#jordsie

Because of that, you watched Adam Donaldson die in real time on the second night. Finnick had stayed up with you, sitting in a shared and quiet vigil because, if he was honest, he’d seen it coming. Maybe you’d seen it too, because the first tear had slipped down your cheek before the careers had even noticed the smoke from Adam’s small campfire and made the connection. Finnick wished he could say it had been quick and painless, an arrow to the heart, a snapped neck. It wasn’t. It had been a slow day and Finnick knew better than anyone how those kids were trained, first and foremost, to entertain. He tried not to watch Annie, tried not to watch you watching Annie, reminded himself not to tell you that Annie was a good girl, really, that she was just doing as she was told. Compassion would come later, he promised himself, for now you were living one of the worst moments in a mentor’s life. You wouldn’t appreciate a spirited defense of your tribute’s killer.

It took the careers three full hours to finally put Adam Donaldson out of his misery, and you didn’t make a sound the entire time. You didn’t shift or move or eat. You barely blinked. Adam screamed and bled and died, and Finnick watched you bear it, adding another lost life to the list of sins you could never really really be forgiven for. A few mentors tried to stop by and comfort you but you brushed them off or snapped for them to leave you alone, like an animal in a trap. Finnick was the only person who was spared your annoyance so he held your hand and didn’t let go. He didn’t try and tell you that it wasn’t your fault, he knew you wouldn’t have listened. Instead, he just promised that it would be over soon. Just hang on, he whispered again and again, just hold on for a little longer and then it’ll be over. If nothing else, it would be over.

When the dust settled and the remaining body fragments had been collected, Finnick had watched something in you deflate and his heart pinched. He knew that moment, the pain, the guilt, the relief. You’d made it through. You’d gritted your teeth and made it through.

“First one’s the hardest,” Haymitch had slurred, shocking Finnick, who hadn’t thought Haymitch had even noticed what was happening, “Gets easier,” he shrugged, “or so they keep telling me.”

You gave him a look, as though you were weighing up the benefits of biting his head off, but eventually you just nodded, “Thanks, Haymitch.”

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, “I didn’t say it gets bearable.”

Finnick felt a rush of protectiveness sweep over him, but he forced himself to just stay at your side until you assured him that you would be alright, and then he allowed himself a rest. You returned to your pattern. You watched the male tribute from Four get beheaded by a rival a few days later, watched Serena slip away into the darkness, clutching a bleeding shoulder that wouldn’t heal, watched Annie’s psyche start to crack as she isolated herself and cradled the air, imagining it was her partner’s bloody body. And you told it all to Finnick each morning in a dull, monotone voice, the bags under your eyes getting darker and darker with each passing day. He wanted to help. He wished that there was something he could say or do to help you deal with the grief, but he couldn’t. He had to focus, to keep his eye on the end point and, right now, he had other things on his mind.

Annie was AWOL.

Losing Ajack had broken something inside of her. You’d told him the whole story; about how he’d gotten into an argument with the boy from District one, how they’d pushed and shoved at one another until the boy from one had picked up an ax and ended it, hacking at Ajack’s neck while his partner held Annie back. Apparently she’d screamed at the boy to stop, begged him even, and after Ajack’s head had been completely severed, she’d held his body for so long that the hovercraft hadn’t been able to collect it until the early hours of the morning. After that, she’d vanished, disappearing into the bush without any supplies. Whenever the camera found her now, she was muttering to herself, or fiddling with her fingers, or staring out into space like she wasn’t there anymore.

Finnick had never felt more helpless. He’d chewed his nails down to the beds, and used every tool of persuasion in his arsenal to keep sponsors from pulling out. He supplied Annie with food and water, with sleeping gear and climbing supplies. None of it had helped. Now, as he clung to the very edges of his sanity and wracked his brain, he had to admit: he was out of tricks. There was nothing else he could do. The sponsors had pulled out in favor of the pair from district one; Annie had no weapons and, even if she did, she was in no fit state to use them and, worst of all, it had been nearly two days since the last gruesome death. That usually meant one thing; the crowd would be getting antsy and the gamemakers would be planning something awful. He watched Annie’s lifeless body on the screen as she twitched and muttered in her sleep, his heart twisting into painful knots.

“Finnick!” Annie screeched, giggling as she scrambled up the rocks and away from his attacks, “Stop! I don’t want to get wet.”

“Why?” he laughed, pushing up off the ocean floor and letting himself float on his back.

The cool water lapped against his temples, filling his ears and cradling his body in its strong, reliable arms. He loved the water, lived for it. There was nowhere that he felt more at home, or more like himself than when he could taste saltwater on his lips and feel sand on his skin. His stomach churned with anxiety and a mixture of fear and anticipation, but he breathed in deep, filling his lungs with bright sunlight and the smell of warm ocean rocks and let the rocking of the waves soothe him.

Annie was perched on the rocks like a seabird, her long dark hair swirling and tangling in the wind as she watched him swim, a kind of quiet longing in her eyes. Not for Finnick himself of course, but for his comfort, for his ease in the ocean. Annie was terrified of the sea, she always had been. She was a strong swimmer, as all the kids in district four were, but she’d never trusted it, never truly believed that it could carry her and support her weight. She always felt, privately, in the back of her mind, that it was just waiting to drag her under, to a dark watery grave. Finnick opened one eye and gave her, what he hoped was, a confident smile.

“Like what you see, Cresta?” he joked

She scoffed, a delicate blush coloring her cheeks, “You wish.” she paused, worrying at the inside of her cheek, “How are you never nervous? It’s reaping day, and you haven’t even broken a sweat.”

Finnick pushed forward, tipping into a steady tread, and shrugged, “Nothing to be nervous about. We’re fourteen, Annie, it’s not going to be us.”

“It might be,” she argued, “York said that none of the older kids are volunteering this year.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

Annie shrugged, “They just aren’t.”

“But they have to.” He insisted, “That’s the rules.”

“We haven’t won in years,” Annie reminded him, “I think they’re just sick of volunteering to die.”

Finnick pressed his lips together, feeling the cold hand of dread creeping into his chest again. No volunteers? That was unheard of. What would happen now? A normal reaping? Could anyone be picked now? Could he be picked? He met Annie’s eye and saw his own terror reflected there in vibrant sea green.

“It won’t be us, Annie,” he assured her, hoping that he sounded more confident than he was, “I promise you, it won’t be us.”

Finnick’s eyes started to sting and he swore softly under his breath, burying his head in his hands and carding his fingers through his hair. It felt like his heart was shattering piece by piece and dragging him down into the depths along with it. Out of the corner of his eye Finnick saw a familiar shadow and, despite everything, some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed. You collapsed onto the couch beside him, reaching out and resting a hand on his back comfortingly. God, he hated how good that felt. He hated how he longed to lean into your touch, to bury his head in the crook of your neck and weep like the broken boy he was. I’m just a kid! He wanted to scream, I can’t do this! I can’t do this anymore!

“I know, Fin,” you whispered, as though you could read his mind, “you’re doing so well.”

A tear slipped down his cheek and he shook his head frantically, “Annie’s screwed. The sponsor’s are gone, she’s barely eating. There’s nothing I can do to save her.”

You were quiet for a moment, “There’s never anything we can do, really. It’s always just a big gamble.”

“I know but-”

“And you aren’t out of sponsors. I spoke to my guys and they’re going to back Annie since-” You pressed your lips together, “since Adam’s gone and Serena-well-she’s not going to be able to hold on much longer.”

Finnick’s head shot up, a mixture of relief and incredulousness filling him so suddenly that he wasn’t even sure he’d heard you right.

“What? Y/N, no-I can’t accept that.”

You shrugged, a hint of a sad smile at the corner of your mouth, “Good thing you don’t have a say then. Take the help, Finnick. If not for you, then for Annie. She needs you on top of your game right now.”

He remembered the way Adam had called for his mother, how you’d flinched as each slow, deliberate cut had chipped away at the person he’d been until there was only a bloody corpse. Annie had been a part of that but, looking at you now, it didn’t seem to matter.

He shook his head again, the momentary relief being swallowed up again by hopelessness, “She can’t win. She can’t even seem to walk in a straight line right now.”

For a long moment you just watched the screen together, two victors acting in perfect synchronicity. You watched the pair from district one slice through the underbrush like demigods, looking powerful and determined and painfully self-assured. Smart money was on them, anyone could see that. They had everything on their side; all the training, all the sponsors, all the gear and, most dangerously, that deadly team mentality that would keep them together until it stopped serving them. Finnick knew how powerful that bond could be, it had kept him alive more than once during his games and his every instinct told him it would get this pair through it too. However, as useful as weapons, sponsors, food and allies were, you’d had none of that. You’d been alone from the moment you were reaped. You had no skills, no real buzz, no friends. No one had given you more than half a look in the Capitol, and you’d come out on top anyway. The thought gave Finnick hope. Maybe Annie wasn’t completely screwed. Maybe, with you by his side, Finnick could still find a way to bring her home.

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No one had really believed Annie Cresta had a shot. Not James, not Chaff, not Brutus, not Seeder, not even Mags really. When Ajack had died, every reliable metric in the book had said that district four’s hopes of having a winner on their hands had died with him. But every reliable metric in the book had also had you pegged as an early death, so you said fuck the metrics, and believed in her anyway. The more you felt Finnick give up, the harder you believed. The more other mentors started to gently suggest that you let her go and move on, the more vehemently you insisted that she wasn’t out of the game yet and redoubled your efforts. At some point over the past few days, possibly when she’d gone against her team and given Adam the death he’d long since earned, Annie Cresta had started to mean something to you.

She was every discounted tribute, every long shot who got written off and left to die. She was you, and she was the tributes you’d already failed to save and, maybe, if you could find a way to bring her home, you would be able to live with yourself for letting Adam and Serena die. Serena’s arm was infected now, badly. Experts said she had maybe three days of agony in front of her and there was nothing you could do to save her. But Annie was healthy. Some part of her mind had gotten her to eat and drink, she wasn’t physically injured, and a lifetime of having enough to eat gave her stamina.

She could win, and she would, you told yourself again and again. She had to.

You told Finnick too, and when you did some of his old sparkle would threaten to rear its head and he would almost smile. Almost. It never lasted. He slipped in and out, between resigned, grieving and unimaginably tense. Sometimes, you had the sneaking suspicion that your hand between his shoulder blades was all that was keeping him anchored to this reality. So you kept it there, and you fed him bits of biscuits and sandwiches, got him to drink water, shower and sleep, and you wondered how long he would last, and what would be left of him if Annie didn’t make it out.

Selfishly, unforgivably, a part of you wondered if he was in love with her. You would never ask, of course. It wasn’t your business, it wasn’t the right time, but you couldn’t stop the wondering. Was Annie the one who Finnick lay in bed pining for? Was she the woman he daydreamed about and had planned a future with? Did it bother you if she was? Always, it came back to the same single fact; it didn’t matter. You wanted Finnick to be happy, and you needed Annie to come home. That was that.

Some days you were so close to the edge that it was only the memory of Finnick’s voice in your head that kept you from crumbling.

Just hold on, he’d whispered, you’re so strong, you can do this, it’ll all be over soon. It was like a mantra now, more than a prayer, a promise that this too would pass. There would be time to fall apart, time to grieve, just not yet. First you had to get through, and get Annie through.

You spent your 17th birthday throwing a massive party for potential sponsors. It was the event of the season, the magazines exclaimed, absolutely anyone who was anyone was invited. Finnick and Mags weren’t there, a few noted, but that was to be expected this far into the games. Your prep team hid the signs of exhaustion under layers of makeup and pressed fake finger nails over your chewed ones. Your stylist pulled you into a tight, revealing outfit that, months ago, you would have been too self conscious to wear out, strapped you into some heels and you were ready. The music was loud, the press was there and the party lasted all night. You let the tv crews interview you, you gushed about the Capitol, choking down disgust. You danced with those victors who had come in support of you, and you flirted and teased your way to raising enough money to buy Annie some iodine for her drinking water.

Back at the control center, after you had scrubbed off the remnants of the powders and creams and sickly sweet perfumes and slipped into something more comfortable, Chaff brought you a cake shaped like a lightning bolt. James took responsibility for all the presents the other victors, and your various admirers, had lavished you with. You and Finnick ate pieces of cake together on the couch, sighing with relief as Annie successfully treated her water and took her first long drink in two days. You didn’t think about your last birthday.

After Chaff and James had led everyone in a genuinely enthusiastic bout of “Happy Birthday”, Finnick nudged you with his arm, tearing your attention away from the screens, where the pair from one were hot on the trail of the boy from nine.

“Happy birthday, Y/N/N,” he said softly, his deep green eyes sparkling with something so sweet it made your teeth ache, “I-”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you interrupted feeling, with certainty, that he was going to apologize for not being with you in the sponsor pit, “there’s more important things right now.”

Finnick smiled with a fondness that had you feeling uncomfortably found out, and he strung an arm around you loosely, turning both of your bodies so you were facing each other. It was the first time you’d seen him look fully away from the screens and monitors in days.

“I was going to say that I’m…I’m glad we met,” he explained, “and that I hope, for your next birthday, we can do something a little less morbid.”

You pressed your lips together, feeling oddly touched, and tried not to think about how, for that to happen, both of your tributes next year would have to be dead.

“Thanks, Finn,” you said instead, “I’m glad we met too.”

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles gently, sending a tingle of electricity through your entire body as he pressed a small gift into your palm.

“For later,” he explained, as you examined the parcel.

You nodded in understanding, slipped the parcel into your bag and, again acting with the perfect synchronicity of two people with identical goals, you both turned back to your monitors to watch for signs of trouble.

Two weeks into the games, after everyone had written her off, you knew Annie had won. It happened quickly, a few days of rain, some flooding and a crack. The dam seemed as though it fell in slow motion and, in mere moments, all the perfectly laid plans Cashmere and Gloss had been working on all season fell to ruin. Serena barely stirred as the wave crashed down on her, by all accounts she died in her sleep and you counted it as a mercy.

The gamemakers slowed the wave, so it didn’t flatten the competition entirely but, by nightfall, even those who could swim were starting to struggle. The beautiful arena was now entirely flooded and Annie was swimming. Not paddling around, not hanging on for dear life. Instead, for the first time since Ajack’s death, she was virtually coming to life. She gilded through the water like a sea otter, evading the other tributes with ease and finding safe areas to rest away from the dangerous currents and undertow.

“She’s going to make it,” Finnick said incredulously, “Oh my god, Y/N, she’s going to make it.”

You nodded, “Hell yeah she is.”

A few stragglers held on for a while but, after another two days, Annie Cresta was airlifted out of the drowned arena, the official victor of the 70th Hunger Games. When the final canon sounded you couldn’t contain the sound of relief and excitement that slipped past your lips, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. It was like watching a dream play out in real life. When you looked at the screen you saw yourself, felt the momentary rush of terror followed by pure ecstasy as you realised that the impossible had happened: you had won, you were going home.

She had won. She was coming home.

If you were happy, Finnick was joy personified. He leapt to his feet and cheered, laughing with the unrestrained incredulousness of someone who had been well and truly hopeless for ages. You smiled up at him as he watched the screen hungrily seeing, for a moment, his youth written on his body like a sign. It was easy to forget sometimes that he was only eighteen. It was easy to forget that you yourself were only technically an adult with how old and world weary you already felt. You tore your eyes away from Finnick and let them fall on Mags who was weeping silently, a wrinkled hand pressed to the base of her throat as she smiled. She caught your eye and extended her free hand for you to take. You gave it a squeeze and you hoped she could feel your sincerity, how truly happy for district four you were. A year after you had personally ripped their chances away, they were bringing home a win. It felt almost fair.

“I didn’t think I would see another win,” she explained to you softly, “not in my lifetime. I didn’t think I would get to bring another one home.”

“But you did,” you said, looking back at Finnick, “you did it.”

Mags shook her head, giving your hand another squeeze, “You did it, the both of you. Finnick is a wonderful mentor, but even he couldn’t have gotten any more help to her without your sponsors. I won’t forget that.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I won’t forget that,” she repeated, “and I’ll make sure he never does either.” she finished, gesturing at Finnick with her head.

At that exact moment Finnick seemed to remember your existence and he turned back, sweeping you up into his arms and spinning you around like a carousel.

“We did it!” He laughed, “We did it, Y/N, we did it!”

“We did,” you agreed, laughing fondly as you detangled yourself.

For the briefest moment when you broke the contact Finnick seemed crestfallen, but it was over so quickly, swallowed up by his happiness, that you almost thought you must have imagined it. He pulled Mags into a similar embrace, whispering something to her too low for anyone but Mags to hear before looking back at you.

“You and me, Y/N/N, we fucking did it!”

You heard Adam’s voice in your head, saw him strain at the restraints on his wrists as he was tortured and jeered at. His sister had watched that. Sweet, kind Genna, who laughed a little too loudly and never quite knew when to stop being friendly, had watched her older brother get systematically and clinically taken apart and she would probably never be herself again now. Serena had been just kid, she hadn’t even started high school yet. She died after days of agony, with a raging fever. Her father had wept when she was reaped. They had been yours, and you’d been less than useless to them. Suddenly you were so tired, so drained. How many days had it been since you slept? The fragile pieces of you were cracking under the strain. James caught your eye, the corners of his mouth tense with suppressed grief. You don’t know what you were looking for really. Not comfort, not saving, maybe an acknowledgement? The shared recognition that something had happened, something had been lost here.

“You lot better get ready,” James said to Finnick and Mags, coming to your rescue, the way he was wont to do, “Annie is going to need you both. You don’t want her to be alone when she wakes up.”

Finnick looked like he wanted to argue, but a brief word from Mags seemed to remind him where he was. He shot you and your mentor an apologetic look, but you could still see the shimmering, bubbling excitement just under the surface, ready to burst forward at any second.

“Thank you,” he said seriously, “both of you. Just-” he breathed, letting out a burst of relieved laughter, “thank you so much.”

You felt James’ hand on your shoulder, a rough but familiar anchor to reality and you gave Finnick a genuine smile. Just a little longer, you heard him whisper in your mind, just keep it together for a little longer.

“Of course,” James said, speaking for you both, “it’s the least we could do.”

That was a lie, but you all knew it, so it couldn’t hurt anyone.

“I’m so happy for you,” you said, “truly.”

Some of Finnick’s franticness seemed to seep out of him into something softer and fonder and you watched, in real time, as he remembered where you were, what you’d lost, what you’d been through.

“Y/N-” he started, moving as though to step toward you.

Your eyes were pricking now, the suppressed panic and rage rearing its head so powerfully that you were almost frightened of yourself. James tightened his grip on your shoulder and, in one fluid motion, moved subtly between you and Finnick, angling his body in such a way as to not be obvious but still clearly making himself a barrier. Finnick recoiled, a flash of hurt crossing his perfectly sculpted face. You wanted to assure him, your instinct was to reach out and promise that you were fine, that he’d done nothing wrong, that of course you wanted to stay and be with him and Mags, but you were just so fragile. James felt like a lifeline, like your protector, swooping in and delivering you from the private hell you’d been living in and, if you were honest, there was nothing you wanted more than to fall apart in private.

Mags tracked the interaction with her eyes, tugging Finnick’s arm gently as he stared James down.

“Come, boy,” she said soothingly, “Annie will be waiting.”

Finnick gave you one last deeply apologetic look, and then nodded, letting Mags pull him away. James didn’t move. He stayed where he was, waiting until every last mentor, even drunk old Haymitch Abernathy, had slipped out of the control center before he stepped forward and crouched down in front of you.

His face was creased with concern, his dark eyes filled with the deep understanding that only someone who had personally put you back together more than once could ever have, and you absolutely shattered. In moments you had collapsed into a fit of broken sobbing, keening like a wounded animal as weeks of pent up anxiety and fear rushed out at once. To his credit, James didn’t try to calm you down, he just let you cry. He’d always been wonderful at knowing what you needed, how to get you through the pain without smothering you or talking down to you. Even before you were a victor. Even when you were just a scared fifteen year old girl who’d been handed a death sentence.

It felt like you stayed there for an eon, working through every last drop of resentment and disappointment in yourself until there was nothing left but a sort of deep, throbbing ache.

“I am happy for them,” you eventually said, voice shaky through your tears, “r-really I a-am.”

“I know,” James assured you kindly, “I know, but you can be happy for them and furious for us at the same time. I know they were when you won last year.”

You nodded, feeling the first slivers of solid ground beneath your feet again as you wiped your face and took deep, steadying breaths.

“Did you cheer and twirl people around too?” you asked, trying for a joking tone and almost succeeding.

“Oh yeah,” he answered, “you bet I did. I was fist pumping the air and shouting like a maniac, I thought Finnick was going to swing on me. I think I threw a chair.”

“What?” you laughed incredulously, “You did not.”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” James insisted, “Y/N/N I was so proud of you. I cried like a baby for days.”

You sniffed and wiped your eyes again, welcoming the change of topic, “You did?”

He nodded, giving you another fond look and giving your shoulder a squeeze, “You were amazing, you did everything right, made good on every opportunity. I did my job, I set things up but you just…” he shook his head, whistling, “you just ran with it. I’ve been doing this for twenty-three years and I’ve never seen anyone come close to the upset you pulled off.”

You felt something that could have been pride, a stubborn urge to take some pleasure in your win, before the sadness won out again and your lip began to tremble.

“Fat lot of good it did them,” you said, “fat lot of good I did them.”

James sighed, “That’s what I’m trying to say here, there’s nothing you could have done. You made it out because you played smart, you fought hard, you kept your wits about you and you clawed your way to the top, not because I did something to get you out.”

“I had sponsors.”

“Not at first,” James admitted, “not enough, not nearly enough. You convinced more people to put their money behind Adam from the start than I’d managed to rustle up for you. At the end of the day the money means jack shit, there’s only so much we can do.”

“I told them to shift their pledge to Annie,” you whispered, Serena’s shaking body flashing behind your eyes like snippets of film, “I could have poured more into Serena. I told them not to, I told them to sign with Finnick and-”

“And Annie won.” he reminded you kindly, “Those rich idiots will blame you for their massive payouts and they’ll trust you implicitly now. How many more kids will you be able to help with their money in the coming years, hmm? The handful of die hard rich people we still had available to us couldn’t have raised the funds to save Serena from that infection, Ash, you know that.”

“I could’ve done something! I could’ve-”

He shook his head, “No, you couldn’t have. Listen, whatever you think you could’ve done, I’ve tried it. I’ve tortured myself with what-ifs for longer than you’ve been alive, they never work. Trust me, you did everything right.”

You tried your hardest to listen, to really take in what James was saying like he was offering you a balm for your aching heart, but the pain just sat there in your chest, stubbornly refusing to dull.

You felt your eyes start to prick again and you longed for home, for your mother’s embrace and the safety of your room.

“Then why does it hurt so much?” You cried, collapsing into James’ chest again as you devolved into a fresh bout of sobs.

James doesn’t have an answer for that, so he just held you close and tried to be as comforting as he possibly could be. James’ feelings for you were….surprising, to him at least. When he’d turned thirty-nine he’d joked to Ivette that the only thing he wanted for his fortieth was to make one return journey to the district with a living person. Just one, he’d laughed with an edge of franticness, he wasn’t asking for the plethora of success stories the mentors from some of the other districts had, he just wanted one.

It had been a joke, mostly, but here you were. When he’d first met you on the train after the reaping, there’d been a sort of ache in the back of his teeth, like the ghosts of the countless hours spent biting down on his jaw were finally coming back to haunt him. You were so young, he remembers thinking, not yet sixteen and already doomed to die. Only…there was something about you, something in your eyes that felt like defiance. It felt like anger, like the will to live. James had looked at you on the train and had seen himself, but even that hadn’t been enough to override his deep dread. He’d lost too many to have any real hope for your survival. At most, he hoped you would die quickly, and without suffering.

He still did his job, of course. He smiled, he made contacts with possible sponsors, liaised with stylists and publicists, he gave you advice on how to play smart, and he mapped out a place along his spine to tattoo your name, alongside the nearly forty others he carried with him, when you died. Unfortunately, as the big day came closer, James had gotten sort of fond of you. You were funny and smart, and you had a sharp tongue that made him laugh incessantly, but that also spoke to how personable you could be. Your interview had been a smash hit. You had an instinctual knack for grabbing an audience’s attention and holding it. For the first time in decades, James had felt something resembling hope, but he crushed it down. He reminded himself that there was only so much he could do, that personability wasn’t enough. He’d settled down and re-resigned himself to watching you die and delivering you home in a box.

The games started and when you made it through the first day, and the second, and the third, that damn spark of hope had come back in full force. It was small, he tried to temper it but when, on the fourth day, you’d managed to literally tear your way out of a net with a combination of your hands and teeth, and had successfully rewired the trap to spring up and capture your original capturer, he’d known that you could win. James had never worked the sponsor circuit that hard. He barely slept, he did anything and everything he could to get you whatever you needed; medicine for your bloody hands, food, some wire and, eventually, a current generator. He’d poured twenty-two years of dashed hopes and dreams into you, broken every carefully cultivated rule he’d ever set for himself about not getting attached and, when Claudius Templesmith announced that you were the winner of the sixty-ninth annual Hunger Games, he had wept like a baby and cheered until his voice was hoarse. Just two months shy of his fortieth birthday, James had gotten to make his return journey with you by his side, broken, battered and scarred, but alive.

Afterwards, James couldn’t quite shake his feelings of responsibility for you. He was still your mentor and you were still his tribute, and now the game he was determined to get you through was just life, the After of it all. He had never been able to bring himself to find a nice man and settle down or to have some kids of his own, but if he had, he imagined he might feel about them the way he felt about you. So this, sitting with you in his arms while you fell to pieces…well, it hurt pretty damn bad.

“Y/N/N,” he said gently, when your body had stopped heaving and your violent sobs had softened and faded, “let’s get you home, yeah?”

You nodded, wiping your eyes with the heel of your palm, and James couldn’t help but see your youth. You were a couple of days past 17, practically a baby in his eyes, and already the kind of tired that most adults don’t get until their mid-forties. You knew too much, you’d seen too many horrors and carried too much grief to ever be carefree, the way a 17 year-old should be and, for the millionth time, James felt the rush of pure, black rage bubble up in his stomach. He would tear the Capitol down for this, he promised himself. Not today. Not now, when Snow could take revenge for anything James did out on you and Ivette, but someday. Someday he would find a spark and he’d do what he did best, what had gotten him in that victor’s chair in the first place; he’d stoke it into a blaze, an inferno that would burn out the infection of the Hunger Games for good.

You let your mentor pull you up and walk you back to your apartments, now empty of tributes, and you clung to him like a child, wondering why you could so easily let yourself be held by him, but not by your own parents. Some small part of you wondered if this is how it started, if all those lonely victors you’d met, who had no one but each other, had once had family and friends who they couldn’t bear to be around anymore because they reminded them too much of a version of themselves that was long dead. It felt different, you noticed, as you and James sat down for dinner at an empty table. Not bad, just different, knowing that, on every floor but one, someone like you, with more scars than they deserved, was sitting down to dinner in an equally vacant apartment. Everyone had failed except Mags and Finnick. It should have felt depressing and morbid, and it was, but it was also a kind of solidarity. You weren’t suffering alone. The Capitol had done this to all of you, together and, in a way, that meant none of you were alone. Maybe this was your new home, maybe this was what you got now.

You waited until you were alone in your room to open Finnick’s present. It was small, about the size of a plum, wrapped in soft blue paper and twine. It looked too rustic for the Capitol, you noted with a sudden rush of warmth, as though he’d brought it from home just for you. Slowly, being careful not to tear the wrapping paper, you peeled it open, revealing a beautiful spiral shell, cleaned and polished, and woven bracelet. It was a combination of brown leather, blue chord and flat pearls braided together carefully, with practice and skill. Finnick and Mags both wore similar bracelets, you’d seen them weaving them aimlessly whenever they got stressed, but this was different. This one had been made for you. It wasn’t flashy, or polished, but it fit your wrist perfectly and you knew that, if it was your choice, you’d wear it forever. Slowly, you pushed yourself up and made your way over to the phone, dialing the extension for the floor below you.

“Y/N,” Finnick said, without hesitation, on the third ring, “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I was so tactless, I-”

“What would you have done if I was James?” You interrupted, smiling despite yourself, “I could have been James, you know?”

Finnick paused and then laughed, his voice tinged with barely suppressed exhaustion, “But you’re not James, are you? You’re my-” he corrected himself, “you’re Y/N/N. Mags made me promise to give you some space, but I knew you’d call.”

You hummed in agreement, worrying at the inside of your cheek as the silence stretched, warm and comfortable, “How is she?” you eventually asked.

“Annie?” Finnick asked, “she’s…she’s alive. That’s all that matters.” he continued with a deep sigh, “Her mind is fragile right now, I’m not sure she understands what’s happened exactly, but…yeah.”

“It’s early days, Finn,” you replied instinctively, “you remember what it was like at the start. I’m sure you were a little fragile too. She’s been out of the arena for less than 5 hours, give her time.”

“I knew where I was,Y/N,” he countered ruefully, “I knew it was over, I knew I’d won.”

You sighed, “Give her time,” you repeated, “she’ll come back to you when she’s ready.”

“The doctors say she had a psychotic break,” Finnick said, his voice small and vulnerable, “they say she might not ever…that she might always be…”

“She’s alive,” you interrupted, reminding him of his earlier words, “you’ve got the rest of your lives to figure out how to move forward from this, and yeah maybe she’ll always be a little fragile. That’s alright, we’ll take care of her when she needs us to.”

“We will?” Finnick asked hopefully.

“Of course we will,” you insisted, “you, me, Mags, Chaff, James, even Haymitch. We’re all here for you, and for her.”

“I’m sure Haymitch has some thoughts about that,” Finnick replied, jokingly.

You smiled, “Yeah well, he’ll have to take it up with me if he does.”

“Terrifying,” Finnick said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. Again, you sat in silence, just enjoying the sound of one another’s breathing, before Finnick continued, “ Did you open your present?”

You looked down at the bracelet, “Of course I did. Thank you, by the way, it’s beautiful.”

“Pretty bracelet for a pretty girl, what can I say? Just made sense,” Finnick joked, slipping into his old seductive persona, which pulled a breathless laugh from your chest. You could imagine the catlike grin on his face as he lounged against the wall, all faux grace and elegance, the picture of destructive beauty. “But really, you like it?” he asked in his regular voice.

“I love it,” you promised.

There was a pause on the line, and then Finnick let out a shaky breath. You could feel the exhaustion in your own body catching up to you again, the weeks of staying awake using expensive Capitol medication finally coming for their due.

“I-uh-I need some sleep,” you explained, “I’ll see you soon, Finn.”

“See you soon, kid,” he replied, “and thank you again for-”

“Stop thanking me,” you insisted, fondly, “and don’t call me kid.”

You hung up before you had a chance to change your mind and, as you lay down in your bed and drifted off to sleep, the ghosts of the veldt crept in, joined by two new faces; a tall, lanky boy with a sister who laughed too loud, and a young girl, clutching an infected shoulder, writhing with fever.

—

Finnick stared at the phone for a long time after you hung up, trying to parse his emotions in a way that made sense. His heart was a complete wreck, torn between grief and joy and hope and, fuck it, why hide it, love. Annie was alive, but broken. You were safe, but exhausted. He had his family, but he had secrets, and he’d never be able to stop towing the line without risking losing it all again.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered into the empty air, covering his mouth with his hand.

Beetee had assured him that he’d blocked the audio bugs in the apartments, but old habits die hard, and Finnick wasn’t taking any chances. Not with this. Not with you. He ached for the feeling of your hand between his shoulder blades, the comforting weight that had kept him grounded for weeks and that he’d grown to rely on without even noticing it. You had a strange way of worming your way into him like that, like a drug. One hit and he was hooked for months, chasing more time, chasing more closeness.

“Finnick, dinner’s ready!” Mags called from the dining room, “The doctor sent us updated reports on Annie.”