#finnick lives

The sand digs into the soles of your feet, clinging to the gaps between your toes. The sea breeze whistles around your ears with such ferocity that stepping against the current of air requires tremendous effort. Rough, coarse sea glass pokes and prods the skin of your now red feet, and you sneeze as particles of sand meet your nose.

“Bless you.” Finnick looks back to grin at you. A child runs headfirst towards the ocean and is scooped away by his mother just before he meets the water. You smile.

“Whatever.” You dust off the sand gathering on your clothes, and it comes back just as quickly. It's a futile effort. You groan.

You despise the beach. Since you were a kid. You had to learn how to swim in the saltwater lakes of Four rather than the sea like most kids. The one dingy beach that your district had was more of a port now. Cabins stationed by the shore. Wooden docks reaching out over the water. A woman casts a fishnet while her husband makes a fish-hook out of some spare wire. A little girl walks out of a cabin holding a string of seashells. With your next step, a seashell stabs into your foot and you wince.

“Goddamnit!” You groan. Finnick chuckles. You shake your foot off and the seashell is strewn away in the sand once more. You hike up your pants, folding the cuffs to turn them into makeshift shorts as you step closer towards the water. “Why are we here, Finnick?”

“To get you out of your little mood!” Finnick states proudly. Damn him. “I know you're sad about your prosthetic not being here yet,” he continues. You bite the inside of your cheek and ignore the squelching of your feet as you step on wet sand. It clumps between your toes and makes a semi-wet, semi-dry layer of grime on your skin.

“Fuck this, Finnick. Let me go home.” The tide pulls up, water reaching around your ankles now. Is it dramatic to say that you can feel every microscopic grain of salt and sediment grazing your Achilles' Heel?

“Not yet, ace.” Finnick turns around, standing still. The sun has just barely shown its face, forming a half-circle over the horizon.

“What do you want?” The water is freezing cold. A shiver racks through your body as you step forward.

“Nothing, just wanted to spend time with you.”

“So you take me to my least favourite place on Earth?” You chide.

“You know me, ace—” The rest of his speech is garbled. Why? Because your lovely husband has decided to dunk you into the water, making you faceplant on the shallow seabed.

You pull your head out with a gasp. “Finnick!” You yell. He stares at you with a not-at-all guilty expression, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gently brushes away the tendrils of hair sticking to your forehead, which is all the opportunity you need to tug his entire arm forward. He stumbles and falls, laughing boisterously before his guffaws are silenced beneath the water. He comes up for air before swimming further away from you. You shift to a crouch before diving underwater to swim underneath him, a bit to the left, just out of his blind spot.

You creep your hand around his calf and pull him into the water. You can hear the muddled yelp he makes before getting submerged. Tendrils of seaweed brush your leg and you can't stop yourself from laughing. It's an awful idea to laugh underwater, because you inhale a glass full of saltwater that makes it way right up to the back of your skull, you quickly resurface with a start, flailing for a moment as you cough in an attempt to retch the seawater right out of your esophagus. Finnick resurfaces as well, concern clouding his features.

As you continue to cough and wheeze to no avail, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his chest so you don't need to put as much effort into staying upright and afloat. His free hand tentatively hovers in the air as he decides whether you need a Heimlich or not.

Your eyes burn with the sting coursing through your nose and cranium, but eventually the coughing subsides and a dull headache is left behind. You take a deep gulp of fresh air, exhaling once your body is free of the sensory torment it just went through.

“You alright, ace? We can go back if you want.” Finnick asks, the grin on his face was quickly replaced with the same dazed and fearful look he had whenever you even so much as got a cut on your finger.

You shake your head, throwing out a few fake coughs you know he thought would be believable. “Let's go back.” you throw your arm around his neck. He continues supporting you, already fixing his posture to help the both of you swim back.

Before he can start swimming, you pull your head away from his shoulder and drag the both of you down into the sea, a bright smile on your face. Finnick had the mind to gasp for air just before you took him under, otherwise he would've been in the same state as you were. He shoves you off of him and resurfaces.

“Evil, evil woman!” He exclaims, shaking his head to get some of the water out of his hair. “You scared the shit out of me!”

Meanwhile, you can't stop laughing. He pouts and glares at you, splashing some water on your face. “Uhg– hey!” He chuckles, before tackling you and making you dive into the water. You scream before your head goes under and you wrestle out of his grasp so you can swim away. Your speed had been significantly impaired since the loss of your arm, which meant that Finnick caught up to you in less than five seconds. He spun you around and pulled you into a kiss. The two of you resurfaced and broke apart for air. He stuck his tongue out childishly. “Wanna race?”

You grin. “Yeah. Always.” You knew you were going to lose.

Once the two of you swam back to shore, you looked around to see where Finnick was. And when you turned, he was still ways away from you in the water. He let you win.

There was something about District Thirteen that could make a cinder block look like a cheerful burst of rainbow by comparison. Everything was grey. Uniform. Perfectly calculated for maximum efficiency and minimum soul – because, really, what room was there for emotion on a quarterly report that marked such ‘frivolous’ endeavors as obsolete?

And yet, Finnick Odair could count every moment he’d felt this overwhelmed on one hand. Rage and love and absolute terror wrestled within him, swirling and merging and detaching again while he tried to hold it together with a practiced smirk and a confident stride was the opposite of how he felt.

The dreary, monochromatic hallways gave rise to a cookie-cutter door, behind which the loveliest, most clever, most infuriating creature he’d ever met was calmly packing for a trip she had no business joining.

“Well, that was clever of you.” Finnick’s arms were crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorway of the apartment he shared with his wife.

His wife.

He still could scarcely believe he could finally call her that, after all the years of hiding – threats and panic for her safety hanging over his head while he forced the bile back down his throat every time to make good on a deal he made with Snow, so that she wouldn’t have to.

Annie startled for only a second, looking up at him with those doe eyes – same lovely green as the rest of their district, marked by the sea – before continuing to fold what looked like standard issue fatigues into a backpack. “You always did say that I’m a clever girl, but I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Using ‘optics’ on Plutarch was definitely inspired.” He finally kicked off the doorway to walk into the room. He raised a hand, as though directing a marquee, his voice theatrically sarcastic. “District Four’s Fragile Victor Healed! Love is Fighting Oppression Together!”

Annie put down the shirt she was folding, and tucked her knees underneath her on the bed, though there was no mistaking the mischievously triumphant upward turn of her lips. She was clearly proud of herself. “I don’t think you have the wording quite right. Mine had a bit more pizzazz.”

“No?” He plucked something from her backpack before she could stop him, but caught the affectionately exasperated look before tossing the object – rolled up socks, maybe – into the air and catching it with all the feigned carelessness he could muster. “Well, then. Illuminate me. What exactly did you say to our fearless propaganda leader?”