Letters From a Seraphim

"KATNISS!"

A voice yelled; it could be none other than his. Dragged down into the torrents beneath, left to die to the mutts the Capitol sent. We all knew they wanted to kill us, but him? Please. Not him.

"FINNICK!" Barreling past Gale and Peeta, you yell his name again. More than prepared to throw yourself down there. A hand stops you, and you're knocked back onto your knees.

"Nightlock."

"No," You reach for her hand, but Gale holds you back. You scream again while she repeats the word. Nightlock. Oh, Finnick. You could still hear his cries of pain. Tears streamed down your face as you begged Katniss not to do it. Claiming he could be saved. Then, one last time.

"Nightlock."

Finnick yelled out your name, just as the holo dropped. Loud and bright, it exploded. And—

You bolted upright, a gasp caught in your throat. Your chest heaved, struggling for air. Your hand settled beside you; the ground was soft. You blinked your tears away, noticing that this wasn't the tunnels beneath the Capitol. No, you were home. Your breath slowed, and you could finally focus on the not-so-distant waves of the sea.

Beside you, a man groaned in his sleep. His eyes fluttered open to reveal perfectly sea-green eyes.

You couldn't hold back your tears.

Quickly, Finnick blinked away his exhaustion. Shushing you softly as he sat up to join you at your side.

"Hey, hey." He cooed, "What's wrong, angel?" His big arms wrapped around you. One settling over your shoulders, and the other across your waist, pulling you closer towards him. With his soft lips, he kissed away your tears, gripping you tighter with each peck.

"I— You didn't make it," You panted, wrapping your arms around his chest. "The mutts got you, and Katniss had to kill you. They didn't let me save you, Finnick, they—"

Your next words get choked on another sob, and you give up on any explanation you could provide. Pressing your face against his neck. He was warm, so, so warm. Alive, and here. There was nothing to worry about. And he echoed that.

"I'm okay, sweetheart," He muttered, his thumbs etching circles into your skin. "I'm here. We all survived. We're safe again by the sea."

He was right, the waves crashed against the shore just outside your bedroom window. Where else could you two be?

"See?" He gently lifted your head, tilting your face so you could look him in his... annoyingly handsome face. You can't hide the smile tugging at your lips, and he makes no effort to hide his own. "You're gorgeous in the moonlight, baby."

"Pfft, you're one to talk." You giggle.

Finnick looks almost offended if not for his wide grin, inhaling to speak once more when he's interrupted.

"I think Mama is very pretty."

Both of your attentions are directed to the door, where a small, copper-haired boy stands rubbing his eyes. A blanket snug in his little, chubby hands.

"What are you doing up, squirt?" Finnick chuckles, patting the bed beside him.

"Dunno, jus' woke up. Can I sleep with you guys?"

"'Course you can, lil minnow." Your husband leaned towards the edge of the bed, and your son waddled right up to him. With a simple heave, he now settled between you two. While Finnick adjusted the blanket, you couldn't help but sigh. Looking up at you through his lashes, he grinned again.

"I think your Mama's all love-sick,"

"What's a love sick?"

"Love sick is when Mama gets all mushy and sweet, see that smile on her face?" He pointed to you, and you just rolled your eyes. "Thats love sick."

"Yeah, yeah." You huffed, "Go to sleep, you two. It's too early for all of this."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am." Giggled Finnick, laying his head down and inviting you to lie next to him. You made sure to leave enough room between you two for your son. "I love you, darling. Love ya Squirt."

"I love you mama." He was already half asleep.

"And I love the two of you. As sure as the tides will rise."

Finnick was safe, and so was your son. Both are in your arms, in your shared bed, in district four. The war is over, and the Hunger Games are too. No longer do you two have to suffer.

It was only a bad dream.

Did constantly muttering and murmuring the odds of certain events help his social life? Well, no. But neither did being a booker boy, so he was used to keeping to himself.

He would entertain himself with worlds of baffling probabilities. Muttering to himself the odds of even the most mundane events. Like the odds of chicken being served for lunch at school? "25 to 1 that chickens on the menu," he'd mutter. "Against, of course. They wouldn't serve us something that good."

When asked about the odds that the teacher won't come in? "6 to 1. Wouldn't count on it, about an 85% chance she doesn't show... Saw her coughing badly the past few days. Always does that before she gets a cold this time of year."

People saw this as creepy, wondering if Wyatt would watch them as intently as he did the teacher. Placing odds on their actions like he did on everything else. Well, he did. He wouldn't deny that if asked, but truly what was the harm?

The day he saw you was just like any other. A long walk from school back to the edges of the seam. His strides were long, purposeful. Not in a rush, but not in any mood to be leisure either. The leftover autumn leaves crunched under the soles of his boots. The ragged, beat-up brown ones he's had for the past 3 years. He's nearly outgrown them, the leather suffocating the end of his feet. But money rarely left his family to go towards useful stuff. It just kept circulating between the same few people as they continuously made one bet after another.

For once, he found himself debating whether to even go home. Not permanently, of course; his odds of survival without the grudging support of his family were slim — especially considering the reputation of the bookers. But maybe he would delay himself an hour or two. Go sit in the meadow where one covey girl raises her geese and just relax.

He didn't need a break from the numbers, no. Just one from the pressure.

After he finally made up his mind, Wyatt stepped from his usual path. Treading through the woods that lead to the soft meadows. The silence was nothing new, but he heard the few chirps of Mockingjay's. While they weren’t uncommon, Wyatt never took the time to observe them outright. Silently, he hummed a 5 note tune. A moment passed, and his tune echoed back in his ear multiple times over. They seemed to enjoy the small gift of music.

Finally, Wyatt had reached the edge of the meadow. Looking over the way the evening sun stretched over the green. The gentle breeze flows through the tall grass. In the distance, tending to her geese was that covey girl he mentioned earlier. Along with someone else, you.

You and Lenore Dove laughed together, while another boy — Haymitch — stood a few feet away. Messing with something to the side, likely the geese. Yet Wyatt wasn't worried about what he was doing, nor did he care for Lenore Dove. He stared at you, and you alone. His lips parted ever so slightly, making them even more chapped than they usually were.

He wasn't sure what captivated him. Maybe it was the way you smiled, like there was no tomorrow. But Wyatt was inexplicably drawn to you.

He didn't like it.

People, crushes, they were unpredictable. Irrational. He couldn't figure you out with logic if he tried. That worried him a lot more than it should have. Despite the worry. He stayed. Planting himself down in the dry grass that lined the edge of the woods. Eyes still intently on you. Wyatt determined that if he kept his distance, nothing would come of it.

He never could have been more wrong.

After that, he began to see you everywhere. At the Hob, when his father finally sent him out to use the money he earned. You? Well, you were there trading buttons for ribbons. Wyatt wanted to ask why; he wanted to ask a lot of things, actually. More than he would ever admit.

Before he could even muster the courage to take a step, you were gone. Idly making your way back to your house. Which was, to his luck — or lack thereof — the entire opposite of where Wyatt had been standing.

Then, at school. It turns out, you two had the same lunch period. Honestly, Wyatt wasn't even sure you went to school. But there you sat. This time, sitting between the twins, Merrilee and Maysilee. Happily scarfing down your chicken, while talking about God knows what.

As time moved on, Wyatt learned more about you from passing conversations and intensive listening. Your name, favorite colors, and what part of the district you lived in. Even your family trade, which was shoemaking. He debated finding an excuse to go to your shop. Asking for something better, something new. Maybe he'd pretend to be well off. Saving enough money to buy something expensive. Be a bit of a showoff.

Wyatt would slow his walk home from school to silently watch you walk the other way. Sometimes, more often than not, he would go to the meadow and wait in that same pile of grass. Seeing if maybe you'll show up again.

You were affecting him badly. He was losing his routine, his predictability, his comfort. You made his face flush, his mind race, his breath slow, and his pulse quicken. All of that because a girl he had never once spoken to glanced in his direction.

It was a nuisance, yes. Annoying, and worrying. God, did he love the thrill of it, nonetheless.

It was a day almost like any other, truly. You're on your way to the meadow, where Lenore Dove and Haymitch always hang around. You were getting tired of third wheeling, though. They are both hopelessly in love. It was cute the first 200 times, but the 201st got to you.

You decide to take a different path than usual; having just come from the Hob, you don't feel like going the extra half mile towards the easier route. Walking through the hardly used path was more trouble than it was worth, with your ankles and calves now littered with small cuts and lacerations from the vines and bushes that were scattered through the forest. If you knew no better, you would have gotten angry. Yet nature does as nature wills.

You reach the edge of the trees, hearing your friend giggle and gawk at each other even from some yards away. Although your focus isn't on them. Instead, you see a boy sitting at the edge, on a heap of dried grass, gazing off into the distance as he contemplated everything and nothing at all. At least, that's what you thought that looked like.

He didn't even seem to notice you until you were right behind him, tapping his shoulder with a friendly smile.

"Whatcha thinking about?"

He flinched, stunned by your sudden appearance. Looking up at you through his messy black hair. It curled in every which way, disobedient and coiled against his olive skin. He was handsome, you would admit.

He swallowed, looking back in the distance as he muttered softly, "Just, sitting here."

He didn't seem one to talk much, but he looked awfully familiar. You stood there silently, trying to put your finger on it, when you finally remembered.

"Wyatt?" You asked, "Wyatt Callow?"

Once again, the poor boy was at a loss for words. Looking up at you with furrowed brows, his gaze softened almost an impossible amount.

"Yeah," his voice was still low, but he seemed more receptive to conversation. "Thats me. We're in the same lunch period."

He tells you your name, and you're just as surprised as he was moments ago. You two had never quite spoken before, unless you consider a few polite words when you didn't know who the other was. Or at least, when you didn't know who he was.

You two sit down, deciding that talking to Wyatt is better than watching your friends kissing for a few hours. You ask questions, he answers. Each one gets more and more details before it moves from a Q&A to a full-on conversation.

The topic of family comes up, and suddenly, that progress is lost.

"I don't know," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't think I should share. my family, they..."

Wyatt trailed off, his hands gesturing in the air as if to say he couldn't find the words.

He could, but he just didn't want to.

"Hey," you smile, "My family works with feet for a living. I don't think you can be much worse, yeah?"

You had earned a chuckle from him, a soft one that carried through the air with its own clumsy grace. Wyatt shifted in his spot, his legs crossed over each other as he looked up into the tall maple that stretched above you two.

"Well," he started, pausing as if to give himself time to back out. "I'm a part of the uh, the Booker family. Y'know. The gambling ones?"

"Really?"

Your head tilted, and his mirrored it — only slightly. He was clearly confused about your reaction. And you? Well, you were confused about why that mattered.

"Wyatt, I've got a question for you."

"Shoot," He nods, "I'm an open book."

"Do you gamble?"

"No."

"How about smoke?" you try.

"Course not, that looks painful."

"What about drinking till you blackout and throw up?"

He tore his eyes away from you, looking into the distance again. He started to get a little hurt. Did you really expect this from him?

"No, of course not."

"Then," you said, with a small nod. "You're alright in my book. Unless you like, kick babies. Then i'd have to differ."

He stares at you, like really stares. Trying to read you, to figure out what you meant by, well. Any of this. Suddenly,

he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, not a huff of air from his nose. No, he's laughing. So loudly that it catches the attention of Lenore Dove and Haymitch in the distance. Your cheeks burn, and before you realize it, you find yourself laughing along.

You really were unpredictable, and irrational, and he couldn't figure you out if he tried.

But maybe he liked that.

After the laughter dies down, you both relish the silence. Before you speak up, with yet another question.

"Well, if you don't gamble, what do you do? If you don't mind me asking."

He leans back on his hands, the dry grass digging into the calloused skin of his palms. He shrugged.

"Probabilities and odds. The men in my family come to me before solidifying any dumb bets."

Probabilities. A math term you remembered learning in school a year or so back. You didn't understand it at all; it seemed like useless jargon. Especially considering most of the kids would be going into the mines regardless of how many numbers they could calculate.

You wanted to keep talking to Wyatt. You couldn't say why, but you just landed on the fact that he provided a fine company.

"How do those work?"

Wyatt and you sit and talk for hours. He explains how the two concepts work. Probabilities were the chance of something happening, out of everything to happen, and odds were telling you how much more likely something is to happen than not. You were still a bit lost for a while, but soon after many, many trial questions, you started to understand.

"Okay, okay," You grin, "So, tell me the odds that... Tomorrow we play dodgeball."

He thinks for a moment, his eyes drifting like they did every time he began to process something.

You were picking up on his small habits already, oh no.

"Considering all the games we play, and the fact that the gym teacher prefers to make us run. I'd say 19 to 1 against it."

You pause for a moment, your lips pressed in a thin line as you thought.

"So, that means that out of 20 outcomes... 19 are bad, and 1 is good? Making the probability 1 out of 20, right?"

Wyatt snaps his fingers, a toothy grin bringing itself to his face as he confirms, "Exactly! Ya got it."

"That is..." you began, lips hung gently open as you searched for the right word, "deceptively easy."

His grin turned to a soft smile at those words, and instead of responding, he only looked into the distance. The rock that Lenore Dove and Haymitch occupied was barren, and the sky decided it was time to stretch its orange and pink hues across the horizon. Wyatt couldn't help but steal another glance at you. Your face looked so pretty in the sunset.

"What are the odds," He began, his nails absentmindedly scratching at the peeling leather of his boots. "That I get to meet you here again?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Same time."

You pretended to think, but your mind had already been made up. You knew your answer. You knew it before he even asked.

"Hmm, you'd phrase that as a 1 to 1 probability, right?"

"Yeah, you would." He couldn't hide his smile. Neither could you.

"So, I'll see you here tomorrow?" You lifted your pinky, head tilted just barely as you giggled.

"Yeah," He took your pinkie into his. "You'll see me here tomorrow."

Darkness fell, and the two of you left in your separate ways again. Wyatt to the bookerboy home, and you to your family's shop. Unable to hide the smile on either of your faces from your family, forced to face their teasing.

Author's note: JESUS, that took forever. Holy. This was meant to be a gift from the near bEGINNING OF THE SCHOOL YEAR. ITS AB TO END NOW. SORRY OOMF. lwk not proofread but we ball.

A confident voice rings among the crowd, and I immediately know who it is. My neck snaps around, eyes narrowed as I tried to find him. The source of the voice. For once in my life, I want to be wrong. I was praying to a moon no longer in the sky that I was wrong. But no, because with his hand enthusiastically in the air stood one Finnick Odair. My best friend since diapers. What the hell was he thinking?

Murmurs ring throughout the gathered kids. And rightfully so. Usually, careers wait till they're 17 or 18 to volunteer. No, they're supposed to. Sure, it's not a rule. But I know they're supposed to. Nobody in the career center wanted this. No mentor wanted him to do this. No, Finnick did what he wanted. So, so foolishly. After the usual fanfare — the handshake, the treaty reading, we're finally allowed to visit them. I push by the few people in line for the girl — Selkie — and I feel bad for a moment. Though that feeling is quickly consumed by my anger yet again as I trudge to the door to Finnick's room in the Justice Building. I was about to barge in when I notice a peacekeeper eyeing me. So instead, I stand there and brew. The anger, confusion, and fear were bubbling in my stomach like I had eaten a bad oyster.

Finally, after his family tearfully walks out. It's my turn. "Finnick. Odair." I seethe, but he doesn't even seem to notice. If he does, he doesn't point it out. Instead, he flashes me that boyish grin. That same one he always sports when he sees me. "Oh, hey! You came to wish me goodbye!" He beamed, the innocence in his voice almost betraying me. Finnick's arms open, taking confident steps in my direction. And while I want to push him away, the fear of loss grips me harder than any grudge I could hold. My arms wrap around him like a vice, and he lets out an 'ouf' from the impact. It's his warmth that finally reaches me, when I realize I might never hug him again. That the tears begin to fall. And Finnick, innocently stupid Finnick, just chuckles at my waterworks. "Hey," he whispers, trying to pull back. But my fingers dig into his shirt, and I cling tighter. "Hey," He repeats, "Look at me, Squirt." Squirt. Why did he have to call me that now of all times? It brings me back to when we were kids, barely even 8. Sitting on the beach, playing with things that probably shouldn't have been touched.

"Hey!" Finnick called, lifting an odd thing from the underside of the dock. He struts his way towards me, chubby hands lifting it to my face. "Look at this thing!" My eyes looked over it carefully, wide and curious. It was sludgy looking, slipping in his little grasp as he struggled to keep it still. I looked up at him, naively beginning to ask what it was when I'm hit with a face full of water. I gasped, cries of disgust and anger babbling from me as Finnick laughed. Doubling over as his giggles poured out of his mouth. "It was a sea squirt!" He managed between laughs, walking over to the tide to set the animal down, though little me was sure it was dead anyway... "You're gross!" I huff, using his shirt to wipe my face. This earns bouts of protests from him. "It was funny!" "Was not!" I counter, "Was too! Y'know, you're a lot like them! Small, squishy, and you do something funny when you're squeezed!" As if to prove his point, his hands reached out to squish my cheeks between his fat fingers, making me squeal and giggle. To which he smiled. "I'm calling you Squirt now!" "Yuck!" I whine, "Please don't." "Can't stop me! C'mon, Squirt, let's go further down the beach." I don't know why, but even with my grumbles of protest. I took his hand, and our little selves marched our way deeper into the sandy terrain.

A dumb nickname, with a dumb origin. One that—despite my refusal—finally gets me to loosen. Only slightly. Enough to rest my chin on his chest to crane my neck up painfully. Finnick doesn't look worried. Not at all. His dirty blond hair fell messily on his face. My eyes soften, just barely, as I take in his features for what I fear is the last time. The way his nose sat perfectly on his face, highlighting his eyes in a way that made him seem more alive than any boy our age. And his smile, as annoying as it could get, I always loved his smile. It always brought this inexplicable comfort with it. And this time was no different. I should be the one comforting him. Telling him that he'll make it out alive, that we'll see each other again. But he seems to know it all too well.

It's me who needs convincing. "Why," I whisper. "Why did you do this?" I lower my head; my forehead planted on his chest as I feel his heartbeat. The very one filled with blood soon to be spilled. "Why would you do this, Finn?!" I push, my hands moving from his back to his shoulders. Shaking him lightly. "You were supposed to wait! We're fourteen. No, you're fourteen! You had three more years, what is wrong with you?!" Finnick seems taken aback by my anger. His eyes widened, brows furrowed as he scanned over my scrunched up face. His hands hovered over my waist, no longer hugging me as he searched for words.

"I—" "Anyone else!" I exclaim. "It could've been anyone else! Finnick, Finnick, please. Please—" I beg, my voice breaking. I don't even know what I'm begging for anymore. There's nothing he can do, nothing anyone can do. He's stuck. He's a tribute now. Forced to go to the arena, to fight other children when he's nothing but a child himself. His odds would have been better if he had just waited. But no. Finnick does what Finnick wants. "Squirt," he mutters, his hands resting on my shoulders, and suddenly, I realize I'm hyperventilating. He looks at me, expecting me to look back. But I don't, I can't. Because when I do, I'm afraid that his pity-filled eyes will be my last memory of him. "Squirt, I wanted to do this." He begins, pausing for me to intervene again. But when he realizes I've lost the strength to, he continues. "I want to prove myself. I'm tired of just training, I'm tired of waiting to be who I want to be. I want it now." Me, Me, Me. That's all I hear. And as much as I want to be angry, I cry some more. My face buried into his shoulder as I sob. Finally, I pull myself out of my stupor. I dig in my pocket to grab something, a small sea glass necklace. No bigger than my thumbprint, the same color as Finnick's eyes. I planned to give it to him for his birthday, but I was worried that it would never come. "You can have one thing, one thing in the arena to wear," I say, my voice colder than I intended. "I'm giving you this. Please, please wear it, Finnick." He stares down at the necklace. Turning the small thing in his hands. Inspecting it closely. So closely that I almost expect him to turn it down. Except, he doesn't. Finnick lifts it above his head, letting it fall right above his collarbone. "Thank you," Finnick whispers.

He hugs me for all but a second before the door is opened. I don't turn around; instead, I hold Finnick tighter as a string of protests escapes me. "No, no no! No! I'm not ready, please!" I plead and plead, but the peacekeepers grab me by my bicep and start pulling me back. He objects, ordering them to be careful with me. He reaches for me, but another peacekeeper gets between us. "You listen to Mags!" I screech, my arms trying to pry themselves from the man's grasp. "Listen to everything she tells you, you hear?! You're making it home!" "I will, Squirt!" Finnick calls back. "As sure as the tides rise—" Slam. The door is shut, and I'm being pushed back into the square. They tell me to scram, to go back home, but my eyes never once leave the justice building. Hoping I'll get to see him one last time.

I never do.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

He had won. Finnick Odair, the boy I was so scared to lose, the boy I cried about for nights on end, won the Hunger Games. He was coming home, finally coming home. I cry the night it was announced and cry all through the interview as I watch him talk about his experience. Those he killed, how he felt. I expect him to say he was scared, to finally crack under the pressure. But no, he keeps that same persona he had cultivated weeks prior. The same boyish grin, the same cute dimples. Like the atrocities he faced in the arena hadn't affected him at all.

It was almost uncanny. He didn't seem like my Finnick. Finnick sits next to Caesar Flickerman. Adorned in a white suit, with white slacks to match. Small hints of aqua peek from his collar and cuffs, with his tie being a scaled adornment. "So, Finnick," Caesar says, himself head to toe in aqua. Leaning into the Mic carefully, A sly grin on his face as he continues. "I know that a handsome young fellow like you will have girls in district 4 lining up for miles, just to kiss you on your cute little cheeks!" The crowd erupts in cheers and laughter of agreement. The claps resounding through my home as I watch Caesar carefully wait for the noise to die down. "But tell me," he whispers, but he says it directly into the mic. "Do you have your eyes set on anyone?" "I do," Finnick smirks. "He does folks!" Caesar affirms with a hearty laugh. And the crowd erupts yet again.

My breath hitches in my throat, eyes wide as I look at my TV in surprise. Did he mean me? Surely, he meant me. "I thought of her every day while I was in the arena. She was the only thing that kept me going." "Oh?" Caesar smirks, his elbow nudging at Finnick playfully. "Well, I'm sure she's watching right now. What do you have to say to her?" Finnick turns right to the camera, his hands digging into the collar of his suit for a moment until he pulls out the necklace I gave him. Still in perfect condition, still twinkling a pretty sea green like his eyes. "Squirt, you kept me going. I didnt realize until I was in that arena just how brutal it was. But the idea of never annoying you again? I couldn't bear it." Caesar laughs at his comment, clapping his hands in delight before asking. "Squirt? Is her name, Squirt? An odd name, but maybe that's how district four does it!"

Finnick chuckles and shakes his head — his signature grin still on his face. Yet I finally notice it wasn't as innocent as it once was. It held some weight to it. "No, no, it's just my nickname for her. She hates it." After a few more rounds of back-and-forth banter, Caesar finally stands. His hands are lifting dramatically as he announces. "And that's it! Everyone give it up for Finnick Odair! Capitol sweetheart, and winner of the 65th Hunger Games!" Claps ring through my room again, and I finally turn the TV off. Sitting in anticipation. He was alive; he had won. And soon, with the victory tour, he would be home to me.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

He comes home for the victory tour, and I go up right to the front of the square. Listening to every word as he speaks about his time in the arena. Something was off, so clearly so. He seemed almost too proud of himself. Finnick was cocky, sure. But this seemed less like an ego and more like an act. Anyone with any semblance on who Finnick was could tell something was different, but the rest of district 4 ate it up. His smile was as sweet as ever. No, even sweeter. It was getting hard to swallow. Finally, he finishes. Saying the usual—

"Panem today, Panem tomorrow. Panem forever."

He cautiously waited for the clapping and cheers, like Caesar would wait after telling a joke. lifting his hands as a sign of his triumph before moving to leave. As he turns around, his eye catches mine. I expect him to light up, to smile, to come to me. Say something, anything. But Finnick looks away like I was any other citizen of Panem. With a tired, distant look in his eyes. Even when the tour was done, and he's permanently home— save for whatever parties the Capitol holds — he was never the same. It was like he's avoiding me. Whenever he's at the market and I arrive, suddenly something would come up. If I'm at the shore, he'd pick a different place to leisurely fish. It's getting annoying; it was so, so annoying. ·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

four years later, I volunteer myself. I'm a career as well, so I was never immune to it. I knew I was going to, but when Finnick threw himself into deaths arms so early on and managed to wrestle his way out; I knew I could at 18. When my hand shoots up, when I shout those words. "I Volunteer!" I look at Finnick. 18 now. His hair still a mess but cut significantly shorter than it was in our younger years. It sits just above its ears. Still in uneven waves, still mimicking the sea. His features have matured, but not much. That smile that I once thought sweet, now felt like a lump of sugar being forced down my throat every time I saw it.

But I don't see it today, all I saw was a man looking back with... disappointment? Regret? I can't read him. All I know is that once again, I'm staring into the face of someone I didnt know. I trudge my way up the stage, giving my district a curt nod as they cheer my name. Then, I was face to face with Finnick Odair.

He looks at me with a sadness I couldn't read, one I couldn't decipher. I want to ask, to say something, but before I can open my mouth, he puts his hand out. Expecting me to shake it. My hand reluctantly leaves my side, reaching for his. It was cold. "Good luck." He smiles, as saccharine as ever. Yet there is no warmth. No love, no "Squirt." My greatest fear did come true; I realize that now. Finnick — My Finnick — Died in that arena. The person who came back was a stranger.

The train ride there is silent. At least on my end. My district partner, another volunteer named Cove, talks to Finnick about how to win. How we approach things, the important question. But me? I sit there seething. My teeth clenched in my jaw, arms crossed over my chest. Finnick notices this, I know he does. But like always, it's like I'm not there. Mags walks in, and immediately my attention diverts to her. I stand up, marching my way to her with a wide smile, arms open for a hug. Her age showing through the softness of her touch, and how small she feels against me. I know that my only way of getting through these games was through Mags, Finnick will be of no help.

Fine. Cove can have Finnick. I'll take Mags. We'll see who survives.

We stop in district one to refuel, the prospect of death still looming over my head as I step outside. Still under the watchful eye of peacekeepers, but since I'm from a career district they seem more lenient. leaning onto car behind me, I bite into an apple. My nose scrunching at the bitter taste... "And you'd think they'd treat us better."

A scoff resounds from the door, but it holds no bite. Of course, I know who this is. No other man sounds so amused at everything.

"Sweetheart, I think one bad apple doesn't spoil all the amazing foods." Finnick smiles, sauntering his way over to me with a grin. One less kind, more calculated.

"Yeah? Well, I'd like to think I can still complain about one bad apple. Especially if I expected better from it. It looks sweet on the outside. And I mean, who doesn't love apples that look sweet? but inside its just sour."

I'm not talking about apples anymore.

The smile on Finnick's face waivers for only a moment, and I know my message got to him. His eyes search the area around us sporadically, yet his head doesn't move... Whatever. I'm Finished with this conversation; I push myself off the hot metal of the train car. Moving to brush past Finnick when I'm stopped by his hand gripping my bicep.

"Hey," His voice is low, "We need to talk."

Oh. Thats why.

"I'm sure you think we do." I pull; he doesn't budge.

"I'm being serious, squirt."

The usage of that name catches me off guard. Every memory of him becoming the forefront of my thoughts. While this Finnick isn't who I remember, he's used to be. Slowly, I turn to face him. Getting a good look at his face. His brows creased, mouth turned into a desperate frown.

"Fine." I huff, "Two minutes."

He lights up, and it's clear to me he has some sense of hope of salvaging this friendship. While he searches for his words, I search for ways to tell him that this can't be saved. It's going to take something insanely crazy for me even to begin to think about mending this— "President Snow threatened to kill you."

Oh. Perhaps it's more likely than I thought.

But still, I scoff. My head tilting, brows furrowed as I whisper. "What the fuck do you mean? That's a cheap ass excuse, He doesn't even know I exist."

"You're right, he doesn't. not exactly at least." Finnick nodded, "He knows about "Squirt." Not—"

"Not about me" I finish for him. A slow nod as I start to grasp the situation. So, he threatened Finnick with my, well, "Squirts" death, forcing him to stay away. If we were to be close, it would be clear who gave him that pendant. There must not be cameras in the justice building rooms. At least not in 4 — otherwise I might have been long gone by now. It makes sense, but it isn't adding into the bigger picture. Somethings missing.

"But why, why did he even threaten me?" I press, "It doesn't make sense."

He swallows, all of the previous hope he had gone. The fourteen-year-old boy I lost is standing right in front of me, with a genuine fear etched into every crease on his face.

"After my interview he talked to me. He wanted— He—"

Finnick chokes on his words, and it's clear that this isn't something good. Not at all. I expected him to tell me what happened. The atrocities snow committed to him. Moments pass, and I can hear the thoughts rummaging through his head. Searching for the words to say, wanting to make it right. But what he says only hurts me further. "You don't know me." He whispers, voice broken. "I'm not the same person anymore."

The words hit me like a freight. I knew this. I had known it since he ignored me at the victory tour. Since he began avoiding me. No, I knew it even before then. I knew I lost my Finnick the moment his sweet smile was too hard to swallow.

"That's..." I pause, trying to find the words. This is a delicate situation. It's been years. I wont deny that I miss him. We did everything together; I can't imagine a life without him.

Through this, one thought keeps resurfacing, how much of this is even true? But the look he gives me leaves little room to deny the fact that whoever he is now, he’s broken. He’s just a man who is trying to keep the last bit of hope this world can give him.

"Okay." my voice is weak. "That's okay,” the words leave my mouth again with more certainty. “I'll get to know you again."

The world goes quiet. His breath catches in his throat. My own lungs can't seem to get enough oxygen as he lets to words hang. It was a tentative confession within its own right. A silent plea from myself that says I cannot lose this boy again. I have to fight in that arena. Fight to keep my promise. Fight to get to know him again. Maybe, just maybe we can take a chance.

"Okay." he whispers. The faintest hint of a smile ghosting his face. Though I struggle to return the gesture. My mind plagued with the thought of losing this moment. What little time I might have left.

Damn you, Finnick Odair. you had four years to do this.

This conversation, as long as it felt was so short. I think we're both painfully aware of how delicate each moment is now that I'm on my way to a game of death. I open my mouth, about to speak when the chime of the train rings through our ears. Startling the both of us more than it should. I look behind him and see the peacekeepers staring. Expecting us to move. I sigh, turning back to Finnick with a pained grin.

Back on the train, time seems to pass quick yet not move at all. Every second agonizingly slow, but when they make up the minute you realize it flew by. I lean back on my bed, my eyes looking at the ceiling like I thought it would have all my answers. Neither Finnick nor I have said anything since. But it seems — at least on his side — unintentional. I hope.

Any questions that I began to conjure were answered the moment my door opened, and Finnick stood there with a napkin of bread in one hand and a small tub of cinnamon butter in the other. A grin snuck its way onto my face, accompanied by an infectious feeling of joy.

"They don't bug the personal rooms" he says when the door closes behind him. Sitting on my bed next to me with a smile. "Not until you win. So, on the victory tour we might not have this luxury."

"Right," I mutter, that earlier joy dampened now that I'm reminded of the games.

When Finnick notices, his hands move to carve a slice from the loaf. Using the same knife to dip into the decadent butter before spreading a generous glob onto the bread. He presents it to me as an offering. His smile is honeyed. Not in an overwhelming way, nor a way that feels like you're drowning in buttercream.

No, it's simple and sweet.

"Thank you," I say. Taking a bite from the corner of the sweet bread. It too, is simple and sweet. Maybe that's why I like it so much. Unable to suppress the chipper hum that follows my chewing.

Finnick noticed my liking and chuckled, the sound foreign to my ears. I stared, unrelentingly so. Now realizing just how much he had grown. He's... Handsome. Annoyingly so.

"Oh?" He grins, "Y'think so?" I must have said that out loud. "Well deepest condolences for being so "annoyingly handsome" Squirt. I'll send your compliments to the chef though." He's hardly able to get through his words without bursting out into laughter. His hand on my shoulder to stabilize his trembling body while his chortles and snorts echo through the room.

He snorts when he laughs. How did I forget?

As pissed off as I want to be, I can't bring myself to be so. Instead, just letting him get it all out. Laughing a little along with him, but only a little.

"Ha. Ha." I say, putting on my best angry face. Yet my smile betrays me. "I was just trying to give you some confidence."

"Right, hon. Thats what they all say."

My eyes roll so hard I could lose them behind my head. When stuck with the choice of arguing some more or eating. I choose the latter. Stuffing another sweet bite into my mouth.

The silence consumes us, for five minutes or for an hour. I can't even tell anymore. Time doesn't matter, not right now. At least, I'm acting like it. Maybe the more I ignore it, the slower it seems. The more time I'll get mending what's been broken.

"What's your favorite color?" Finnick's voice breaks the silence.

"What?"

"You heard me, Favorite color?" His face is as serious as ever, asking such an elementary question. It almost would make me laugh if not for the weight his tone carried.

"...Sea-green."

Finnick seemed to enjoy that answer, a smile spreading across his lips. He reached for his pocket, pulling out that same necklace I gave him all those years ago. There was a crack in it — right down the middle — with a line of glue running down it. It told a story, one I knew Finnick wasn't ready to tell.

"Huh," His thumb ran over the pendant so delicately. Like he was scared his small touch would be the thing to break it again. "Me too."

It used to be blue. Not teal, or baby blue. Just, blue. Like the ocean.

"Why did it change?" I whisper

The silence hangs in the air. Not suffocating, instead draping over everything like a soft wave. The kind we had in early mornings in district four. With the ocean breeze tickling your neck, the salt from the sea tangled in your hair, and the sun staining your skin.

It was comfort. Pure, homely comfort.

"Because of you"