#finnick fluff

Finnick knows how this works; he’s known it since he was fourteen years old and first stepped foot in an arena. Since the moment he lost sight of you, since the bloodbath separated you, Snow’s words haunt him with every cannon he hears: "She is just another thing I can take from you."

And yet—

He still dares to believe you’re alive.

Not because the Capitol hasn’t tried. Not because the odds are kind. But because you promised. You swore you’d fight. And Finnick clings to that vow like a prayer, even as the arena’s cannons rattle his bones. Last night, he’d counted the fallen—your name absent from the sky’s grim ledger. But three more cannons have split the air since dawn, and now—

Now he’s not sure what to believe. The rational part of him—the part carved into survival by years of Capitol cruelty—knows the truth: They’re playing with him. But the other part, the raw and bleeding thing behind his ribs, doesn’t care. The rebels’ plan echoe in his head, "Stay put. Wait for extraction." But he’s itching to move, to act, to do something besides sit here and wait. Every muscle in his body is filled with restless energy, his fingers tapping a precise rhythm against his trident. The inaction is worse than any challenge the arena could give him. He wants to run back into the jungle, to tear through the branches until he finds you, but he knows you. That's the cruellest part.

He knows how you think, the way you map escape routes before you even enter a room, the way you always have a back-up plan for your back-up plan. And right now, this beach is your plan. It’s the rendezvous point you had all agreed on before the Games even began, a secret strategy the rebels had managed to lay out. If he leaves, he risks missing you. If he stays, he risks leaving you to die alone. The dilemma claws at his ribs, and around him he can hear the others strategise, but their words blur into static. All he can hear is the phantom echoe of your voice in his head as you tell him it will be okay. Johanna catches his eye from across the beach, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Stop pacing. You’re making me twitchy.” He forces himself to let out a deep breath, focusing on the movement of the water in front of him. He needs to put himself back together; he needs to stay here.

But then—your scream. It tears through the jungle, a sound so visceral his body moves before his mind catches up. He’s already sprinting, the grip on his trident tight as his instincts kick in.

"Finnick, stop—!" Johanna’s voice is lost to him over the rushing of blood in his ears. The trees blur as he runs; he doesn't think about the careers that could be close by, the traps that he could trigger or the fact that he’s doing the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to. The flicker of movement to his right catches his attention, and he’s about to change directions when the jabberjays descend. They’re a swarm of wings and needle-sharp cries as they surround him, their voices stitching together into an illusion of you: your gasps, your sobs, the way you’d whispered his name before being forced apart. He stops moving and staggers to his knees. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. Knows that Snow’s fingerprints are all over this new form of torture. But logic means nothing when his hands are shaking, when his lungs refuse to work, when every instinct screams to run, find, save—

Johanna grabs his shoulder, her nails biting through his skin. "Breathe, Odair."

The jabberjays' cries fade into the jungle's chorus, leaving Finnick hollowed out and raw. Johanna's grip on his shoulder remains, her fingers digging into muscle like she's the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.

"Get up," she hisses, voice low and urgent. "We need to move before those things lure anyone else here." Finnick's hands still tremble as he pushes himself to his feet. The phantom echoes of your voice cling to him, sticky as blood. He wants to argue, to plunge back into the green hell after you, but Johanna's right—the sound of the jabberjays could be a beacon for every tribute left in the arena.

The walk back to the beach is a blur of snapping branches and Johanna's muttered curses. When they break through the treeline, Beetee's head jerks up from the makeshift radio he's been tinkering with, his glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Did you find—?"

"No," Johanna cuts him off, shoving Finnick toward the water. "Go clean up before I toss you in the water myself.” Finnick's gaze drifts to the treeline, his fingers twitching at his sides. You promised you'd fight. He just needs to believe you're still fighting.

You wake to the taste of copper and dirt. The world swims into focus slowly—first the ache in your ribs, then the sticky warmth of blood matting your hair to your scalp. Somewhere in the chaos of the bloodbath, a blow to the head had sent you sprawling into the undergrowth, separating you from the others. The jungle hums around you, deceptive in its tranquillity. Every rustle of leaves could be a mutation, every snapped twig a Career hunting for stragglers. The beach is your only chance—you know Finnick will be waiting there, even if it kills him. You press your back against a tree, lungs burning, and your ribs scream where a Career’s boot found its mark yesterday, but you know you need to keep moving; too much time has passed already. You know the way his voice cracks when he’s trying not to beg, the way his hands shake after nightmares, you know he’s counting cannons, just like you are—each one a fresh wound. So you bite down on the pain and move.

The arena doesn’t kill you quietly; it creeps in through the cracks—the stench of rotting foliage, the too-sweet tang of tracker jacker venom lingering in the air, the way your own sweat stings the cuts on your palms. So you move in bursts, pausing to listen between steps. The arena's traps are everywhere.

When the jabberjays come, their shrieks weaving together your name in Finnick's voice, you almost believe it's real. Your chest cracks open with want, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. The jabberjays' voices fade, but their poison lingers in your bones. You press a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, counting breaths until the phantom sound of Finnick's screams stops echoing in your skull. Every rustle of leaves sends your pulse skittering. The wound on your ribs throbs in time with your footsteps, a fresh bloom of pain with each misstep. You try to focus on the memory of Finnick's hands steadying you after nightmares – his thumbs brushing your wrists in slow circles. Breathe. Just breathe.

The first hint of salt air cuts through the jungle's rot. Your knees nearly buckle at the scent – it smells like Finnick's skin after swimming, like promises whispered against damp hair. The ground begins to slope downward. Somewhere beyond the trees, waves crash in a rhythm you'd know blind. You're close now. So close. A twig snaps; you freeze, muscles coiled.

Then—a sound. Not a cannon. Not a mutation. A rhythmic tap, too precise to be accidental. You know that sound, like you know the hitch in Finnick’s breath when he wakes from nightmares. Like you know the way his fingers drum against your hip when he’s impatient, when he’s afraid, when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t either. The beach is close. You know that rhythm, the way his hands move when his mind is racing, when the nerves he’d never admit to are fraying his control. And just like that, you’re running; you’re reckless. You can smell the sand now; you can almost hear their hushed voices. But the arena has one last cruelty in store.

You feel it before you see it, that split-second prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden hush of the jungle like the arena itself is holding its breath, and you know the fatal mistake you’ve just made. Memories crash over you like a riptide. The bouncing of his knee under the kitchen table on the morning of the reaping, the way he’d flinched when your fingers brushed his wrist, then clung to you like you were the only anchor in a storm. You remember the Tuesday he’d shattered a teacup at 3 a.m., his breathing coming out in jagged bursts. You hadn't asked him why; it didn't matter why. You had just slid down beside him, pressing your forehead to his temple until his lungs remembered how to work.

And that damned peach pie, the memory of flour dusting his lashes as he’d laughed at your frantic perfectionism, only to turn pale as a ghost when you’d yelped at the oven’s burn. His hands, so careful, always so careful, cradling your blistered palms while his voice stayed as steady as the tide. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just pie.” It had been his mother’s recipe, the first thing he trusted you with that hurt to share, and you were more upset over messing it up than the burn on your hands. And that night on the beach, salt air clinging to his lips as he whispered “Promise me” with a desperation that carved itself into your bones. The version of Finnick the Capitol moulded was gone; there was only the raw, trembling truth of him.

It had reminded you of the first time you met. The way Finnick’s laugh had faltered when your eyes locked across the room years ago—like he’d been sucker-punched by his own heartbeat. The Capitol’s golden boy unravelled in an instant. The sun was starting to rise over the water, the soft light showcasing the tension in his shoulders.

You’ve seen Finnick Odair wear a hundred masks, but this—this restless hesitation, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve—is new. You open your mouth to ask him, but he speaks first. “I know you like to tease me about the clichés I tell you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming into the tide. “But I need you to know I mean every fucking word.” When he turns, the look on his face steals your breath. This isn’t the polished charmer from your early days or even the fractured man who once sobbed into your collarbone after a Capitol party. This is something rawer. Something terrified.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck on instinct, threading through sweat-damp curls. He shudders, leaning into your touch like a dying man offered water. “I know,” you whisper. “No.” His hand clamps over yours, pressing your palm flat to his pulse. It’s racing. “When I say I’d die for you, I mean it. Let me mean it.” The words are a blade between your ribs. “Finn—”

“We’ve both known what will happen at the reaping, even if we pretend we don’t.” His thumb traces your knuckles—so gentle, so at odds with the fire in his eyes. “You’d walk into that arena alone just to spare a stranger. That stubbornness is why I—" He chokes. “But you have to let me be selfish too.” A tear slips down your cheek, but he catches it before it can fall from your face. “Promise me.” His voice cracks.“Promise you’ll survive, even if I don’t.”

You want to argue. To shake him until his teeth rattle. But the plea in his gaze is a mirror of your own soul. “I promise.” His exhale is a seismic thing, like he’s been drowning for years. You seize his wrist before he can pull away. “Promise me too. That you’ll fight, no matter what.” There’s a flicker of agony in his eyes, but just like you had known, he knows you need to hear him say it. “I promise I’ll try.” There are so many unspoken words as he looks at you. So many more clichés you know he wants to give to you, so many reassurances you wish you could give him, but the one promise you have always shared is louder than ever: you won’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing they can break you.

So maybe this is how it was always meant to be. The thought comes to you with eerie clarity as Brutus enters your line of vision and his fingers crush your windpipe. You’ve kept your promises, you’ve fought like hell, and now—now you’ve made it back to him, even if only for a final heartbeat. Your vision tunnels, and every gasp is like a knife being dragged through your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Your fingers reach for the blade embedded in your palm — the one you’d taken from another tribute hours ago, the one still slick with your own blood. Brutus snarls as you drive it into his wrist, and for one glorious second, his grip loosens. You suck in a fractured breath, but then his other hand slams you against a tree. “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath is rancid, and stars burst behind your eyes, the world around you fracturing into fragments as he lifts you off the ground, once again stealing your breath from you.

You think of Finnick, the real him, the one who kissed you like he was starving as he trailed a path all over your body, who whispered against your thighs like he was reciting a prayer. Just as you’re about to give in to the memories, throught the static in your ears, you hear it, and Brutus’ head snaps toward the sound.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice is raw with fury, edged with something worse—terror. Brutus actually flinches. It’s a voice you’d recognise anywhere; you’d know it underwater. In a hurricane. At the end of the world. Finnick.

You hit the ground hard, your lungs screaming as they try to reclaim the air you’ve been gifted once more, but all you can process is him. The unmistakably feral look twisting on his face as he slams into Brutus like a tidal wave, the sickening crunch of his fist meeting jawbone—once, twice—each blow precise and vicious, the way his trident lies abandoned behind him; he didn’t even bother using it. This isn’t combat; this is butchery. Your vision swims as you stagger upright, only to collapse again. Every gasp feels like swallowing broken glass, but you have to get to him—

Crack.

The sound isn’t just heard. You feel it in your bones. Brutus’ head snaps sideways, his knees buckling as Finnick drives an elbow into his temple. There’s no finesse, just a boy who’s spent too many years sharpening himself into a weapon, finally cutting loose.

A wet cough wrenches from your throat, and Finnick’s head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. For one fractured second, his rage falters. You’ll remember that look forever. How his eyes went wild, how his breath hitched—like he’d just watched you die. The sound of your wheezing seems to snap him out of his trance. Though he’s covered from head to toe in blood spatter—none of it his—he has never looked more fragile to you. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as one hand cradles your face while the other takes yours, pressing your palm against his ribcage to help you steady your racing breaths. His thumb strokes your cheek in slow, uneven sweeps—a nervous habit. The blood smearing your skin is thick, still warm, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Finnick is looking at you like this, like you’re dawn breaking over the ocean after the longest night of his life.

Despite the ache in your arms, you lift your free hand and catch his—the one that had been tracing restless patterns against your skin—and press his palm to your chest. You know the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat is one of the few things that can anchor him now. A spark flickers to life in his eyes as they roam your face, as if he’s memorising the proof that you’re here, alive.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re the only truth you can grasp. His chuckle is rough, warmth bleeding into the sound, and it reignites the dull ache in your heart—then fans it into a wildfire when he murmurs, “I missed you more.” You can feel the want boiling inside him—the way his adrenaline sings for him to crush you against his ribs, to kiss you like he’s pouring every unsaid vow into your lungs. But he hesitates, fingers twitching against your collarbone. Still afraid, still fragile.

“I’m okay, Finn. I promise.” A smile ghosts his lips, but his next words are barely audible. “Everybody’s watching.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You remember the first oath you ever swore to each other: Don’t let them in. Don’t let them twist this. Your relationship was never just yours—it was a stage play for all of Panem, a performance where even you sometimes forgot where the script ended and the truth began.

Yet here he is, clinging to another promise—the one where he swore to shield you, even from himself. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands hover like he’s afraid touch might shatter the illusion of control. He’s trying so damn hard to be what you need: steady, selfless, safe. But the irony is delicious. His restraint is the proof you crave. It screams what the cameras will never understand—that this, right here, is the most real thing either of you has ever had. So you tilt your chin up, your voice a challenge and a dare as you scan his face: “Then let’s give them something to look at.”

Your words are another whisper, so quiet you fear they might dissolve before they reach him—but then his head snaps up, his gaze scouring your face like a man reading a map in the dark. And then he breaks. He lunges forward, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath. It’s overwhelming, it's perfect, the familiarity of his mouth against yours is everything you had been craving since you last saw him. You kiss him back like it’s the only language left to you, pouring every unsaid ‘I love you’ into the press of your lips. His touch is featherlight yet feverish, hands tracing your arms, your spine, as if trying to memorise you through his fingertips. And in this fragile bubble of shared breath and tangled limbs, you find it—the truth you’ve been starving for.

Finnick kisses like it’s his salvation. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, insatiable, while his arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against him until not even air separates you. You feel the frantic thudding of his heartbeat where your chest meets his, a wild counterpoint to your own. When he groans into your mouth, it’s a sound you want to bottle. It’s not enough. Even now, with his skin against yours and his pulse thundering under your palms, you’re already aching for more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he makes the world vanish.

A very deliberate cough shatters the daydream you’d been lost in, and the two of you spring apart like kids caught making out behind the gym. “You two never fail to disgust me.” Johanna’s voice is flat, devoid of even her trademark sarcasm, and the heat that floods your cheeks is embarrassingly familiar. “If you’re done trying to swallow each other’s faces, we’ve got shit to do.”

Finnick snaps back to reality first, hauling himself upright before pulling you up with him. His hands linger, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re really here. Johanna rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, already stalking back toward the clearing—but not before you catch her gaze flickering over you, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. Of course she cares, she's the one who introduced the two of you to begin with.

“I think she might actually be glad I’m not dead.” You murmur, and his laughter is warm against your ear. The sound settles something in your chest, a reminder: You’re here. You’re together. Maybe, against all odds, things will be okay.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he jokes back. “She’s just relieved she won’t have to suffer through my moping anymore.” The lightness in his grin tells you everything—he’s found his footing again. And so have you. But as Finnick’s thumb brushes your wrist, you both hear it: another cannon in the distance. The Games aren’t over yet.

“You’re staring” You smile, turning your head to the side to look at him. His face reddens slightly with embarrassment, trying to cover it up with a smirk.

“I’m just enjoying the view” He replies with a playful wink, chuckling at the way you roll your eyes.

The sea ripples at your ankles as you dig your fingers through the sand looking for seashells. You have a small collection consisting of only three shells; one for the time you and Finnick went on your real first date, another for the day he got reaped and one for when he came back from winning his games.

All of them are different shapes, colours and sizes sitting neatly on your bedside table. They were the only things that got you through the days where he was gone, the memories of him live through the groves of the shells and the sound of the sea that’s trapped within them.

“This one… this one is perfect” You tell him holding up the small shell. It’s chipped slightly at the top but besides from that, it’s in great shape. You hold the shell up to his eyes nodding your head softly.

Finnick frowns ever so slightly, eyebrows pulled together in confusion as he watches you press the seashell up to the side of his face. “What are you doing?” He chuckles softly looking over at your hand.

“It matches your eye colour” You whisper as you study the different shades of greens and blues, how some are darker and lighter in areas and how they come together to mimic his eyes.

Finnick thinks you might’ve just broken him, the teasing words die on his tongue and suddenly he’s finding it hard to breathe.

“You’re gonna add it to your collection?” He grins softly as you nod, making a comment about how you’re gonna start a shrine dedicated to him and he doesn’t bother hiding the blush that dusts his cheeks.

He does the same thing, his eyes glancing up to yours and then to the sandy floor in search of a seashell. He picks up one, then another and holds them up to your eyes, his warm hand grazing against your cheek as he does so.

“You’re so beautiful” He whispers, taking notice of how the sunlight hits your eyes. You tilt your chin down to your chest as a breathless giggle falls from your lips and Finnick wastes no time in holding your jaw gently, making you look up at him.

“Why’re you shying away from me honey?” He smirks and you curse him silently because he knows damn well what he’s doing to you, especially when his thumb begins to soothe against your cheek and the space just under your eye.

“I’m not shying away” You breathe glancing down at the seashells that lay in his palm. “Have you found a match yet?” You ask before he can continue with his teasing.

Finnick looks down at the shells with a smile. “Hmm?… oh yeah, this one” He says as he hands you the seashell that matches your eye colour, it twists into a cone and the end is chipped off.

They both sit in the palm of your hand, one that resembles his and one that resembles yours, and there’s something about it that melts him, the thought that no matter what happens you’ll always have a reminder of him.

“I’m gonna add them to my collection” You smile as his eyes meet yours, full of love, an overwhelming feeling that bleeds into his chest and he just can’t seem to get enough of.

The words fall so effortlessly from his lips and he doesn’t hide away from them. “I love you” It’s such a simple declaration but the way he says it takes you back. His tone is soft but passionate, dripping with affection. A soft gasp escapes you as the words linger in the air.

Before Finnick can even begin to question himself you’re already wrapping your arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. “I love you too Finn” You whisper against his neck, the smell of sea salt lingers in his hair.

It’s all he’s ever wanted and more, stored in those special words and now he’s said it once he’s never going to stop. He rests his forehead against yours, his hand against your cheek as he kisses you softly, noses bumping against each other’s slightly.

“I love you so much” He says once more, against your lips with a smile. You whisper the words back in between sweet kisses that soon taper off, breaking slowly as the pair of you smile uncontrollably. He glances down at the shells in your hand, the same ones that’ll sit on your bedside table for years to come.

District Thirteen was no ocean, but you would take it over being hunted by the Capitol.

The last while was a blur, one you only remembered in flashes of pain, white coated attendants pouring water down your throat and jabbing your arms with needles. You had scars circling your limbs, memories that life forced you to relive in jarring bursts. All through it you could only think of him, cling to the silhouette of him in your mind that would want you to hang on. Don’t die, you repeated silently. Don’t die. He doesn’t want you to die.

Now there were different doctors attending to you on the hovercraft carrying you and other prisoners to the district that had supposedly been blown to bits. You weren’t lucid enough to process this new information, only that you were safe. And that your love was on the other side of this figurative tunnel.

As the woman dressed in a grey tunic checked your vitals, making a note whenever you winced or even cried out, you summoned thoughts of Finnick.

Ankle deep in the surf, kissing you and telling you he’d always protect you. Holding you on your bed, his body warm against yours as he whispered that you weren’t crazy and that nobody should say you were. Tucking shells into your pockets that you’d find later, often when he was on a trip to the Capitol.

A stab of pain gnawed at your wrist and you seized, whimpering. The woman merely wrote it down, muttering something to herself. Though this physical portion of your examination was painful, you would choose it over the mental part, which had occurred before this. They asked questions that twisted your mind into bits, forced you to remember things that stung you with tears and dragged you into a realm of cloudiness where you could do nothing but cry and rock back and forth.

You didn’t want to answer any more questions. You wanted to curl up in a ball and weep until you fell into sleep, something you hadn’t been able to get for ages.

“Mental instability,” the woman murmured, and your heart plummeted. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.

Folding your arms around yourself, you sniffled, hiding your face in your knees. They already thought you were mad so who cares.

The woman said your name once, then again. She even poked your arm with her pen but you remained still. Finally you heard the click of the door shutting and you let yourself collapse onto your mattress, tears pouring rivers down your cheeks.

There was only one person who could make you feel better and he was still far away. At least he was alive. You tried to console yourself with that.

He’d told you not to watch the games but you couldn’t help it, turning on the television for even just a glimpse of him, or to hear his voice. Seeing him hurt nearly sent you into hysterics, but it was better than knowing nothing.

You were given a cocktail of pills to ensure your sleep, and you swallowed them quickly, hoping the nightmares wouldn’t come.

They did though. It didn’t matter how dreamless they said the pills would be.

Everything felt so clean here, stark and white and too bright. Being so close to Finnick but not being able to see him was driving you up the wall, and it caused your struggle when the doctors were moving you from the hovercraft.

They walked you around a crowded area filled with people in near identical uniforms. The precision was nearly maddening. “We need to run more tests,” a male doctor said sharply, brushing you off like you were a bug on his arm.

You shook your head, tugging at the sleeves of the people practically dragging you down the hallway. “Please. Please let me. I’ve been waiting-“

Your name was shouted from a distance. Freezing in place, you turned your head frantically, trying to see him. Was it in your head? Did you miss him so badly you were hearing him without his actual presence?

Then he rocketed into your line of sight. Your tan, golden-haired knight in shining armor, pushing away men in white jackets and calling for you, reaching his arms out. It was a special place he reserved just for you.

“Finnick!” you called frantically, finally breaking free and running as fast as your feet would carry you. “Finnick!”

When you finally crashed into his chest you were already crying, but it wasn’t out of frustration or anger like it had been for the past few months. You were so relieved you could have fainted, and your knees indeed went weak when you felt his arms wrap around you.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, nearly breathing you in. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Finnick,” you couldn’t stop saying, a sob hijacking your words. “Finnick.”

“I’m here. I’m here, baby,” he breathed. Someone said something and he replied, “I’ve got her. I can take her.” His hold tightened on you when a jagged response was given. “If it’s anything like what I had to do I know you’ve done enough. It can wait.”

When Finnick was upset he became authoritative, and it was in anyone’s best interest to stay out of his way. It was no surprise then that he was able to help you down the length of the hallway without struggle.

You gripped his hand like it was going to disappear. He didn’t object, opening the door with one hand and ushering you inside. The room was as minimalist and clean as the rest of what you’d seen so far, but you could see the touches of him in it. A small shell laid on the bedside and there was a length of rope knotted into a bowline tossed on the mattress.

Finnick guided you to sit down, brushing the rope aside and kicking off his shoes, kneeling beside you. He was looking over your face, checking. For what, you weren’t sure.

Finally he spoke again, his voice reminding you of what you might hear pressing a conch to your ear. “I missed you.”

You launched forward, throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. Finnick clasped you tight, not seeming to mind when you began to cry again. A drop landed on your cheek and you realized why. He shook his head once, smoothing your hair as his chest stuttered. “When I found out they’d taken you I…I…” he swallowed audibly. “When the games ended I tried to make them go back for you-“

You pulled back, your fingers finding his hair and stroking it gently. His eyes were fixed on you, oceans roaring within them. “My baby…what did they do to you?”

You sniffled, trying to breathe in and out. “It h-hurt.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, cupping your cheek in his palm. Nodding, Finnick encouraged you to go on.

“It hurt,” you repeated, trying to scrounge up more and becoming frustrated when you couldn’t. Here was the one person you wanted to tell and you were speaking like a child.

It was almost like he could sense it. Finnick nodded once more, shifting so he was lying down and pressing gently on your back so you would too. You settled with your head on his chest, your ear over his heart. The steady thump of it quieted all the noise in your head so quickly that it was like flicking a light off.

One heavy hand stroked up and down your back, soothing you just as you needed. That was Finnick. He always knew what would make you feel better.

Slowly, as he comforted you, more began to pour out about your time at the Capitol. How you’d been wracked with pain for days at a time, injected with substances you didn’t know of. The things they told you.

You made it to your time on the hovercraft after they’d rescued you, muttering about your new diagnosis. Finnick froze at that, his arms tightening around you. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

You sniffled, flattening your palm on his chest. “They r-ran tests-“

“Hey.” You lifted your head at his whisper, finding his eyes aglow, melting for you. “You just need a little help, that’s all. But it’s not forever. I’m gonna be here for you and we’re gonna get through this together.”

When you nodded, he pressed his lips to your forehead, holding them there for a long beat. Your eyes grew heavy, and he stroked your hair until you closed them. You were sleepy, and for the first time in a while, you didn’t fear falling headfirst into your dreams.

Your nails were knives, practically ripping at your skin. You cried out but nobody could hear you, and the voices closed in, crowding you into a corner.

“No. Stop it,” one jutted in, a hand yanking at your palms. “Enough.” The faint whine of a medical tool grated at your skull, and your hands trembled.

“No, no, no,” you sobbed, shivering and shoving your knees to your chest. “No.”

“Shh,” a different voice softened your mind. “It’s alright. Just keep breathing for me. In and out.” You tried opening your eyes, and there he was, blurry but there. His lips curved upwards when he saw you. “There’s my angel. There you are.” A hand slid under your back, encouraging you to sit up. “Right there. Atta girl.”

You swayed, leaning against him. He sheltered you close, seeming to hide you away. “You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

Nodding, you began to let go of yourself, the marks from your nails leaving blood trickling in their wake. Your lower lip began to tremble upon seeing it but he soothed that away too. “We can fix it. It’s okay.”

You slowly began to relax, breathing in and out trying to calm. Finnick kissed your forehead, then your nose. “There we go. You’re doing so good.” Something touched your lips and you sipped the liquid that rushed forth, your throat relaxing.

Silence became your comfort, and you reveled in it. No questions, no reprimanding for all you should have done. Just you and Finnick in this world.

He had been the only thing holding you up in this rigorous place of demand for answers you didn’t have. You wanted to run away from it all back to your ocean with him. He knew it as well as you did. The sea was healing for you as much as it was him. Here you had to make do with the white walls and endless hallways.

“Wanna go home,” you breathed, sniffling into his chest.

“I know,” he whispered back. “I know. I do too.”

You fisted his shirt, taking in a deep breath. “Will we ever get to?” There was no right answer. No real certainty. It made your heart heavy.

Still, he muttered, “Yes.” And you loved him for it.

Propping you up to sit across his lap, Finnick laid a kiss in your hair. “Someday we’re gonna go back to District Four and we’re gonna get married and live right by the ocean. And we’ll be together forever, just you and me.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, and he kissed your forehead. “We’re gonna be okay.”

“That’s right.” There was a hint of pride in his voice that nearly brought you to tears.

“Finnick?” you breathed, looking up at him shyly. “I’m s-sorry. That you have to do this. I know they need you for more important things and I feel like you do everything for me and I don’t do anything for you.”

He looked at you thoughtfully, allowing the tiniest head shake. “Nothing is more important than you.” Finnick grasped a strand of your hair, flipping it playfully behind your shoulder. “You do more for me than you realize, baby. Haven’t had a single nightmare since you started sleeping next to me again.”

You reached up, wiping one eye with your wrist. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, cupping your cheeks. Finnick kissed between your eyebrows. “I was a mess without you. Ask anybody.”

When you were quiet, he exhaled through his nose, cupping your cheek so you’d stay looking at him. “I had half of everyone in charge avoiding me in the hallway because they knew I was gonna ask when they were going to bring you back. At mealtimes and training and whatever I was no fun to be around cause I was pining so much for you and it made me angry that we knew where you were and nobody was doing anything about it.” Finnick stroked your cheekbone. “You’re all I’ve got. I don’t care about anybody else.”

The earnestness in his eyes sent you reaching for him again, and he wrapped you up in his arms, breathing easy. You whispered into his chest. “When they were hurting me, all I could think of was you. How you would want me to hang on.”

“I’m proud of you,” Finnick said, leaning back so you could lay down. He gathered your hair to rest behind your back. “You’re stronger than you think, sweetheart. Stronger than any of us.”

You hid your face in his chest. He let you lay there, keeping your mind quiet the way it only seemed to when you were with him.

Maybe the roaring oceans of District Four were a thing of the past, but you had your own version in him. Finnick flowed and crashed and soothed the same way as the sea, enveloping you in his embrace and smoothing everything over.

You would dive under for the rest of time, so you could breathe.