#fatefought

"It's pretty." It's the first thing Peeta says to Annie Cresta when he approaches. She's standing at the edge of the party - he needs to be a wallflower right now, he's suffocating in the center - looking at some painting from what Peeta assumes is centuries ago. He wonders what it would be like to be famous for art instead of winning a game where people kill one another.

"The painting," he clarifies once he notices him. "Though you look lovely, too." A kind smile, a soft nod in greeting. He knows about Annie Cresta in the same way he knows about all the victors - from their tapes, from Haymitch. He hadn't watched much of her Games. It was unnecessary.

Drabble | @fatefought

Curled into one another on the plush couch and tucked under the worn blanket that had once belonged to his parents, the two hid from the world and all its cruel monsters. The humid air fostered a certain, familiar sorrow.

They'd been here before, and on nights like these, Finnick could not help but feel conflicted.

He was thankful that they had each other. He had been isolated with his anger and fear for so long he had nearly forgotten how to feel anything but. Having a companion in this deep sorrow, then, was a small comfort. Almost.

How was Finnick to accept that Annie — his Annie, with her beautiful soul and fragile heart — was his companion in this hurt? How could he bear knowing that there was nothing he could do to lessen the burden for her?

He would try, of course. He would spend the rest of his life fighting tooth and nail to ease her pain. Even on nights like these. Even when he was clearly struggling to maintain his footing in the battle against his own demons.

Around them, the house was quiet and the night was still. The only evidence that time had not halted and that life outside their blanket sanctuary continued on despite what their misery made them believe, were the curtains fluttering in the sea breeze coming in from the open window.

The night Finnick returned from the Games each year had become something of a harrowing holiday, and their celebration a hallowed tradition. He would make the walk from the train station to her house, dazed, before being greeted at the door by an expectant Annie, who would have been watching from home in Four. The two would wordlessly fall onto the couch, entwined in one another as if bound by the hurt, and count the seconds as they pass, just so they could be sure they did.

And they would stay there, forgoing food and sleep, living second by second, minute by minute, as they tried to remind themselves that this pain was not forever — that it would become an easier pill to choke down, just as it had every other year. They would greet the sunrise and morningbirds sorrowfully before moving on with their lives until it came rolling back around next year.

So yes, he was thankful to have someone to ease him through the late hours on that first night, mourning the lives they could not save, but he resented that it had to be Annie. Not because he would rather find comfort elsewhere, but because she could not be spared from the guilt and grief.

The pair had been this way for hours, holding each other close, before she had spoke. Though her voice was barely a whisper, Finnick could not help but feel as if it were too loud.

Finnick closed his green eyes, a soft yet steady finger drawing circles on the back of her hand. He knew what she meant, how the memories feel like weapons. He felt it, too.

It's painful.

That's the only thing Peeta can think about whenever he tries to walk around for more than fifteen minutes. The doctor's had told him it would be like for a little while. He'd spent a week in the Capitol getting back up on his feet (foot?) to learn how the contraption they'd given him would work - how to operate it, how to practice, how to take it off when he needs a break - and then had been sent home.

In Twelve, losing a leg would've been a death sentence. At the Capitol, it was barely an inpatient procedure.

He's still in recovery. They'd ordered him to stay home for the next month and slowly build his tolerance to the leg. He should be able to get back to the bakery after that. To his family.

In the week he's been home, they've all stopped by, but it's not daily, and Ma only once. The bakery is too busy, she'd told Peeta after she said she could only stay an hour. Apparently, his fame had caused a bunch of orders from the center districts, even a few from the Capitol. They're packing them up in fancy paper that will help keep them fresh for the train ride. Peeta had smiled at the news, but he'd secretly hoped she'd come back the next day. Maybe say something good about how he'd managed to get home to them. She hadn't.

Now, he's struggling to get up off the couch - it's too plush, too low to the ground, and he's not used to it - because Haymitch's gruff voice is on the other side of his front door. "Coming!" he shouts before practically falling over as he tries to stand. He's got his leg on, but he hasn't quiet figured out his part yet - the up and the down. He nearly crashes and it makes him curse, fall back into the cushions. He sighs. "Can you just come in?" he says towards the door. "It's unlocked."

Victor's Village was quiet tonight. That could be normal, sometimes - but the younger victors down the way tended to have their hands full with parties, the way Brutus often did when he was just a kid and first moved in here. Next door to the infamous Thea Ellis, who was pretty much known to be the recluse at the end of the corner. No one else had picked the house next to hers until Brutus and, even now, it proves entertaining despite her (fake) solitude.

Which is why, when he sees Ezra Klair sneaking out in the middle of the night, Brutus can't help but smirk. He's well on his way to drunk (okay, so maybe he stopped by the kids' party and had smoked a bit, drank a bit, with Enobaria, so what?) and he brings the glass to his lips as Ezra moves past him to the exit of the lane.

"You know," he says, loudly enough to make the man stop. "For a man who does this nearly every night, you think you'd be better at it. Tell Thea she's not fucking fooling anyone." He laughs again. "Or, better yet, I'll tell her myself. Should be in for a fun night. I like when she gets all Games-y."

"And suddenly, it's as if there's no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one being. Indivisible. A pang of jealousy hits me. Not for either Finnick or Annie but for their certainty. No one seeing them could doubt their love."

Finnick had learned how to handle most things. The exhaustion after a long day of putting on a show for the cameras, the sickness that settled over him each Games season, the quiet anxiety that stalked him from deep in the shadows back in Four — all of it paled in comparison to the overwhelming panic that gripped him in moments like these. 

He had to have known their routine. Nothing Snow did was a coincidence, so the only explanation was that he had found out about his eight o’clock phone calls with Annie. The President had to have been watching the clock, waiting for the exact moment to dial the number to Finnick’s place, letting his hopes rise and rejoicing when they came crashing down when the victor answered the call only to be met with a gruff request to meet. Finnick knew it wasn’t an invitation, not really.

Standing outside the heavy wooden doors that led to Snow’s office, he tried to slow his racing heart. The attempt proved to be futile. There was no relaxing when the man who had you on strings was ready to take the reigns once more.

The door creaked open at the hand of a decorated peacekeeper who wasted no time ushering him into the room. Finnick took his mark, coming to something of a parade rest in the middle of the office to hide his shaking hands. Eyes downcast, he knows better than to speak first, so no greeting comes from him — not that he felt confident that he’d find the words to do so. Instead, Finnick stands motionless and vulnerable before Snow, waiting for him to deliver his commands.

How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?

How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?

What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen?

What’s the lie your character says most often?

As cliche and predictable as it is, probably “I’m/It’s fine.” He’s spent years hiding his true feelings out of fear of retaliation from Snow, going along with plans and campaigns he truly wanted no part in. It was much easier (emotionally and otherwise) to brush off the concern of friends or to agree with the ones pulling all the strings than it was to deny or refuse it. 

How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?

If Finnick calls someone a friend, it means something. He isn’t the type to use the word lightly. A friend is someone he knows is safe and is someone he knows he can rely on. While he likes many people, there are only a handful of people that he would genuinely consider to be a friend.

How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?

This question is truly dependent on where he is in the timeline. As a child, he had nothing to hide, but after he won his games Finnick kept most of his feelings close to his chest. Currently? It feels as though everyone knows what he is thinking at all times, so he tries to deflect more, which makes the feeling worse. 

What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

Finnick has two primary hobbies, one being writing/poetry (which was abused by the Capitol as his “talent”), and the other being basic gardening. Finnick never had a large garden, but he tried to keep a small pot of thyme alive for a while, only for it to die while on a trip to the Capitol. The demands of victor life made it so that he’d never be able to keep his plants alive. Now that he’s in 13, he knows there’s no chance of even trying. Perhaps he’ll get to start again after the war. 

Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen?

Drabble | @fatefought

The day was winding down. The sun nestled low in the sky, glittering brilliantly off the waves. Finnick and Annie sat with their feet buried in the sand, having taken a detour on the way home from the market to watch the sunset. He watched as a small, muddy-colored crab picked at the sand, scavenging for it's dinner as seagulls screeched above. The crab was blissfully unaware that it could very well be one of the bird's dinner. The poor guy.

"Hm?" he had been too lost in his thoughts to process the question. There was a moment of silence than hung heavily between them. In that moment, he considered it. Really considered it. Breaking it down for her, spilling all the little secrets he had accumulated as the murmurs of rebellion snowballed into the force it was now, ready and waiting.

A memory from years ago replayed in his mind. A bittersweet moment between he and Mags that had occurred years before he had even learned Annie's name. Our time will come. It was. Their time. Their justice. It was just around the bend.

Finnick's involvement in it all started small, and he never thought he would be here, making these arrangements and attending off-hour meetings in thoroughly vetted rooms in the most obscure parts of the Capitol. It had been easy to keep the rebellion from Annie when it had been little more than rumors and angry rants. But in the years since he had caught those first rumblings, it had evolved into something else entirely. Something so real and tangible — Finnick had held the plans in his calloused hands. He could never share that with her, not when the weight of it all threatened to crush him. He couldn't bear to think about what it would do to his Annie, sweet as the summer rains remedying a drought and as delicate as the tiny, magnificent orange lantana blossoms that trailed down dunes.

Turning his head to look at her, Finnick opened his mouth as if to speak, but his words caught in his throat. No. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He just had to trust that it really was better this way. His mouth fell shut and an almost pained expression crossed his face. He looked away once more, back to the crab as he fought to find the right words. She would be curious now, for sure. He had to say something.

The gulls were closing in on the crab who remained oblivious to the looming threat. In that moment, Finnick couldn't tell if he were the crab — just trying to get by under the careful watch of a predator — or the seagull — waiting for the perfect moment to strike an unsuspecting target. He tore his green eyes from the scene and back to Annie as an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

"I keep a lot of secrets, my love," he said, finally breaking the silence. "But none from you." The lie tasted bitter, a pill he was trying his damned hardest to choke down. "Never from you."