little of his true skill as possible until it really matters. So if Katniss' pregnancy mood swings would help kill off other Victors without Finnick wasting his energy and his good arm, then great.
"You best stick by me.", declares Haymitch, spinning around in his chair as you attempt to go back to your seat.
"What?"
"I get the same controls on my screen as everyone else. C'mon, stay with me. Wherever you wanna see...", he punctuates, with two flicks of his fingernail on the screen. "I'll show you. Our priorities are together, anyway."
Our priorities. Oh, my god, this was why Rue had died, why Thresh had died, fuck. You lost sight of your priorities, so much so that even Haymitch thought you were on his side just because some District Four guy was with his tributes.
Fuck.
"No, I need to make sure Chaff's alright."
"Hey, hey, whoa, hey, sit down.", he mutters, offhandedly, as he navigates through the water-saturated expanse of the Arena. "There. See?"
Chaff's alright - perfect, actually.
"Now, let's get back to the pregnant one, the old one and the fan favourite."
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
The blackout, surprisingly, comes after the panic.
You see Brutus killing Chaff, and you're sure the scream you let out chills everyone's blood. It freezes yours, too.
But as it turns out, your grief isn't big enough, or loud enough, no, not compared to the Gamemakers' grief in losing the Arena.
All you know is that you're glad Haymitch forced you to sit by him the past three days, because he seems to be foresighted enough to shove you down to duck the second his tribute pulls out her arrow.
"We gotta go."
You'll listen to sober Haymitch, no questions asked.
"What happened? Are they okay? Is Finnick okay?"
"They will be, just lay low, c'mon, in there."
A door that you'd never noticed before. Haymitch gestures at you to run down these extremely odd, borderline creepy stairs. It's a stairwell. How the fuck?
"When did you even find these?", you pant as you rush down the spirals, checking over your shoulder that he's behind you.
"Finnick told me about them. He said that's what he used to come up to your floor last year, during the Games."
Fucking Finnick.
"What's the Capitol protocol for a fucked-up-Arena?"
"Well, when I was in the Games, it was to direct mutts onto a twelve-year-old kid and just pretend that the glitches were part of the whole thing, but, uh, they might have gone lax this time, I don't know. Don't stop, though, keep going.", he replies, fast and all at once.
"Haymitch, what's gonna happen to Katniss? The baby? Peeta? Johanna?"
You try your best not to mention Finnick, because he already thinks your priority is Finnick over everyone else, and though that's true now, with the deaths of Chaff and Seeder, you don't want to act like you're suddenly okay about said deaths.
You're still on the fence about what Finnick even means to you. He was a mentor, yes, he was a good guy, sure, but he was also a Capitol lapdog that you didn't want anywhere near the Mockingjay.
Because he could either get the only true whisper of a rebellion killed, or she could get him killed, which would suck for you either way.
"They're all going to be fine, they know what to do. Who do you think told me to keep you right next to me so that you're safe?"
Finnick. Fuck, it's always Finnick.
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
You're not sure how long you've been spinning the same coin on the table and counting the seconds until it fell, but it's probably a diabolically tragic amount of time.
So maybe this was the "particular something" he wanted to find out if you knew or not.
"Hey, he's done, we patched him up well."
"You fucking better have.", you grumble, shouldering past the District 13 medical staff. Alright, so you were being a bitch. But you have a right to be hostile. So many weapons, and not once, in seventy-five years did they try to rescue Panem? Shame.
The door gives way to a perfect view of his eyes. "Oh, thank god, they wouldn't let me ask around for you because it would strain my throat."
You sit opposite him, frowning. "You knew all that would happen? The blowing up?"
"Yeah, I mean... yeah. Well, not Katniss finding the glitch, but yeah, pretty much."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Didn't want to worry you." Alright, so that wasn't the "particular something".
"Worry me? Why would I be worried? The two people I cared most about in the world are dead, and you didn't even think to include them in your insurance plan."
"Too many people would have fucked it up."
You scoff. So, you were counted as 'too many people', as well as the Victors of your District, the ones he didn't seem to care enough to rescue, whereas you seemed to be rescued as an afterthought. Brilliant.
"Get well soon, Finnick."
"Wait, where are you going? Hey! Hey, no. I...", he sighs, running his hand across his other one. "I'm alone here. I have no friends. Mags is gone, but... but I'm sure you already saw that."
You did see that. You sigh, sitting back down. "Listen, I just think you should have told me."
"I know. I know, I'm sorry. Truly." He reaches for your hand, and what were you going to do? Deny him? He'd break at that. Each knuckle receives a kiss. "I really am."
"Yeah, I got that."
"I'm sorry about Rue. I never got to tell you."
God, you need a drink.
You nod. "Yeah, it's alright."
"And Seeder. Chaff, as well, though I didn't see his death."
He's practically pushing you to a bar right now.
You nod once more. "And I'm sorry about Mags."
He smiles. "You forgive me, right? For not telling you sooner?"
What other choice do you have? Hold a grudge against the only person you trust here?
"Yes."
"Will you stay? With me?"
"There's a schedule here, it's strict, so I don't know—"
"They need me. So, I wouldn't worry about it. You get privileges when you know Finnick Odair.", he grins, clenching his jaw in pain as he shifts to the side, patting the empty space on the bed.
You sit by him.
"What other privileges?"
"I can get you one-on-one-time with the Mockingjay. Ooh.", he mock-gasps, nudging your shoulder.
"If she wakes up and doesn't detonate the entire District because hers burned down."
"You're so optimistic, I love it."
That coaxes a laugh out of you.
"You scared?"
"For what?"
"The war."
War? Whoa, you'd never... that had never crossed your mind. "Say it like that, it seems so real."
"Yeah, I mean... 'send children to kill each other in a closed environment' sounds worse, though, doesn't it?", he asks, his eyes roaming your face as though searching - once again - for the 'particular something'.
"You think Katniss will be okay with it? Being the Mockingjay? Potentially starting a war?"
"She already has.", he tells you, shrugging. "Oh, this is what's different. Your hair."
"Yeah, uh, for some reason they brought in a stylist for me.", you reply, thumbing at the door. This earns a frown and a kiss on the temple. You're not sure why he's so fond of kissing your forehead, but hey, you're not complaining. It makes you feel safe. And that's rare, in Panem.
"Why?"
"They said I'd need it." A spark, on his face. Alright, perhaps this is the "particular something" that he knew and you didn't.
"During a war. That didn't register in your head as odd?"
You scoff, looking out the window behind his head.
"I'm not an idiot, Finnick, I know what it means, they're going to use me to promote the rebels' side. What else?"
He seems to be happy, at that. What, he thought you were dumb, this whole time? "Yeah. And you're okay with it?"
"They'll kick me out if I don't do it."
He shrugs. "Okay, fair. But you, um... you will do it, right?"
"I'm the least interesting person here, I don't have any stories to tell, I don't ha—"
"What about your Games? Rue? Seeder?"
Alright, was he sponsoring the drinks at this place? Because boy, was he tempting you.
"You might be alright exploiting your trauma for District 13, Finnick, not me. I'm not saying a word about Rue, or Heath, or Seeder, or Chaff."
He sighs, shaking his head once more. "I'm not exploiting anything, I'm finally controlling my own experiences, my own story, how it's portrayed! Why don't you get that? Isn't that what we want? Freedom from the Capitol's narrative?"
"Well, I'm not you, Finnick. For me, this would be exploiting the deaths of people I love."
Cussing under his breath, he grunts a bit to sit up further, picking at his knuckles for a moment. "You and I are so similar that it's borderline terrifying."
"No, we're not. Stop saying that. That whole birds-of-a-feather, cut from the same cloth bullshit."
"Admit it, you started drinking because I can't be in your district."
"What?"
"You, you absolute idiot, started - well, continued - drinking because you don't feel comfortable enough to open up to anyone else but me, and I wasn't there. Guess what? I feel the same way."
You scoff. "What is this, an intervention?"
He shakes his head. "Just one friend checking on the other."
"Well, seeing as you're the one in a hospital bed—"
"But am I the one who needs checking-in on?"
Yeah, what the fuck? "Do you see tubes in my arms?"
He bites the inside of his cheek, a small, sad sigh creeping out of his mouth. He calls your name. "Please. Give me something."
"What?"
He looks like he's fighting the urge to say 'anything'. "Whatever you can."
You huff, your cheeks inflating before you exhale, shifting to face the wall opposite the bed. You're stuck in a hospital bed, in a District that people thought burned the fuck down, ready for a rebellion, with a Capitol bootlicker — who is somehow the only person in this District (possibly the whole world) that you trust.
The universe seemed to think you were a flashy toy that it could put in comical, ironic situations and laugh at.
"Should I tell you about Rue?"
You're not sure why you say it. Probably because you know that you will have to recount it anyway, for the propo. Because Finnick asked you to. Because it's important to him. Because Finnick.
A toothy smile. "If you can."
And so you do. You tell him about how she was the one that would sing the end-of-day-song, and how the mockingjays would carry her tunes through the trees.
"Like how our Mockingjay will carry her message."
Okay, Finnick.
You tell him how terrified she'd been that night. How her mother had told you to call her Rue-bird, and when you did, how you could feel her tension ease out of her.
"Rue-bird's pretty adorable."
Yes, it is, Finnick.
You tell him about all the times she'd written you a little thank-you note for donating money to their family so that they didn't need Tesserae, no matter how many times you'd told her she didn't have to.
"Oh, that's so sweet of her."
You're right, Finnick.
You tell him about the triumphant little smirk on her face when she managed to sneak past all the Peacekeepers and into the Victor's Village to see you.
"That must've taken her some time to perfect."
Probably, Finnick.
"You should tell Katniss all these stories when she wakes up. She'll love them. Might push her into getting into the Mockingjay role much faster."
You're about to ask him if he has the ability to talk about anything else, anything at all, but you refrain from it. Believe it or not, trust him or not, your main goal is not to hurt him. Hurt Finnick? Unheard of.
Instead, you tell him you can't figure out the "particular something" he'd wanted you to know. He tells you it's that he loves you.
The two of you laugh it off. Love during war? Please.
And then, it hits you. All at once, a tidal wave, a sucker punch. You'd never hurt Finnick, but other things could.
A misplaced banana peel, fuck's sake.
An exposed live wire.
A war.
Anyone you'd sworn to protect so far had died.
Maybe you shouldn't try to protect him. He was older, wiser, and clearly he'd gone through some shit and needed to get it off his chest.
He could protect himself.
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
You're not exactly sure what Katniss is saying. It's something about the Transfer, which you'd learned were the tunnels under the Capitol. She's screaming is what she's doing, actually, and it's freaking everyone out, even more than they normally were.
"MUTTS!"
You're ready to throw the walkie-talkie into a fire. The one word you'd heard and the one word you'd never wanted to hear. Mutts. While your Arena didn't have too many, everyone around you had them. Haymitch. Johanna. Hell, even Katniss, on the other end.
"How many are there?"
Haymitch's voice is too clear, too precise, too calm for this situation.
"Too many, we can't fight them off."
"Quarter Quell them."
It takes you a second to realise he means blow them up.
"Brace yourself, kid."
You're not sure if he's talking to Katniss before she detonates, or to you, who has the walkie-talkie too close to your ears.
It's like a rip through the air, even though it's through a speaker.
Everyone in the room freezes, but not you, no, your foot's shaking, your fingers are rapping on the table.
"They're dead."
You know she's not only talking about Mutts. "Casualties?"
"I don't know."
"Katniss? Katniss? Tell me who you see around you, past the smoke."
"Peeta."
Yeah, no fucking shit.
She coughs a bit, probably due to ash. "Pollux is alive. Uh... okay, Gale."
"Give it to him.", instructs Haymitch. Katniss is too shocked to give an accurate report, and it's vital. "Who'd we lose, Hawthorne?"
"Castor, and I think Homes."
This is infuriating. You're only in this stupid fucking room for one person, and it's like they're purposely avoiding mentioning him. In the darkest, loudest depths of your head, the mutts had ripped off his.
"Gale, tell me Finnick's there. look through the smoke, look on the ground, anywhere."
The soft crackle of the radio, the faint, buzzing sound of shuffling, it all just adds fuel to your raging fire, strengthens the fears that grip those depths of your mind. Finnick's dead, the mutts have ripped him apart, he'll never kiss your temple again.
There's another crackle in the radio, and heavy breathing ensues. Haymitch furrows his brows.
"It's me."
You can't help it. You cry. You've never been able to, not in your Games, not for your mentors, but perhaps that was because it was death. This is life. Finnick's alive. He has his life.
Finnick doesn't let you breathe for even a second when he sees you. He doesn't wave, he doesn't smile, he doesn't handshake.
He just makes for you with the determination of lightning to a tree, and kisses you with the desperation of the sea repeatedly reaching for the shore.
And you kiss back. For no apparent reason other than this is a living man's wish, evidently.
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Desc. : bitter truths and blobcakes.
◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇──◇◇──◇──◇
It's hard to recall his first tribute. He'd had to begin quite early. Maybe in some twisted way, he was jealous of you for being able to be twenty and mentor. He'd had to be seventeen. Well, that was until he found out that you knew one of your tributes. His initial sharp inhale of breath upon the realisation didn't even begin to cover the turmoil he knew you must be facing. The jealousy evaporated out of him expeditiously.
He'd first seen your little tribute at the Tribute Parade with her little overalls and laurel crown. The boy seemed to have a better chance. But this little girl, good god, she was younger than Finnick had been during his own Games.
He'd seen you around quite a bit, too. I mean, how could he not? A couple years after his own Games, you'd won yours. Absolutely obliterating the competition. You weren't particularly strong, definitely not Career-level, but you'd definitely got the smarts to make up for it. You relied on geurilla surprise-attacks.
He'd always wondered what happened to you. You were oddly composed after your Games, which meant you were internally chaos personified. He knows this, because he personally knows someone else who was eerily calm after their Games. Him.
Now you were back. Same anxiousness as you'd exuded at your own Tribute Parade, but now, with the anxiousness for two others.
After spending far too much time gnawing on the inside of his cheek watching his tributes train in the Center from an obnoxiously large screen - they were talented, of course, they were Careers, but it was just not enough - he decided that he'd actually take advantage of the Capitol treating this like a party and help himself to the food laid out for him and the other mentors.
And then he saw you. He wasn't exactly sure if you'd remember him.
You were attempting to (utilise your evidently limited knowledge of) sign to the Avox behind the counter, who gave you a small menu in response. Looking up the item number on the menu, you tilted your head. "Cupcake?", you questioned, brows furrowed.
"Yes, Sugar?", he asked, leaning his elbow on the counter, grinning. With all his perfectly pearly white teeth. "Sorry, I had to.", he chuckled, watching as you curiously turned to look at him. "You don't think that's a cupcake?"
"It doesn't look like one."
"It's a District 1 delicacy. Don't let them hear you say that."
"It doesn't look like anything. It's a blob. Plus, I think that's gold on it."
"It's edible gold. It's fine. She'll have two. Trust me, if the Capitol's good for one thing, it's knowing the best materialistic stuff to have. And gold-dusted-cupcakes are iconic. We have 'em every year."
You nodded as you begrudgingly took the two cupcakes from the Avox attendant, handing one over to him.
"Thank you kindly, ma'am.", he replied, tipping an imaginary hat. "I'm Finnick."
"Yeah, I know."
"You remember me? And I don't mean from any ads or TV appearances. I mean, me, from the last time you were here at the Capitol."
You shrugged. "Kinda? Sorry, I was more focused on the Games."
"No doubt, no doubt.", he nodded, watching as you gently unwrapped the bottom of the blobcake. "What are you doing?"
You gestured at the blobcake. "Eating. You said it was good."
"You gotta lick the icing off first. That's how you eat it. It's a law."
"It's a law?"
"Well, not a-- yeah, basically."
"That's disgusting."
He spluttered. "The icing is the best part!"
"So save it for last!"
"Wow. Uncultured.", he muttered, running his tongue along the icing, shooting you a triumphant look. "Mm-mm, it's better when it's eaten right."
Defiantly, you took a bite of the cake-part, mirroring his look, to which he mock-gasped. "Blasphemy."
You laughed. He was glad. "So. You really don't remember me? I was standing right next to your mentor when you came out of the Arena?"
"Wait, aren't you the one who told your tributes to try to psych me out--"
"I nudged them in the direction of psychological--"
"Warfare."
"Not- not warfare, more... teasing. You killed 'em, anyway, so, I guess we're even.", he muttered, offhandedly as he took another lick of the icing, cleaning his lips with the back of his hand. Your silence made his head snap up.
"Right. Sorry." It was so quiet, he almost screamed to counter it.
"No, no, that was a joke- well, not a joke, I'd never joke about that, I just... it didn't mean anything.", he rambled, nudging your shoulder with his elbow, only letting up once you nodded.
Clearing his throat, he continued to lick the gold dusted icing off his blobcake, now sort of understanding your point of how disgusting it must look. But it felt right, and he'd long learnt that things feeling right was a rare emotion these days.
"So, your tributes. Quite the age difference, huh? Can't really push the whole star-crossed-lovers thing that Abernathy's doing with the 12 tributes, can you?", he asked, looking up at you taking another gentle bite of the blobcake.
You shook your head, instinctively glancing up at the screen, where, like clockwork, 11's tributes were displayed, along with a ranking.
"Seven.", you whispered, setting your blobcake down slowly, causing him to raise a brow before his eyes dutifully followed your line of sight. Oh. Wow.
"A twelve-year-old got a seven?", he muttered, resting his elbows on the counter behind him. "You trained her well."
"No, she's always been like... this insanely talented kid. Back at the District, right? She'd manage to squeeze her way into the Victor's Village to come see me. Peacekeepers never see her."
"Squeeze her way? What, you're not allowed to see the others?"
You gnawed on your lip, shrugging as you picked at your blobcake. "I mean, you guys haven't heard? The Peacekeepers said that the whole of Panem knew and that's why they look down on 11."
"Knew what?"
You looked down at your cake and he huffed. "C'mon, let's cause a scandal.", he mumbled, dragging you by the wrist to a secluded corner of the room. "Now, tell me."
Exhaling softly, you glanced around for a moment before nodding. "11's been trying to get our own Training Programme. Like you Careers have -- because it's an unfair advantage. The Capitol doesn't like that. It prefers you guys, obviously. So Snow calls me over sometimes, being the most recent Victor from 11, because he thinks I'll be loyal to him and snitch."
"Do you?"
"Would you?"
Touché.
"And that's why he has you guys separated from the rest of the District? So you can't give them tips?"
You nodded. "I try my best to help people out. I know it's stupid, that at the end of the day, there will be two tributes chosen every year anyway, but I donate some of the annual income I get as a Victor to families with eligible but very young kids. Y'know, like Rue. So that there's no need for Tesserae."
Whoa. So it was true, what the other mentors had been whispering about. You had personal attachment. Yeesh.
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"Can I sleep with you tonight?"
"Of course, Rue, c'mon."
You allowed her to settle down in your blankets before you stroked your fingers through her hair. "You have pretty hair."
"Thank you."
"No problem, Rue-bird." You'd been told by her mother, while she was clutching your arms with her trembling hands, to call her that if she needs it. No promises were demanded of saving her. No promises were given, either.
"How did you win your Games? They didn't tell us."
They wouldn't have. Doesn't go with the image of the badass, merciless Victors.
"Well, um, I was in an alliance with someone from 2. Which, I know, is odd, because usually, the Careers band together, but she was weaker than the rest of them. And somehow, it had just come down to four of us left."
Rue hummed, playing with her fingers as they rested on your stomach.
"So, we'd gone our separate ways to look for food. I found a, uh, a District 3 boy bleeding out. Some muttation, I think, had got to him. He didn't have much time left. He reached out his hand. But all that went through my head was my little baby brother. I had to know him. I--", you exhaled, licking your lips as you looked up at the ceiling.
The worst thing is that you've always been incapable of tears, when asked about the brutality of the Games.
"What did you do?"
"I turned back around. I went past our meeting spot, to where she was, the 2 tribute. And then...", you sighed. Fuck. "I literally stabbed her in the back as she was aiming at a squirrel for food. Well, not stabbed. I shot her. With an arrow. Both of their cannons went off at the same time. Hers and the boy's. I didn't have to mercy kill him."
"That's how you won?"
You nodded, lips pursed.
"You said there were four of you."
Oh, right.
"The other one was my fellow 11 tribute. I hid from him. The Gamemakers tried their best to force us together, but I managed not to."
"So he was looking for you?"
"I couldn't handle killing him, too, Rue. Someone from my own District. But he started believing I was dead and he just kept missing it on all the nightly announcements. He thought the Capitol was messing with him, that he was alone in the Arena. Wouldn't put it past them. But he went mad. He ended up killing himself."
Rue's silence was expected, and strangely enough, welcome.
"You won by default."
"Yes. They didn't see it that way, though. The Capitol's so used to brutal murders that they thought this was an 'innovative psychological strategy', not that I couldn't bring myself to kill him. But for my brother, I couldn't bring myself to let Heath find me."
"Heath?"
"The other 11 tribute's name."
"Did you say sorry to his family?"
"I haven't been able to look them in the eye since. They forgive me, though, they've sent letters on numerous occassions."
She fell asleep, then. Good. After this reliving of trauma, at least one of you should.
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If you could loop this week for the rest of eternity, you would.
One week went by so quick. One second you were on a train, watching Rue and Thresh's knees bounce as they looked out the window on the journey to the Capitol, and the next, you were sitting in a swivel chair marked '11', with Haymitch Abernathy to your right, mindlessly offering you a bottle for the fifth time after you'd declined.
But this time, you said okay. Because the countdown had just begun.
You bit the inside of your cheek, taking a sip, but your eyes stayed trained on the screen. If those two kids can't close their eyes, neither would you. You'd avoided watching any of the Games since yours so far, but now, you had no choice.
Your biggest worry was that some Career jackass would set off one of the landmines and that would set off Rue's or Thresh's.
But no. That didn't happen. Instead, a goddamn massacre painted the screen and the reflection on everyone's eyes was an angry, bruising red.
"It's a motherfucking bloodbath. I mean, it always is, but goddamn.", you heard Haymitch mutter from next to you. You looked down from the big screen back to the little one you'd been personally provided - the one you could zoom into, use map tools and whatever the fuck else the Capitol had cooked up - to locate your tributes. But fuck. You couldn't find her.
Thresh, of course, survived the bloodbath almost effortlessly. Well, no, that would be wrong. He used a lot of effort, but his training worked well. And plus, finding that he's hidden himself in the ginormous patch of tall grass - forestry district, baby! - you weren't too worried. But fuck, fuck, fuck, where was Rue? Where the hell was Rue? You heard cannons upon cannons and you just clenched Haymitch's bottle tighter with each one.
You were allowed to try to find your tributes on the screen, allowed to navigate through landscapes in the arena, but you weren't allowed access to the tracking tools used on them, or any other districts' tributes. Because what if you sent in a sponsor gift with a coded message of other tributes' locations. Wouldn't be fair, would it? At least, that's what the asshole Gamemaker Crane had said. As if sending kids to fight to the death was fair.
"She's a fuckin' idiot. An actual goddamn idiot."
For a split second, you didn't even care that he's possibly insulting your tribute. "Where?" You realised all too quickly, he was talking about his tribute.
"This girl, she's...", he groaned, slapping his forehead as he gestured to her, the one who got an eleven - Katniss, you recalled - running with an almost fluorescent orange backpack. "He was smart, he hid. And she was supposed to, but she just fucking-- she's this lucky. This goddamn lucky.", he muttered, pinching his fingers together.
"I can't find Rue."
Hey, you'd take all the help you can get. He's more familiar with this computing system, anyway.
"What, the tiny one? She's probably up in the trees or something.", he mumbled, waving you off.
"But we don't have access to those cameras."
"Yeah, I know. You just gotta keep waiting till it shows up on the big screen, I guess. Man, how the hell am I supposed to push this whole star-crossed-lovers schtick if one of them keeps trying to get herself blown up?"
Your eyes ran back to your screen, trying to scour the arena's locations for any hint of Rue. He was right, actually. She could be in the trees.
"You gonna hog that, or what?"
Eyes still on the screen, you absentmindedly passed the bottle back to him. Your blood pressure was rising with every cannon you heard.
Hands rested on your shoulders, and it shot even goddamn higher, as though it was you in the Arena again.
"It's me." Well, it's good Finnick decided to announce himself, because there was no fucking way you'd have taken your eyes off the screen for a moment, even if it was Snow himself trying to slit your throat from behind. "You find them yet?"
"I saw Thresh. I can't find Rue, we don't have access to the tree cams."
He nodded, leaning over your shoulder. "Shh. I know an override."
As silently as possible, while occassionally raising his brows (and eyes) to look around to make sure he wasn't being watched, he typed out something complex that looked almost like what you'd expect only people from Three were capable of.
"Did you find yours?"
"My boy died at the Cornucopia. My girl's still alive. She's with the other Careers.", he murmured, his eyes still focused on typing. "There. You won't get all the tree cams, 'cause they'd notice that. I've lowered the range to near the Cornucopia. She can't have gone that far."
You nodded. "Thank you, Four."
"No problem.", he muttered, squeezing your shoulders before sneaking back to his seat, seven seats to your left. You almost frantically navigated through the tree-cams, until finally, finally, you saw a flash of her hair.
"See? I toldja. All the Eleven ones do it every year. If there's trees. Never fails."
You could both hug and stab Haymitch at that moment.
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"Yeah, this is weird as hell."
Your head whipped around, and you raised a brow, watching as he moved closer to you, arms crossed.
"What is?"
"No one does this shit, man. You know that, right? You'd get notified if your tribute died."
"I'm just making sure."
You watched the night sky of the Arena light up with the names of the fallen. The two of you stood in silence as the big screen shone with eleven bright announcements, Finnick's jaw clenching as the District Four boy was announced.
He inhaled deep and long, tilting his head as the screen went dim again, the cameras showing split screen shots of the faces of the thirteen remaining tributes. "You didn't ask me what I was doing here."
"I didn't really care."
He nods. "Fair. You wanna know now?" You shrugged. "I kinda figured you'd be here."
"Capitol darling, expert hacker and now psychic, too?"
"Everyone hates triple threats.", he grinned, resting his elbow on your shoulder. "I figured you'd be like me and not trust the Capitol on your first Games as a mentor. Ergo, figured you'd be here."
"How so?"
"I remember during one Hunger Games - can't remember which one, but this kid thought he was all alone, and he was going insane. And the Capitol fucking taunted him. Let him goddamn believe it. They started displaying all the dead in a list and once or twice, the other tribute was shown although they were alive."
You didn't respond. How could you? You were reeling from the new information that Heath had got a tiny display of the deceased list all to himself that you hadn't been privy to, and the Capitol had fucked with him by adding you in sporadically.
"So, yeah, I figured you might have seen that Hunger Games. It was more recent. So. No Capitol trust."
"Those were my Games."
His elbow slipped off your shoulders as his hand slipped into his hair. "Fuck. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you, uh, relive that.", he rambled, clearing his throat. How many fucking times is he going to put his foot into his mouth in front of you? He's pretty sure a hundred more.
He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Hungry?"
"No."
"Blobcakes?"
You raised a brow, and he raised one right back. "That's what I thought. Come on, Eleven."
----
He'd never seen anyone look as delicate as you while licking the icing off a blobcake. "Man, I don't know if I'm going to keep my end of the deal up. You're just making my way look so appetizing."
"Hey, whoa, I'm being disgusting and eating it your way. You gotta do it my way."
"What, a bite with cake and icing?"
"Uh huh.", you nodded, wiping icing off the corner of your mouth with your thumb. "Go."
Begrudgingly, he took a bite of the whole thing. Whoa, okay, whoa. He'd never fucking admit that it was perfect. But it motherfucking was.
"Hey, I saw that, I saw that!", you exclaimed, pointing at his eyes.
"Saw what?"
"That! That look in your eyes. You're awe-struck! It's the golden ratio of cake : icing. You know it!", you laughed, scrunching up your nose as you jabbed your finger in the air in front of his eyes.
"It's average. It's not that great."
"Oh, please!"
"What'd your district bring to this metaphorical potluck, then?"
You shrugged. "Nothing much. It's all out, now, anyway. No one wanted it, so I snuck it all back for Rue and Thresh, so they had something to eat to remind them of home." That was a week ago.
"What was it?"
"We have this special kind of bread, y'know? Like, it's... the most delicious thing ever. We have it on birthdays and when Victors come back."
"How long's it been since that happened?"
"A good couple years, besides me."
He nodded, setting down his blobcake and leaning against the counter. "You find any sponsors yet?"
You threw the wrapper of your blobcake away, before patting your hands together, clearing any crumbs off as you accepted the glass of water he passed to you. "For Thresh, yeah. For Rue, uh...", you trailed off, rubbing the ridge of your brow.
"She's hiding. She probably will do so for the rest of the Games. They won't really see much of her potential, will they?", he reassured.
You furrowed your brows, sucking on your teeth for a moment before shaking your head. "Yeah, thanks, man.", you mumbled, attempting to shoulder past him.
"It's just the truth.", he told you, his hand on your shoulder again. "Okay? I have no reason to hurt you or 'psych you out'. We're not the ones competing."
"Can you stop doing that?"
He removed his hand from your shoulder. "What? The hand? 'Cause I'm sorry, it's insti--"
"No, asshole, I mean the whole, like... 'you and I are birds of a feather, you can trust me, soft-as-fuck-look' in your eyes! Seriously, it's getting old.'
"What's getting old? Me caring?"
"No, you acting like you do! You're Finnick Odair! It doesn't matter to you whether your tributes live or die, because if they live, you get the glory, and if they die, you get the sympathy!"
"Whoa, HEY!"
Silence. He hadn't meant to snap.
"Do NOT fucking go there."
"I'll see you around, Four."
Good that you walked away, 'cause he'd have beat you the fuck up if you'd doubled down.
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Three days later.
He didn't think of what had happened between the two of you as a fight - he'd long learned that a disagreement and a full-fledged fight were vastly different - but he'd pretty much expected lack of any further conversation. Not that he wanted to talk to you and your half-baked knowledge of who he was.
But that's not to say he didn't check on you. And he just could not handle watching you take to Mr. Abernathy's methods.
"I think I'm cutting you off. Yeah?", he whispered in your ear, a hand on your shoulder to stop your inevitable jump of surprise as he gently pried the bottle off you.
"You have one.", you replied as you allowed him to drag you to the corner of the viewing room as you gestured at his glass.
"Yes. One. My first and only one of the night.", he informed, before tipping it towards the screen. "You're not checking up on them?"
"I just did. Thresh is still fine, and Rue's in an alliance with Haymitch's tribute."
He hummed, pulling you from in front of him to his side, wrapping his arm around your shoulders after pushing hair off them. "And sponsors?"
"I have enough for Thresh. I can't find any for Rue."
"Have you tried talking to the bettors?"
"What?"
He leaned his face in towards your hair, whispering once more. "It's inhumane, but you could convince them to help you out with Rue."
"Finnick. I'm not going to talk Rue up to get people who are betting on her life to put in more money, no fucking way."
He licked his lips, before sighing, placing a soft, seamless kiss on your temple. "Okay. Can I help you out at least? I know some Capitol patrons who have a thing for helping underdogs. You'll have to talk her down, though. They're the same people who bet on Johanna, when she pretended she was weak so no one would go after her."
Sighing, he relinquished his grip on his glass of champagne and watched you gulp. "Just 'cause Katniss and Rue are in an alliance, doesn't mean you and Haymitch have to share supplies, too."
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Two days later.
Fifth day of the Games. His girl's doing fine. Career pack.
You? No, you're frantic. Thresh is getting herbs and knives and Rue's getting Katniss-scraps.
He doesn't come up to you, though, you who's spinning in half-arcs in your little swivel chair, eyes on the screen. He can't, not when the Capitol patrons devote such unnecessary attention to him, especially now that they're sure one of his tributes is valuable, having not been killed by the bloodbath nor by the other Careers (yet).
"What did they expect, her being trained by Finnick Odair? The fourteen year old victor himself?" They think he's flattered? They're sorely mistaken.
Yeah, well. Maybe you weren't particularly wrong about the fact that no matter if his tributes lived or died, he'd still be adored by the Capitol. It was so sickening, he'd have clawed his skin off if he could. Just to get their paws off him.
He watches from across the room as you slam your screen closed, shouldering through the crowd of patrons, bettors, mentors and gamemaker assistants alike, muttering "space, please" and "excuse me" too many times to count.
Fuck. He wished he could apply his 'not my circus, not my monkeys' motto here. But he couldn't. He'd almost made the same mistake and he'd been helped out, so.
It'd be a hard task, though. Sneaking away from the Capitol patrons would be fine, but sneaking past the Avoxes and the Peacekeepers would be a hassle. Nevertheless, he grabs your screen, tucking it under his arm, before he slips out of the viewing room as seamlessly as possible.
Now the real hard task.
He'd just have to hope the people already in the elevator were from 1, 2 or 3, so they wouldn't see him press the 11th floor after they left. That was a slim chance. The chances of that were, what? Three out of ten, excluding you and him? Phenomenal odds.
Luckily, it was goddamn Johanna Mason. District 7.
"Odair, as I live and bleed."
"Hey, Johanna." Thank fuck.
She nods, her eyes trailing down to his arm. "You're going to watch the Games in bed, eat popcorn or something? You're around Snow too much. He's rubbin' off on you."
"I'm returning this."
She raises a brow, gently gesturing for him to turn the device over, reading the huge '11' sticker on the back. "The new mentor? Really? You're all buddy-buddy now?"
"Uh huh."
"Fucking ace, man. But you know you can't visit other floors, right?"
"Yeah, I know."
"No, like you can't. You'll be stopped."
"How do I--"
"There's stairs. Not the staircases, take the stairwells. Get off on your own floor, then make two rights."
He snorts, watching the elevator climb up past the floor for District 2 and get to District 3. "And you know this how?"
"You think I don't have midnight business with the other floors?"
He chuckles once again, hugging her by the shoulder. "Man, I missed you."
"Tell Eleven I said hi. And good job on keeping both her kids alive. See you next year."
He salutes, watching the doors open on the District Four floor, before disappearing to the right. And then another. And sure enough, there's a door that looks just right enough to hold an abandoned secret stairwell.
He shuts it gently behind him, before sighing. Seven more fucking floors.
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The thuds on your door are loud enough to elicit a frustrated groan from you, spitting out your toothpaste and gargling before slamming the bathroom door shut behind you. "I said I didn't FUCKING want dinner! No dinner, no dinner, I said no dinner!"
There's no Avox in front of you.
There's a goddamn Finnick Odair.
"Sorry, so, did you say you wanted dinner, or...?", he muses with a grin, raising a brow and showing you just why the Capitol was so obsessed with his eyes. They were his district. Ocean. Water. Beauty.
You can't exactly do anything but scoff, and he tilts his head knowingly. "Johanna says hi. And congrats."
"Johanna Mason?"
"Yeah, why? You need proof before you let me in?"
Oh, right, you hadn't even let him in.
Moving to the side, you glance at him walking in, whistling lowly. "Sweet suite.", he mumbles, flicking the end of a leaf on a potted plant near your bedside before placing the device on your bed.
"You can't be leaving this shit down there, you know?", he scolds, hands on his hips as he points at it and then you.
"Why not?"
"You don't want to know what happens? You only get the notification if your tributes have died or got sponsors if you have the goddamn device on you, do you realise?"
He flops on your bed, hands behind his head as he watches you disappear into the bathroom again, presumably to floss.
"Did you talk to the Underdog-bettors?"
A soft "mhm" gently floats out the bathroom.
"They didn't go for her?"
"No."
"Did you tell them her age?"
"I told them everything. I even used her fucking family for pity points."
Your voice sounds odd, and his head gently lifts off his arms, as he sits up. "Yeah?"
"Mhm."
He bites the inside of his cheek, flicking at the comforter mindlessly. "Hey."
"Mhm?"
Okay, that's your third 'mhm' of the night. He knows what that shit means.
"You okay?", he asks, but he's already up and stalking towards the bathroom.
You don't respond, and he knows he needs to go the fuck in. He knocks, his knuckles lingering on the wood to softly push the door open. It creaks weakly, and he tilts his head.
Hands on either side of the sink, you're looking down at it, as if it contained all the money you'd need to send Rue mentor-gifts. The tap wasn't open, but the sink wasn't dry.
Tears.
Fuck.
Now, Finnick has little to no experience comforting people. That's his biggest flaw, he'd wager. He could light up a room, but not a person.
"Hey." It's as soft as he can bear to go without sounding patronizing. It's a gossamer-thin line, and he's pretty sure he's crossing it.
You don't respond, shaking your head, and he almost, almost makes the grave mistake of thinking that's you saying you don't want him there. However, he mentally flips off that thought, and instead, reaches a hand out.
It's almost like he's taming a bear or something. But. But when his fingertips graze the skin of your shoulder as timid as the first snowflake to ever fall, you immediately move, and he's found himself in the new, unfamiliar position of holding you, your face -and tears- on his chest, and his hand in your hair.
He doesn't tell you to 'shh', he doesn't say 'it's okay', because it's goddamn not.
"Why won't they help her? And why won't they let me use some of the money for Thresh on her?"
Your voice is barely heard, constantly overshadowed by trembles and sobs and gasps.
"Sweetheart.", he breathes out, attempting to pull you to the safety of air when you buried yourself harshly into his chest, so harshly, he's half sure you're breathing in zero oxygen, just 100% tears. "Hey. You're gonna have to look at me. Yeah? Yeah?"
His thumbs rub arcs into your cheek as it slowly untethered itself from his chest, and he sighs. "There she is.", he smiles softly. He's not going to give you any illusion of Rue and Thresh's miraculous saving.
"I don't get it."
"Look, she got a seven, which is impressive for her age, but--"
"No, I don't get the whole thing! District 13 rebelled, and so we gotta send our children to this shithole to die?!"
He really wasn't prepared for a worldview analysis.
Pressing fluttery kisses to your hair and your forehead, he hums, shaking his head. "It doesn't make sense, you're right, but we're here."
"If one of them doesn't win, I'm starting a rebellion."
That was treason. He should recoil, tell you to shut the fuck up, to never goddamn say that.
But instead, he kisses lower. Your cheeks. Your nose. Your chin. "You're right. We should." He's humouring you, but Johanna's already been talking about this, grumbling, more like. He's also got one of those gut feelings, y'know? He can feel something big happen.
"I might start a rebellion either way."
"I'll back you up."
"I'm not joking!"
He takes the shove like a man. "Yeah, I know, I'm serious, too. I'll join you."
You glare at him for a moment, before shouldering past him to the bed again, turning the screen on. "I wish they both would survive."
"Two Victors?" Maybe that's the 'big thing' that he feels will happen.
"Uh huh."
"I tell you, sweetheart, that will be the day the rebellion actually starts.", he tells you, scratching at his chin before he closes the bathroom door, and eases himself back onto the bed in front of you, of the screen.
Your eyes are still red, your lip still quivering, as you navigate first to the tall grass field, to check that Thresh isn't in any immediate sort of danger, and then back to the rest of the Arena to search for Rue. You do it monotonously, as if you've already resigned yourself, and honestly? You might have a point. He won't tell you that, though.
"If you say I'm still only pretending to care, I don't know what to tell you.", he muses, and you snort, shaking your head.
"Listen, I'm not going to pretend to know what you feel. I've never... I mean, my fellow tribute in the Games was someone I never knew, and I've never personally known any of my mentees, so, what you must be going through? Unimaginable."
"I don't need pity."
"It's not pity. It's concern. It's sympathy. It's... it's caring."
You nod. "Thank you. Greatly appreciated." Sarcasm? He'll never know.
"See, you're saying that, but you're not really easing up on the comforter there, sweetheart."
Your hands, gripping the cloth like the talons of the mockingjays in the trees back in Eleven, loosen on reflex. It leaves a mark on the bed. "What do I do, Finnick?" Your voice chokes off into a tired exhale. He tries not to focus on the fact that you've just used his name for the first time.
"What's that?", he asks, tilting his head as he reaches to turn up the volume. You frown for a moment, biting your fingernail, before your brows relax in recognition, and you lean back onto the pillow, sighing.
"Her song. Four notes. They've been using that as a signal, her and Katniss."
"Why does she sing it?" Anything to get you to forget the fact that this girl could die.
You smile, softly. "She sees the end-of-day flag go up, because she's the highest up in the trees."
"'Cause she's the smallest."
"Exactly. So she whistles that, and the mockingjays carry it back. Lets us know the working day's over."
"Mockingjays? Whoa, never seen one. Thought they went extinct."
You shake your head. "They prefer staying in our District. High trees where they can hide. They don't like the electric fences, though, of course."
"What do they look like?" He's on one mission. Keep you talking. Distract you. Maybe this is how he should have approached comfort before.
---
It's been hours.
The screen's long forgotten now, though he sees a flash on your screen saying his tribute has died from trackerjack stings. He'll have to rewatch how the hell that happened. "Fuck."
"Oh. Oh, Finnick, I'm sorry.", you murmur, your hand on his arm. See, you're better at this comforting thing than he is.
"The sponsors didn't prefer her, either. Coral was, uh...", he groans, rubbing his hands over his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Not the strongest. Not the most charming. She was just a Career. Just there."
"Will you have to go home? To pay your respects? I think Johanna had to, I heard Haymitch talk about it."
He shakes his head, pushing some hair from your shoulder before chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Usually, yeah, that's the procedure. But, uh, not me. I just go home. I have one here, in the Capitol."
"You have a house in the Capitol. Not a home."
Yes, yes, yes! Fucking exactly! He nods, earnestly. "Yes."
Silence, as you both watch Katniss and Rue speak.
Their conversation is short, but the Capitol will eat it up.
"Do you really not want dinner?"
You shake your head, and he kisses your temple as he stands.
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You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Desc. : Gasp in a tempest.
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There's a sort of domesticity to this that he despises.
Your features essentially flow under his fingers as he traces them, slowly, devotedly. And he doesn't know why.
He's just willed himself to stop in immaculate timing, because a couple of sharp knocks sound on the door.
You hear them, clearly, but you don't bother. He nudges you as gently as possible. "You hear that?"
"My niece and nephew. They know I nap in the afternoons. This is just to let me know they're home.", you inform, basically whine, before your face is in his chest, trying to get away from the fucking light.
He nods. "I gotta tell you something."
"Now?"
"Now."
He watches you groan, one eye closed as you sit up and try to adjust to the light, before you make grabbing hands for your clothes.
Great. Something to make the situation worse. Harsh reminders. So much for the last thing he'd do. But after you'd come from the market, he'd just... it seemed like doing anything else would just be stupid. Who wouldn't kiss you all over?
"Yeah?'
He's frozen. He's dying. He's terrified. He's never seen you mad, but he's sure that when it comes to your family, you'd wage wars.
"I talked to Snow about you."
"What?"
"I talked to him. I, uh, talked to him to get you out of this fake, um... agreement? Situation? I dunno."
You frown, standing up and disappearing into the bathroom to brush your teeth. "Get out of it?"
"Uh, yeah. Y'know. Come up with a breakup story that doesn't put me in a bad light and doesn't get you stone-pelted in the street."
"You want to get out of it?"
Your voice is quiet enough that he knows he's made a mistake, a huge, fucking mistake, and he hadn't even got to the worst part yet, the hey-so-I-used-you-and-now-you're-a-target part.
"You don't?"
"I-", you sigh, and he breaks. Shit. "I- no, yeah, no, I do.", you assure, nodding vehemently.
"If something's changed-" he'd be fucked. If something's changed, then he'd be completely fucked.
"No, I just, y'know, um.", you mumbled, spitting out your toothpaste. "It's like, me just being all... it's, uh, nothing."
"Wait, whoa, whoa, what do you mean?" No, no, no, please God, don't-
"That night was, like, my first time. So i just, uh, y'know? It's stupid, that's not how the world works, I know, it's-"
Jesus fucking Christ.
He'd taken your freedom, your life and your virginity.
"No, it's not stupid, you just- trust me, you don't want me."
"Why, because of what Snow makes you do?", you ask, softly, and he heavily regrets the lies he spewed to Snow about you. 'Didn't care'. Please. All you did was care. You gave way too many shits about him. "You know I care for you either way."
You're being very careful not to use the word 'love', and he respects it. You're hedging your bets and he's been there.
Kinda hates it, though, because if you did use it, then he'd have a clear plan - get you the fuck out of Panem.
"I- Y/N, you're so smart. You're so good.", he whispers, making his way over to your hands and lifting them, kind of like a barrier between you and him for what he's about to say. "You don't deserve me."
"Finnick--"
"Shut up for a second, baby, okay?", he mutters, kissing your palm. "Just listen."
He's not sure if he expected you to argue, but he sure as hell didn't expect you to comply.
The silence and your fucking eyes urge him to start. And he doesn't know where. His mind seems to desperately try to convince him otherwise, to convince him he could run away and build a boat with you somewhere, and you'd be none the wiser.
But he has to say this, because for all the absolutely evil shit he's been doing lately, he has to at least get an iota of redemption.
"I've been lying to you."
The words ring around the room, ricochet back to him and wrap around his neck like a noose. They wrap around your arms like handcuffs.
He's pretty sure he's stopped breathing.
When did he get this way?
When did he lose hope?
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ONE WEEK EARLIER
He didn't think he should start his birthday off with a lie. But sometimes, you don't have an option.
"It's not that I don't love her."
"Then what is it? Let me guess. You told her your whole sob story and she didn't care?"
He kinda wished that was true. "Yes." See? Lie.
"Shame. I really thought she was the one, y'know?", mused Snow, tapping Finnick's nose twice. If he could, he'd bite that fucking finger off.
But this was a political, mind war, not an actual, bloody one. Not yet, anyway.
"Yeah. Me, too."
"I had a whole thing planned. A whole storyline. She'd be the pathetic, yet down-to-earth, homely wife that let you do whatever you wanted around the Capitol because she loves you, and you'd be the hero-husband, who, no matter how many options you try, will always come back to the District 4 Girl. Poetic, right? Either way, you'd win."
Fucking hell. It disgusted him. Absolutely disgusted him. His whole life had been planned out by someone whose life should have ended ages ago.
"That sounds smart."
"I am a marketing genius, Finnick. A genius.", he declared, laughing as he wrapped a ringed hand around his shoulder and yanked him closer. Finnick grimaced and stiffened, and Snow reveled in it.
"It doesn't matter. Do whatever. Kill her, humiliate her, I don't care."
The thing is, Finnick had come to know Snow over the years. He loved brutal killings, only if they were a) fun, and b) profitable. Killing you would be neither, seeing as Finnick was now, in Snow's eyes, done with you.
He prayed that Snow wouldn't call his bluff.
"Well, I'll have to do that anyway."
What?
"Why?" The panic had begun to seep into his tone and Snow could sniff it out plainly. But he didn't care. Not anymore.
"You said you told her your whole sob story."
No, NO! Fuck!
"You realize, I can't let her live. Not after that."
He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. "She won't tell anyone."
"How do you know that? She got her fifteen minutes of fame and now she might want more."
"She's not like that and you know it. Don't... I still do love her, and- and she has a family. Don't kill her." Please.
Snow, infuriatingly, never smirked. His eyes forever reflected contemplation, concern, even care, but never malicious intent. So, when he uttered his next words, his face was rife with softness. "She is beautiful, though."
Finnick immediately assumed the closest position to groveling he could politically get - he stood right in front of Snow, looking up into his eyes with a desperation unmatched.
"No. No. I will work double time. I will do everything the Patrons want, just don't... no, not her."
"I thought you'd like a bit of revenge. So she can witness your sob story firsthand. Though, I might agree with her on the stance that it's a mutually beneficial system."
"Please, President Snow.", he tried again. "Not her."
Snow stroked his hair, softly. "My sweet Finnick. How you've grown. You won when you were a child. But you're a child no longer."
"It's not fair. She doesn't know anything about that life." He's close to crying.
"What? Sex? She's eighteen. She should. And it's not like she's a virgin, huh? Having been with you, you beautiful creature, you."
"She hasn't been with-", he sighed.
"Well then, maybe you should get her used to it."
He'd thought that'd be the last thing he'd ever do.
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PRESENT DAY
It's been an hour since you've spoken to him and he finds himself desperately trying to remember what your voice sounds like. He doesn't want to ask you to say something because he's scared you will.
But he has to. Because you're out of time. Because Snow's coming for you.
He's tilting his head as you sit there, watching the sky through the window.
"I'm extremely sorry."
"You said that already." Your voice. Your voice, your voice, your voice!
"I know, but--"
"Who the FUCK do you think you are?!" Good, the rage would help the adrenaline, because your survival instincts better fucking kick in.
"Please, jus--"
"Who the FUCK do you think you are, deciding that YOUR family was more IMPORTANT than mine?! WHO gave you that right? To drag me into your fucked up life and use me like a fucking commodity?!"
"HEY! I helped you, too, I tried to make up for it!
You scoff, almost laughing. "How? By training Faye badly and not finding her sponsors, basically killing her?! Or by dragging me into your fucked up world of cameras and makeup and President Snow's little reality show?! Or by sleeping with...", your voice trails off.
No. That look on your face. NO.
"No. No, no, Y/N, no--"
"Is that-- Jesus, is that why you slept with me?! You thought you could have leverage? Or you thought you'd be so brilliant that I'd forgive you?!"
"Y/N, no.", he replies, firmly, trying his damndest to be calm, because he knew you were itching for a reaction, something that would result in a way to express your rage. "No, that was real."
You stare back at him, arms crossed, and he repeats. Maybe you didn't hear him? "That was real."
"What, I'm supposed to suddenly believe you now?"
He groans, his hands running across his face. "Please. Please, I tried to get you out of it, I did! But he's... Snow is coming for you, and I've got to get you safe!"
"My family?"
"They have time. He won't touch them until he's sure you're in hiding and he needs to draw you out. That'll be a month, maybe."
"You are the worst human being on this planet, and I hope you know it."
"I do. I do. But--"
"But what? Hm? But you had a 'good reason'? But your family was in danger? I don't care!", you cry out, and he breaks. Like, genuinely. He's not sure he's standing. He feels like a pile of broken glass, and he can't even warn you not to step on him.
"I'm sorry. But you have to get over it quick, because--"
"What?"
Shit.
He stares up at you, in absolute agony. That doesn't bother you too much, though, because the agony wasn't incited by you. It was directed to you. His agony is regret.
"What the hell did you just say to me?"
Your voice is not a whisper, but it is not a yell, either. You want yourself heard, but by only him.
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't ask what you feel, I asked what you said."
"Please, don't make me say it again. I take it back."
"What did you just say?"
"I said... no, please, let's just move on from this-"
"Say it again or I'm leaving." That was a lie. Both of you know you're leaving either way.
"Please. Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I-", he sighs, ready to fall to his knees, but he knows you wouldn't like that, and he doesn't want to guilt you into forgiving him.
You clench your jaw, and he clings onto you, pulling you closer to him as he kisses all over your face. You're about to break and he can see it. "I'm so sorry, I never meant to let it get this far."
"What am I supposed to do now? Hide?"
He tilts his head, nodding. 'I know a place. There's a rock formation, a cave, behind the waterfall. I've been fixing it up since I was sixteen. Y'know, in case I got old and wrinkly and the Capitol was done with me."
He really tries to ignore the hard set of your jaw and the way you snatched your wrist away from his hold as he snuck you out.
Yeah, he knew he fucked up, but for some reason, no matter what worst-case-scenarios you expect, reality is always, always worse.
══════════════════ 🔹🔹🔹🔹═════════════════
ONE WEEK LATER
Your hand clenches on the knife and you start up, before you're met with the sight of Finnick's hands, from behind the sheet of water covering the entrance to the cave. "Hey, hey, it's just me, it's just me."
After your hands stop clenching, it's your jaw's turn. You turn away from him and bury your face back in the pillow, pulling the slightly worn blanket back over you.
"Can you at least talk to me?"
You don't respond. You like Finnick, and you're not sure what words will come out of your mouth if you end up talking to him. Hurtful words, probably. Jesus, you don't even know how to be betrayed properly. You're still worried about hurting him. But then again, no one had exactly touched you the way he had. In more ways than one.
"Please? We have to go over our game plan, anyway."
"My family?"
"Yeah, in a month. You're not high-profile. So he's not too focused on you right now, so your family isn't being targeted. Yet."
"Yet."
He sighs, sinking down next to you, one knee elevated with an elbow on top of it. "Y/N."
"What?"
"You, uh...", he struggles, biting the inside of his cheek. "You are so much better than me in so many ways. You know that. And I know that. And I guess I'm just... I'm sorry, is what I'm trying to say. Sorry about Faye, sorry about the cameras, the makeup, the... the fact that I yelled at you the first night we met, I just... I'm not a good person. I know that."
"Did you reh--"
"Yes, I rehearsed that. The whole way up."
"Is anything in your life real? Or do you try to follow some script in every aspect of it?"
Whoa. He'd hoped you'd see his rehearsals as effort, not fabrication.
"Would it make you feel better if you got to hit me? Or something? Or... or, uh... stabbed me? I mean, y'know that's how Faye--"
Fuck. Fuck him and his stupid mouth that had an affinity towards his own motherfucking foot.
"You think I'm gonna stab you 'cause Faye got stabbed? An eye for an eye? You think I'm you? 'My family's in danger, so I'll put someone else's in danger, too!'"
Ouch.
He's never seen a bear in real life, but he's pretty sure him moving to grasp your hands against his chest so you can't move would be equivalent to poking one. But he does it anyway.
"Listen, you are the first thing I've cared about in a long time--"
"Besides yourself?"
"You think if I cared about myself, I'd be here?! You think if I cared about myself I'd be alive?! No, it's for my fuckin' family, and the next generation of tributes!"
You flinch, but he keeps going, shaking your wrists - and hence, you - as he continues. He's crazy. You could kick him any time, hell, you could even take him up on his offer and stab him, if you wanted to. He's crazy.
"And you... you just... you just got mixed up in it all, and it's fucking your fault that I gave a shit, and your fault that I fell in love with you, and it's your--" Okay, fuck. He's not as good as you at the hedging bets thing.
He can't really tell what the look on your face is, because he's too busy trying to look everywhere but.
The silence screams at both of you over and over until he paid attention to it.
"I can't handle you hating me."
It's said quietly, like an afterthought, like a gasp in a tempest. You wouldn't probably hear him if it wasn't for the fact that you were in an echoey goddamn cave.
"Tell me you don't hate me. Doesn't have to be true. I'm good at living in make-believe. Half the time, I'm on a tropical island, eating fresh fruit or sm'n."
He's rambling. He knows that. He's also acutely aware of your eyes. You're hesitant, and you're stalling. Or maybe his rambling is his form of stalling. What if you tell him the truth? Or worse, what if you actually lie, like he asked you to? Would that mean you cared enough, or didn't care at all? Fuck!
"I don't hate you, Finnick."
He'd have assumed you'd lied to get him to shut his trap, but the use of his name stupidly sprinkles hope into him. That sounded sincere.
"Really?"
"I'm just disappointed."
Oof.
"I figured after everything you told me, you'd value honesty and kindness above all else. If even you don't, then what do I expect from... well, anyone? Who do I trust?"
"No one. Seriously, don't trust anyone. Not completely, at least. And not anyone who's not me."
"Right, 'cause you're the pinnacle of trustworthiness."
"I could've just let Snow get you, you know? I could've just let it happen, because honest to god, Y/N, that was my plan! I was just about ready to abandon ship and then this stupid fucking- god! I started caring, like a fucking loser."
"That's the problem! I'd have understood if you left me in the dark, but what pisses me off is you gave enough shits to actually tell me, so why did you even...?"
He doesn't like this whole conversation. Feels like a figment of his imagination. Because, for one, you're making really good points, and he's at a loss, and that's never happened before because he's Finnick motherfucking Odair and people usually gush over him before they yell at him.
He lets go of your wrists, his hand immediately moving to your hair. His forehead presses against yours - this is the first time he's touched you in a week. "I don't need you to love me. You don't have to love me. You don't have to like me. You barely have to tolerate me. But you need to be serious when you tell me you don't hate me."
"I don't hate you!"
"Promise?" He's so pathetic, he's about to off himself.
You nod, and he kisses you. It seems like it's a script, to him, an actual script, not like bullshit they tell him to do at the Capitol, but this time, you respond in kind (why, he'll never know. Maybe you just needed a win.) , and suddenly you're co-author.
"I lied, y'know?"
"I know."
"No, not the big lie, I mean, I lied about not needing you to lov--'
"I know."
You're still hedging your bets.
And honestly? With the fact that you're kissing him while hiding in a cave from a psychopath president because he was too much of a pussy to stab him in the heart himself?
He gets it.
You know. That's until two days later when he can't find you anywhere. Not a lot of places to look in a tiny cave. So what the fuck? Where the fuck were you?
And then, his head tilts. There's a fucking white rose on your pillow.
Okay, maybe stabbing that psychotic motherfucker in the heart was long overdue.
He takes his camera. And then a gun he nicked from a Peacekeeper. What? He's hedging his bets.
WHAT THE HWLL WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE HELL WHEN I GET MY EIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP I WILL FINISH WRITING MY STRONGLY WORDED EMAIL ABT THIS ENTIRE SERIES JUST YOU WAIT WHAT THE FUCK WHATT YBW FUCK NO AUGHHH (but srsly this is peak writing TT love/hate rs with ur finn here and im obsessed im gonna gush abt the other parts when im not sleep deprived)
(this came out of a conversation in the comments on a previous post about an author threatening to stop updating a fic because of lack of engagement)
So there’s this idea that fic writers should write for themselves and not care too much about stats or engagement,
and i totally get the sentiment behind that. if writing becomes entirely about stats and external validation, something important does get lost - creative freedom and joy, conviction in your own writing
but i also think:
“i write for myself, but i post for others.”
because posting fic is not only self-expression. it’s social. ao3 is called an archive, but emotionally it often functions as a community space.
people post for connection, for participation, for others to bear witness to their pain and trauma and grief,
and i don’t think most people are asking to be admired so much as acknowledged. there’s something deeply human about wanting another person to encounter something that mattered to you and go:
“ok, yeah, I see what you were trying to say. I see you.”
especially because fanfic is often people processing very real feelings through fictional characters at a safe distance, one step removed,
and then uploading that deeply personal thing into a shared archive and hoping somebody else might connect with it.
And i think that’s why it hurts so much when you summon up the courage and post a fic into the void and you get nothing back,
this is something so deeply frustrating in writing. i think people treat "writing for yourself" and "wanting engagement" as mutually exclusive when they're not. writing is solitary, publishing isn't. if i truly only cared about myself, i'd leave the fic in the coal mines and reread it privately. the moment i post it, i'm participating in a social act. i am directly saying, "i created this, does anybody want to see it?"
nobody giving you direct engagement (not praise, just engagement) hurts not because of ego, but genuinely just discomfort of sending a message and never finding out if anybody received it. like the desire to be read isn't corruption. it's arguably one of the oldest reasons people tell stories at all.
also, the risk and reward asymmetry is dramatic when it comes to writing, and the opportunity cost for a writer is drastically higher than that of a reader. a reader spends twenty minutes reading and a writer might spend twenty hours writing. the risk isn't equal and that's also why "just write for yourself" can feel dismissive sometimes! the writer has already invested in a way the reader hasn't
humans are fundamentally social creatures, we learnt this in like 5th grade. humans don't develop identity in isolation, a huge amount of our self-concept comes from recognition. that's why a child shows their parent a drawing. writers want people to see their works and it's not selfish for them to want it
i get why people don't believe in marriage as a social construct but legally it is the best and easiest way to say "this is who i trust to take care of me when i can't take care of myself" and i'm so glad gay people fought for that right bc when shit gets scary at least i know im in good hands
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
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SIX WEEKS LATER
Finnick doesn't know when it happened.
His plan had been to basically only shift Snow's focus from his family to you. You, a random stranger he could have zero ties to and could afford to lose if times got tough.
But now? His focus had been shifted from survival to you.
He finds himself mulling about, wallowing in too much sorrow to have been unnoticeable.
He didn't need this. He was already dealing with his own problems.
Thankfully, you didn't seem to have taken the ordeal during the Games too seriously, and now he was back to having only an endless string of Capitol assholes in his bed every other week.
Thankfully, because he had no idea what the hell he'd do if you actually ended up getting attached, or looking to him as some sort of protection, or actually caring or loving him - his heart couldn't take that. His conscience couldn't take that.
Or maybe, he had it all wrong.
Maybe you weren't distancing yourself because you didn't give a shit about him.
Maybe his well-being had nothing to do with this.
Maybe you were distancing yourself because you hated that Faye had died.
Right. Made more sense. What a narcissist he is.
Worst part of all this, as mentioned, was that he was actually starting to give a shit. A thing, he'd been told, he did far too often.
In the week you'd spent at the Capitol with him, he'd grown to like far too much about you.
You cared about Faye? He liked that, a lot.
You got really worried every time he came back from 'filming promos' with bruises? He liked the way you tried helping the only way you could. Which was, apparently, trying to take his mind off of it by regaling him with the mundanities of a day in your life back in Four.
But what he especially liked was that you didn't absolutely lose your shit in laughter when he held your hand in his sleep. He figured you'd pull away. He figured you'd snort and call him a baby.
But you didn't.
You didn't just let him, you allowed him, which, in honesty, only Finnick knew best how different those two were.
And he loved you all the more for it.
Liked. He liked you all the more for it.
"Hey.", he says, looking up from his rope to you.
He loves when he gets to come back to Four, but what he loves most is when he gets to come back to you.
Because you understood. You didn't understand the full extent of what he went through at the Capitol, but you'd spent enough time there to know that it wasn't really a place you could miss.
"Hi, Finnick.", you reply, sitting by him. "You don't get rope burn?"
"I do. But check this out.", he boasts, baring his calloused, red palms to you. "Scars of a warrior. And...", he begins, tugging on the ends of the knot and tightening it, "...knot of a warrior. It's impossible to undo. Try, c'mon."
"I'll take your word for it."
He shrugs, gently tossing the rope down and listening to the soft shift of sand to make space for it. See, he'd always loved this about sand. Always, always made space for anything. No matter how pathetic. How broken. How sinful.
"I was thinking."
You look up from the rope on the sand beside your feet up to his eyes. "Mhm?"
"Maybe... y'know, only if you're interested... I mean, I'll teach you how to take photos.", he says, coolly, his dimpled grin coming in to save the day, his sea-green eyes running over your face desperately, and his sun-touched hair being moved by the wind and placed elegantly in front of those very eyes.
"With your camera?"
"What else?"
"I just... you're really protective over it."
"No, I'm not."
"You slept hugging it."
"Well, yeah, 'cause you were in the Viewing Room, and I-"
He decides it's best to shut up then.
"I'm not protective over my camera. Do you wanna learn or not?"
"Sure."
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That night sees him leaning back on the couch, welling up with tears of laughter as you struggled to hold the fucking thing properly. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!", he yells between laughs as he sees you pissed and threatening to smash the camera.
"How hard is it? C'mon, cradle the camera with your left, Y/N. Cradle, like a baby!"
"That's not how I would hold a baby!"
"How would you hold a baby?"
You demonstrate what you'd done when you'd had to babysit, and he bursts out into further hysterics, placing his glass of whiskey down as you pick up yours to take an irritated sip.
"That's very motherly, but it's not going to get you any photos."
"Well, fuck photos then!"
He raises a brow, watching as you come sit by him, placing his chin in your shoulder and looking down with you at the camera in your lap. "You sure? Don't you want to make art?", he asks, a wisp of wonder in his tone.
"Fuck art."
"Fucking can be art."
"Sex is not art, okay?!"
Who the hell were you trying to convince? Finnick 'Capitol Whore' Odair?
"What is it then?"
"I dunno, like, a way to have a baby?"
"Really? So that's the only reason you'd have sex? It's a means to reproduce?"
See in theory, yes, you knew that it wasn't, but you had never thought of any other purpose for it. Because when push came to shove, even if you were in District 4, the possibility of mortality hang over all your heads everyday. Not really top priority to think of fucking.
"Well, yeah! Why else would you? You need to keep population up or the Peacekeepers-"
He nods, closing his eyes as though he finally understood why you said what you said. "Ah. You're thinking of Panem."
"Don't we live here?"
"They don't do population checks."
"But I heard-"
"I know what you heard. Trust me, your service is not required. Other districts are doing a good enough job keeping the remains of humanity booming in number."
You sigh. You're not getting out of this until he's changed your take on sex, that's clear.
"You can't possibly think sex is only for giving birth."
"Finnick, stop."
"No, seriously. Imagine a canvas, right?"
"Okay."
"Paintbrushes. A curve of paint, a flick of your wrist, a deep stroke across the canvas."
"Mhm."
His voice drops to a barely audible whisper and it makes your toes curl. In a very good way. "Now", he breathes, "Imagine the canvas is skin."
That pretty much did it for you. He achieved it.
"Finnick."
He hums, almost laughing, but not quite. "Just listen. Eyes closed."
You obey, because when Finnick Odair asks you to listen to him verbally fuck you, you do.
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Yep. Sex is art.
And you were covered filthy with his words.
But to his credit, yes, they did help you take good pictures.
They also made you wonder why the hell someone who described sex so intimately and preciously would fuck everything with a pulse in the Capitol.
He frowns from the bed, where he sits shirtless with his arm on his knee, posing for you. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Okay, so, me."
Fuck.
"That's what's blocking your art, so just get it out. Ask me whatever."
"Okay, how many times a week do you have sex?", you scoff. Should serve him right for asking you to ask him a-
"Five."
"Five? FIVE?"
"Well, I mean.... technically zero." He tenses up.
"What? Wait, that doesn't make sense."
"Look, sex and fucking are different! Sex is more intimate! Okay, look, I just think if you don't see the art and the beauty in everything we do, then it's just... life becomes mundane! Painful, even."
"Yeah. Yeah. Okay."
He's about to riot. Why weren't you pushing?
"Seriously. I just can't... I can't be without assuming everything happens to eventually become art. It hurts if I don't."
You nod and he breaks. Boundaries are only required when he wants them to be. And right now, he's in the mood to spill his brains to you. He's in the mood to bare his soul to you.
"Uh... you know, uh, we should go back to-"
"NO, Y/N. Listen!", he pleads. He doesn't want your usually welcome distractions - not now - and he doesn't want a palate cleanser. He wants you, he realizes, horrifyingly.
"What?"
"I don't... I've never had sex. But I've fucked. You know what I mean?"
You... kind of seem to, but he's not sure. You look like you're treading ice, walking on eggshells around him, which he doesn't blame you for. He hasn't forgotten his outburst the first night you'd met.
"So... you get it?"
You shake your head, and he's mildly relieved. Good. You didn't get it. He'd spoken without thinking, and he didn't want to make himself filthy in your eyes. Not that he was some angel now, either - he saw the way you still looked at him. Sellout, your gaze scolded him.
"It's okay. I didn't really expect you to."
"Why not?"
He inhales and shakes his head, shrugging. "Context? Or, rather, lack thereof."
"I mean, why would you fuck people you didn't want to be intimate with?"
He's aware that the laugh that follows is only exacerbating your confusion, but you'd genuinely, genuinely, amused him. Because you were basically him before the Capitol. Wide-eyed, not entirely innocent, but definitely not well-versed with the world.
You were him and yet also the polar opposite.
Patting the spot on the bed next to him after shifting a couple of roses away, Finnick watches as you tentatively place the camera down safely first before sitting next to it. Fuck.
"Are you confused?"
You look up at him totally normally, unsuspecting, and trusting, worst of all, and he swears he's about to kill himself.
"What?"
"Are you confused?"
"Yeah, like, I don't know what this button does-"
"No, no, I mean... about what I said."
You pause. Yes. "I mean, slightly, but you don't have to talk if you don't want to."
"Do you want to hear it?"
You frown, and he tsks in urgency, his hands on your shoulders. "Do you want to hear it?"
You nod vehemently and he lets go.
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You're pretty sure it's three am by the time he's asleep. And it's in your arms. Tell twelve year old you that. She'd riot. She'd scream.
Finnick Odair's just bared his soul to you and now, he was utterly vulnerable.
You can't really fall asleep, not after that. Not after knowing that the lanky fourteen year old you'd hero-worshipped on TV when you were eleven had been forced into a room with a Capitol pervert two days later.
You look down. He's twenty-one. He's been doing this shit for seven years. Three years short of a decade. You look back up, at the wall in front of you, and although you can't help it, you get visions. Your mind conjures up its own versions of what happened to him, and you pull him just that much closer.
And that was impossible. Because he's only a couple rules-of-physics away from genuinely melting into you. He no longer seems to feel the need to hold your fingers, and instead, has wrapped himself around your torso and plans to stay there.
Fine by you.
You rest your head back against the headboard. He'd seemed to have struggled, opening up. He'd seemed to not know what to say at all and simultaneously not know where to start first.
You look down again, searching for the ocean in his eyes. Not there. Good, he's still asleep. You don't even feel the regret that you're supposed to feel for judging him, for insinuating that he slept around simply because he could. You can't feel that regret, not when so much anger overtook you.
The gold of his hair spews out from between your fingers, and you find yourself moving your fingers lower, down to the curve of his forehead, the dip of his nose, the plush of his lips, the turn of his jawline.
Beauty is rewarding to everyone else but its owner.
Your thumb rubs over his cheek and you sigh.
It all seems to make sense now, honestly. Why he chose someone from his District to photograph instead of from the Capitol. Why he hasn't been a complete asshole to you.
The white roses in every photo. You'd seen Snow wearing them before.
═════════════════════ ⋆★⋆ ══════════════════
Finnick wakes up much earlier than he usually does when he's at the Capitol, but then again, he preferred to relish every moment he could spend back in the District.
The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is your hand.
He'd ended up sleeping in your arms, and you, being utterly, stupidly considerate, hadn't moved an inch.
He gently pries himself away from your arms, attempting to move your head down to the pillow instead of the neck-sprain-inducing position you'd assumed on the headboard. You seem more comfortable on the pillow.
His pillow, his mind notes, though he has no idea why.
The morning air outside beckons him to move closer to the sea. No one, not even Snow himself could stop him from this call.
He quickly freshens up, brushes, washes his face and then he practically soars out to the sea.
The water engulfs him, but it feels more like an embrace. An embrace that, not an hour ago, you'd had him in. He momentarily, terrifyingly considers basking in it for eternity. Letting the water hug him into oblivion. But no. His family's out there. You're out there.
He smooths his hair out, and squints out into the horizon. I mean, he could just go. Only if he managed to get past Panem borders, but if he did manage that? God, would he be set!
He could live out the rest of his days never having to see a rose again.
He could live out the rest of his days painting, photographing, he could maybe even build a boat.
He doesn't know how to build a boat.
But that doesn't matter.
Because he could do anything he fucking wanted. For once, his life would be his.
He turns his head shorewards, expecting the sharp disappointment of being ripped away from his fantasies, but instead, he finds you there. You wave and he basically sprints underwater to reach you.
"The water's amazing, come in!"
"I can't, not this early in the morning!", you call back out.
He almost asks why, but he doesn't want to pressure you. Not everyone can comprehend the beauty of an open, vast, unforgiving and unbiased sea. One that, just like sand, doesn't discriminate in its cruelty.
He'd rather unbiased cruelty than biased adoration.
Such comprehension only stems from trauma. Trauma that he would never wish upon you. He'd never wish it upon his worst ene- no. No, no. He wishes trauma upon Snow. 100%.
"What are you doing today?!"
"I've got to buy things for my home and then I've got tutoring!"
He loves the mundanity of it all. The way you almost grumble as you say it. The way it seems like you also want to just spend the rest of the day lounging with him.
After a moment, he asks, "Can I come with?!"
You look so pleasantly surprised by that, like you think it's a joke that you haven't understood, but his expectant look finally tells you it's not.
"Why!?"
He smiles, lifting his hands up in a comically exaggerated shrug that sends water droplets flying to his sides. "'Cause I can!"
It's mildly unsettling to him how normal you're being. He's pretty sure the whiskey and the tension of last night brought to light things he'd much rather muffle into the dark, but you don't seem affected.
In fact, you seem sort of relieved. Like you've finally understood something that had been bothering you for a while.
You probably think you know exactly why he'd suddenly brought you into his life, and that's what brings him back to reality.
He's still using you. The whole thing about his trauma? Wasn't that basically to get suspicion off him? Maybe that's why he did it.
His mood now soured by his own doing, he essentially stomps out of the water and slumps next to you, trying to ignore the familiar discomfort of wet sand on his skin.
Wet sand that you pick off for him. Fuck.
You couldn't be a bitch, could you?
If you'd been a bitch, this would be so much easier.
But no. You apparently had be fucking extraordinary, didn't you?
"You're actually coming to the market?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"And then tutoring?"
"I'm older and wiser, Y/N. I could probably tutor better than you. Also, I can actually hold a camera."
"Wow, so that's how it is. Ad hominem remarks."
It's embarrassing, to say the least, that after talking such a big talk about wisdom, he doesn't know what 'ad hominem' means.
"Yeah. That's how it is." Cop-outs are always effective in such situations.
You snort, moving your foot back and forth in an arch. "Finnick?"
He hums. "Have you ever needed Tesserae? Like, before the Games."
He nods. "Yeah. Once. It was a very bad storm, so fishing wasn't really going well."
"It's funny, Faye never needed Tesserae. I mean, her family did, but obviously they didn't want it to go into her name. So she was clean. But she still... y'know."
"I want to say something about fate, but I'm not sure it applies here.", he says.
"No, it does."
"How so?"
"I've been looking at it kind of... harshly, but it helps.", you say, turning to the sea in front of you. He briefly wonders whether the orange horizon reflected in your eyes brings forth the same daydreams that he just had, in your mind.
"I just figure... it's probably written in stone that she has to participate in the Games. Maybe it was just a matter of when. Maybe this was a kindness done by God, or the universe or something. So that she had less memories, less to leave behind."
He bites the inside of his cheek. "So you're saying that she died so young because it would have been harder if she had died when she was older, with more memories with the people she loved?"
"It sounds terrible, but it was something my elementary teacher told us, when we were first taught about the Games."
He nods, trying to plead with the horizon to give him something to say.
"That was a shitty way to start the morning. Sorry.", you mutter, and he aggressively shakes his head.
"Shit's on your mind, but it doesn't have to stay there, okay?"
You nod. "How is it we're not hungover?"
He raises a brow. "Sea air. Does wonders."
"I live way too far inland, then. Should just stay in the Victor's Village forever."
"Yeah, you should. You got kids in your family?"
"Yeah, my niece and nephew, why?"
"Bring 'em all here, they can actually have a childhood with the sea thirty paces away. I'll teach them stuff. Rope tying, swimming, shit like that."
You smile softly, and it makes the sea air sweeter for him.
The words are left unsaid on both your tongues. They can have a childhood until eleven.
"I'm sure they'd love it if you could teach them."
He tries not to notice the cameras in the distance behind you, but it's really fucking hard.
"We should go."
"Why? It's nice, and I've got...", you reply, looking down at your watch, "...like, a half hour left before I need to go."
"No, let's go."
You figure that, since this wasn't a common occurrence, there was a reason for the roughness with which he led you back inside.
"You gonna tell me what that was about?", you ask as he picks out an apple from one of the adoring fruit bowls someone has sent him.
You've become bolder, grown more of a spine, but asking him this terrifies you, for some reason. Probably because you know he'll tell you the truth.
"There were cameras."
"Aren't you used to it?"
He tosses the apple up in the air and catches it before he washes it in the sink, turning to you as he takes a bite. "But are you?"
You shake your head, catching the one he washes and then throws to you the next moment.
"Exactly."
Nodding, you take a bite.
"What? What else do you have on your mind?" He reads your mind with an unsettling talent.
"What are they saying? Y'know, about us?"
"Just... you know, what you already know. That we're in love. And shit."
"You didn't want the cameras to capture the lack of love, then?"
Whoa, you were hitting hard. "Uh, no, I just thought you'd want some privacy."
"You already got me to come to the Capitol and take fake pictures to pacify Snow."
"Yeah, but-"
"So what is private about my life anymore? I didn't even know I cared so much about my privacy until it went away."
He's been there, done that.
"You're saying you want cameras on you?"
"I'm saying that from now on, they're going to be on me either way."
His chewing slows, and he nods. "Right. Sorry."
"You don't have to - you know that isn't why I said that. Don't apologise."
Alright, now he's more sure than ever that you have some skewed idea of what's going on, one that paints him as someone who accidentally got you into this mess.
Licking his lips, he moves over to place what he wants you to construe as a loving arm around the shoulder. But it's actually a guilty one. A terrified one. A fuck-if-this-goes-south-I-will-lose-her one.
He squeezes twice. "I've got you."
It's hard to say that without scoffing. He's barely got himself.
---
Finnick realizes lots of things by the end of the day.
One, if you want to go somewhere where no one cares who you are and be shoved around, it's the marketplace.
Two, you were wiser than him.
Three, your trust in him, no matter how hard you tried to hide it, was blind. Blind, and infuriatingly so.
Which is why when he finally dropped you home, you said something that, if you didn't have blind trust in him, would have immediately sent of warning bells in your head that he was an absolute asshole who was using you.
"Peacekeepers seem to have multiplied around here."
And his instinctual reply should have been enough to make you realize his entire plan and scorn him to hell.
"Yeah, they used to circle around mine more."
Yep. His plan had worked. Snow had begun to send him silent warnings that now, if he didn't do as he said, the "love of his life" would be killed.
And he didn't know if it was relief or sadism, but momentarily, he found a slight bit of joy that his family wasn't the one under more immediate threat than you.
God, he was such a bad fucking person.
"Maybe they're there to protect me.", you scoff, and he laughs, following you into your house and locking the fucking door.
"Yes, President Snow is known for his extraordinary empathy."
"Is he going to threaten to kill me if you don't... y'know?"
He nods. "Yeah, but I'm used to it. And you'll be safe, trust me."
"I don't want to if you aren't. I can't live with that knowledge.", you say, pursing your lips as you place the items on the kitchen counter.
He looks around and his environment aligns with what he expected a house with two kids to look like. "Where's everyone?"
"There's some school thing. Something to honor Faye and Kai, so my family's not here."
"You didn't go?"
"I don't know if I can.", you respond, shrugging.
He sighs, sitting on the chair while you perch up on the counter, his forearm grazing the side of your knee. "She was lovely."
You nod. "She'd have loved this."
"Loved what?"
"Busy days. She was a tiny bit weird like that. She liked having something to do, and had a whole itinerary planned."
He chuckles incredulously. "Yeah, right. She was thirteen."
"No, she came by every weekend, knocking on my door and telling me the time slots for tutoring. I'm not kidding."
"Oh my god.", he remarks, shaking his head.
"She was so neurotic, in the best way. Said she loved being able to crash into bed after being productive the whole day."
He grins. "She sounds amazing. I wish I got more time with her."
You shake your head. "Wouldn't ever be enough."
He stands, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry."
The only two words he has the right to say to you, and the two you keep rejecting, cluelessly.
"What?"
"I should've done better."
"You did the best you could. Sometimes, even District 1 Careers die."
It kills him that you think he's talking about the Games.
You look at each other for a while, and he frowns softly before his eyes move to your mouth. His lips follow soon after.
He kisses you, and then pulls away, making sure you're not absolutely repulsed, and you don't seem to be, and so he keeps going, his hands on the back of your neck, in your hair.
You're kissing back. "That's all that matters", he thinks, rubbing his thumb across your cheek.
No repulsion.
Not yet, anyway. Because right before the kiss, he'd noticed something that you hadn't, right outside, pointing straight at you.
Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings : Cuss words, SFW but discretion advised, mature themes. Slight inconsistencies (tributes + mentors leave the next day instead of the same day)
Desc. : But is it in his nature?
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
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'Suck on his sellout cock, go ahead', your mind taunts you as you traipse behind him into the Victor's Village, a place where you simultaneously hoped you'd live and you'd never step into again.
See, Finnick had always dominated your childhood.
You grew up watching him charm the nation, be welcomed back to the District like he was God.
One of your biggest flexes was that you got to see him in person in a parade once, when he'd come back from one of his many Capitol visits.
However. That all changed once you became fifteen. Because you'd finally got some fucking sense and realized that the people at the Capitol, the Hunger Games, none of it was fair, it was all fucking shit.
And you hated Finnick all the more for it.
Prancing around, doing promotions, adverts, sending children to die, being the Capitol's bitch. You'd narrowly escaped your last chance to be reaped, but you still wished he'd choke on his ridiculously expensive Capitol meal.
You couldn't respect him.
But. But, it wasn't like you'd ever tell him that, though. Because when Finnick Odair talks to you, you fucking talk back.
And when he tells you he wants you to come back home with him after seeing you by the ocean one night, you go, no matter how much you'd rather fucking kill yourself.
"This is my house.", he smiles, and waits expectantly, as if you're supposed to applaud.
"It's nice."
He doesn't look disappointed or surprised at that. In fact, he seems mildly entertained. "Get in."
═════════════════════ ⋆🔱⋆ ══════════════════
"And then, maybe, just bring your hand up the side of your leg? Yeah, yeah, just like that. Okay, yeah, sweetheart, that's it."
Click.
"And this is for..."
"Modelling."
"For the Capitol?"
"Who else?"
You raise a brow, your mind immediately picturing some rhinestone encrusted Capitol asshole getting off to a picture of you. You shudder.
"I'm joking. It's for me."
"For you?"
"Feel free to look around.", he says, offhandedly, as he looks through the camera at all the pictures he'd just clicked of you. "Maybe something will catch your fancy."
"You brought me here to... take pictures of me and... let me take whatever I want from your house?"
"I'm a weirdo, sweetheart."
"What will you do with the pictures?"
"I dunno. Can't publish them anywhere. I guess I'll just use them.", he mutters, more to himself than you, but you catch it. He looks up and then clarifies, "To improve my photography skills."
Thank fuck.
"Why me?"
"You're a good subject."
Your fingers move almost fluidly past various things, bottles of expensive liquor, watches, jewellery that he probably stole from his long list of Capitol lovers, and a single, slightly pathetic looking conch.
"I'm a subject? Like... math?"
He snorts. It's condescending, he's aware - there's no way you'd know. You've never been out of the District.
"It's photography lingo. A subject is who you're taking photos of. You have the correct facial structure for my lighting to illuminate you how I want it to. Hence, you're a good subject."
"Oh."
He continues flicking through photos and adjusting the background, taking a few trial shots with the result of his tinkering, until he seems to notice that you haven't spoken in a while. "You like the conch?"
"It's pretty."
"So are you."
You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Ugh. There he goes again, back to Finnick Odair, Capitol man-whore instead of Finnick, photo geek.
You turn to him. "How much did it cost? Twice the wine?"
"I didn't buy it. I found it, back when I was eleven."
"You've had it for almost a decade?"
He licks his lips, his hands pausing their scrolling of the camera's gallery for a moment. "I guess it has been a decade."
"What was it like, though? When you won?"
"Won? Won what?"
"The Games."
"Oh. Uh... bittersweet."
"Bitter? Why would it be bitter?"
"You ask a lot of questions. Sit down."
You know the truth. He just didn't want to admit that there was nothing bitter going on. He won because he was hot, and now, he continued reaping the benefits of his genetic lottery win.
You sit, still looking up at him as he comes to kneel in front of you, turning his camera to you. "What do you think?"
The pictures he's taken of you have an unsettling ethereality to them. In one, you're looking out the window with your back to the camera, your outfit hidden by a rose he'd apparently been holding in front of the camera.
A white rose.
It featured in every fucking picture, so much so that you almost asked him about it. Key word : almost.
In one of the more lighthearted ones, the rose sat in your mouth.
"They're pretty nice."
"Is your vocabulary limited to those two words? Pretty. Nice."
"I don't know what else to say."
He regards your face for a moment - like, really fucking observes you - before fiddling with some knob on the camera. "Take off your clothes."
That shouldn't have surprised you as much as it did.
"What?"
He looks up, confused. "Take off your clothes and I'll take some pictures."
"What? No."
"You don't want to? But you were okay with all the previous pictures."
"Yeah, because I was clothed."
"Being unclothed is a problem for you? Being exposed? Hm? That bothers you?"
What?!
"I- look, man, I'm not trying to offend you."
"But you are. You said you'd let me take photos of you. You are not your clothes, are you? You are your self, your soul, your body."
"Yeah, but I'm just not comfortable."
'Y'know what, sweetheart, people do shit they're not comfortable with all the fucking time. Twenty-five/eight. If you can't deal with it, you're weak. Take. It. Off."
You had a feeling there was another reason he was so angry about your non-compliance, but you didn't push it.
"Please don't make me do this."
"Fine! FUCK! Am I asking you to suck my cock? Huh? I could, y'know that? I could've, but no, I asked you to help me make art, and you chickened out!", he yells, his finger scarily close to poking your eye.
Finnick Odair was no longer pissing you off.
Finnick Odair was genuinely scaring you.
"Just get out.", he mutters, setting his camera down in defeat on his couch. "Get out, seriously."
You don't even have two seconds of backing-away-time before he stops you again. "What if I killed your family?"
That scares you more. "What?"
"What if I killed your family? Or at least, threatened to? Would you do it? Would you?", he asks, and now, he's not angry at you, or frustrated, he's more desperate, frantic, as if your answer would shake his fucking world.
As if your answer would change his self perception.
"Please don't kill my family."
"Would you suck my cock if I threatened to kill your family, Y/N?!"
"YES!", you scream, flinching, almost. "Yes! I would, but please, PLEASE don't!"
Finnick Odair gazes back at you with relief, and you want to strangle him. "You would, wouldn't you? You'd do unspeakable things for your family, yes?"
Well, of course.
"Things that would make your skin crawl. Not just because you love them, but because you're responsible for them. Because you got yourself into this mess."
He's no longer talking to or about you, that much is clear.
"And it's up to you to keep them away from it."
Slowly backing away, you try your hardest not to show up in his peripheral, to make sure he stays in whatever zone he's in.
But he is Finnick Odair. So he doesn't even look up at you as he instructs you. "Don't take the conch." Like stealing from him was the first thing on your mind.
"Wasn't planning to."
"Don't tell anyone about today."
"Wasn't planning to."
"Stay."
Wasn't planning to.
"I'm sorry, Y/N. Please. Stay."
The apology only solidifies your urge to stab him in the gut. "I have to get home."
"I didn't mean stay the night. I don't want you staying the night."
Finnick Odair, as you had begun to gather, was debilitatingly honest.
"I just mean stay for a while. Have dinner and then go."
"Dinner?"
"Yes, dinner. I have turkey from the Capitol."
"What's that?"
"It's a kind of bird. It's just like chicken but better."
"What's chicken?"
"Another kind of bird."
"Oh."
He frowns at you for a moment. "You're not okay with eating birds, are you?"
"They're just... very rare, so I don't see why you have to kill them."
He sighs, looking around the room in deep thought. "I could make fish. You know fish. You like fish."
You do know fish. You do like fish. You nod.
~~~~
Finnick's fish is unlike any you've ever fucking eaten.
Living in District 4, you'd figured you'd had fish every way it could be cooked. But no.
You can't help but take more. And more. And more. You weren't hungry, and momentarily felt guilt, thinking about kids in the other districts who were, but it was divine and you couldn't bring yourself to care much.
"You like that?", he asks, from opposite you, raising a brow in amusement.
"It's really fucking good."
He whistles lowly. "Ooh, nice, vocabulary expansion. So you do cuss. I was afraid I'd corrupted you with my rough Capitol language.", he muses, looking at your plate. "You have room for dessert?"
"Doesn't everyone, always?"
He nods. "That's fair. Cake?"
CAKE? This Capitol whore managed to bring cake back to District 4?
"Sure."
That was divine, too.
"You like that, too?"
"Yeah. It's really good. The Capitol has it really good."
"The Capitol is filled with cunts who throw up food because they want to taste more."
Was that... disdain? Interesting.
"Well, seeing as you spend most of the year there, I just thought..."
He stands, clearing the plates. "What? That I was one of them?"
You watch him go into the kitchen, taking a sip of water as you do. "No, just that... no, yeah, I did."
"It's okay, I get that a lot. I just... I gotta go, do these promotions, adverts. I have to. I made a deal."
You sigh, standing and pushing the dining table chair back to its original position. "Contract?"
He clenches his jaw momentarily, before nodding, his shoulders tense. "Yeah. Sm'n like that.", he grins, his dimples emerging once more. Thirteen year old you would have swooned and fainted and died.
Eighteen year old you just lets him lead you to the door.
"I'm leaving for the Capitol tomorrow. Along with the tributes from this year."
Why he's telling you this, you have no clue.
"You should come and wave me off."
"Do we know each other well enough for that?"
"No, but I know you know the tributes well. One of them goes to school with you, doesn't she?"
Yes. Little Faye.
"Yes, she's in the eighth grade. I used to tutor her."
The reality hits. She will probably never be able to high-five you when she gets a question right again.
"You should give her courage.", he suggests. "Going in thinking you're going to die will get you killed. Let her know she can make it."
"Can she?", you ask, quietly. The answer will ruin you, you can tell.
"She's a Career."
"Yes, but can she?"
"Chances are slim." Finnick fucking Odair. Finnick "debilitatingly honest" fucking Odair. "I won't tell her that, though."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Finnick."
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His hands grip your chin and you swear you're about to kill him. You look up at him, hanging out the open door of the train carriage and holding onto you, and you're half tempted to pull him down with you because what the fuck was he doing?
You can feel it coming, the urge to slap him away, but then again, it's still Finnick FUCKING Odair, and you're not sure if there's a law against rejecting his advances.
So you just kind of let him kiss you. It's not bad, no, far from it, it's just... unexpected.
Considering it's in front of every camera in the district.
Considering you'd only known each other one night.
Considering his last words were 'you're the only thing I care about.'
Considering he said your full name an unsettling amount of times.
Considering little Faye was watching and wondering why you were calm enough to be making out with some hot guy instead of sending her off.
Considering now the entirety of Panem was either going gush at you or rush at you.
~~~~
You can't bring yourself to watch the news.
Everyone assumes it's because of Finnick.
But, ironically, Finnick's the only one who knows it's not.
It's because of Faye.
"Finnick's on TV.", you're informed at least twice an hour.
"'Kay.", is your usual response. "Faye?"
"I'm sure Finnick trained her well. And besides, the 11th is this weekend! You'll find out."
Right. You'd been invited by Snow him-fucking-self to the Capitol. Apparently, the cameras outside your house weren't enough. He needed you there, with Finnick, for promos. While children were dying.
You receive gifts from your family, your neighbours, your teachers - basically anyone you'd breathed around - for your journey to the Capitol, as if you're going to some dreamland.
As you ride the train, your head against the seat, you try to imagine this is the train that leads you out of Panem. Your family will be waiting at the destination - in your head, an actual dreamland - and you'll be fine and dandy.
As you're escorted out, you imagine you're hanging from the ceiling in full display on the TV instead of Faye having to go through the Games.
And as you're directed to Finnick's room, you imagine slitting his throat. It's funny. You almost laugh. Then, the door opens.
Dimples.
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"How is it you've never worn lip tint before?", he mutters, tutting as if you'd just misspelled a basic word. "C'mon, pucker up.", he instructs, his thumb smearing red on your lips.
You have no idea what you look like and you're not sure if you want to find out. "I thought you were a merchant."
You shake your head. "No, I said I live by the merchant sector of 4."
"Not in it?"
"Of course not. Why would I have been picking seashells to make necklaces out of if I were a merchant? I just sell shit in the marketplace. Doesn't make me a merchant."
"I mean, technically... yeah, it does.", he says, his thumb accidentally slipping and smudging your makeup over the left of your cheek.
"Right, well, I'm not merchant class.', you shrug, trying to wipe the results of idiocy that was Finnick Odair off the side of your cheek.
Finnick... seems to get it. He nods along as he continues trying to de-plague your face with makeup.
Guilt is etched on his face. Regret, a tiny bit. Sadness, festering throughout.
"What's that look?"
He doesn't seem like he's out of whatever thought he was in moments ago when he hums in response, before quickly leaping towards his bedside and taking his camera, holding his thumb next to your bottom lip, with your still messy lip tint just about seen. Click.
"What's that look?", you repeat.
"What look?"
"That one.", you say, pointing to his face as if he can see it.
"That's my sorry look. I shouldn't have sprung the kiss on you. It was a dick move.", he says, gently moving behind you and guiding your shoulders to manoeuver you to face the mirror.
He says it as if he already knows you'll forgive him.
Yes, you do. But it irks you that he seems to assume that.
"Yes, it was."
"I'm sorry. What do you think?"
"I look like the 12 escort."
"Trinket? No, no way. You look great.", he assures, and you try to believe him, but you haven't seen yourself in makeup before and it doesn't look as though it's you standing there.
"Beautiful.", he says, as an afterthought, almost, as if he were trying out the word to see if it sounded right or not. He seems to decide on the former. "Beautiful.", he repeats, nodding.
That gets your attention and you take a second glance, and suddenly, you see what he sees. The makeup isn't subtle and hidden, but it isn't what the Capitol wears. It's... pleasant.
He brushes some hair in front of your shoulders. "See? Beautiful.", he reiterates, like he can't get enough of that word now.
"You sure I'll fit in here like this? Like... dressed up?"
"Yeah.", he says, vehemently nodding before doing that thing when he looked in your eyes again. "Well, mostly. I mean, I'd prefer it if you had the easiest time possible, 'cause I kinda got you into this mess."
You nod. That checks out. "Thanks."
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The night sees you staring at the ceiling while Finnick breathes softly in sleep beside you. It's pleasant. Domestic, almost. Like what Finnick wants, you think. Like the Capitol believes, you know.
He shifts and your eyes snap shut. Why you're so afraid of him finding out that you are awake, you don't know, but you are. He reaches out, his knuckles grazing your cheek with enough purpose that you realize he wasn't asleep in the first place, either.
And then he does it.
His hand reaches out, gently feeling around for your hand, before he grips the middle three fingers on your left.
He squeezes them softly, then brings them to his chest, where his own hand lays. That's it.
You watch him actually sleep until he mumbles, shifting again. 'Y/N?"
"Yeah?", you respond immediately, kicking yourself internally. Cover blown.
"Can't sleep?"
"No."
"Scared?"
"Mhm."
"Of the photos we took today? I promise, the makeup isn't bad, and you won't have to take any more - they'll publish them and pass them off as taken over a few months, so it's not-"
"No, for Faye."
Silence. "Oh."
"I feel like I didn't get to even tell her how well she's going to do."
"You can see her."
You can what?
"When?"
"Well, not in person, but we can watch the live feed of the Gam-"
"Yes. Yes, please, thank you.'
He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Really?"
"Yes. Yes, absolutely. When can we?"
"Well, technically, it's always streaming, so I, I guess we can go now."
You nod.
He raises a brow as if he never expected you to agree. "Okay, uh, just, uh... gimme a second to wake up, okay?"
He comes out of the bathroom after washing his face to find you pacing, biting the inside of your cheek. "C'mon."
~~~~
The Viewing Room is desolate except for a few Gamemakers' Assistants (GAs), that have to watch footage 24/7.
"We have to record these things all the time, just in case something happens during the cover of nightfall", he explains, as he walks in front of you and gestures to the large screen in the opposite side of the room. "Usually, the stronger Careers, from 1 or 2-", he cuts himself off. That was not what you needed to be hearing right now.
He watches as you slowly walk up to the screen, as though the soft glow from it could lead you to Faye. Your eyes dart around the entirety of the enormous screen, looking for something - anything - to announce you of Faye's survival.
"She is still alive. You'd have heard a cannon and seen a picture of her if not."
It's not the most comforting thing he can say. He's usually better at this. God, if he didn't miss his old self, but the guilt of essentially using you to keep Snow's interest off his family and on you, the - to the extent of Snow's knowledge, anyway - love of his life, isn't exactly letting him be warm and inviting to you.
But he wants to. Let it be known, he wants nothing more than to do what he usually does. Brighten people up.
"Where is she?"
"WE'VE GOT A RUNNER!", calls one of the GAs and your head snaps to a blue triangle tracking one of the tributes on the screen, and you run over to that side of the massive screen.
The lights come on in the room, and people flood in. Sponsors, gamblers, Gamemakers. Because this is prime TV. He imagines every screen in the country lighting up, because you have to watch. Every child has just been woken up because the feed's back on.
"Who's the runner?", someone asks, and Finnick turns to you, diligently tracking the blue triangle with your eyes. Blue. Ocean. District 4. It's Faye.
"Girl from Four. The boy's already dead."
"How much did I have on her?"
"Oh, c'mon, you didn't have shit on her! No one thought she'd make it this far."
"Fine, fine, but now how much?"
The sounds of cruelty almost have him zoning out, going back into Capitol-Party-Finnick-Mode. That is, until, you call him.
"Finnick?"
He rushes to your side, a guilt induced speed to his gait. "Yeah, y'okay?" No the fuck she isn't. What the fuck is wrong with him?
"Who's the gold triangle chasing her?" Gold. Luxury. District 1. CAREER.
"Uh..." Deliver it softly. Sweetly.
"Unless she's a shapeshifter, the girl's DEAD!", laughs one of the sponsors. "It's my tribute, the Career boy from 1 chasin' her, with... wait, zoom in? Oh, yeah, a dagger!"
Your eyes widen and Finnick wants to kill himself. "She'll be fine. She can swim, he..."
Can also swim. Fuck.
"... he won't be able to keep up with her." , he says, finally.
Partially true. District 1 Careers didn't have access to the ocean, not like those from 4, so it was very much possible that he wasn't trained to know about tides and currents and shit.
There's a moment where no one in the room says anything. Because they both just jumped into the water, and Faye went under.
Finnick holds your head to his chest as you cling onto him in fear. It's not even remotely close to making up for what he's planning to put you through - well, already putting you through - but he at least feels a bit like the old him. The one who could actually comfort.
The tribute from 1 splashes around a bit, looking for Faye. You've turned a bit now, your head's still in his chest, but half your face is facing the screen. You're watching, anxious as ever.
"She's not drowned.", he mutters, stupidly. Duh.
"What if something pulled her under?"
Oh fuck. Yeah. Valid point.
"I'm sure it's just a strategy."
One that he remembers teaching her.
Maybe if she uses this and beats this District 1 Career, he could be one more step closer to gaining your forgiveness, and his redemption.
For a crime that the victim wasn't even aware was being committed.
The Career flounders around a bit more, screaming, clearly, but the audio is muted here. He looks around, not willing to look under, in case that might trigger the release of any muttations the Capitol cooked up for them.
And then, he's tugged a bit, his leg down, and he springs away from the motion. Please be Faye. Please be Faye.
He's jerked fully under, and a splash of Faye's hair can be seen before both disappear underneath the mildly murky waters, a struggle very evident in the way the water's splattering about.
Suddenly, it stops.
Faye leaps exhaustedly onto the bank, gasping for breath.
A cannon goes off. Florian Jentry. District 1 , Luxury. Score : 10.
Finnick holds onto you tighter as you sigh in relief. He softly kisses your hair because he doesn't know what else to do.
Relief is the only possible emotion to feel.
No one's happy. No one's sad. You're only either relieved that your loved one isn't gone, or relieved that they're not gone in a torturous way.
Wait, scratch that. The patron who just bet on Faye is happy.
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Desc. : Panem's most publicized situationship.
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Make them speculate.
Make them wonder.
Distract them.
Entice them.
Convince them.
He tucked your hair behind your ear, kissing your temple as he did so. Your insides turned. "Are we on or off today?"
"He didn't say."
"Hm.", he murmured against your forehead. "It's up to us, then."
You took a sip of your champagne.
Listen, Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.
Seven years. Seven years of this shit.
"Do you never wonder what it'd be like if we actually did end up marrying each other?"
"The entire Capitol would burn down.", you scoffed softly, eyes running around the room.
"Snow would be pissed, for one. It's a will-they/won't-they until we do."
"Which we won't."
He pouted, shaking his head as he brought your hand to his chest. "You wound me."
Your whirlwind romance had swept Panem off its feet. According to their knowledge, you'd first met at a Post-Games party, after your first time as a mentor, and you couldn't keep your eyes off each other. Cue the mess.
On and off. Sometimes, never, and always. That was you and Finnick, in the eyes of Panem.
It wasn't exactly all false. In the beginning it really had just been you, Finnick, and a couple of nights that neither of you wished to label. But there was no sex, that was what was morbidly hilarious here. Just deep, drunken conversations.
In Panem, the most intimate thing you could do with someone was not sex, no, it was developing a true connection, and that's what had happened all those nights — what had scared you both.
So sue you if you didn't want to label that shit. It'd only end badly for the both of you.
Sure, Finnick might have thought he might, possibly, maybe want more. But that was only on late nights when he was watching the moon or nostalgic footage of District Four on the TV, but at the end of the day, both of you knew this decision was the best.
Toxic, definitely, but at the end of the day, although his long string of dalliances followed his reputation everywhere he went, he always came back to you.
Panem thought it was because no matter how twisted, he always loved you.
Snow thought Panem would like that.
You preferred that than actually discussing with him why he always came back.
"Off.", you replied.
"We've been 'off' too many times this year. Snow's going to freak."
He was right. "Fine. Is Caesar here?"
His eyes flicked around the room, scoping it out. "Yes."
You groaned. "He's going to lip read, then."
Caesar Flickerman was a dynamic host as well as an expert lip-reader. You'd only found that out on your second year of this charade, when Finnick had been talking to you about missing home - taboo topic around the Capitol - and Caesar had caught it.
All over the news the next day. He'd had to cover it up and say he meant you were his home. The Capitol went positively feral.
"Look at you, all sexy.", Finnick whispered, with his maddening smirk. "For me?"
"For me." He rolled his eyes. Wrong answer, his glare told you.
"Tell me, gorgeous.", he breathed, hands placed tantalizingly and strategically on your shoulders. "Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"
His iconic line. He'd come up with it three years ago, and it was a cop-out for when he was too tired to come up with any other segue, and besides, the Capitol loved it. It was basically code for you to chill out on the responses, because he was way too exhausted that day.
"Do the cameras love you as much as your family does? Or do you just live here, now? In the Capitol? In the limelight?"
Wait, what?
"I live in my district. Most of the year." The hell was he doing?
"Do you now, beautiful? And why is it you're always here?"
"Why are you always here?"
"Photo ops, of course. Snow needs his best out here all the time to make the Capitol as spectacular-looking as he needs.", he replied, eyes glistening.
"I'm here for the same reason."
"Yes, but you act like you don't give a shit where you are. Like you winning the Games was nothing. Like you being bestowed with riches - more than most, actually, because of the hot little outfits that you model- is nothing. Impassive, deadpan, nonchalant, innocent but too-cool-for-school Y/N.", he mocked.
No way was he actually letting anyone lip read this.
"Caesar's not here, is he?"
He chuckled, nodding. "You're right. I just needed an excuse for you to listen."
"I will not have you judge me."
"Let me kiss you, Y/N."
"What?"
"Please."
"I am not going to let you kiss me. We've got... we can't act as if we've had this conversation in private. It has to progress slowly. Every single moment of ours must be 'accidentally' captured, and jus—"
"Same page?"
He always asked you that before he did something he thought would get the cameras off your back for a couple weeks.
"No! No, no, not this time, what?", you hissed through gritted teeth, doing your damndest to work on your ventriloquism skills.
He rolled his eyes, his lips moving to your cheek. "Let. Me. Kiss. You. I swear, you'll understand."
Finnick's knuckles on your jaw, he tilted his head, as if to say 'come on, I'm already this close'.
You acquiesced.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, before murmuring against them. "Kill Snow with me."
You didn't pull away, you didn't push him away, you didn't frown, you didn't scream. You just froze.
"Johanna— everyone, basically, is on board.", he said, in between kisses to your unresponsive lips. "And the Mockingjay. She... god, Y/N, please, I can tell you're two seconds away from killing me, but please—."
His kisses kept growing more feverish by the second, his hands cupping your face and using it to pull you closer. It was getting increasingly hard to ascertain whether he was addicted to your lips or the words he was corrupting them with.
"Finnick, Finnick, wait—"
"Please, please, Y/N." He was begging. He was pleading. "Just... shh."
"I'm not — stop.", you hissed, and he begrudgingly pulled away, though his lips lingered on your neck. "I'm not going to kill anyone. Not Snow, not you— though I should probably kill you for this. What if you're mic'd? Snow's done that befor—"
"You wouldn't be doing any of the killing, my love.", he smiled against your neck, his hands pulling you flush against his body, and something told you it wasn't even because this whole conversation was supposed to be a secret anymore.
He was drunk. You'd only seen Finnick drunk a couple times - the nights that had led you two to being friends (?) and being spotted talking (obviously fucking, according to the Capitol) - but it had never been this bad. He'd always had some form of control over his faculties.
"Finnick, there's cameras right now, we can't—"
"I'm in love with you, Y/N, more than the cameras."
One good thing about Finnick was that his words never slurred when he was psychotically, unforgivably inebriated. They simply hastened.
"Okay, Finnick, I'll get you back to your—"
"Like so much, and I—"
Before he could say something that could be picked up by the cameras around you and analysed by Caesar, you shook your head, covering his mouth with your palm.
He frowned, making unintelligible noises against your hand.
You rested your forehead against his as you whispered. "We'll talk about this later. Get some rest."
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Hours later, you knocked lightly on the door to his room before walking in gingerly.
He lay down, looking up at the ceiling as though it had every answer he could possibly need.
"Finnick?"
"I'm... a failure."
Shit. "Now, Finnick, remember what you have to do when you think like this? Think of your family. Who you're protecting."
"Oh, my god, princess, it's not himself he's disappointed at."
Johanna motherfucking Mason.
"Johanna?"
"In the flesh. But I won't be for long if you don't listen.", she reminded, elbow on her knee.
You closed the door behind you, locking it as you turned on the light. "You're in on this? It's crazy talk!"
"It's a rebellion. It supposed to sound out-there until you actually do it.", she snorted, hopping off the bay window and stretching.
"It's that District 12 Victor, isn't it? Everdeen-something? She's got you guys all riled up."
"Katniss Everdeen, yes. The Mockingjay."
"Jesus, you guys are all fuckwits."
"C'mon, baby, that's no way to be. I thought you were the polite, innocently sexy one? The one who could never even call someone stupid, let alone a fuckwit.", she pouted.
"Snow will kill everyone you've ever loved."
"He already is. Except it's slower, torturous. This way, we're nipping it at the bud so our kids don't have to go through this bullshit again. What about, uh, you two?", she teased, raising a brow as she gestured between you and a plastered Finnick groaning the headache away. "Your cute little Capitol-bred lovechild will still be made to go through the Games. You don't want that, huh?"
You groaned, yanking open the bedside drawer supply of water bottles, passing it over to him. "Jo."
She raised a brow, sitting next to you. "Y/N."
"You can't kill Snow."
"Watch me, sweetheart."
"Jo, this isn't even funny. She lucked out, alright? Katniss, you said her name was? She lucked out big time. Snow's seething. He's seething, and—"
"We know."
"Lie back down, Finnick, you're drunk."
"I'm hungover. This was a big deal for me, okay? I was nervous you'd react just like this and jeopardize it all, okay? Needed liquid courage. Cut me some slack."
"I'm leaving. I'm not going to fucking sit here and listen to you talk about a rebellion when the Capitol's at their strongest and Snow's at his angriest, it's your funer—"
"You're going back into the Arena!"
You paused at the doorway, your fingers on the frame like it was your only tether to reality. "What?"
"Heavensbee. He told us that the Quarter Quell will reap previous Victors."
"What?"
"Snow wants - needs - Katniss dead."
Your attempts to force breath to stay in your lungs proved futile when you realized exactly what that meant. "You guys are going to try protecting her?"
"We have to."
"No, actually, you don't. Finnick, please don't tell me you're going to volunteer if you aren't reaped."
He groaned, rubbing his face over his hands as he sat up. "There's one chance, and this is it. She is it."
Good lord, you were fucking surrounded by idiots.
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The moon was the only beauty you'd found in the Capitol.
Finnick had taught you to look at it. Especially when you were scared. Worried. Or feeling nothing. Or feeling everything. Or feeling too many things.
It worked, actually, but this time, you looked at the moon, and all you could remember was when eighteen-year-old Finnick pointed the moon out to newly-sixteen-year-old you.
"Beautiful, right?"
"Yes."
"Do you know it controls the tides?"
"What?"
"Yeah. That was my reaction when I first heard it, too!", he'd whispered. "It's your sweet sixteen, right? So just go ahead and pray that the tides change. Wish on the moon."
"Tides change?"
"You know, that this whole 'we're-in-love-spiel' can stop."
This had been the first ever year of this goldmine of a plotline for Capitol TV.
"I want to go home."
You'd said that some three times the past couple hours, but you knew Snow wouldn't let you do so.
"I know. Wish on the moon that you can do that, too. Wish on the moon you can spend all of your birthdays with the people you love. Well, besides me, of course.", he'd grinned, nudging your shoulder to make you laugh. "Just wish on the moon."
You'd closed your eyes to do just that.
"It'll take care of the rest.", he'd whispered.
Sweetest boy on Earth, he was back then.
Right now? Ugh. You wished on the moon that he'd get a brain.
A knock.
"What?!" Fine, snapping may not have been the best thing for you to be doing, as your blood pressure was already terrifyingly high.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah, Finnick. Sure. Come in.", you mumbled, rubbing at your forehead.
"I... I can't even begin to apologise. Um... that was—"
"No, it's fine, you're good, it's wh—"
"No, that was... there is no excuse for that. Springing all that on you, and giving you all but five seconds to... I— I don't even know what I was thinking."
"Johanna got in your head, it happens.", you shrugged, watching as he frowned, sitting down opposite you on your bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. Huh. Your tone was understanding, but your words gave him pause.
"Same page?"
"I'd say we are."
"I don't know.", he muttered, picking at his knuckles for a second before turning to you. "Are you with us?"
"Okay, we're not on the same page."
"I thought not."
"Finnick, this is madness. Snow is at his angriest because he got his ass handed to him by two kids from District Twelve. Twelve. Like...", you scoff-laughed, gesturing wildly to illustrate the sheer bizarrity of the situation. "That shit doesn't happen every day. He's got us both going on more calls because the Patrons need to be pacified. Hell, he's now planning to send us all back into the Arena?!"
"Exactly! Don't you think it's enough?"
"What? Finnick—"
"Enough bloodshed, Y/N, please! Yeah, we're Careers, but when has that ever meant we were safe from the bullshit of the Capitol? Hm?"
"This isn't about us being Careers. It's about the fact that you could die!"
"We're going to anyway! It's like Johanna said! He's killing us slowly! We won't be able to live with ourselves once we're old and not wanted anymore!"
"FINNICK!"
"What?!"
"The first rebellion caused the Hunger Games. What the fuck do you think a second rebellion is going to bring? Hm? Mass genocide of the Districts? An arena with even younger kids? Every rebel and their families becoming Avoxes?! Are you fucking insane?!"
He paused at that. Silence. Good. At least he wasn't deluded enough not to consider the probability of failure.
You stared at him for a little while, before sighing. He wasn't weak, far from it, but you had just violently burst his bubble, the only thing he probably had going for him. And it must have been huge -and have been on his mind for a long time, a perfectly formulated plan that he was very excited about - seeing as he hadn't said anything to you.
He had a habit of doing that.
He never wanted to give you anything that wasn't just perfect.
He'd brought you back this seashell one time. From District Four. It had taken about five months for him to find the perfect one, with the best weight, the best colour, shape, texture, girth, whole shebang.
He stored your return-gift of a trident - you were masonry and weaponry district, after all - in a literal vault in District 4, until you gave him a tiny charm-version. He wore that around his neck.
Another time, he'd decided he'd write you his impression of your district from his Victory Tour. But that day, he'd been incredibly nervous, so he didn't look anywhere but his feet, and oh, how they longed to be home! In the sand, with waves kissing at his heels.
He figured he'd pretend he'd seen you in the crowd, all those years ago. In reality, you'd have only been about twelve, though you were raised above your parent's heads, so it was possible he could have seen you.
He hadn't, though.
For the case of this very humble birthday present, however, he pretended like he did. He took the wildest guess he could, that your hair was not tied up that day, and began to talk of your home.
How lovely everything had seemed.
How excited you looked.
You loved it. You really had. And he loved that you loved it.
And this whole rebellion thing was no different. He knew you'd be reluctant, but he also knew you'd secretly pray on the success of it, and he'd meticulously spent ages going through everything, every single thing, to make sure it was absolutely perfect for you, to make sure you could never call it anything but the best gift you'd ever gotten.
This, though? This argument had thrown him for a loop. You had a point. One he hadn't thought of.
"I'm—", you sighed once more, shaking your head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I... that was harsh."
He bit the inside of his bottom lip. "Mm."
"Finnick, I really am."
"Yeah, I know. I just... what if we don't fail, though?"
Wish(on the moon)ful thinking.
"Then great. But is that a chance you really want to take?"
"What if it is?" It's quiet in your room, and his response is almost engulfed in the silence, but you manage to catch it.
"Don't you think that's what the First Rebels thought?"
You were just dynamite today, weren't you? Finnick loved it when you were like this, but a tiny bit less when it was directed against him.
At least he knew he was an inch closer to receiving your amazing hugs.
"Yeah. Yeah, no, for sure."
You nodded softly, and then he kissed you.
And once more, corruption blossomed on your lips. "But you're deluded if you think when we're in that arena, I'm letting you kill Katniss."
"I won't have to if my theory is right."
"What theory?", he scoffed against your lips, pulling you closer as his hands crept up into your hair.
"That Snow will do things specifically to kill Katniss, and the only way anything will ever work is if you, I dunno, find a way to save Katniss and yourself and Peeta and Joha—"
"We're hacking into the arena."
He really hated kissing you when you didn't reciprocate, but he had to for the next few seconds when you froze, before pulling you away. "What?"
"We're... I can't tell you, but we've got District 3 in on it, they're going to get a wire and basically, like—"
"What, blow up the arena? Are you sure you're feeling okay? Are you still hungover?", you asked, placing your palm on his forehead.
He rolled his eyes, taking it in his and kissing it once. "I promise, I am perfectly fine. And yes, we have a solid plan—"
"Holy shit, this is what you meant by 'the Capitol Patrons give me information' ? I figured it was about the next Games, so you could help your tributes win, not... fuck, Finnick! This is treason!"
"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!"
You glared at him as he stood in sheer fury. "I'm sorry for yelling."
Wow. Sweetest boy on earth and you'd made him miserable. How do you do it?
"It's alright."
"I don't care that it's treason, alright? But we need to end this bullshit. Okay? So I will ask you for the last ever time, Y/N, because you know that whatever you say next will affect whether we see each other again. Are you with us?"
You licked your lips, picking at the duvet. "Can I have some time?"
"Reaping Day."
"Reaping Day?"
"Reaping Day. I'm not even kidding."
Yeah, he almost never was.
Fuck.
"I'll tell you by Reaping Day."
"Okay."
He didn't leave. It was a long moment of either meeting or vehemently avoiding each others eyes.
"I'm sorry about the yelling.", he repeated.
"You're not volunteering."
"What?" He was halfway out the door when you said it, and he was this close to slamming it.
"If you're not reaped, you take it as the odds being in your favor and shut up. Alright?"
He turned to you, slamming the door and leaning on it with crossed arms. Incredulity painted his face. "Are you kidding me?"
"No."
"Who are you to order me around? Fucking Snow?"
"I'm—"
"Who?! My on-screen-propaganda-lover?!"
That stung more than you'd expected it to.
"Fine. Fuck you! Go ahead and volunteer. Like a fucking dumbass. Go get yourself killed because you can't handle the truth! This is how it is and how it'll always be!"
"It doesn't have to!"
"Yeah, tell that to District 13!"
"Oh, if only you fucking knew!"
"Knew what?! That your half-baked 'plan' is bound to fail?!"
"If you're such a fucking loyalist, go tell Snow the big 'half-baked' plan!"
"Maybe I will!"
"Yeah, go! Go right now, scurry off, become the fearless Savior of Panem, the title of the Most Loyal goes to you!"
You stood, attempting to shoulder past him, but honestly, you should've known better. He grabbed your arm. "If you're going, stay on your knees in front of him so we can shoot you in the back of your head when we storm the Capitol." Pretty picture he could paint, you'd give him that. He could paint a dazzling romance and a grisly murder all just with words.
"That's if you do it. You won't."
"Yeah? Watch us."
You mirrored his clenched jaw. "Let. Go."
"You don't like me holding you?", he asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.
"No."
"In the Snow regime, in the Capitol, sweetheart, that word has no meaning.", he spat.
"Does treason? Does murder? Does anarchy?"
"Snow gave you a comprehensive list of his favourite vocabulary, how cute."
"Oh, fuck off, Finnick, alright? Let go."
"Are you with us?" He shook your arm.
"No!"
"Are you with us?" More desperation this time. But he knew you, and his eyes held a calm that suggested he knew exactly where your heart lay. With him. With the idea of a free Panem.
"I'm not!"
"ARE YOU WITH US?!", he snapped, finally yelling once more.
"YES!"
The silence had snuck back in unnannounced.
"This is why I love you. You're a fucking trip."
Great. You were not only having to play an innocent, his lover and now a rebel, but you were also, evidently, to play jester for him, since he thought you were so fucking amusing.
"Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"
Oh, my god, he was being funny now, was he?
"Don't die.", you scoffed.
"Not if you won't. Same page?"
You scrambled to come up with a plan. Rig District 4's reaping? Fucking how? Beg Heavensbee for a glimpse into the arena? You barely knew if he was actually on your side, no matter how much Finnick seemed to trust him. Tell Snow and not include Finnick or Johanna or Katniss or — okay, too many variables. Oh! Wait! When he was busy protecting Katniss in the arena, you'd be busy protecting him. Okay. Could work. Right, okay.
He kissed your temple, looking down at you expectantly. He had no idea what he'd do if you hated his gift. "Right.", he muttered, after a little while of watching you play with the hem of his shirt. "I gave you till Reaping Day."
You nodded, and he whistled lowly, looking out at the window, his eyes brightening. "But... you know it's Full Moon Day today.", he grinned.
So you two sat there watching the moon for... quite a while, actually.
Wishing that the other would just fucking listen for once.
Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.
But he was also the sweetest boy you knew.
So, if you had to be on the same page, you would be.
"Same page.", you affirmed, finally, when it got too late and his hands went slack around your shoulder, and your eyes started getting heavy. You were truly, in entire honesty, unable to fathom a future where the rebellion worked and Panem was free.
But your plan was at least still intact. No matter how this clearly poorly thought out rebellion went.
At least, with your plan, he'd be alright, either way.
summary : the night before the 75th hunger games, finnick odair shows up at your door. he says he couldn't sleep. that's not the whole truth.
tags: love confessions, night before the 75th games, hurt/comfort (i think), little bit of fluff at the end (ew)
a/n: thg is my life blood. it's woven into my dna. im working on a series rn but wanted to get something up in the meantime. wrote in 2 hrs. unedited. ignore mistakes :)
word count : 2.5k
masterlist
The knock is soft enough that you almost miss it. Soft enough that you didn't expect Finnick Odair to be the one behind it.
He props himself against the door frame with one arm, wearing a smirk that doesn't quite fit the rest of his face.
"Couldn't sleep," he says, though it isn't quite a sufficient explanation.
You give him a once over, noting that he's still dressed in what he wore after training today. There's something more domestic about him than the last time you saw him.
As you try to formulate a response, he enters without invitation — you aren't sure he was even expecting one. The room rearranges itself around him. The man belongs where he stands and you both know it.
Only when you shut the door does he turn to face you, and you question, briefly, if that quality is gone entirely. Perhaps he invited himself in for other reasons, ones he wasn't sure he knew how to admit.
He lowers himself onto the bed and deflates all at once, studying the pile of discarded clothes beside your bed as if making a pointed effort to avoid your eyes.
"Your room looks like mine," he says softly.
"Well," you sigh, not moving from where you stand by the door, "it's a hotel. That's sort of how it works."
He doesn't push the notion and you don't tease him for it because it's an obvious stalling tactic.
You were afraid to ask what was wrong. It would sound silly out loud. Tomorrow you would be thrown back into an arena for the second time after wholeheartedly believing escaping once would be the end of it. Everything about it was wrong — you'd been drowning in wrong for quite some time now.
And perhaps asking would be crossing a line. The two of you aren't close, not in the way he and Johanna are or you and Haymitch. (Granted, all victors are "close" in their own way, but not in the sense that you can spill your guts at random to anyone in the group. That was the nature of being a victor — you haven't made it this far by misplacing trust.)
You and Finnick had shared hushed jokes at ceremonies and traded bubbling fruity drinks in hidden corners of galas. It's hard not to enjoy your time with someone so charming and witty, and you had no trouble admitting that.
But you've been through this moment before, the final dark hours before losing control of life as you know it. Sitting in the shroud of night with only your thoughts, where all your regrets and fears and love threaten to strangle you. These weren't moments you spent with a fair-weather friend.
And yet, there he is: looking too hollow to be someone you recognize, comforter bunched up under his fingertips, looking as if something is burning so fiercely within him that he fears what will happen if the flame dies out.
It's rather heartbreaking to watch, especially considering you are wrought with fear yourself. So despite everything, you ask.
"What's wrong?"
He takes a deliberate, steadying breath and straightens his spine, but it does nothing to improve his state.
"Nothing. Just," he purses his lips, only now looking up at you, "couldn't sleep."
You cross the room and sit next to him on the bed, not touching but close enough that he could shift slightly and change that. You don't say anything because silence may be the only honest thing either of you have to offer right now.
He laughs, low and humorless. "You're not going to let me get away with that, are you."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
You steal a glance at him in your periphery and watch his face twist with something you couldn't name.
"You didn't have to."
Silence fills the room, broken only by the soft crack of fireworks outside and the constant hum of partying in the streets.
You wonder if that's all you'll get out of him. A dry, offhanded joke serving as the slam of a door on something that was almost real. But if that's what he needed, you'd let him give that little.
In a sudden moment of realization you quietly admit you'd sit side by side — knees and shoulders threatening to collide, suffocating in the space between words — if that's what it took. You don't dare rationalize that desire because that train of thought would lead nowhere useful. Not now.
His voice, the sudden, gravelly sound of it, almost makes you jump.
"I keep thinking," he starts, then stops. Then starts again. "I keep thinking about what I'd regret if tomorrow goes the way I think it will go."
He says it coolly, like it costs him nothing, but you watch as his hands clasp tighter in his lap as if he's working very hard to keep them that way.
"And I keep coming back to the same thing."
You wait patiently, giving him the space to continue if he chooses. He shifts rather uncomfortably and keeps his gaze trained ahead, watching the way the city lights project against the door.
"You," he says with more confidence than you expected. Not the even, practiced kind he wears so often — understated but certain.
This time you stay silent because you aren't sure what to say at all. Your attention jumps to the rush of heat to your cheeks and the way everything around you falls completely still.
"I couldn't sleep," he nods, "that was true, but I didn't expect to anyway. I was just sitting there thinking about the Reaping… over and over and over."
You can feel his eyes on you but you can't bring yourself to face him. Your gaze falls to your lap and you trace the seam of your pajama pants along your thigh to ground yourself.
"I was tying my shoes, practically out the door, when they started showing your district. I saw you up there and… you looked so different than the last time I saw you. I guess it's been months, maybe almost a year now. I don't remember. Either way, you were up there on that stage — it was something about the way your hair was done, maybe the way you were standing, or… I don't know."
He sighs and leans back, propping himself up on his palms and letting his gaze wander off into the distance. After giving himself that pause, he's much more collected. Something in him is almost lighter.
"You just looked so beautiful, I couldn't look away."
You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. He pauses and the spell of his monologue breaks. Suddenly the girl he'd been speaking about so distantly is sitting right beside him, close enough to touch, laughing awkwardly at her own confession being handed back to her. The energy in the room shifts all at once and rushes into the space between you.
"What?" He smiles softly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of your face.
"Nothing," you wave sheepishly, "sorry."
You turn to meet his gaze and suddenly you feel alive. His breathing is shallow, eyes darting around your face like he's trying to work something out. Hauntingly beautiful — this wasn't new, of course — but now part of his light, the one so much of the world adored, is shining on you. The weight of it feels like too much to bear, so you look away.
"I mean it," he says, softer now. "I couldn't bring myself to leave while you were still on screen. When they called your name, it stopped feeling like a game."
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, as if the words won't come out, or there are too many.
"I know what people think of me. The flirting — it's a habit. It comes easily." He pauses. "It never came easily with you."
You can feel yourself slowly drifting closer to his side but refuse to label it as intentional. Instead, you let it happen and wait with bated breath.
"I'm good at making people feel like the only person in the room. I know that. I've done it enough times to know exactly what I'm doing when I do it. It was never like that with you. You made me nervous," he swallows like it's hard to admit, then laughs at himself. "Genuinely, embarrassingly nervous."
He glances at you sideways, whatever lightness he'd worked up before dissipating. "Please don't look at me differently for saying that. It's awful, I know, the way I—"
"Finnick." You surprise yourself, how steady your voice comes out. "We all do what we need to do to get by. That's nothing. You know that."
Something in him loosens. He mulls over what you said for a moment, then continues.
"I never let myself think about what it actually meant. That at all our horrible, mandatory victor events, you were always the one I looked for first."
A small, rueful smile crosses his face. "I'd manufacture any excuse just to spend another minute with you. I don't know if you remember, but at last year's opening ceremony I spent the entire night doing impressions of the other victors just because you laughed at it once. I must have looked like such an idiot."
You light up at the memory, instinctively turning to face him.
"Yes! Oh my god," you breathe out a laugh, "you did the best Beetee impression I'd ever seen. I thought it was hilarious."
When you focus in on his face you notice he is absolutely beaming, as if he's relishing the fact that he made you laugh again.
"Sorry," you smile, now finding it hard to look anywhere else but his face, "I cut you off."
"It's okay," he grins, shaking his head. "I was just saying you made the events, the Capitol, all of it bearable. I'd see your name on the guest list and suddenly the whole thing felt survivable." He exhales slowly. "And then they called your name at the Reaping and I understood, all at once, what I'd been pretending not to feel."
He shifts so that his leg is on the bed, able to fully face you now. There is nothing between you. No charisma or fond memories or dread or fear. Just Finnick, stripped plain and bathed in the dim light.
"The way you say exactly what you mean even when it would be easier not to. The way you laugh at the wrong moments. The way you've never once looked at me like I'm something to be collected." His voice drops. "I would have been happy to search for your face in every room for the rest of my life and never say a word about it. I was ready to do that. But now…"
He steadies himself and you have the instinct to brace yourself — it feels as if the world is tilting and you are sliding right towards him.
"I just didn't know how to walk into that arena without having said it."
You don't know how to proceed. The feelings, the memories, the person he's speaking about feel like a familiar silhouette but the full picture is impossible to make sense of.
And that thought from before — the one that begged you to sit with him until the sun came up, the one sitting patiently in the back of your mind like something expecting to be returned to — finally lands somewhere solid.
It doesn't take the shape of words, however. Instead, you reach for the hand resting on his leg, your knuckles grazing his hesitantly as if you hadn't already made the decision. Without a second thought, he places his hand over your open palm and laces his warm, steady fingers with yours.
"I love you. Not because I want anything from you. Not because I need you to say it back." His eyes hold yours and his thumb brushes across your knuckles. "Just because it's true, and because I couldn't die with it still sitting in my chest."
His eyes bore into you with such heartbreaking honesty that you feel as if you are melting right in front of him.
You never took someone for their word. Ever. You'd seen too much to be so careless. But for the first time you betray yourself — because no one could witness something so raw and so unguarded and not believe it. And no one could see themselves so plainly in another person — their own unnamed feelings laid out in someone else's words — and call it anything other than love.
The world tilts again, the way it had before — only this time you don't brace yourself against it. You let yourself be taken by the angle.
You climb into his lap slowly, giving him every opportunity to say something, to make a joke, to be Finnick Odair about it. He doesn't. His hands find your waist like they already knew the way, and when you finally kiss him it is nothing like you would have expected from a man with his reputation. It is reverent, like something he needs to get right. Like he is racing against time and he dares to slow down and savor it.
With his hands tangled in your hair, he pulls away, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes — his attention waging an internal war. You don't have enough patience to wait for one to win out. Instead, your limbs slide to fit his like puzzle pieces and you ease yourself into the crook of his neck.
It is as if the touch brings him back to reality. He stills beneath you, and for a moment you wonder if you've miscalculated. Then his arms wind around you, slow and deliberate, pulling you further into him like he's afraid you might change your mind. He presses his lips to your hair, your temple, the side of your face — quiet and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, which you both know is the one thing you don't have.
"I love you too," you say into his neck.
He goes very still. Then, softly: "I know. You didn't have to say it."
You pull back to look at him. "Shut up."
He laughs — a real one, one you can feel against your scalp — and before you can settle back into your own space he pulls you firmly back against his chest, tucking his chin over the top of your head.
A beat of comfortable silence passes.
"Horrific timing on your part, by the way," you say, angling for light, but it falls flat.
"You have nothing to worry about," he says with certainty, his fingers drumming against your side absentmindedly.
"Is that so?"
"I'm going to make sure nothing happens to you." His arms tighten slightly around you.
You frown. "Finnick. Katniss and Peeta are the objective. This whole thing is bigger than just me, you know that."
"I know," he says simply, like he's already made peace with it. Like the decision had been made long before tonight, long before he ever knocked on your door. "I'll see to all of it."
His lips press once more to the top of your head.
"And then I'm coming for you. That's all I care about getting right."
