sam

It’s lifeless, too. There’s no rumble of conversation around the table or light laughter from the neighboring houses like there is in the Seam around this time, when the workday has ended and workers have trekked home.

There are no flickers of light from the fires in people’s homes as the sun sets and they prepare dinner. There’s not even the song of a fiddle or two to break the eerie silence.

When you don’t get any response after your second knock, you just decide to push against the doors and hope they open. 

To your luck, they creak open, letting what little sun is left from dusk scatter in a bit of light inside. You have no desire to be intruding here, but your mind keeps flashing images of last night, the funeral where six bodies descended into five graves. You think of the pure devastation and agony on Haymitch’s face, how he’d looked right through you, his eyes so familiar in color and shape but so foreign in their emptiness. He hadn’t even said a word to you since the day his family died.

You’d known him your whole life, and aside from the Games themselves, this was the longest you’d gone without talking. His father had worked with yours in the mines, his mother had once chatted with yours on walks into town, and his brother Sid had even played with your own little sister with the other Seam kids during recess.

“Haymitch?” You called out quietly, making your way through the house. “My mom made some soup for you, I brought it here.”

You nearly leap out of your own skin in surprise and drop the pot in your hands as you’re met with a response that is definitely not Haymitch, “He’s out cold, Asterid said he’d be up soon, though.” You whirl around to see Burdock sitting on one of the couches in the living room, eyes groggy and hair mussed from sleep. 

Blair is fast asleep on the other couch, light snores echoing throughout the room. You realize with a pang of guilt that they must’ve been here all night, while you’ve been tucked into your own bed in the comfort of your family’s home. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late, I meant to come here earlier, and I didn’t mean to wake you, I —”

Burdock waves your apology away with his hand. “You haven’t missed much. He’s been knocked out the whole time, ever since…”

Ever since the funeral, where he’d been near hysterical and had to be dragged off by Burdock and Blair to this beautiful, sterile prison he’s meant to call home.

“Has he talked to you?” You ask, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. Burdock shakes his head, and you can’t help but feel even more anxious at this news. It would be simpler for him to be mad at you for some abstract reason, than admitting he was mute from the sheer shock and trauma of it all.

All of a sudden there’s a stab of pain in your chest so powerful it knocks the breath out of you. Haymitch is your friend, you’ve known him since you were both in diapers, and despite everything, there’s nothing you can do to make him feel better.

“All we can do is be there for him,” Burdock says gently, as if your thoughts are loud enough for him to hear. “He should be waking up soon. I was going to find Asterid to get some more sleep syrup, if you want to check on him. Upstairs, third door to the left.” 

You nod and step out of the way as he moves towards the door, grabbing his leather jacket and shoving on his boots.

Now the house is back to being eerily silent, save for the snores coming from Blair as he continues to sleep peacefully on the couch.

Deciding to make yourself a little useful, you place the pot of bean and ham hock stew your mother made on the stove to warm it up, stirring occasionally. You marvel at the luxury of how quick the whole process takes. At home, it would require gathering wood or affording coal for a fire, but here, it’s a simple turn of a knob and the pot instantly begins to warm.

Ladling enough for a hearty meal into a bowl, you take a deep breath to steady yourself. When you’re sure you won’t cry in front of him, you grab the bowl and slowly make your way up the grand, spiraling staircase to Haymitch’s room.

Your knuckles rap quietly against the door, and you hear him begin to stir into wakefulness.

“Haymitch?” You called out, ever so softly. It’s cruel to tear him away from a drugged sleep, knowing it’s the only respite he has, but he needs to eat, and the medicine will be wearing off soon anyways. “Haymitch,” you repeat, a little louder, “I’m coming in, I have food.”

When the door creaks open, Haymitch is sitting up, back leaning against the headboard, looking out the window. His head doesn’t even turn when you step inside. He looks dreadful.

Physically, you think he’s still as handsome as you remember him, despite what the Capitol has put him through. His hair falls against his forehead in soft blonde curls, and his blue eyes as bright as the afternoon sky. But the signs of his dishevelment are hard to ignore. His lips are dry and cracked. The sheen of sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead and stick out in all directions. His eyes are empty as they stare into the distance, glazed and unfocused. The dark circles underneath are confusing, because he’s been sleeping nonstop for the past two days.

You remember running your fingers through those same curls in grade school, begging him to let you braid them. You remember those eyes that would light up with mischief when he suggested ideas that would surely give both your mothers a heart attack. You remember how it felt to have those piercing eyes on you, to have his pure, undivided attention, and how giddy it made you feel.

You try to stop the memories there, to save yourself the heartache of remembering things any further, but it’s too late. Now you’re thinking of the first time he’d kissed you, the winter right before that fateful Reaping.

It was all red noses, flushed cheeks, and snowflakes stuck to eyelashes. Nervous giggling and the puffs of your breaths that were visible in the frigid air.

His lips had been warm, and so easy to get lost in. The way his hand had come up to your face, gloved thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. How, when you’d leaned back, the cold, red tip of his nose brushing against yours, you felt hot all over when he looked at you.

You especially tried not to compare it to his lips against yours two days ago, hours before the house fire. Soft and sweet, but with an underlying need and desperation. How his hand had squeezed your waist and drawn you closer, impatient after being apart for so long. That’s as far as you let yourself remember, because if you think about it for much longer, and compare his expression now to how you remember, you’ll lose it.

It’s hard to forget, though, how nothing was said. How you still don’t know where you stand with him, and how none of that matters now, because his whole world has collapsed. His Ma. Sid. Any questions or feelings you might have will remain buried for a long, long time. However long it takes him.

He looks as if the Capitol had killed him and an imposter was using his skin — he looked the same on the outside, but it’s like he’s still missing.

You walk towards him slowly, placing the bowl on the nightstand, and gently wave your hand in front of him. It takes everything in you not to grab his hand, which is still fisting the sheets in a tight grip, and hold it in your own. 

Your mouth opens and your jaw hangs loose in the air before you shut it, because really, what can you say to him? You can’t ask if he’s okay, because you know he’s not. You can’t ask if he needs anything more, because all you can offer him is soup and perhaps some company. But anything he really, truly desires — like his family — you cannot give him. 

“Please eat something,” you begin quietly, holding out a spoonful of the soup up and hoping its familiar scent will coax him out of this catatonic state. Desperation creeps into your tone for any sort of acknowledgment that you exist. “Burdock will be back soon with more sleep syrup, but you need to eat before they give you more. Asterid says it’s hard on your stomach.”

Although it’s not violent or forceful, it’s not gentle either the way he shoves the spoon away from his face. You yelp as the hot liquid spills on your arm and burns, and that finally seems to get a reaction out of him.

For a split second, you catch a glimpse of him as he glances at you, a flash of worry on his features before it disappears so quickly you thought you’d imagined it. 

When he returns to the same blank expression as before, you want to yell at him. “Just eat, please, Haymitch. And then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.” 

“Go away,” he mumbles, shoving his head back down into his pillow. Short of trying to grab him by the shoulders and shake him — which you’re tempted to do — there’s nothing else you can do.

The look in his eye haunts you on your entire walk home. It was scarier than the hysteria from last night, or even the pure defeat as he was carried off by Blair and Burdock. 

The emptiness was worse than uncontrollable sobs, or yelling and screaming, because at least you knew he was still him, he was still feeling something. This? This was terrifying.

Days turned into weeks, which turned to months, and the people around Haymitch start dropping like flies; there’s only so much hatred people can handle getting thrown their way before they give up.

You don’t remember the last time you’d seen Haymitch sober. Every time you came to his house he was either passed out, incoherent, or yelling at you to leave. 

Burdock and Blair had stuck around, too. It was comforting to know you weren’t alone in dealing with him, that there were still others who cared if he lived or died. Not that Haymitch himself seemed to care.

Until they didn’t. Blair had hugged his final goodbye a couple months in, telling you and Burdock there really was nothing more any of you all could do. Since he’d left, you found yourself at Haymitch’s more often to pick up the slack. Someone had to make sure he was eating, and with Burdock off somewhere with Asterid, that duty had fallen upon your shoulders today.

His room was a nightmare. Bottles that reeked of liquor clutter his nightstand, and the room is beginning to smell. You wrinkle your nose and set the plate of eggs down on the edge of the bed before opening a window.

“I brought you something,” you said tentatively. There was no response, so you continued. “Everyone's worried about you.”

Maybe if you started to name names, he would look at you. “My mom and dad, of course… and so are the Everdeens and Hattie, and—” you take a deep breath. “I’m worried about you, Haymitch.”

When he looks at you, a wave of relief washes over your body because he’s ablaze, but staring straight at you.

“Are you deaf? Or just stupid?” His tone surprises you with how much venom there is. When you don’t move, stunned into silence, he raises his voice ever so slightly. “Did you hear me? Get out of here!”

“Haymitch,” you finally began, a little panicky, “I know things haven’t been easy, but can you please just talk—”

“I said, get out of here.” He’s practically yelling now, throwing back the covers and frantically getting out of bed, searching for a way to get you out of his room. “I don’t want to see you.”

“Okay,” you breathe out, taking a step back. “I’ll come back later—”

“No,” he spits harshly. This can’t be the same Haymitch. While he’s always been a bit spirited, it’s never been directed towards you and he’s never been mean. “I don’t need a couple days. Don’t come back. Not now, not next week, ever. I hate you, I wish I’d never met you. You won’t leave me alone and it’s pathetic.” 

“There’s nothing you can say to any of us to make us abandon you, Haymitch!” You practically shriek, fighting back tears at his words. You don’t want to cry, you will not cry right now. He’s drunk, and heartbroken, and he doesn’t mean it. “Don’t you get it? We love you, I love—” 

A scream cuts off the end of your sentence, and you barely have enough time to duck as he chucks the plate on his nightstand against the wall. The ceramic shatters everywhere, and all you can do is remain frozen, staring at the plate on the floor. As you turn your head back to look at him, he chucks another bottle of beer in your direction. This time, when it shatters, you feel the sharp sting of pain on your cheek that completely stuns you.

“What’s going on?” You hear Burdock’s voice, and two sets of footsteps. The sound of his voice sends Haymitch into another rage. 

“Tell them they can get lost, too,” Haymitch snarls. His hands are shaking so badly but you can’t if it’s from rage or panic or something else entirely. “I hate all of you, why won’t you just leave me alone?”

It’s the sound of more footsteps in the hallway that snap you out of this. Pushing past both Asterid and Burdock, who both are asking what happened, you run. Down the hallway, the stairs, until you’re outside and gasping for breath. This isn’t the Haymitch you know — your Haymitch is sweet and charming, and so gentle with you. Even traumatized and grieving, you didn’t know him to be capable of this.

The sobs wracking your body are so violent and consuming you don’t even hear Asterid come up behind you until she sits down next to you on the porch and wraps her arm around your shoulders. 

“He didn’t mean it,” she tries to soothe, rubbing her hand up and down your arm, “He’s just… going through a lot. He loves you, we all know it. He’s been crazy about you for years.”

In an alternate world, where none of this had happened, her words would make you giggle and deny bashfully as a blush crept over your cheeks. Now, you don’t even believe them.

You shake your head vigorously and wipe the tears from your eyes. “I don’t care, I’m done. Let him kill himself for all I care.” You sniff, your words coming out in short gasps. “Which I don’t.” 

That night, your brain wants to torture you, because you dream of that magical winter. Where you and Haymitch would sneak out into the woods after school and make angels in the snow, kissing until both your lips and his were swollen. Where you’d sit and talk for hours, shivering in the snow, but it was worth it because you were both truly free — as free as anyone from Twelve could be, anyways.

He’d notice you shivering and wrap his arms around you, trailing kisses down your neck and insisting you were so cold because you refused to wear a scarf. He’d always insist on wrapping his own around your neck, a pretty blue handmade by his mother, and intertwining your fingers within his. You’d marvel at the warmth and the scent of him as it surrounded you.

When you wake up the next morning, you’re reminded of reality, and it’s odd. You’ve never grieved someone who’s still alive.

It’d been months since you’d seen Haymitch, and you’d all but forgotten about him. At least, that was the lie you told yourself.

Burdock stuck around a while longer, but after Haymitch had thrown a rock at Asterid’s head, his visits had ceased, too. You try not to think about him all alone, boarded up in that awful house, drinking day in and day out.

That sticky summer of misery had cooled into autumn, the vibrant greens fading into pretty shades of orange and yellow and red. As the days got cooler and the sun set earlier, you still tried not to think of Haymitch. 

What he was doing. How he was doing. If he was even alive. 

Those thoughts kept the days flying, and before you knew it, it was like that perfect winter all over again. Before everything had gone wrong.

The trees, barren of the once colorful leaves, glisten with icicles, and a powdery blanket of snow has settled on every surface in Twelve.

The Victory Tour dampens the natural beauty of winter with the arrival of the Capitol. Every mention of it sent a stab of pain that buried itself deep within your chest, knocking the wind out of you and leaving you struggling to breathe.

At least it will all be over tomorrow. Haymitch would return to solitary confinement far away from you in the Victor’s Village. He was poisonous, he burned everything he touched; it would be better this way. 

A sharp knock at your door startles you out of your thoughts. Your heart begins to speed up, palms becoming slick with sweat, because you’re not expecting any visitors. Though you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s nearly one in the morning and the Capitol has a heavy presence over the District tonight.

“I’m coming,” you grumble, hoping your family will remain asleep as the knocking becomes more incessant.

The moment you open the door, confusion strikes you. You’ve never seen this man before, though he reeks of liquor and smoke in such a way that can only mean he’s from the Hob. 

He asks your name, and when you give it, the man nods, like he’s sure he’s in the right place.

“He can barely stand. Won’t listen to anyone,” the man begins gruffly. Then, seeing your confusion grow, adds, “Haymitch. Won’t stop mumbling your name, he’s near blackout. Hattie said you lived around here.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t… I can’t help you.” Because that’s the truth, you have long since given up trying to help Haymitch. He’s made it clear he’s content right where he wants to be, alone and miserable.

The man shrugs, turning on his heels in the direction of town. “Just figured you’d want to deal with it before the Peacekeepers do.”

That sends a shiver of unease up your spine at the idea of the Peacekeepers dealing with Haymitch, and your heart splits in two. None of this is fair to you. 

Your mind wants to reiterate to this man that you can’t help him. You don’t speak to Haymitch anymore, you don’t think of him. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you to hold your ground, that this will only hinder your progress in forgetting him, but your heart wins over.

“Wait!” You call out frantically, shoving your arms into the winter jacket that was once your mother’s, thin with patches sewn on all over.

Deep down, you suppose, there’s a part of you that will always care about him, even if he’s hurt you, because you know how deeply hurt he is himself. 

He looks worse than the last time you saw him, slumped over a counter with a bottle in his hand. His suit, although a fine specimen from the Capitol, is wrinkled and stained and gives him an overall disheveled appearance. 

His hair, you can tell, had been styled earlier in the night, but the products had seemed to have given up a couple hours ago and it now falls over his eyes.

“Get up, Haymitch.” You’re surprised by how bitter you sound, each word sounding like you’d forced yourself to spit them out in between profanities.

His head jolts up at the sound of your voice, breaking into a wide grin that’s inappropriate given the circumstances. He calls out your name with glee, but when he leans in for an embrace, all you can focus on is trying not to gag at the stench of white liquor on his breath. 

He looks confused, rejected, sad— you can’t quite put a finger on how exactly he’s feeling when you shove him away. He stumbles back, nearly losing his footing and crashing down on the floor in front of you. 

“My girl isn’t happy to see me?” Haymitch’s eyes are bearing into yours with such ferocity you have to look away. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy, and his speech is so slurred you can hardly make out what he was trying to say.

My girl. The way he says it so casually, like he’s always meant to have said it, like there’s nothing out of the ordinary of you being his and he being yours.

“I’m here to take you home,” you tug at his arm, to get this over with as quickly as possible. This whole night has reminded you so much of every painful detail about you and Haymitch. When he doesn’t make any moves to follow you, you ask, “Can you walk?”

“’Course I can. I’m not an invalid,” he grumbles, though when he tries to take a step forward, he nearly falls flat on his face.

You suppress a sigh that works its way towards your lips, shoving your arm under his own to steady him on his feet. His body weight makes your knees buckle as he immediately leans into you, but all you can do is grimace and grit your teeth. It takes about twenty minutes for a person not severely inebriated to cross town from the Hob to the Victor’s Village. In Haymitch’s state, and given the weather, you’re guessing it’ll be closer to thirty. 

Your home in the Seam, on the other hand, was quite close and tempting.

“Let’s go to mine. We can’t walk all the way back to yours like this,” you grunted as he swayed on his feet. Immediately, you’re met with resistance; he digs his heels into his shoes and yanks his arm out of your grasp, untangling himself from you.

“No,” he says vehemently, and you’re taken aback by how forceful he is, like you’ve just asked him to kill a puppy. “I’ll walk back my—” he hiccups, “—myself.” 

That’s clearly never going to happen, but he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that trying to force him in the direction of your home isn’t happening. Why did he always have to make everything so difficult? Did he want to torture you with his presence? To keep you trapped with him for a whole half hour, pressed against him, just to torture you? If that was the goal, he was already succeeding. 

“Let’s just go,” you mumble quietly, pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders before you brave the elements. You would never admit it but it’s nice to feel his hand on your waist, or your cheek against his chest, despite the context. It’s like your body aches for this contact so strongly it overrides your common sense. 

Haymitch stumbles alongside you, one hand settling on your hip bone and squeezing occasionally. You hate it, hate how good it feels to see him, to be acknowledged by him; it makes every day in the past six months that much more agonizing. To know you’ve missed out on this every single day, and it’s not even your fault. 

He mumbles incoherently, his tone ranging from sing-songy to near teary in the span of a sentence. This cycle repeats itself nearly the whole walk home and you’re not sure whether this is a blessing or a curse.

You try not to pay him any mind, not when you’re so busy with your own thoughts, but the sound of your name rips you away back to the present moment. 

“Hmm?” You finally glance at him, hating how warm you felt when he flashed you a smile. You scowl. “What?” 

His smile disappears instantly, replaced by a look of pure anguish that seems more fitting given his circumstances. “Missed you,” he sighed simply, though it seems to be a thought said out loud rather than a statement directed at you.

Still, these words make your blood run cold and you stop dead in your tracks, because how dare he?

“There’s your house,” you shrug his arm off your shoulders and take a step back, hoping he doesn’t see your chest heaving at his words. You want to scream at him how horrible he is, how cruel it is to say that to you when he’s the reason for this distance in the first place. You’re so furious you’re nearly trembling, and you don’t care if he’s piss drunk because it’s just not fair.

You stand at the edge of the paved walkway as he stumbles up the long path, at least making sure your work wasn’t in vain and he didn’t get swept away in this snow storm before he made it to the porch.

He fumbles with the key for a good five, ten, fifteen seconds before groaning in frustration and collapsing on the stoop. 

The only thing that soothes you is the thought of skinning him alive as you make your way up the path to his door and snatch the keys from his hand. 

He slurs a thank you that you don’t acknowledge, slowly rising unsteadily to his feet. His speech is getting worse and you realize, in dismay, that the peak of his drunkenness hasn’t even hit. It unfortunately makes sense, given how he must’ve been drinking since the Capitol dinner and never stopped. He’ll probably wake up several times tonight in a cold sweat, hurling up the buckets worth of white liquor he’d drunk. Maybe that would be punishment enough; you’ve never seen him in such a state. He’d never been much of a drinker, though you supposed after everything he’d gone through he deserved to get drunk every once in a while. Maybe the Victory Tour had done a number on him.

Whatever the reason, you didn’t care. You’ve made it this far, all you need to do is see it through and then you can go back to how things were. Painful, but manageable if you didn’t think about anything but the task at hand. He would go back to being out of your sight, a mere wisp of a memory at best. But you were here now, and you could at least pretend for a moment things were different.

At least that’s what you told yourself as you shucked his shoes off and coaxed him up the stairs, out of his clothes that were now wet from snow. Running your fingers through his hair as he retched into the toilet, shaking and shivering in his undergarments. Pretending not to notice the tears staining his cheeks as he sat hunched over the bowl. From emotion or the physical strain of throwing up so much, you didn’t ask. 

Almost done, you willed yourself to go forward. Applied a warm washcloth to his face, wiping away the remnants of the night. Helped him into clean pajamas so he would stop rattling from the coldness of this vast, empty house.

As he slid under the heavy quilts of his bed, he’s already fighting sleep. You dare hope that he won’t remember any of your kindness in the morning when he wakes up sober and violently hungover. Because how pathetic is it, to chase after a boy who made it clear he’s disgusted by you, that he wants nothing to do with you. 

A squeeze of your hand around his is the only goodbye you let yourself have. But as you make a move to pull away, he tightens his grip on your wrist.

“You have to leave.” 

You’re immediately taken aback by his words, and a mix of shock and anger and betrayal hit you all over again. You move to yank your hand away but he maintains his grip, and that’s when you look into his eyes. They’re not malicious, the way they were the last time you saw them. This expression reminds you more of the look he had at his family’s funeral: borderline hysteria. 

“If President Snow knew you did this, if he knew you were here—” his knuckles are turning white and you’re beginning to lose circulation in your hand, “—he can’t.” He shakes his head furiously, nearly yelling at himself. “Not like Ma, not like Sid. I can’t, I can’t.”

“Haymitch,” you finally wring yourself free of his grasp. “You’re scaring me, go to bed! Nobody’s out to get me. I’ll leave right now.” But you don’t believe your words. 

On the frigid walk back to the Seam, his thoughts echo in your mind, pieces of a puzzle that don’t seem to fit anywhere. What does he mean? Why would you be of any importance to President Snow? You were a nobody, but the look on his face frightened you.

If President Snow knew you did this, if he knew you were here…

The next time you see Haymitch, it’s a year and a from that. In that time, you’d slowly started to move on, and the tightness in your chest had begun to loosen. 

Your thoughts weren’t plagued every day with thoughts of him anymore, and he rarely visited you in his dreams. Your heart begins to ache a little less every day, and you keep yourself busy so it stays that way. It’s easy to do, because survival is the only thing on your mind. Desperate to avoid the fate of being a coal miner like your parents, you’d taken up cleaning homes of the merchant class after school. And when you’d turned eighteen, it’d gone from after school to dawn until dusk. 

It’s back-breaking work with unreliable hours, and the money you receive is less than enough to survive on your own, but you manage. You just have to get through one more Reaping, and then you’ll be free and able to breathe a little lighter. 

Sometimes, though, there are reminders. Like that time you walked past the beautifully iced cakes in the bakery window, and nearly stopped breathing at the sight of a painted blue cupcake, the exact shade of the old scarf Haymitch used to give you. 

Or when you passed by someone on your walk to work, and caught a trace of cheap laundry soap Willamae used for washing from a passerby. The scent had filled your lungs and set them on fire, burning and crushing your insides.

And now, here he sits a few feet away from you at the stall that sells liquor, looking worn down and unkempt with a bottle already in his hand. 

In your attempt to forget about him, you’d forgotten how much he would have to frequent the Hob to maintain his alcohol consumption, though now you want to pinch yourself for being so stupid. He’s a drunk, liquor is illegal, of course he spends his days here. 

This was a bad idea. You’ve clearly not thought this through. All you wanted was to buy something nice for your little sister’s birthday, a wild turkey or a few crayons, that you’d spent months saving up for with your cleaning job. 

At first, your instinct is to pretend like you haven’t seen him, but it’s too late, his eyes are burning into you so intensely you nearly flinch. You don’t know where you stand with him, not sure if he wants nothing to do with you, or if he misses you like he said that winter night you dragged him home. 

Then, your shoulders relax, because you notice he’s wasted. He’s just returned from the Capitol after both District 12 tributes had died, neither of them making it past the bloodbath. You knew some people blamed him for it, because the same thing happened last year, and once is a mistake but twice is a habit. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was probably drinking to cope with those events and the whispers about what he could’ve done better or the sour expressions shot his way at every turn.

It’s not really fair to put the blame all on him, but you add it to the list of things to be angry with him about anyways. 

You wonder if he was allowed to be drunk if he was a mentor, if he’d been forced to abstain in the Capitol and wasn’t used to how strong the home-brewed stuff was, and that’s why he was the drunkest you’ve ever seen him.

Or maybe that’s just been his progression since the last time you saw him, when he also happened to be near blacking out.

Either way, I don’t care, you remind yourself. Even if you know it’s a lie.

He stands up, calls out your name, and your heart sinks into your stomach at the sound of his voice, which is more of a garbled rasp. Biting your lip, you make your way over to him, knowing him well enough that if you were to ignore him, he’d follow you and cause a scene.

“Yes?” It’s difficult to muster a tone of neutrality, but it works well enough that he looks taken aback by the lack of emotion. 

“I’ve missed you, my pretty girl,” he slurred, reaching his arms to throw them around you. You back up so quickly your back hits the counter of the alcohol stall behind you, ducking to avoid his embrace.

“What do you want, Haymitch?” A hint of frustration seeps into your question and you hope you’ll be able to hold it together, at least in front of all these people. 

“Why’re you being soooo mean?” He sighs, taking a large swig from the bottle in his hand. “I want—” he hiccups loudly, “—you. Obviously. But that can’t happen,” he lowers his voice and leans in, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath but can’t help but inching towards him, "because of Snow.”

You recoil immediately, trying to create as much distance as possible. Your head is spinning so much you feel dizzy, and a bile is rising in your throat at his words. It would’ve been so much easier if he’d slapped you in the face, so much better if he’d told you how much he hated you. 

“I—” What are you even supposed to say? Truly, you were at a loss for words. “Go home, Haymitch.” With a firm shoved that lacked the conviction you wish it did, you stepped past him and tried to think about what you were going to get your father.

Over dinner, your mother comments on how distracted you seem, how you’ve barely touched the food on your plate, and you can barely entertain her comments because you’re too busy thinking about what Haymitch had said.

Your mind is itching to know what he meant by that, though. Was Haymitch given orders by Snow to avoid you? But that wouldn’t make sense, why would Snow care about you of all people? You were a nobody, just another half-starved kid from the Seam who’d survived by the skin of their teeth.

A memory floats to the front of your mind, of the last time Haymitch was piss drunk. Of what he’d said when he’d all but shoved you out the door: if President Snow knew you did this, if he knew you were here. The terror in his eyes. The choke of emotion that cut him off.

You have to find out what he meant.

It’s the last thing you think of before drifting off into a fitful slumber.

When you wake, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Hopefully Haymitch is still sleeping off his intoxication, and won’t have time to start drinking before you get there. You need him to be sober when you interrogate him.

Part of you hates him for reigniting the feelings you’d tried so hard to ignore in the past year. Part of you hates him for how he’s treated you. But there’s another feeling, buried deep down inside, that still yearned for him so intensely it ached—desire.

A desire for him in so many ways it was overwhelming. A desire to feel his arms wrapped around yours, sturdy and grounding. To hear the sweetness of his laughter tinkle in your ears, to see his whole face light up when he smiled. For his lips to caress yours with a tenderness you’d never felt but longed for. 

The cool breeze is a welcome sensation on your skin as you make the journey to the Victor’s Village, the sticky July heat already settling over the day, despite the sun just peeking over the horizon.

And here you are, in this horrible, empty, lifeless house you know Haymitch will never call home. His home is in the Seam, in the small, poorly built house that’s filled to the brim with love from his Ma and Sid. 

You hate it here.

The roaring of blood in your ears is so loud you barely hear the first knock on Haymitch’s door. Your hands are sweaty and you know it’s not from the weather. When he doesn’t answer, you knock again, and again and again until the door swings open and he snarls “What?”

You don’t answer right away, pushing past him until you’re blasted with the icy chill of his air conditioned home. You whirl around to face him, squinting to observe the level of sobriety he’s at; if you had to guess, he’s sober, but nursing an extreme hangover.

“What does President Snow have to do with me?” You stand in front of him, arms crossed, demanding an answer. 

He rolls his eyes and gives a little scoff. “Get out of my house.” He starts walking back towards the kitchen and you immediately follow, knowing he’s in search of another bottle. 

“Haymitch,” you gritted your teeth and willed yourself not to cry, hating how your tone bordered on pleading. Whether the tears were spurred by frustration or sadness you couldn’t tell. “Answer me!”

When he doesn’t, you grab his forearm and yank him towards you, which only lights up his temper. “You can’t get the hint, can you? Get out.” He jerks his arm away, the force sending you stumbling backwards a bit.

“Stop being such a hypocrite!” He looks surprised by the shrillness of your voice, your words coming out in a full on yell. “You don’t get to be all happy and smiley to me and call me all those nice names when you’re piss drunk, and then turn around and behave like this when I want answers.” 

He’s stopped cold in his tracks and stares at you. Never in your life have you ever seen Haymitch Abernathy speechless. If the circumstances were different, you’d make a lighthearted comment about it to ease the tension, but you’re both past that.

Taking his silence as permission, you continue. “Why have you driven everyone in your life away? You had so many people looking out for you.” You think of him, all alone of his own volition, when it didn’t have to be like this. “You had Hattie. You had me and Blair and Burdock. You know my parents would’ve checked in on you. Why did you do this?” 

Your voice has dropped into a whisper, your last sentence bordering on desperation.

“Stop asking questions you won’t like the answer to,” he says gruffly, and you almost let out a high pitched scream of frustration. 

“No, Haymitch. Please, tell me what we did that was so horrible you had to shut us out? What did I do?” Your voice rises in pitch with every word. When he doesn’t respond, you press further. “Why do you keep bringing up Snow whenever you see me?” At the mention of Snow, his features darken and he snarls, “Get out of here, I don’t want to see you! I never want to see you, not then, not now, not ever.” 

The loathing, the hatred in his tone makes you take a step back. You blink, the words hitting you like a ton of bricks square in the chest. He hates you. He well and truly despises you, for no other reason than the words themselves.

“Answer my questions and I’ll leave,” you say after a moment, voice hoarse from yelling. “Answer all of them, and I’ll turn around and never come back. I promise. And you can hate me for the rest of your life,” your voice trembles at that, but you push forward, “but you have to answer me. Why?” 

“No,” he says, though this time he’s much quieter, with less conviction.

“What did Snow do?” You take a step forward, and he takes one back. “What did I do?” Another step. Another one back. “Why won’t you answer me?” Step. There’s a thud as Haymitch hits the counter behind him and is effectively trapped. 

He says your name like a warning, but you press on. You’re so close to him you have to tilt your head back to look into his eyes. 

“Why did you push everyone away?” Though your voice is shrill, it’s still a frantic plea for some — for any explanation to the heartache you’ve endured throughout the past year.

“Because he’d kill everyone until there’s no one left!” He finally bursts out, then immediately clamps his lips shut, but it’s too late. His eyes are wild with panic at the mistake he’s made, at letting too much information slip.

Silence. Nothing but the sounds of both of you breathing hard. It’s in this moment you realize how close the two of you have become, chests brushing together with every inhalation. Every moment of contact sends a jolt through your body, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. 

Your mind won’t stop whirling at the revelation. Snow would kill everyone Haymitch cared about? But why?

“What?” You’re shocked at how calm you sound. The pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place, but your brain is still scrambling to put them together.

“Just forget about it. Forget I said anything.” He tries to brush it off and take a step back, before being reminded he’s trapped between you and the counter.

“No, I will not let this go, Haymitch, please. Just tell me what’s going on.”

There’s a beat, a moment where you think he’s going to shove you away and tell you to get lost, or even throw a plate at you like he did in the first few months of his return, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hand finds your arm and he twists you around until it’s you who’s against the counter, the edge digging into your lower back and blocked in by his frame.

You have no time to react before his lips crash onto yours and you’re consumed by him completely.

The hands on your arms that trail upwards to your cheeks, goosebumps trailing in his wake. The softness of his skin as they settle on your cheeks so he can cup your face and pull you closer. The smell of that familiar cheap laundry soap, the intensity of the kiss that makes you dizzy. 

Immediately you reciprocate, your hands finding your way into his blonde curls, entangling your fingers in them until your nails are scraping at his scalp. The sound of a small sigh of contentment escapes his lips for a moment before it’s swallowed by you. 

It reminds you of that last kiss before the Reaping, all needy and desperate, his lips working in fervor to convey what words cannot. He deepens the kiss, his hands sliding down from your face, back to your arms, before settling on your hips. His fingers curl around the meat of your hipbone as he tries to tug you even closer like he wants to consume you completely. 

It feels so good, so right, you almost forget the circumstances. Why were you here in the first place, the situation that’s brought you here. With a reluctance that causes near physical pain, you pull away, instantly missing the warmth of his lips that felt just like that first one in the woods that winter long ago. He lets out something between a sigh and a whine at the loss of contact, leaning forward to chase his lips with his own, that weakens both your knees and resolve. 

You allow yourself to melt into another kiss, indulge yourself just this once, and relish in the ways this one differs from the first. Less desperate, with that tenderness you’d always craved but never felt. When his tongue parts your lips and you open your mouth, you realize you’re just as desperate as he is to be closer, impossibly closer. You wrap your arms around his neck and feel his hands move from your hips to the backs of your thighs, lifting you slightly until you’re sitting on the counter.

“Haymitch,” you finally breathe out, splaying your hands against his firm chest to stop him as he instinctively tries yet again to close the gap. His hands have returned to your hips and he squeezes them in near frustration, but he must know you have to talk about it. Still, he says nothing.

The silence, the stillness, lets you take in his appearance. At his breaths, which are bordering on pants; at his lips, which are red and swollen and slick with spit. And his eyes, the clearest you’d seen since the Reaping.

“Not here.” His voice is rough with emotion. He shakes his head as he speaks, little ringlets falling against his forehead in the process, and you have the sudden urge to brush them away with your fingers with a suppressed desire of affection that’s fought its way back to the surface. 

And so you follow him blindly, out the doors and past the walls of the Victor’s Village, through the town and the Seam, until you’ve reached the woods. Haymitch hesitates for one, two moments, before sliding through the wire of the fence. The two of you walked and walked until the forest grew dense with trees and your feet began to hurt.

Walked until he’s sure nobody has followed you.

When he’s sure the both of you are safe — which you know because he halts at a small clearing, warmed with the buttery afternoon sun — he finally speaks.

“They’re watching me. And listening. Everything I do in that… place,” you know he’s referring to his home in the Victor’s Village, “It’s not safe.”

This doesn’t surprise you because that’s the Capitol’s nature. A ruthless, iron fist on all its citizens that’s designed to suck the soul out of every single district person.

Your hand sits on his lap, your fingers are still interlaced with his own, like you’re going to slip through them if he dared let go.

Your shoulders brush. You suck in a breath and peer at him. When he doesn’t shy away, when he holds your gaze, he finally continues.

“I tried to do something, in the arena. Not just to win, but… to stop all of this. The Capitol. The Games. I—” Haymitch sighs, heavy and weary, “But they were stronger. Smarter than me.” You lift your head up to look at him curiously. “And that’s why they punished you.” 

He doesn’t tell you everything — it’s clear he’s holding some moments to himself, memories too painful to say out loud or even remember in his own mind. But Haymitch tells you enough that paints a picture so horrid it’s nauseating.

“Why couldn’t you just say this when you came back?” 

He swallows hard once, twice. “I was trying to protect you. You wouldn’t stay away if you knew.” And he was right.

“That’s why we’re here.” In the middle of the woods. After two years of misunderstanding and separation. Of constant heartache that could only be dulled, never cured. And yet…

“I love you.” It slips out so naturally you don’t even have time to regret what you’ve said, because it’s the truth.

The look he gives you splinters your heart into a thousand tiny shards that cut up your insides and makes them sting and bleed. A sad smile ghosts over his face, his lips curved upwards but his eyes are glassy with tears.

You know the answer before he speaks, but it’s still a knife to your gut.

“Pretty girl,” he whispers. “I can’t let you do that.”

“I know.” Is all you can manage to say without your voice cracking. 

A tear of your own escapes your eyes and slips down your cheek. Immediately you move to wipe it away, burning with embarrassment at how easily he’s made you cry when he’s been through so much worse and has yet to shed a tear.

You say it because you do know what he means. He can’t let you pine after him for the rest of yourself, to damn yourself to a lifetime of loving him, knowing it could never be expressed the way either of you deserved. Knowing that if the Capitol found out, you would be killed and his blood would be on your hands.

You didn’t care, you would throw everything away if it gave you a life, no matter how horrible, with him. He would never let you, not after what he’d witnessed with his family, or in the Capitol. Your death mattered little to yourself; you’d narrowly escaped it through the Reaping and were rewarded by the suffering existence that is being from District 12. For Haymitch, your death would be world ending, and you would not be the one to torture him any further. 

He catches your arm before you can wipe away your own tears, and gently sets it back down so it rests in your lap. 

With a hand of his own that trembles ever so slightly, he smooths his thumb over your cheek and gently brushes the tears away. His touch is featherlight, and the gesture is so intimate it only sends a whole flood of tears down your cheeks.

Your hands find his on your face and you grip onto him, knowing that whatever is said next will be the beginning of a goodbye — even if it takes all night. When you press a small, featherlight kiss to the corner of his hand that still rests against your face, you know from the feeling you get and the expression on his face it will take all night. 

The soft yellow hues of the sun have already begun to set, drenching the small clearing in a light of deep apricot that will eventually fade into blackened starlight. Despite wanting to, you know neither of you can stay here forever, and the invisible clock has already started. 

When morning comes, you will have to return. When morning comes, you will have to say your final goodbyes to not only Haymitch but the deep stirring you feel in your chest when you’re near him, the love that is crippling and all consuming. When morning comes, Haymitch will return to his home, the pristine prison the Capitol had built for him. He will pick up a bottle and drown out his thoughts with alcohol until he can no longer think of the atrocities of his arena, until he can no longer hear the voices of his Ma and Sid as they whisper to him in the cold wind that sweeps through that awful, empty house.

For a while, there’s nothing but silence. You try to soak in the last of light and heat as the sun casts its final rays before it dips below the horizon. Try to soak in the smells and sounds of the forest, trying to commit this moment in time to memory. The scent of pine and flowers and the dirt beneath your feet. The whistles of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, the rhythmic beat of Haymitch’s heart against your ear, strong and steady. 

Though you can tell by the light dusk that’s settled over the District that it hasn’t been that long, it seems like eons before Haymitch speaks.

“There’ll be someone after me.”

This causes you to frown and lift your head from the warmth of his chest. “What do you mean? Who?” 

“Someone who does what I tried to do,” he explains, and you know he means what he did in the arena. You don’t know what he did — and assumed he didn’t tell you because the less you knew, the better. Still, you know he tried to fight back. Resist the carefully crafted game the Capitol tortured everyone with for nearly half a century. 

“I hope it happens in our lifetime.” You hope that happens so badly it hurts. 

You allow yourselves to talk about what that would look like, a world without the Capitol or the Games. The two of you debate the philosophy and politics of this better, brighter future for hours before you ease into something lighter. You tell him about irrelevant, childish things that don’t matter anymore, but are a welcome distraction. Updates about their old classmates, drama about who dated who or where they were now.

For a moment, you can almost believe you’re sitting at lunch with him during school, chattering away with Blair and Burdock and several of your own friends around the table.  

The two of you remain in the forest until the first echoes of dawn start to seep their way into the sky. Neither of you have slept; not that you could’ve, given the circumstances.

Your heart seems to weigh down your limbs when you finally rise to your feet, for your legs are heavy and sluggish and you struggle to move quickly back to the District. It’s like your mind’s reluctance to return has manifested physically onto your body so now it too, resists.

Haymitch isn’t much better; you know him to be strong and in good shape, yet his pace matches yours and he makes no effort to speed up.

“It’ll happen one day,” you whisper, squeezing his hand as the wire of the border fence comes into view. It being the last Reaping, the world you’d discussed with him all night.

He nods and pulls you towards him for another long, lingering kiss neither of you are willing to end in a hurry. You try to commit everything to memory: the taste of him on your lips, the scent of him surrounding you, the feeling of his hands roaming your body. 

When you finally, finally pull apart, you know it’s the end. He presses one kiss on your nose, two on your cheeks, a small trail of them down your neck. When his lips finally make their way back to your own, you know this will truly be the last one. The grip you have on his shirt is so tight he has to physically work the fabric out of your fingers. 

“Goodbye,” you whispered, not ashamed anymore by the tears that streamed down your face. You love him, and he knows it now.

You know he loves you too, even if he can’t dare say it out loud. For him, love is synonymous with loss, with devastation.

“Normally I would,” Cecelia began scrubbing vigorously. “But the train will be coming in a couple of hours, you need to get ready for the Victory Tour dinner.”

“Tonight?” You spluttered. It’d been a week ago just yesterday, hadn’t it? Or had a week really passed that fast? No, it wasn’t possible, you still had time to gather yourself and prepare for—

The nausea resurfaces in your body, but now it’s for an entirely different reason. You don’t want to see him, you can’t see him.

“Time passes fast when you’re too high to remember your own name,” Cecelia broke through your thoughts with a pointed look. It’s neither judgemental nor pitying, but it makes you feel shameful — like she knows you can do better than the life you’re currently living.

“I…” You opened your mouth to defend yourself, to tell her it’s not like that, you just use the morphling sometimes when your mind is too full of horrors for you to bear. When you need a reprise, that’s all. You’re not like the freaks from Six, who have completely succumbed to the drug, or like the Victor from Twelve, who can’t seem to put down the bottle. You’re not like them, you want to say, it’s a choice for you.

“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up,” she says matter-of-factly, wiping her hand on a dish rag.

You don’t look at her, don’t want her to know the word hanging from your lips. Good.

To her credit, all she does is move to pour a glass of water and say, “Be ready by noon. It’s ten.” 

While you’re grateful she didn’t press you further, you don’t even know why she cares at all. She’s eight years older than you, with two young kids and another on the way, she shouldn’t have time to worry about you, or check up on you, or even remember you exist. Cecelia had been your mentor, yes, but she had her own life. She’d moved on from her own Games, and you were trying to do the same.

She passed you the glass of water as she walks out, leaving you with the task of steadying your hands enough so they can hold on to the glass without shaking. 

You’re lucky this night won’t be about you, but the new Victor, because your appearance is pretty ghastly — not that you care. When you look in the mirror, you know there’s no hiding the dark circles under your eyes, or the way your cheeks have begun to hollow out, so you don’t bother.

You can’t do it, you can’t face him — not now, not ever. Not when you’ve spent the last six months ignoring every call, every letter sent your way. 

You wished more than anything he would just take the hint and forget about you, so you could finally forget about him, too. You never picked up. Never read a single letter. If you did, your resolve would crumble and you knew it.

And still, whenever you heard the phone ring, or had a letter dropped off at your doorstep, the memories came flooding back with such force it knocked the breath out of you.

Remembering the only time you’ve ever truly felt safe makes you wish you could forget how to feel anything at all. 

———

“Oh, so you are alive. Thought you might’ve died or something.” 

You didn’t know why you thought you had a chance at avoiding him today. Immediately, your body betrayed you, the hair on the back of your neck standing straight up and your posture stiffening. 

“Hi,” was all you could muster. He looked as beautiful as always, with that sunkissed skin and wavy hair, those beautiful sea green eyes that looked exactly like the ocean you’d seen in District Four. 

He’s dressed in a beautiful cream suit that compliments his skin, and a seafoam shirt that’s halfway undone and brings out his eyes. His hands are in his pockets like he’s totally casual, but his muscles are rigid and his eyes are just like the ocean, cold and vast and unyielding. 

He’s too pretty to be in this ugly place you call home, the cream of his suit too bright against the dull air thick with smog. The weather in Eight matches how you’ve been feeling for a while, gloomy and depressed, which is why he looks so out of place. 

Finnick quirks an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving you. “Hi?” He repeats, taking a step towards you. Instinctively, you take a small step back, which makes him frown. “I don’t hear from you for six months, and hi is the best you can give me? Really?”

“I—”

“Are you kidding me?” He takes another step towards you, and this time, you’re so lost as to what to say that you can’t even retreat. 

“I’m sorry if you were upset,” you begin, as calmly as you can, trying desperately to calm the rapid beat of your heart.

“Upset doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he says, breaking in to a wide smile as someone passes by. “I know a place where we can talk. Follow me.” 

“I think I should stay here, in case…” In case what? It was pretty well known by now that you were about as important as a rock. Even in your own District, you’re useless, trapped in a cage of your own self pity.

You look around wildly, wondering if anyone would notice two victors disappearing, but he’s smart. This is the social hour before the dinner begins, where everyone catches up and buzzes with excitement about the games. He’s got you trapped, and he knows it. 

His hand is outstretched in front of you. Waiting. Your own are clenched at your sides, fingernails digging so hard into your palms they sting, but the pain is nice. It reminds you that you’re alive, you made it out of the arena, and everything happening in front of you is real. 

The hand in front of you dropped to his side as you remained still, and you almost felt bad. He hasn’t done anything to deserve the reaction he’s getting from you, but you can’t help it. This was done to protect you, you want to scream. I’m doing this for you.

Telling him any of this was out of the question, though. It would defeat the whole purpose of trying to make him hate you. If he hated you of his own volition, Snow couldn’t use you against him. But if he knew how you still felt, knew this master plan of yours, he wouldn’t let you continue, and all your efforts would be moot. 

He doesn’t say anything, but you follow. Through the winding halls of the Justice Building until you’ve reached a balcony off the kitchen, a place only occupied with Avoxes who of course can’t speak; this must be why he’s certain nobody will be listening to you.

The wind whipped against your skin, thick with so much smoke your eyes began to water. Your outfit quickly becomes a regrettable choice as the cold air nips at your exposed skin and makes you shiver slightly.

Wordlessly, Finnick shrugs off his suit jacket and hands it to you before you can protest, even though you want to. Another gust of wind blows away your remaining resolve and you slip the jacket over your shoulders, trying to ignore the scent of his cologne.

“What do you want.” It’s not a question but a statement, as flat and void from emotion as you can manage. You wish there were trees you could observe, or even a lone bird that could fly across the gray sky, but it’s just a backdrop of ugly factories and chimneys pumping out pollution.

“What happened, after that day? It’s like we never even met.” His tone is weary.

You don’t respond, because what can you say? Nothing. So you just stand there, hands awkwardly at your side. 

“What did I do?” He tries to press further.

“I can’t tell you, okay? I just… it’s better for both of us this way.” You close your eyes and bite your lip so hard you taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood in your mouth. “I’m doing this for you. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Just forget about all of it.”

His fingers press against your chin and tilt your head, until you can do nothing but finally meet his gaze. 

The weight of everything from the past six months comes crashing down on you all at once. Your chest feels tight, like it’s being crushed by every feeling under the sun, and your heart is being squeezed so tightly by emotion you wonder if it’ll burst. Desperately, you wished the relief the morphling gave you would come back, the feeling of nothing at all, of total numbness.

You’d done such a good job suppressing your feelings, avoiding this exact moment, and with one touch he’s erased all that progress. 

Your face tingles where his fingers lay under your chin, slowly spreading the warmth throughout your body until you feel almost giddy.

“You won’t even look at me,” a hint of desperation creeps into his tone. “You won’t even say my name.”

“I have to go,” you mustered out, taking a step back to clear your head. “I’ll see you later.”

You spin on your heels and run for the hills, because it’s the only thing you know how to do.

———

The food in front of you sat barely touched. You hadn’t been able to stomach even the finery of Capitol cooking, not when you felt his eyes staring holes in the side of your head the entire time. You’ve spent the majority of this dinner with your head down and rolling peas between the prongs of your fork, avoiding his gaze.

Finnick’s eyes hadn’t left you all evening, from the moment you’d sat down an hour ago, through the speeches given by Annie Cresta, Cecelia, and your mayor, to you now absentmindedly picking at your food.

Desperately, you want to know what he’s thinking, but realistically, you know that would only hurt even more. You try to go to a far off place in your mind, the place the morphling takes you when it all becomes too much. A vast abyss of nothing, where all you do is exist without the constant heartache.

Cecelia, who’d been sitting next to you, nudged you with her shoulder as she stood up, bringing you back to reality. “Hey, silly. We’re free to go.” 

With shaky limbs you pushed the chair back, and noticed Finnick immediately following suit. You hoped there was enough time for you to try and slip away through the back entrance in the kitchen as everyone shuffles out of the Justice Building. 

Finnick grasped onto your wrist before you could escape; you whirled around and yanked yourself out of his grip in such a harsh manner that he took a step back, looking like he’d been hit.

“I’m sorry,” he began slowly, like he was talking to a wounded animal. 

This only makes you angry, because what does he have to be sorry for? He hadn’t done anything, you should be the one apologizing, yet here he is.

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” you snapped, surprising even yourself with the harshness of your tone. “I need you to leave me alone, Finnick! I told you, just leave me alone, before you ruin everything.” 

He stood there, unmoving, his eyes warm as he studied you. Your chest is heaving as you inhale gulps of air, then breaking in to a fit of coughing to hide the uneavenness of your breath.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” He says softly, so softly, you barely hear it. He was still a good distance away, but his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to reach out to you. Suddenly, you remembered his touch from earlier, how lovely it felt to feel his fingers brushing your face.

You’re still reeling from remembering his touch, from being in his presence after so long, that you don’t realize he’s taken another step towards you until you look up.

“No, I don’t,” you mumble, swallowing hard as his eye bore into yours. “Why— why would you think that?”

“You think I wouldn’t figure out what you’ve been doing?” Finnick’s voice is as light as a feather. “I spent this entire time thinking I’d done something, and then you tell me you’re doing it for me? So… you think that if you ignore me, everything I feel for you will just… just what? Go away? So Snow can’t use you against me like he uses me against you?”

Well, maybe you needed to work how much you give away when you speak, because the fact that he just read you to filth and erased six months of your hard work after two conversations is a little embarrassing. 

“Am I that easy to read?” You let out a huff of laughter, but it’s not funny. Now he knows what Snow has told you, now he knows you don’t actually hate him, and now he’s subjected himself to a lifetime of Capitol enslavement. 

“You’re acting like I haven’t been through this already.” His entire body relaxes and a dimple pops out on his cheek, taking another step forward and trailing his hand from your chin upwards until he’s cupping your face. 

“There’s nothing to be happy about,” you whispered after seeing his smile, still trying to cling on to the idea that there was something you could do to make him hate you. 

“I’m just happy that you’re talking to me again,” he admits, and it’s like someone’s struck you in the chest because you can’t breathe. You’d done this, put him through six months of silence and caused him so much misery he was happy the two of you were talking.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you whispered despite the constriction in your chest, “They’re so… awful to you, Finnick, I didn’t want— I couldn’t bear—” Your throat had tightened now, and you hated the fact your eyes had begun to well with tears. They’ve been unshed for so long as you tried to self medicate, but one more look at the hurt in his eyes and you’re sure the floodgates will open. 

I will not cry, I will not cry, you repeat, over and over until its a running mantra in your head. I will not cry. 

You don’t even notice you’d already started until Finnick wipes your tears away with his thumb. 

You tilt your head up just a bit more, and your nose brushes against his, his breath tickling your face as he inhales sharply at the closeness. 

His thumbs move in soothing strokes across your cheeks, clearing away the tears as they flowed freely now, but he doesn’t move to close the gap. When you inch closer, he takes a step back, an unreadable expression crossing his face. 

There’s an awkward moment of silence before you stammer out, “I’m sorry.” Heat flushed your cheeks as the possibilities raced through your mind. Had you read the situation wrong? Was it too soon? Did he no longer feel the same? Your body is screaming at you to run away, because avoiding the situation is better than being rejected outright. 

You only make it a few steps before he tugs you back to him, and then he’s kissing you with such earnest you wonder if he’s trying to make up for all the kisses he couldn’t give you these past few months.

At first you’re worried, like it’ll somehow feel foreign and awkward after not doing it for so long, but he tastes and feels just as you remember. You taste the salt from your own tears and feel the softness of his hands as they cup your face makes you melt into him.  

You finally feel like a person again. Your body drinks up the sensation of his lips as they mould with yours, the months of numbing yourself with drink and morphling having dried your body of any affection or feeling. 

One of his hands leaves your face and hovers over your body for a moment before it settles on the small of your back, trying to pull you even closer, but there’s not an inch of you that’s separated from him.

This kiss is different from so many of the ones you’ve had before with anyone else. They’ve always been lust driven; even in the past with Finnick, there’d always been an underlying tension. But this one is wholly innocent and lacking any sexual chemistry. It’s needy and desperate, yes, but only because you’ve been deprived of each other for so long.

The desperation must be evident in your kiss because he pulls back slowly to look at your face, searching your expression for a hint of how you’re feeling.

“It’s not safe here,” He breathes in sharply, though his hand doesn’t leave your face. “We shouldn’t be this careless.” 

A reminder that life wasn’t that simple, you weren’t just a teenager kissing the boy you liked, but a Victor under constant surveillance. 

“You’re right,” you agreed breathlessly, fighting the stupid smile that threatened to spread across your lips and light up your face. “We can go back to mine.”

The walk back is silent, but comfortable. All you want to do is bask in his presence, observe every tiny detail of him and see what’s changed in the past six months. His fingers are intertwined with yours, grasping tightly like you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

The feeling is so nice, so warm and comforting and right, that you forget about the bigger picture, just for a little while. 

———

You’d been lying there on the couch in your room for at least an hour, soaking up every moment with him, every place his body rested against yours. The tender kisses he’s left on your cheeks, your forehead, your lips… they’re all imprinted in your memory permanently. Like if you never see him again, at least you’ll have this.

Your legs were stretched out in front of you and intertwined with his own. His arm around you kept pulling you impossibly closer, his fingers stroking up and down your shoulder in a motion of absentminded affection. Like it was just natural for him to want to be with you, to touch you.

Lying down with your ear pressed against his chest, you’re soothed by his heart thrumming in steady beats that lull you into a state of false security. 

In some fantasy universe, where there are no Hunger Games, where there is no Capitol, neither of you have to worry about your actions being responsible for someone else’s life.

But the reality was much more grim, and President Snow’s ominous warning reverbates in the back of your mind constantly. He hadn’t asked you to do anything, not yet, which scares you. Maybe because you were such a mess, but deep down you wonder if it’s because you were really just a pawn in a much bigger game, and Finnick was the real target. He was too valuable to lose, and he was almost free.

You wonder if that’s the reason he’s here—

“Why’d they let you come anyways? You didn’t mentor Annie, I was stuck with you,” you asked, almost regretting breaking the quiet contentment, but you needed to know. Had Snow ordered him to accompany Mags so he would see you again? To send a warning to you that he got what he wanted, no matter how hard you tried.

You’re not even that important, you tried to shake off the worrisome thoughts.

“Don’t remind me, you were impossible. Hardest job I’ve ever had,” he grinned, poking your cheek playfully. 

You swatted his hand away and rolled your eyes. “I was not the impossible one.” 

He raised an eyebrow and stared at you with such an incredulous look you were beginning to get a little offended. “Travel is hard for Mags. I didn’t want her to be on a train for so long, so I offered to take her place.”

“Oh. And they just… let you do that?”

Finnick shrugged, and by the grin on his face you know he’s going to say something ridiculous to ease your nerves. “I’m the Capitol Darling, they have to let me do whatever I want. I’m pretty famous, y’know.” 

If you didn’t know all the horrible, awful things they did to Finnick in the Capitol, his joke might’ve been funny, but it just makes you sick. 

“I’m sorry again, Finnick,” you whispered, closing your eyes. “I should’ve handled it better, I should’ve found a way to tell you about everything… going on.” 

He brings you to a sitting position, forcing you to look into his eyes as he shakes his head, any hint of laughter gone from his features. “None of this is your fault, you know?”

“If I had just—” His thumb brushes over your lips, effectively silencing you. 

“I should’ve warned you,” he continues with pursed lips, and you can see his jaw tighten. “In the back of my mind, I knew what was going on, I just… I just couldn’t do anything about it. I should’ve told you, I’m sorry. I knew better than this.”

He looks wracked with such genuine guilt that your heart begins to bleed from within your chest. Is this really what he thought?

“It’s not your fault either, Finnick,” you murmured, bringing a hand to his face. You try not to notice how his head immediately leans into your hand, and his whole body seems to melt at such a simple touch. 

He gave you a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but didn’t reply. Instead, he let his hand go to the back of your neck and pulled you close before he kissed you. 

This one is familiar in a way the previous ones from tonight haven’t been, there’s an underlying craving for more. You’re not sure how the two of you are able to communicate your wants through only unspoken words, but you’re eager to reciprocate. 

You sighe into the kiss as he pulled you into his lap, relishing in the feeling of your body on his. His hands trailed down to your hips as he drew you closer, kissed you with more urgency. Your hands went to his hair and your nails raked through the soft waves and tugged gently at his scalp.

You smiled into the kiss as his hands squeezed your hips with every tug. It felt so good, to have him want you in the way you’ve been yearning for him. If you could kiss him for the rest of your life, you would.

He broke away for a moment, chest heaving, with blown out pupils that look at you like you’re the only person in the world. When you leaned down to attach your lips to his neck, he groaned and squeezed your hip again, sending a shiver up and down your spine. He leans his head back to allow you to pepper kisses around his jawline and trail down, sucking and letting your teeth scrape at the delicate skin of his neck.

With his mussed hair that’s splayed across his forehead, and slightly swollen lips that are parted ever so slightly, a rather embarrassing thought crosses your mind: he’s so pretty. Another one passes through your mind as well, but it’s much scarier: you’ve missed him so much. It was so plain, but so raw it scared you.

You’ve never felt anything like this before — you’re only nineteen, and these feelings are still so foreign to you.

He must’ve sensed the shift because he pulled you back a bit until his forehead was resting against yours. “You okay?”

Much to your surprise, you let out a giggle. “Mmm hmm.”

He quirks his lips into a half smile, nudging his nose with yours in casual affection. “Why’re you laughing at me?”

“I just think I really like you,” you blurted out, hoping he couldn’t feel your body becoming hot with embarrassment.

He broke into a grin. “You think? I thought it was kinda obvious by now…” 

“Stop!” You groaned, pulled back, and buried your head in your hands. You’re too nervous and embarrassed to look at him now, despite your thighs still resting on either side of his. You’ve totally killed the mood with your inability to articulate your feelings, you’re certain of it. 

Tentatively, he grabbed your wrists and brings your hands away from your face, the smile not once leaving his own. His green eyes were bright with laughter, the indents of his dimples only growing deeper.

“For the record,” Finnick began in a gentler tone, though there was still a hint of teasing, “The feeling is mutual.”

You fought the dopey smile that threatened to take over your features at his words. “I’d hope so,” you murmured, your hands circling around his neck and your forehead going back to his. “I like doing this too much.” 

He makes a noise of agreement and kisses you. His hands slide under your shirt and you shimmy out of it as quickly as you can, eager to have his lips back on yours. They’re soft, and warm, and they feel so good as he begins to press long, lingering kisses down your neck and your bare chest. 

In another swift motion he’s unclasped the bra you’d been wearing and discards that, too.

You shiver as if a cool breeze has just passed through the room, suddenly self conscious and fighting the urge to cross your arms over your chest. It’s been a while since he’s seen you like this, and now it feels more intimate for him to see you in any state of undress after you’ve actually said you like him. 

“Relax,” Finnick whispered, as if he could read your thoughts, his hands never leaving your hips. “I just told you I really liked you too.”

That elicits a laugh that quickly turns into a gasp as he kisses your breasts and begins gently sucking on your right nipple.

Your hands find their way to his hair again and you tug, wanting him, needing him as close as physically possible.

He takes his sweet time, alternating from one to the other, alternating between playful nipping and tongue swirling until you begin to squirm on his lap from the stimulation.

You let out another small gasp as his mouth leaves your breasts and they’re exposed to the cool air, though he doesn’t spare a moment before he begins to tug at the waistband of your pants.

Before you wriggle out of them, you pause and begin to fidget with the remaining buttons on his shirt, “I can’t be the only one without any clothes on.”

He laughs and presses a quick kiss to your nose before leaning back and letting you work the buttons free. You can feel him watching you as you work, and you try to ignore it so you don’t become too self conscious that every move you make is being hungrily devoured by the man in front of you. 

Lucky doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel when he shrugs his shirt off. You take in the sight of him in front of you, noticing every well defined muscle of his body, from his torso to his chest. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he says your name.

“What?” You ask, suddenly a little shy. 

“You’re staring,” he teases lightly, his thumbs making circles against your hips. “What’re you thinking about?”

“That you’re kinda cute,” you shrug, deciding since you’ve already embarrassed yourself earlier, that doing it again won’t change much. 

“Only kinda?” His hand clutches his chest, eyes wide in disbelief. “Wow… that… that really hurts.”

“Never mind,” you roll your eyes, “I take it back—”

You yelped in surprise as he abruptly stands up, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist as his arm slides under you for support. 

“You better not drop me,” you gripped on to his shoulders. He’s strong, really strong, but you still cling to him as he walks the short distance to the edge of the bed. 

“I would never,” he grins, before loosening his grip and gently laying you down before him.

For a moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing and the rustling of sheets beneath you. The playfulness from earlier has transformed into something deeper, needier. 

The intensity of his stare makes you blurt out, “Are you sure about this? I mean, I know its not new— but with everything going on with— well, you know,” You’re rambling now, you know it, but the words keep pouring out of you. “I don’t know, I just think—” 

“I think,” he says, in a tone so low it cuts you off and sends a shiver up your spine, “That we should stop talking.”

You nod in agreement, a little breathless as he places his knee between your legs to spread them further apart. He leaned down in what you think would be another kiss, but are surprised to find his fingers at your lips instead.

Wordlessly, you open your mouth and let his fingers slides past your lips as you began to suck, never breaking his gaze.

His breath hitched and his eyes widened ever so slightly, two almost undetectable tells, but it was enough to keep you going, focusing on the feeling of his fingers in your mouth, of wanting him so close to you it physically hurt.

His fingers ghosted over your inner thigh, circling you, teasing you. With a soft whine, you tugged him back towards you and kissed him, as if the brief moments spent with your lips apart was an eternity too long. They continued their minstrations of your thigh, creeping higher until it reaches right below where you craved his touch, when he pauses.

“What is it?” You breathed, squirming under him slightly in anticipation, because you want to feel his fingers, you want to feel him after being deprived of it for so long. 

“I thought about this every day,” his voice is so strained you’re surprised, “every day this whole time. I just… I can’t believe you’re back here… with me.” 

Your chest flutters and a warmth spread throughout your body at his words. You open your mouth to say something, but he seals your words in with another kiss as his finger enters you.

Your breath hitches as you adjust to the sensation of his finger moving in and out of you, the anticipation of it all making every sensation a hundred times stronger.

When his thumb finds your clit you let out a moan and throw your head back against the mattress, separating your lips from his own. His thumb moves in small circles, making small quirks to the pressure and speed until you were writhing under him, panting, desperate for more.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that you’re completely lost in everything Finnick; the way he feels when he adds another finger, the way he tastes when he kisses you without hesitation. 

It’s overwhelming in the best way, and you’re trying to find the right way to tell him when he suddenly removes himself from you completely. You let out a whine of frustration at the loss of contact and open your eyes in confusion, only to see and feel him kiss down your body. He latches and sucks on to your neck, before trailing down to the valley of your breats, to your stomach, to the inside of your thighs. 

He’s nowhere and then everywhere all at once, his tongue at your clit and the two fingers he’d withdrawn back in. You moan out his name and dig your nails into his hair, tugging him impossibly closer, but he’s focused on what’s in front of him. 

The pressure continues to build, and your begin to pleas turn more desperate until the only thing falling from your lips is his name, over and over again.

It’s overwhelming, the physical feeling of pure ecstasy, but the emotional weight of knowing whose bringing you such bliss. That you have him, he hasn’t slipped between your fingertips, and that for this moment, he’s not going anywhere. It’s that knowledge that snaps the coil wound deep in your stomach and you cry out, chest heaving as you finally find release.

When he lifts his head to watch you come undone, it’s then that he finally kisses you again. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel the weight of his body as he pins you to the mattress, nowhere near done with you yet.

“You’ve made a mess,” he says, and you gasp as he withdraws his fingers, glistening with your own arousal, and brings them to your lips again. “Clean me up.” 

You obliged without hesitation, wanting to anything and everything he asked you to. You work in earnest, your tongue swirling around his fingers in earnest, tasting yourself for the second time. When he’s satisfied he withdraws them and captures your lips in a sweet kiss.

“You sure?” Finnick asks, lining himself up with you. You nod eagerly, desperate to have him inside you, because he’s not the only one who’s been thinking about him every day for the past few months.

When he finally enters you it’s like all the pieces fall into place. He moves slowly at first, giving you time to adjust to the size of him. When you’ve relaxed more he increases his pace, and your fingernails dig into his back when he captures your lips in another kiss. This one is searing and messy as he continues his thrusts, his fingers digging into your hips like he can’t get enough of you, your body, everything.

You want him to slow down and speed up at the same time, the familiar tension in your body steadily rising and overwhelming all your senses. 

“Finnick,” the moan escapes your lips. “Please, I—” 

His hairline is dotted with beads of sweat as he looks down at you, and you’re sure you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. “Come on, pretty girl,” he whispered through heavy breaths, “Just a little longer.”

You try to nod but it’s hard to focus on anything but the sensation of him moving inside you, of one of his hands around your wrists, of his mouth on yours. 

When he reaches down and his fingers find your clit again, it’s enough to send you over the edge. Your own undoing spurs on his own and he kisses you fiercely, swallowing your moans as your fingernails scratch their way down his back.

He continues to rock into you, slowly, riding out the aftershocks that jolt through your body for a moment longer before he falls on the bed next to you. Finnick peppers kisses around your face and murmurs praise, his hair tickling against your nose and cheeks and making you giggle.

You lie there for a moment, trying so hard to catch your breath and reorient yourself back to reality that you don’t notice he’s moved away. 

The sensation of a warm rag against your thigh jolts you from the sleepy haze you’d trailed off to and alerts you to his presence. He moves with gentle swipes, wiping everything away and pausing when your breath hitched from the sensitivity.

You hear the sound of the rag being tossed in the corner and the bed dipping with his weight as Finnick rejoins you. Instinctively, your face broke into a smile so wide your cheeks began to hurt. When his arms wrapped around you and tugged you close, you couldn’t help but let out a sigh of content. 

He pressed a chaste kiss on your upper back, working his way up your spine and stopping at the nape of your neck. The kisses began to linger a bit longer, his lips not moving from your neck until he finished with one on your cheek.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been this quiet.” You could feel rumble of his chest against your back as he spoke and know he’s asking how you feel about everything. 

“I’m just happy.” Your fingers ghosted over his forearm that’s wrapped around your waist. “Promise.”

He pressed another kiss to the top of your head.

It’s pure bliss, being wrapped in the safety of his arms, like the outside world with all of it’s problems couldn’t find you here—

Until you hear the knock at your front door. Your blood runs cold and you grip on to Finnick’s arm instinctively, like he’s going to be taken away from you at this very moment.

He gives you a quick kiss before scrambling to find his clothes, telling you, “I’ll get it.” Like he can sense your worry and is trying to take care of you.

You’re too lost in a state of panic to fully register him leaving your room and heading towards the front door until he reenters a minute later with a letter in his hand.

His eyes are hardened and his mouth is pressed into a thin line as they scanned the note. 

“What is it?” You dared to ask after a long moment, struggling to calm your breathing. 

“At the end of the tour,” he began slowly, “for the final celebration in the Capitol, Snow… he wants you to come.”

“Oh.” Your mind is blank, even though your brain is screaming at you to say something, anything. Why is this news coming all of a sudden? Was it always meant to be delivered now, or had you two been found out that quickly?

“He knows,” Finnick’s grip on the paper tightened, and when you looked at them, you noticed they were shaking. “We weren’t being very subtle, anyone could’ve seen us come back here together, we shouldn’t—” 

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” you cut him off, desperate to calm him down. “There’s no law against any of this.”

“You don’t understand,” his voice grew weak with defeat. “In private, yes, but… I have an image to maintain. Not for me, I couldn’t give a damn, but the Capitol. I’m too… important to them to get distracted by someone else. People would get jealous. Vindictive.”

Even though you know he doesn’t believe the words being spoken, it still hurts. To know that the people in the Capitol own him so completely, and you’re part of the reason why.

You grab his hands and squeeze them tight, trying to bring him some sort of reassurance, even if you’re just as terrified. “It’ll be okay, Finnick.” 

“I just didn’t want you to get wrapped up in all of this,” his voice grew weak with defeat. “I wanted to protect you.”

You smile, but it’s a sad one. “I know,” you said simply. “But it was only a matter of time. I’ll do whatever Snow wants me to do if it means I have you.”

The words coming out of your mouth feel foreign and terrifying, like you’re not the one saying them. They’re true, of course, but the weight of them is not lost on you.

Deep down, you’re wracked with worry for what the future held, because everything nice seemed to slip through your fingers sooner or later.

Whatever your feelings for Finnick are, they’re strong, really strong, and that terrifies you. It’s all consuming, the way you feel when you look at him, when he looks back at you like you’re the only person who matters.

You’ve never felt this way before, and it frightens you.

He seems to sense you slipping away because his hands move to cup your face, like he’s trying to hold on to the last moments of earlier, when things were okay for a minute. “We can’t go back to before,” he reminds you, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice. You can’t run away because you’re scared, is what he means to say, and you understand him perfectly.

“Okay,” you promise, hoping it’s one you can keep. “Everything will be fine.”

The smile, like always, was followed by quiet humming and a little skip in your step as you’d hurried to pack what few possessions actually mattered to you.

The reason for this temporary insanity was simple: whatever despair and destruction the Capitol had thrown at you, they’d also given you something to make up for it, even if it was purely unintentional. The apology came in the form of Finnick, another victor who’d shown you the ropes after you’d been crowned the year after him.

Being from different districts, the only time you were able to see him was when you’d both been called to the Capitol.

Gazing out the window as the station came into view, you sighed and imagined what you’d do upon arriving.

You take in the bright pinks and yellows of the stone streets, the rainbows that glittered against stained glass windows as the sun shone through them. The looming presence of snow-capped mountains provided a dramatic background and suit of armor around the Capitol, a stark contrast from the bright, bubbly city. 

For such an evil, awful place, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Your body had the same reaction it did the first time the train had screeched to a halt: completely frozen in time, so still a breath could not be squeezed from your lungs.

You hated the feelings that overcame you, of such paralyzing fear it made you weak. Hated how your fingers became so shaky it took you several attempts to button up your coat. Hated how your legs were so unsure of themselves you feared you’d collapse if you stood up too suddenly.

All of a sudden you were sixteen again, a terrified  tribute arriving in the Capitol like a lamb for slaughter.

You hated coming back here every six months at the very least — once for the Games, once for the tour, and however many times you were summoned by Capitol citizens. 

The Games were obviously hard–and so was the business you did in the Capitol–but the Victory Tours were a special form of torture. You hated looking at the winner, because they always seemed so lost and terrified, trembling like a lone leaf on a branch as the wind whistled through.

This past year had been a little different — there'd been two Victors this time, and their win sparked something in the districts that you’d never seen in your life. You didn’t hold any hope there would be long lasting change, but you were glad to see this year’s Victors weren’t alone. You wished you could’ve had that.

A gust of wind sweeps through the door as a Capitol attendant opens it, bringing you back to reality, and you force a small smile as the sunlight hits your face.

Waves of bronze hair catches your eye, and it takes everything in you not to jump from the platform and run to greet him.

He’s as beautiful as ever; the sun turning his hair a nice gold. His skin is a little paler and his hair is a little darker, given the winter months, but it’s only noticeable to you because you’ve spent hours running your fingers through it; spent days admiring the way water sluiced off his skin and glistened while he swam. 

You notice him immediately–not just because you’ve been subconsciously searching, but because he’s never greeted you at the station before. It’s then you notice dark circles under his eyes, the way they’re glassy with fatigue, and the rigidness of his posture. Your eyes narrow slightly and you open your mouth to greet him, when his arms open wide in invitation to his embrace. It’s then you know something’s really, really wrong.

Because as much as you care for Finnick, and as much as you know he cares for you, he’s never been so openly affectionate with so many people watching.

It’s part of the agreement you have; around others you’re polite, friendly even, and everything else you actually yearn for is tucked away behind closed doors.

So, when you wrap your arms around his neck, you’re hoping it's brief, because you don’t want to get used to being so close to him in public. And when you begin to pull away, you’re startled to find him gripping you close to his body, lips brushing your ear so he can whisper something without anyone else knowing or overhearing.

“I need you to meet me in my room in half an hour. It’s important. Don’t be late,” he says quietly, urgently, before suddenly releasing you. It doesn’t sound like one of your late night rendezvous, unless he’s wound really tight and that desperate for release — no, this seems far bigger than that.

When he finally leans back, you grasp his forearms and study him, searching for answers in his eyes and only being met with apprehension. 

Forcing a small smile, all you can say is, “It’s good to see you too, Finnick.”

He squeezes your hand in his own for a brief moment before disappearing, leaving you alone with two Capitol attendants who are supposed to just be carrying your bags to your quarters — but you know they’re guards in disguise, making sure you have nowhere to go.

It’s exactly twenty eight minutes later when you appear in front of Finnick’s door, a hand raised to knock when it flies open. 

He’s a little more relaxed, though you can see the tension in the ticking of his jaw and the tight grip he has on the door. Still, the corners of his mouth lift upward in a smile as his eyes land on you. “I was worried you’d be late. Y’know, you’ve never been a very punctual person.”

“I’ve never seen you so high strung before.” You shrug, “Thought I might hurry my ass up for once, in case you had a heart attack.”

He laughs, a lovely melody that makes your insides melt a little whenever you hear it, but you can tell his mind is occupied. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, about that… where exactly are we going?” You ask, though you know deep down you’d follow him anywhere. 

“You’re asking so many questions. You don’t trust me?” He asks teasingly, flashing you a smile, and you’re overwhelmed for a moment because Finnick was like the sun — golden and glowing, blindingly radiant from the smile on his lips down to the tips of his toes.

You do trust him — and as he leads you to an awaiting black car, you reassure yourself that he’s not leading you to your imminent death.

Well, maybe you were wrong. Because the words coming out of Finnick’s mouth–backed by Plutarch Heavensbee of all people–are nothing short of treasonous. And in Panem, treason is inevitably followed by death, or a fate so much worse death seems merciful.

“You’re sure she’s not going to say something?” Plutarch asks, and you think it’s because you haven't said a word since they told you about it all. About District 13, the stirrings of rebellion in the Districts, the plan to escalate into a full scale rebellion with the newest victors from 12 — Katniss and Peeta — being the face of said rebellion.

“No, we can trust her. I promise,” Finnick nudges you with his shoulder, as if urging you to confirm what he’s said.

You look around to the others in the room at the Heavensbee mansion: Beetee Latier from Three, Johanna Mason from Seven, and Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve. They don’t look nearly as surprised as you do, so you suspect you’re one of the last people to be told this news. 

“Yeah— I just… you really think it’ll work?” You cringe as your voice comes out in a dry croak.

“We won’t know unless we try,” Plutarch says, and you wonder why he’s in on whatever this is. He’s just been promoted to Head Gamemaker, and he lives in this mansion that spans the entire street and is packed to the brim with books and priceless art. Surely there’s nothing wrong with his life that would make him want to rebel. “You and Six are the only ones we haven’t talked to… and we need as much unity between the Districts as we can get.”

“Okay,” You say after a moment, willing your voice not to shake. It's less fear and more excitement at the prospect of something better in your future. 

You can hear Finnick’s audible sigh of relief, hear the soft scratch of his chair against the floor as he pushes it back, and feel the softness of his lips against your temple as he kisses you.

You wish he wouldn’t do that. Not because you’re embarrassed that anyone would see it, but because it just serves as a reminder that he’s just out of your reach. Every touch or kiss was on stolen time, and one day, the feeling you got around him would catch up to you in the most devastating way possible.

So, instinctively, you duck down in an attempt to escape him, and try not to notice the slight frown that overtakes his features.

“I’ve kept you all long enough,” Plutarch says in  dismissal, checking his watch. “The victory party is tonight, and I would hate for any of you to miss seeing the little lovebirds.”

“C’mon.” Finnick grabs your hand and tugs you to your feet. “We’ve got to get all prettied up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff. “I’m perfect just the way I am. You on the other hand…” you look him up and down. “Well, we’d better hurry up.”

He gasps and clutches his chest like he’s been struck. You know he knows it's a joke, because there truly is nothing prettier on this earth than Finnick Odair.

The brief joy you feel when you see Finnick can only last so long.

While they’re not particularly awful, just annoying, looking into the faces of your prep team makes you nauseous. All it does is throw you back to nearly a decade ago when you were a tribute. 

And, sometimes, being constantly reminded of the horrors you endured made you wish you died in that arena. Not all the time, but sometimes.

“Arms up!” Shrills Iris, who resembles a lemon the way she’s dressed head to toe in bright yellow. You obey the command on instinct. Something cool, almost metallic, slides over your body. The dress is made of a thousand tiny silver-white jewels, each rope swishing and clicking against one another when you move. Matching jewelry weighs down your ears and neck, twinkling and making you appear to be a jewel yourself.

“All done!” The woman beams, clapping her hands together and practically shoving you out the door and towards the direction of the car waiting to drive to the President’s mansion.

You’re sure making victors attend every celebration in the Capitol brings Snow a special kind of pleasure. It’s probably the only kind of joy he ever feels in his life, looking at the miserable faces of past tributes and knowing that because of him, their bodies have either been sold to the highest bidder or withered away due to addiction — or sometimes, in the worst cases, both.

You are grateful for the chance to see the newest Victors, though. You want to be in their presence and somehow have them light a spark of hope in you.

“You were right,” a voice behind you says. You turn to see Finnick. 

“What?”

“Earlier,” he continues, his eyes briefly flitting to your dress before returning to your eyes. “You are perfect just the way you are.”

“I—” Stupidly, you can feel a hotness in your cheeks, and know he’s managed to make you blush. He always does that, finds a way to make you stumble over your own words. “Thanks. I think I was right, too.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You do look so much better all dolled up,” you tease, using this as an excuse to take him all in. He, of course, looks breathtaking, which is a bit annoying because you’ve never seen him be anything less. He’s wearing a seafoam colored shirt that brings out the green in his eyes. It’s nearly see through, mostly where his muscle strains against the fabric. It gives everyone a glimpse of his body you feel honored to have seen up close, but it also makes you feel sad at how obviously he’s being objectified. His trousers are a light linen, and you frown again at how… Well, conservatively he’s dressed, despite the sheerness of the shirt.

“I haven’t seen you this covered up in years, shouldn’t you be practically naked?” You blurt out, and you’re rewarded with another laugh that makes your heart sing.

“If you want to see me naked, sweetheart, all you have to do is ask,” he grins, the tips of his teeth peeking through his lips.

“I meant,” you clear your throat and will the blush in your cheeks to subside, “Normally you’re a lot more… distracting.” Well that doesn’t sound any better now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Distracting, hmm? I’m free in…” He pretends to check the imaginary watch on his wrist. “Just a couple hours, if you are. Your place or mine?”

“Finnick,” you grit your teeth. You know he knows what you mean, and yet he still teases.

“Ye-es,” he replies in an almost sing-song voice before his expression becomes a little more serious. “I’m not supposed to take away from the lovely couple tonight. Apparently I can be a little distracting. Did you know that?” His eyes twinkle with more laughter you’re dying to hear.

“You? Distracting? Never,” you reassure him, patting his chest as you move past, trying not to notice how his eyes linger on you.

You disappear into the crowd, not only in search of a drink, but some different company. You, Finnick, and alcohol were a deadly mix you swore you’d never combine again. Luckily, there's no shortage of people holding trays of drinks, from bubbling champagne to deep red wines, and you quickly pluck a glass of rosé. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that you’ve just finished your third glass and are reaching for a fourth when your stomach starts rumbling. You realize then you haven't eaten since you’d been on the train. It’s not that there wasn’t any food at this party, there was, in fact, an excess, but it was so rich you were worried it would only further upset your already queasy stomach.

The voice that finally made you understand the phrase butterflies in your stomach calls your name, and you can't help but smile as you turn around and see Finnick holding a plate of shrimp drenched in a red sauce, setting it down on the bar in front of you. Your favorite. 

“Thank you!” You can’t contain yourself as you throw your arms around his neck, nearly brought to tears as you think of how delicious the shrimp would be. “I am sooo hungry.”

Finnick doesn’t even budge at the force of you throwing your weight towards him;he probably knew you were going to do that, just as he knew you hadn’t eaten. He knew you eerily well, Observing you must take up a lot of his time. “I figured you could use a break between all that wine.”

You smell the alcohol on his breath and know he's been doing his fair share of drinking, but that’s not the only indicator — the touching becomes almost second nature when he’s got enough alcohol in him. 

Although you’ve pulled away from him, his fingers curl around your waist to keep you in front of him, his thumb drawing circles on the small of your back. You can feel his chest pressed against your back, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as you lean into him. He’s a sturdy and comforting presence behind you. You tell yourself as you lean back that it’s to steady your feet, but you know deep down you long to feel his skin against yours, and you’re too drunk to think about the consequences of people seeing you.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” he whispers, and you suppress a shudder at the tingles that erupt up and down your whole body, starting where his lips touched your ear.

“We haven't even seen Katniss or Peeta yet.” You hate how breathless your voice has become as his hand trails down to rest on your hip.

“I was being serious earlier, you know,” he says, and you're so close to him you can hear his heart race. Why would he be nervous to ask you to come over? It was casual, you were friends. Friends who helped each other out sometimes, but friends above everything. Being anything more terrified you.

“Really?” You pretend not to notice the pounding of his heart or the sharp intake of his breath. “Mine or yours?” It's funny to pretend either of you really have a place here — the training center’s living quarters hardly count as home.

“Mmm, we can decide later,” he says, suddenly pulling away. Cold air nips where his body once stood, and you’re thinking he’s finally come to his senses about being so handsy in public, but then he’s dragging you to the tile platform where people are dancing, and he’s sweeping you into his arms. 

The shrimp is long forgotten, as is the grumbling of your stomach. It’s too busy forming knots as you sway.

“You didn't even ask if I wanted to dance,” you smile, one hand instinctively going to Finnick’s shoulder while the other grasps one of his. His free hand rests on your lower back.

“Do you want to dance?” He drinks in the sight of you, savoring how close you’ve become.

“Yes,” your voice is barely above a whisper. The music is slow and soulful, and all you can do is stare at one another.

“Good,” he says, but you’re not sure how good this really is.

There was a reason you’d created rules for this whole… arrangement in the first place. You drew a hard line in the sand that Finnick kept trying to cross.

When Snow first told you what happened to desirable victors, you hadn’t believed him. And then, two days later, your boyfriend wound up dead. A freak accident at the power plant, they’d said, but you knew. Deep down you knew the timing was too close to be a coincidence, that Snow really did mean what he’d said about everyone you loved dying if you didn't comply.

You were terrified of the same thing happening to Finnick, so much so it was the only recurring nightmare that occupied your brain.

He’d been the one to suggest it be nothing more than just sex, though, probably for the same reasons that had held you back from asking for anything more. And, yeah, that should’ve been what you wanted, but you could admit to yourself that you were a hypocrite. For wanting all the good parts of him, but not the danger that came with it. For wanting him to be able to look past his own fears and want more from you, but not being willing to do the same. 

“When should we leave?” Your palms have grown sweaty at the unspoken desires racing through your brain, so you use it as an excuse to disentangle your arms from his body and rearrange them to clasp around the back of his neck.

To steady yourself, of course.

Now, both of his hands are on your hips and he draws you even closer so that you’re chest to chest, so close your breaths become one.

“Not yet.” His voice is soft, even pleading. “One more song.”

Upon closer inspection you find he’s tipsy, but not drunk. He’s a little looser but still of a sound mind, which is why it’s even more terrifying to look at him, because you can't think of a time where the two of you have acted like this fully sober. Neither of you are under the influence of drugs, or alcohol, or even overwhelming emotion that would make you do crazy things. Except the morning after the first time.

The sexual attraction had always been there, but the first time either of you acted on it had been after a particularly wild night that left the both of you to fill in the blanks as you woke up next to him, naked in your bed.

“I’m so sorry — so so sorry! Things got so out of control last night, it was a mistake,” you’d said hastily before he could say the same. You’d rather not be rejected when your head was pounding and you’d felt so sick. You’d clutched the sheets tight to your chest, suddenly self conscious by how bare you were.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he'd said it so casually you thought you'd misheard him at first. You probably looked as confused as you were, because he continued, “ It doesn’t have to be a mistake. I like you, I like… this,” he gestured to the two of you, and when you said nothing, he added hurriedly, “It doesn’t have to be anything. Actually, forget I even said—”

You'd cut him off with a kiss, and had fallen back against the silk sheets with the intention to burn every inch of him to memory, since you couldn’t remember the previous night and cursed yourself for it.

“Hello-ooo,” Finnick’s voice tore you back to reality. “Did you even hear what I said? The song’s over, we can leave now.”

You don’t really want to leave, but you suppose it’s for the best, so you nod and let him lead you to one of the many black cars that sit outside the President’s mansion. One designated for the tributes and victors that only drove to and from the training center. 

Finnick wishes he could read your mind, especially when you get that glazed over look in your eye, the one that signals you were in a land far away from here.

All night, he’d wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked. 

Glittery, silver eyeshadow made it look like your eyes were really sparkling when you looked at him. In a dress that was tailored to fit you just right, hugging you in all the right places and flowing down to your ankles, yet somehow leaving a tantalizing amount of bare skin exposed.

Your smile completed everything, though. The way it met your eyes when you saw him across the room… he’d do just about anything to make sure you’d smile at him like that again.

When he’d led you to the dance floor in the gardens, it’d been for his own selfish reasons. Not just that he wanted an excuse to hold you close to him, but because he knew you’d look exquisite against the night sky littered with stars. The moon bathed you in a softness that made you glitter and glow, every beam that struck your figure only further highlighting your beauty until he was certain you were from another world entirely.

He’d especially wanted to tell you how you looked then. But like the rest of the night, whenever he opened his mouth, his mouth went dry and his tongue became stuck in the back of his throat, forcing him into silence.

You might think he was the sun, but he thought you were the moon.

He looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky every night just for him.

If only you were willing to see it, instead of whatever twisted reality you’d decided was the truth.

He feels like he’s in somewhat of a daze as he leads you to the car, feels out of his body when the two of you push past his door in a tangled mess of hands and teeth and tongue. 

It’s rough and fast and everything he’s not feeling as your lips attach to different spots on his neck and suck hard enough to leave marks. When he’s sure there’s not a spot left untouched by you, he begins to return every bruising kiss you’ve left with some of his own with enough force to match. His lips detach from yours and dip down to your neck, your chest, until he’s biting at your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a hunger he hasn’t felt in so long.

He wants to feel you, taste you, hear you — he wants his whole being to be consumed by you. He removes his mouth to continue his kisses down your body, relishing in the soft moans he manages to elicit from you and committing every sound to memory, like he’s never going to get this opportunity again. He kisses between your breasts, down your stomach, and purposely skips past where he’s sure you want him most before settling his lips on your inner thighs, his kisses turning almost lazy.

He wants to continue this slow pace, like you have all the time in the world, but that’s just not how the two of you do things 

It’s not a show, or even a display of real passion — no, it’s just two pathetic people making the best out of a lousy situation, acting like physical pleasure will somehow cure the constant ache of your hearts.

He fears the sweetness he seeks from you is souring at that realization.

It’s not that he doesn’t want this. Oh no, he’s been thinking about this since the moment he saw you in that dress and measured how difficult it would be to take it off. Actually, if he was being completely honest with himself, he’d been thinking about this the moment he saw you step off the train platform.

It’s that he wants all of this and more, but he’s not sure how to go about it. It’s not like they’re being totally subtle, but if Snow found out… he’d likely use it against both of you. You’d be just another thing for Snow to hold over his head, another person for him to worry about, and Snow would probably do the same to you.

So maybe, if Finnick continued pretending this was nothing more than casual sex and you were nothing more than a good friend, Snow would be convinced too. 

“Finnick,” you’re breathless beneath him. “What’s wrong? You sort of spaced out for a sec… we can stop if you want.”

No, he doesn’t want to stop, but it’s probably the first time he’s ever been asked that. 

He shakes his head, both to answer you and to clear his head, and leans over to kiss you again. 

He’s glad you don’t press it further, not as his tongue finally laps at your clit and elicits a loud gasp from you that gives him the self satisfaction to continue.

Your fingers card through his hair and pull instinctively when he adds his fingers. Now it’s his turn to moan, and the vibrations make you shudder.

All this does is spur him on, wanting to hear the little moans and whimpers from you that he’s grown so familiar with. They only make him harder to the point where it’s almost painful, but it does nothing to slow him as he continues flicking and swirling his tongue. In fact it has the opposite effect, he only becomes more earnest and determined in his efforts.

When he adds a finger he feels a sharp tug at his roots and knows he’s doing the right things.

Since that very first night, Finnick Odair had thought you were too good to be true and too easy to slip through his fingers. So he made it his mission to commit you to memory, treating every encounter like it would be the last one. As a result, he knows every sensitive spot you have, every noise you make and what they mean.

When he gently sucks on your clit and lets his teeth graze it, he knows it’s only a matter of minutes before you become undone. Your hips buck towards him, begging for more, and he obliges with sliding in another finger.

He detaches his mouth for a second so he can soak up the memory of you like this. Your head is thrown back against the pillow and your hair strewn in every direction. A faint sheen of sweat has appeared on your face as you pant, eyes are screwed shut with pleasure.

You’re so beautiful he cursed himself for stopping, even for a moment. At that moment, he doesn’t care about his own pleasure, all he can think about when he closes his eyes and returns his mouth is the image of you.

You’re together when the theme of the Quarter Quell is announced.

The day starts out normal enough. You both have your… clients to attend to, but when Finnick walks through the doors of the apartment you’d been given to share with several other Victors who were bought by the Capitol, you can push the awfulness of the day aside to soak up as much of him as you can before one of you is sent back to your district.

When he suggests a shower, the horrors of the past few hours are washed down the drain when the hot water pours over you. It’s so hot that Finnick begins to complain that he’s starting to feel — and look — like a lobster being boiled alive.

“But now I’m cold,” you whine with your back to him, clattering your teeth together for dramatic effect.

“Really?” He’s inched closer, and suddenly you’re not shivering from the cold.

He is all consuming.

When you emerge from the shower you find your fingers pruney and the mirrors all fogged up — you've been in there far too long.

The two of you finally separate to get ready for bed, and when you finally slide into the bed next to Finnick, his arm instinctively goes around your shoulders. 

He’s flicking through different Capitol channels that are all different forms of mind numbing torture, before landing on the official news station where Snow is about to read from a card announcing the twist of the Third Quarter Quell.

“Oh! Wait, stop here, I forgot they were announcing it today,” you say.

“I don’t think it matters that much,” Finnick’s expression is sour, but he doesn’t turn the television off. “It’ll be just as difficult to mentor as any of the other Games.”

“I don’t know… I mean, I couldn’t even imagine trying to train two extra tributes,” you muse, thinking about the last Quell, and almost miss what Snow says next.

In the next moment, you almost wish you had missed it.

“...shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

The two of you have vastly different reactions. Finnick immediately springs up from the bed and begins to pace, only stopping when he hears the sound of strangled sobs fighting their way past your lips. 

In an instant he’s next to you, wrapping both his arms around you and tugging you close to his chest. “It’ll be okay,” he tries to soothe, but his own voice is shaky and you suspect the embrace is meant to comfort him just as much as it is you.

I’ve wasted so much time, you realize, and the awful, choked noises you make turn into something so much worse.

You begin to weep, utterly defeated. There’s no fight left in you, and that’s why it’s worse than the short cries, or even hot, angry tears. Realizing the past nine years of torture hadn’t been worth it, and you really should have died in that arena. It would’ve been so much more merciful than whatever this was.

You’re the only living female victor from your district, there’s no hope for you. Finnick, at least, has a chance at not being reaped at all.

“We’ll figure something out,” Finnick continues. “You know… with everything that’s been going on.”

His reference, although vague, makes you think long enough that your cries have paused. Plutarch and Thirteen, you realize. Surely they would be scrambling to come up with a plan right now, because how could Katniss — their beloved Mockingjay — perform for them if she died in another arena? But saving her didn’t leave much room for the rest of you.

“You’re right,” you force out even if you don’t believe him, because you don’t want his calm demeanor to disappear. If he starts to panic you’re sure you’ll lose it completely.

“We should get to bed,” he says abruptly. “I think we’ll have somewhere to be tomorrow.”

There are three of you victors gathered around the dining table in Plutarch’s mansion with him. You, Finnick, and Beetee. You know there are more victors in on it, but you three are the only ones currently in the Capitol, and nobody wants to waste any time. When everyone else arrives for the games, whether as a mentor or tribute, they’ll be informed.

“We have a military, we have political unrest, and we have our symbol. We have everything we need to make this work. Do you know how rare this is?” Plutarch laments. “Thirteen has hovercrafts, so we’ll have a way to get you all out if we can figure out how to work around the forcefield.”

“Which is easier said than done,” Beetee adds. You’re not sure how to feel about him — he’s incredibly intelligent, that’s for sure. He’s such a genius you feel out of place in this discussion, because what could you possibly have to add when he could solve basically anything? 

He carries himself with such palpable sadness, though. His shoulders are always hunched like they’re physically weighed down with emotion, and you’ve never seen him without deep circles under his eyes.

“Can’t you just turn them off?” Finnick asks, turning to Plutarch, “You’re the head gamemaker.”

“I wish it was that easy, but it won’t work,” Plutarch shakes his head. “It’ll give Snow too much of a warning, we need it to be so sudden he’s left scrambling.”

“We have to blow it up,” Beetee squints his eyes, deep in thought. 

“Tell me what supplies you need and I’ll make sure they’re in the Cornucopia,” Plutarch promises. “But do you know how to do that? Can you figure it out?”

“It’s Beetee,” Finnick insists, “Of course he can.”

Beetee brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. “It will require a lot…” he pauses at an odd place in the conversation, a habit of his you’ve picked up on, “... of calculations.”

“I could probably help with that,” you interject yourself into the conversation for the first time. “With the calculations, I mean. We do a lot of stuff like that at the power plants in Five.”

Plutarch breaks into a smile while Beetee nods his head slowly. “Excellent. Tell me what numbers you need, and I’ll get them for you.”

You nod earnestly, your chest swelling with a mix of emotions you haven’t felt in forever: confidence, pride, and hope. Like it isn’t just the talk of four lunatics around the dinner table, but a feasible option. A better future for Panem was being dangled above your head, just out of reach.

By the time you see Finnick again, that hope has been completely squashed in all the fuss of the week.

Right now, you’re both just tributes changing out of the ridiculous costumes you’d donned during the opening ceremony.

You’re not talking to him though, not after you saw him cozying up to Katniss Everdeen in nothing but a knotted golden net.

Rationally, you know you’re being a little ridiculous. The net isn’t his choice, it’s his stylist’s angle to get him sponsors. And he’s talking to Katniss in that awful persona he takes on when he’s in the Capitol, the personality everyone expects him to have.

Still, bile rises in your throat at the sight of them.

Trying to slip away unnoticed, though, proved to be difficult due to your illuminated costume shining bright against the evening sky. At least your stylist tried to make your outfit unique this time, dressing you up as lightning to represent Five’s industry of power. It’s still a poor imitation of Twelve’s fire costumes though, because they blow everyone else’s outfits out of the water with no competition.

You hear Finnick call your name as you hurry towards the tribute center and ignore him. You reach the elevator alone and turn around quickly, only to see Finnick standing as the doors closed on him.

Well, almost closing. A hand jutted through the elevator doors and forced them open again, revealing Finnick in all his glory — he hadn’t changed out of the net.

“Almost thought you were trying to avoid the pleasure of my company, honey.” His voice is annoyed and the nickname is not endearing but patronizing.

“Why don’t you go ask Katniss to keep you company?” You didn’t want to say anything, because really it’s irrational to think anything could be going on between him and Katniss, which just means that you look like a jealous fool and nothing else. But seeing him with someone so strong and sure of herself, the complete opposite of you, made you realize how quickly Finnick could slip through your fingers. He was so easy to lose.

“Sweetheart…” he begins, and you can tell he’s trying not to sound too amused, “The whole reason she’s in this mess is because she’s with Peeta. And… she’s seventeen. She’s a kid.”

Both good points, which only annoys you even further because it just proves you have no reason to feel the way you do. “Whatever,” you scoff, turning away from him and wondering how much longer this elevator is going to take. Please, let it be done.

It’s like someone’s answered your pleas because the door rings at the level four and it’s Finnick’s cue to steps off. “By the way,” he says over his shoulder. “I didn't know you were the jealous type. It’s cute.”

The door shuts before you have the chance to retort.

In training, it’s hard to do anything at all. The only things flashing in your mind are the faces of the tributes in your games and the tributes you failed to train. All of whom have been dead at least a year, but they haunt you just as much as they did on the first day. 

You’d gotten so close last year. Finch — a clever, redheaded girl — had made it to the final four before she’d died. It was the closest any of your tributes had gotten to victory since you’d been crowned.

She haunts you the most, the way she was little more than skin and bones by the time she died. A direct failure on your part; everyone had been rooting for the star crossed lovers or the stereotypical career from Two that they’d overlooked your tribute, no matter how hard you’d advocated for her and practically begged for sponsors.

“You alright?” Finnick sidles up beside you, holding a thick rope in his hand that’s tied suspiciously like a noose.

“Yep!” You force out a more cheery tone than you’d wished, and cringed at how sharp and on the verge of a breakdown you sounded. “I’m going to help Johanna out.”

Johanna Mason did not need help. She was throwing axes at one of the weapons stations when you popped up behind her and forced out a greeting.

She gives a little shriek and drops the axe dangerously close to her toes. “You see a girl with an axe in her hand and decide to jump her?” She seethes, “Do not do that! Or it’ll drop on your toes next time!”

Her words are furious, but you know she’s harmless at the moment. You know her well under unfortunate circumstances, from two years ago when your tributes had formed an alliance and the two of you had been forced to work alongside one another as mentors. 

Until the tribute from Seven split your tribute’s head open with an axe.

“Sorry,” you huff, picking up an axe and marveling at the weight of it. “I had to get away from Finnick. He’s been freaking me out lately.”

“Freaking you out… how?” Johanna narrows her eyes, and it's then you remember she’s in on the rebel plot to break Katniss out of the arena, and the rest of you if you were lucky.

Your eyes widen as you realize what she’s thinking. “Oh— not about that, he’s just… hovering. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time with him during the daytime since we first met.”

Johanna visibly relaxes and then rolls her eyes. “Please tell me you guys aren’t still doing that stupid friends with benefits thing. Please.”

“It’s not stupid!” You object, a little offended by the way she’s framing it. “I told you, it’s for the best… right now, at least.”

“You guys are such idiots,” she sighs, eyeing the axe in your hand. “Are you actually going to use that?”

With a shake of your head you hand it off to her carefully. “It’s just that… you know, with… Snow…” your voice drops to a whisper.

She cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.”

Oh. Yes, she does know exactly what you mean. A wave of shame overwhelms you and you open your mouth to shower her with apologies but she cuts you off.

“I don’t need you to pity me. Well—” She thinks about this for a moment and changes her mind. “Actually, if it makes you listen to what I’m gonna tell you, then yeah, poor me, all alone. Whatever. I’m telling you, you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“I am not—”

“You are!” Johanna hurls an axe at the board with so much force it breaks completely. “He likes you. It’s kind of sickening, actually, and so obvious. I mean, he’s literally staring at you right now— no, don’t look, brainless!”

“Johanna,” You begin, watching her pick up another axe. “I appreciate this tough love… aspect… whatever you have going on, but—”

“If you want to waste your last week alive pining for a guy you already have… be my guest. But don’t talk to me about it, it’s annoying.”

She’s crude, and mean, but she’s right. All the worries you have will be gone in a week. Either one of you will be dead, or you’ll be freed from the Capitol’s chains and in the safe hands of Thirteen.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you say abruptly. “How are you doing with this whole Quell thing?”

She snorts and throws another axe, her jaw tight with anger. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

You’re starting to feel that maybe she hates you when she asks, “Have you ever thrown one of these before? I mean, probably not, judging by the way you were holding that one, but…”

“Yes, I’d love to learn!” You know that’s what she’s trying to ask. It’s her version of trying to be kind, even if it’s laced with insults and sarcasm.

A hint of a real smile appears, and you can't help but admire how pretty she is, behind all the anger.

For the next half hour, Johanna teaches you how to throw an axe, while you chit chat about mildly unimportant things. She soon gets bored of small talk and starts cursing the Capitol six ways to Sunday, and you think how nice it must be to be free about how you feel. 

Not that Johanna hasn’t paid the price for it— no, the Capitol deserves every spitting word she throws their way. You brush off her rants with nervous laughter and look around to see if anyone’s listening, because you still have your family at home, but deep down you agree. 

It’s refreshing though, to talk with a real friend who’s unafraid to speak her mind and actually understands what you’re going through. Your friends back home, however sweet, couldn’t even begin to know the half of it.

“I wish I could teach you something,” you say ruefully, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead. “Working in power plants doesn't really prepare us for the Games.”

Johanna shrugs. “It wasn’t a trade, I was just helping you out. And… you’re the least insufferable person here, so I'd rather talk with you than anyone else.”

You’re sure it’s the kindest thing she’ll ever say to you, so all you do is grin and hand her an axe back. She catches your arm and pulls you close, like she’s going to hug you, but instead just leans in and whispers in your ear, “Don’t back out. Or I’ll actually have to kill you.”

You know what she’s talking about, and you know she’s not kidding this time.

Now it’s time to find another victim — err, friend — at a different station to continue avoiding Finnick. You spot him with Katniss, again, but to her credit she looks less than amused at whatever he’s saying. You squash the flame of jealousy beginning to burn in your stomach, because you’ve been over this with him already. That, and the fact that you don’t really have the right to be jealous in the first place.

Finnick looks up from the rope he’s fiddling with and his eyes find you, which now means you have to scramble to find a station.

You spot Cashmere at the archery station and make a beeline, relieved to see her brother is not with her, because it makes the introductions and inevitable awkward small talk a little more manageable.

“Hi,” you force out. Cashmere fixes you with an icy stare but says nothing for a long moment, she just observes. She’s terrifying, to say the least. To busy yourself you pick up a bow and fiddle with it a bit, examining the craftsmanship in an attempt to look busy.

“You shoot?” She says after a minute, her voice almost making you jump.

“Not… really…” And just like that, you’ve lost the singular ounce of interest she held for you.

You listen to the instructor as he tries to teach you how to shoot, but it's clear after the first few tries this is not your strong suit. 

You wish you’d been born into a district that gave you a natural advantage in the Games; you’d won yours by nothing more than sheer luck. Everyone who hadn’t been killed by starvation, dehydration, or mutts were too busy killing one another before they paid any attention to you.

You hear him before you see him, the soft chuckle as one of your arrows misses the target entirely. “You should take lessons from Katniss,” Finnick says lightly, but it only makes you frown.

“I’d like to see you try,” you grumble, but you don’t actually want him to try because you’re sure he’s legally required to be perfect at everything he does.

“Why don’t I show you how to throw a trident instead?” He suggests, and that's the last thing you want to do. What you want is time. Time to think about what Johanna said, if all this angst was even worth it when you’d be dead in a week. Time to think about what you actually want. 

Time, unfortunately, is a luxury a victor would never be able to afford, often wasting it locked in a prison of their own minds.

“Okay,” you concede finally. “I guess you’d be an okay teacher… I’ve heard you’re not half bad.”

The training week has come and gone, the interviews with Caesar Flickerman having been the last hurrah before they sent you all off to die. 

You tried, unconvincingly, to remind yourself of the rebel plot to break everyone out, but it did little to soothe your nerves. You suspected they didn’t let you in on everything; that much was clear by the silent communication between Finnick and Johanna.

All of these thoughts are racing through your mind and keeping you from sleeping. The pillows have been thrown around and the sheets have tangled and bunched around your legs as you toss and turn, trying to find a position that would pull you into at least a few hours of slumber.

All of your thoughts circle back to Finnick. Throughout the week you’d spent several nights in his bed, but tonight you’d both agreed you needed your rest to prepare for the day tomorrow. 

Still, you can’t worry about him any more knowing he’s just a floor below you. Throwing on a thin robe you make your way to the elevator, not exactly sure what you want but deciding your mind will be made up by the time you reach him. 

You don’t even have to raise your hand to knock, the door flies open and you’re met with sea green eyes that pierce right into yours. They’re clear of sleepiness and brighten as they land on you, so you know he’s been awake like you.

You walk past him and know he’s trailing behind you, closing the door to his bedroom once you’re both inside. “I want it to be like the first time.”

“What?” 

“You know, the first time we…” you trail off, suddenly shy, and hope he’ll fill in the blanks on his own. 

“Yeah… what about it?” Finnick’s eyebrows furrow into a slight frown, like he’s trying to remember that night, the one that’s hazy with emotions and drenched with alcohol.

“I just… I mean…” You struggle to find the words, because what about it is right. “I guess what I’m saying is I don’t want to think about the consequences.”

Not a whole truth, but enough of one. You want to be able to be with him one last time, and don’t care about the consequences because you're sure to be dead soon. 

There’s a long, drawn out pause as he looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s staring straight into your soul. It’s so silent you’re sure he can hear the pounding of your heart as blood roars in your ears, sure he can feel the air that’s become suffocatingly thick with tension.

“Okay,” he says simply, and that’s all you need before you close the distance and kiss him.

You’ve kissed him many times before, but this one is different. You’re expecting it to be like the others, desperate and rough like you’d lose each other in a second. 

This one is slow, like you have all the time in the world. For this one night, only two things are really certain: you have Finnick, and Finnick has you. The ones that follow that first one are just as deliberate and calm, so much so that you lose track of time. While it couldn’t have been that long, it was beginning to feel like hours, any pause being reduced to nothing more than short breaks to breathe before you reconnected.

You’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips against yours that you don’t even notice you’re moving until the back of your legs hit the bed and you almost fall back.

He steadies you with a hand on your waist and pulls you back in for another kiss.

“Someone’s eager to get me in bed,” he mumbles against your lips with a smile.

“Am I that obvious?” You ask with a giggle, a little embarrassed at how breathless you sound.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he pulls you closer until your body is flush against his and you can feel everything. “I think I’m a little more desperate.”

Yes, judging by the hardness you feel against your body, maybe he is.

This time you fall back intentionally, pulling him with you and savoring the feeling of his weight pinning you against the mattress.

You never want to stop kissing him like this. His lips are working in a way that’s so sweet and gentle you’re getting dangerously close to blurting out something you shouldn’t.

When he pulls back, propping himself up with his forearms on either side of you, you can really look at his face.

The green of his eyes are barely visible because his pupils are completely blown out, like even his eyes are desperate to get as much of you as they can. His bronze curls are beginning to stick to his forehead from the sweat beginning to dot his hairline.

The only thing that shocks you is that his cheeks are tinted a light pink, and his lips, reddened and glossy from the kissing, are pursed together in…

“Are you nervous?” You blurt out, eyes widening at the realization.

“No,” he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss you again, but you press a hand to his chest that forces him to keep your gaze.

“Why’re you nervous? We’ve done this like, a million times,” you laugh, but he’s not smiling.

Finnick’s answer surprises you so much that your own smile is instantly wiped from your face. “I just want to make sure it’s good for you. I want you to be happy… even if it’s only for a little bit.”

His tone is so earnest and anxious you’re sure you’re about to cry, because no one’s ever been this sweet to you. Except him. “Okay,” you whisper. Those funny three words are jumping in the back of your throat, and you have to swallow hard and kiss him to make sure they disappear.

Still connected by your lips, you roll over until you’re straddling him, his back propped against the headboard. You never want to stop kissing him; when his lips are on yours it’s like you’re in a whole different world. One without all the worries that weigh you down and pry you apart from him. It’s the most relief you’ve felt since your Reaping Day that you whine when his lips leave yours.

He laughs a little at your desperation, his hands sliding under your shirt and raising it above your head before tossing it aside.

Finnick makes quick work of the rest of your clothes and his own, and before you know it you’re both naked.

You’re glad he flips you over because you're a little embarrassed how wet you’ve become — not that it’d be a secret for long.

His hands slide down and gently pull your legs apart so he can settle comfortably between them.

Now it’s your turn to feel nervous, unfamiliar with the position you’re in — at eye level with one another. It’s so different from the impersonal ones you’re used to. 

When he’s behind you, you can almost be satisfied with it being just sex. You’re free to pretend it’s anyone, it doesn’t have to be Finnick.

But now, looking into his eyes and being met with a stare just as intense, you hope he can't feel your pulse skyrocketing.

Just as you feel the familiarity of one of his fingers working its way inside you, you’re hit with a force of emotion so hard it knocks the wind out of you and you have to hide a gasp. You realize, with a stab to your chest, you never want this to end, but know it will. Know you have to make this a memorable goodbye in case only one of you survives.

He makes you feel so good, knows your body so well it’s basically second nature when he pumps his fingers in and out in a way that makes you arch towards his hand, silently begging for more.

He’s just about to slide a second finger in when you know he senses the change in how you’re kissing him. It’s more like the desperate, hungry ones you're both used to. 

In a moment he’s withdrawn completely and you cry out at the loss. “Why’d you do that?” You groan.

“What’s wrong with you?” Finnick demands, holding your chin with one of his hands and forcing you to hold eye contact with him.

“Nothing, can you just get back to—”

“Bullshit.” He withdraws his body from you completely, leaving you cold and lonely as he sits back on his knees. His eyes widen as he looks at you, and you can literally see his pupils returning to their normal size. “You don't want to not worry about the consequences,” he realizes. “You’re just here to say goodbye.”

You want to protest and sit up, but he’s reading you to filth. “Finnick, I—”

“No,” he says with so much force it surprises you, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “No, I told you we’re going to be fine, why are you acting like this is the end?”

You can recognize the edge of terror in his voice and know he’s not really mad at you. He’s panicked, because if you don’t believe his words, why should he?

“Finnick,” you say again, gently this time, and he slowly opens his eyes. You reach your hand towards his face and cup his cheek, an act so tender you can feel your own heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach. “I want to believe you. About everything. Really, I do, I just… I just want to do it right this one time.”

And it’s true. You’ve been intimate with him countless times, but they all feel so wrong compared to the rawness of tonight.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, grasping onto the hand that’s on his cheek and bringing it down to his chest. You feel his heart beating a million miles a minute, thudding so hard against his chest it might just burst free.

You nod, knowing you don’t have the strength to argue. You want tonight to be perfect, just in case it’s the last time, and you’re already missing the feeling of his lips.

Finnick seems to have lost the internal battle he’s been warring against himself, because when he surges forward to kiss you, his words are seemingly forgotten.

His kisses are still tender and steady, but an edge of desperation creeps toward the end. As if when you pull away to catch your breath, it’s the last time he’ll ever feel them.

You return to the position of before and try to fall back into the rhythm that’d been temporarily disrupted.

His fingers find their way back inside you just as his lips reconnect to yours, but this time you’re impatient. You want to be ready and able to enjoy it, but you can’t stand wasting time without him inside you, knowing you only had a few hours left together.

He seems to sense this, too, because his fingers curl inside you and send shockwaves up and down your spine. Blindly, you reach for his pants and fumble with the waistband for a moment before slipping your hand inside.

Instantly you find his cock, hard and practically jumping at your touch as you wrap your hand around it. You’re rewarded with his hips jumping towards your touch and groan that’s immediately swallowed by your kiss.

Just a simple touch has him impatient, understanding your sudden desperation. The brief whine as his lips leave yours is replaced with a moan as you feel the thickness of him pressing at your entrance.

“Wait!” You cry out, so suddenly it startles him into jumping back.

“What’s wrong?” He looks panicked, then grief stricken, like he’s done something wrong.

“Nothing, I just needed to say—” Please, just let me say it, you beg your brain. “I love you.”

Finnick’s features instantly relax and he’s back against you in an instant. The smile that’s overtaken his entire face is the brightest you’ve ever seen.

“I love you too,” he says in between kisses, “I thought I was being pretty obvious about it though.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reply before thrusting into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he pauses, letting you adjust for a moment.

“I think you were made for me,” He breathes, forehead dipping down to connect with yours.

“Oh come on, don’t be cheesy— ah!” He’s setting a pace that’s been like the rest of the night, slow and sweet, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you both grow impatient with it.

For a while there’s only the sounds of labored breathing and skin against skin as he thrusts into you, until your gasps and moans grow more frequent and you both know you’re getting close.

He increases the pace to something much more demanding now, not caring about the path of scratches your fingernails are making down his perfect skin, marring his perfection ever so slightly.

“Please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for, because you know he’ll give you the release you so desperately crave. Still, with the coil wound tight at the base of your spine it’s all you can do in your sex-drunken mind.

You both come right after the other, completely in sync, there’s no hesitation when Finnick wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his chest.

“I meant it, y’know,” you say quietly after a minute.

“Me too. All of it.”

The giddiness you feel at his words disappears at the reality of the situation. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“I know,” he sighs, because that's all he can say.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Both your lives will be on the line for a greater cause, your next breath will not be guaranteed, and neither will his. But for these few sacred hours, before the first cracks of dawn seep through the curtains and drag you back to reality, you have certainty, you have contentment. 

A sigh escapes your lips, and Finnick looks down at you resting your cheek against his chest.

He hopes you can’t feel his heart accelerating when you begin to draw little patterns in his skin.

“What’s wrong?”

The look in your eyes makes him wish he hadn’t asked.

“I’m just going to miss you.”

He could protest. Could point you towards the logistics that favor both your survival, could ramble about how the rebels are going to get all of you out. How you won’t ever need to miss him because he plans on sticking to you like glue until he draws his last breath.

The little part of him that's just as scared as you are stops him from saying any of it. He’s agreed to sacrifice himself and everyone around him to ensure Katniss and Peeta make it out. He could do it without hesitation if he didn’t have to think about you.

Instead, he just presses a long kiss to your temple and pulls you impossibly closer. You think he’d burrow himself in your skin if he could.

“Me too,” is the last thing you hear before the lull of sleep, aided by the warmth and safety you feel in his arms.