#moonfm

“Where were you?”

She didn't look at him, too focused on dragging the bag in her hands next to him. It looked heavy, he noted mildly, and he wondered what on earth was in it, why his girl—his victor—was carrying it around.

She looked up from the floor, strands of her wet hair sticking to the sides of her face, and his heart sank at the blank, unfocused gaze that met his.

“Out.”

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper in check, to calm his racing heart, that was still twisted into a knot of fear in his chest that refused to loosen as he slammed the receiver back in it's place.

"Out where?" He asked, his face twisting in bewilderment as she walked past him, carrying the strange bag, into the kitchen. He watched her as placed it on the counter and took plastic containers out, blinking when he saw them full of steaming, spicy crab stew. “Doll—”

“I went to the market,” she mumbled distractedly as she looked for bowls and a ladle. “Ate dinner with a friend. Brought back some stew for you. I'll make you some ric—”

“You left a funeral, Piers' funeral, went missing for nine hours and now you want me to believe you just went to eat dinner with a friend?” He asked, staring at the girl in front of him as if she was speaking in a completely different language.

“Mhmm.”

And he immediately knew something was wrong.

Finnick knew her better than anyone, anyone, and he knew that she would never do this. Piers Morgan had died by her hands in the arena. She wouldn't abandon his funeral for nothing. She wouldn't miss a chance to apologise to his parents for his sacrifice, despite the fact that it would get her into trouble.

She wouldn't. But she had.

And now, he couldn't even think beyond the sheer amount of anger suffocating him. He couldn't think beyond the worry etched in the lines of Mags' aging features or the hysteria that suffocated Annie. He couldn't think beyond the way he could feel his heart nearly give out from fear, of the way he nearly ripped his hair out in the last nine hours calling everyone under the sun to help him find her—

“Do you think this is some kind of joke?” He asked quietly, his eyes trained on her, on the soaked fabric of her black dress, clinging to her skin, on the way her fingertips had turned blue from the rain she had been walking around in. “Do you think it's funny? Scaring the shit out of everyone like this? Do you know what you have put me through for the past nine hours—”

“I needed some time alone—”

“And you couldn't wait to have that alone time for an hour?” He asked, letting out an incredulous laugh. “You couldn't tell me before you went off to God knows where—”

“That's the fucking point isn't it?” She asked, letting out a short, sardonic laugh, making the room go still, freezing him in his place. Part of him was glad, relieved at the sight of an emotion, even if it was anger, in her eyes. He couldn't stand the lifeless grief that stained her skin like indigo on ivory.

“I needed a few hours of feeling like a normal human being. One that doesn't have blood on her hands. One that doesn't have cash deposited into a bank account from the Capitol because she killed people. I needed a few hours of feeling like myself again and I can't do that with one of you constantly breathing down my fucking neck!"

“Well, guess what? You're not normal!” Finnick shouted back, trying not to breathe too hard because God his heart, his heart hurt. He could feel the way shards of his ribs and glass of her words and his own stuck in the soft tissues and making it bleed. “You're a fucking Victor and I'm your fucking mentor and that means you don't go disappearing on me for nine hours!”

But even that did little stop the venom flowing from his lips.

“You think I enjoy babysitting you?” He asked stepping up to her, staring down at the way his own, twisted features reflected in her empty eyes. “You think I enjoy having to watch your every move and keep my eyes on you all the time? You think I like waking up every morning with a knot in my stomach wondering if you'll still be breathing by the end of the day?”

Poison. He was poison.

“I never asked you to care!” She screamed back, making him flinch back a little his chest heaving. “I didn't ask you to care! I didn't ask you to do anything for me! It's not my fault that you can't be a normal mentor who can't give up after his job is done! Your job was done when my time in the arena ended and it's not my fault that you don't recognise that!”

“Well, that's fucking unfortunate because sadly, for both of us, I do care. Beyond what my job description entails.” He snapped at her, breathless at the sight of her rage, stunned by the fact that despite her state, despite the unbound tempers, she still was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

He leaned against the kitchen island, rubbing his shaking hands across his face as he tried to breathe, tried to see beyond the red and blue of their combined rage.

“You can't keep doing this, baby,” he whispered, looking at her through the thin film of moisture in his eyes, pleading, begging her to stop hurting him. “Y-You can't keep doing this. You can't disappear for hours like this and-and come back looking like you jumped into the fucking ocean—”

“Go home, Finnick.”

“I thought I lost you. I thought you tried again—”

“Please stop it and go home.”

“And-And then you walked in through the door, looking like t-that and not saying a word and I knew, I knew you did. I knew you tried to leave again—”

“Then go home! Then go home if I scare you so much! Go home if I'm so fucking terrifying!” She screamed, slapping her hands down on his chest and he gasped, his very breath lost at the way her wet hair curled like tendrils of smoke.

“I am home!” He shouted back, grabbing her wrists before she could do it again. He tugged her as close as he could, leaning his forehead against hers, trying to ignore the way she flinched at his touch, at the way his fingertips pressed into the lines on her wrists.

“I am home,” he repeated firmly, ignoring the blood staining his fingertips, his lips trembling against the cold of her skin. “I am home. And so are you. And you need to stop this. You need to stop hurting yourself, baby— please just listen to me!”

Her blank eyes snapped up to meet his, and he pressed his lips to hers desparately, begging her to come back to him, to please come back from the world he had lost her to.

“You can't keep hurting yourself,” he whispered, gently pushing back strands of her hair, wiping away the tear teetering on her lower lashline with his thumb, leaving behind a streak of red in his wake. “You can't disappear like that again, ever. And you absolutely cannot go anywhere alone, not with the way you are acting these days. You can't—”

“I don't want to do this anymore,” she whispered, her lips trembling, breaking whatever was left of his heart. “I c-can't do this. I'm not meant to be a-a Victor. I'm not. I can't live like this anymore—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, shaking his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead, cheek, nose before finally on her lips, desparate for her to feel him, to know that he was here, right here and that he would never leave. “You survived the Games, you'll survive this too. You'll be fine. We'll be fine.”

“I'm so sorry,” she choked out in a breathless sob, crumbling in his arms like fine snow. “I'm s-so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

I'm so sorry that I can't stop hurting you.

“It's okay,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her, tight and misplaced as if he was trying to hold too many pieces of her together at once. “You're okay, baby. I'm okay. We're okay. We're going to be okay.”

The lie burned his tongue like acid and his lungs like the cigarettes he smoked. But even if it did little to ease the fear and pain and grief and rage clawing at her skin like vultures asking for their share of her flesh, he'd do it again. He pressed a kiss into her hair and prayed to whoever would listen, to accept his lie this once to give him a truth in exchange. This once.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

A/N: Written in the middle of a study break, on Tumblr before being unleashed into the world and so please be kind. English is not my first language so if it has some weird lines then that's why. Inspired by the song above but not a song fic. I have been burnt out and unable to write for a while but this has been on my mind for the last few days. Hope you enjoy.

All my love,

𓆜𓆞𓆝𓆟𓆜𓆞𓆝𓆟

You spent far too much time awake for your liking.

Far too much time left alone in thoughts that plagued your peace, left your chest aching from panic that made you struggle to breathe and far too much time aware of everything.

Worst of all though, it gave far too much time to let insomnia induced migraines develop and make the next day worse than the one before. District 13 was not known for giving painkillers or treatments for things they didn't classify as life threatening with a generous heart.

Days underneath layers of earth, surrounded by metal and blanketed by the condescension of those that boasted surviving as frugally as humanly possible, made you wish you still had access to those little lilac pills that were passed around on marble trays at Capitol parties, the little butterfly embed in it's centre your last thought and the taste of cherry lip gloss still on your tongue as you passed out cold for long enough for the sun to rise twice.

But the wistful longing for Capitol drugs and the relief they brought were interrupted by a long arm wrapping itself around your chest and a puff of warmth washing over your skin as Finnick pushed his face into your neck in his sleep, his golden hair in your mouth and soft snores in your ear. You sighed, wrapping your own arm around his shoulder as you closed your eyes. Not for the first and more than likely not your last either, you envied your husband's ability to sleep through just about anything.

Husband.

The thought of associating that word with the man in your arms with his pouting lips pressed against the underside of your jaw made your cheeks burn a little red and a giddy smile cross your lips as you watched your breath fog in front you.

Years spent yearning for little more than slaps on the back given as a token of boyhood to months spent waiting on a victim who was haunted by the graves that lined to salute his victory. Years spent waiting for green eyes to meet yours with the devotion that you knew he could feel to hours spent with hands begging for relief on skin stained red from need before the march to your own funeral. Years spent in hidden peace as the world corrupted you too and then months spent apart where his screams for help, the smell of your own blood and beady eyes that imitated them became your only company.

Years. Yet again you spent far too many years yearning for something. Yearning for relief. And it came in the form of a wedding underneath layers of earth and metal, surrounded by people a little less stoic and a boy who's smile resembled the very sun that your skin craved, far too spoiled with kisses from its rays and his pillow lips.

You both were clad in identical, standard grey '13 haute couture boxer briefs, your skin cold to touch from sweat that had dried in the chill of approaching winter and Finnick's as warm as the sand on District 4's beaches in summer. Sunshine, you breathed into golden hair, a small smile pressed into the top of your husband's head.

Your heart still sang as you felt the little bruises he had kissed into your skin ache slightly and you sighed, blinking up at the dark ceiling in exhaustion. This was the most exhausted and comfortable and loved and sleep deprived you had been in a while.

Sleep. You needed sleep. This was getting ridiculous.

You huffed, gently manoeuvring out of Finnick's octopus grip as you tried to wiggle out of bed until you were standing next to the bed, your heart breaking a little as Finnick immediately starts searching for you in his sleep, mumbling incoherently and you put your pillow into his grasp to let your scent pull him into the safety of sleep long enough for you to take a short shower.

The compartment you both had been assigned didn't hold much besides a bed just big enough to fit two adult men and a small bathroom cubicle that didn't have a warm water supply, that was only in the communal bathrooms. Still, you didn't complain, knowing the only way you would less tired was if you shocked your body out of its sleepy state, even if it meant staying awake for the rest of the night.

You washed yourself down slowly, taking time to run the scentless soap into your skin and washing away your earlier activities. Finnick had never been one to constantly crave sex, far too scarred from what he was made to do and what he had to watch you do, but ever since you both had been married, he was insatiable, his hands wandering the length of your body every night and your need for the intimacy making you crave his too.

Finnick's sitting up in bed, wrapped in the duvet and sniffling softly. His hair sticks in every which direction and the bright light of the bathroom makes his green eyes look wider and, with a painful tug at your heart, you realise they're stained with tears and red rimmed.

You pushed the thoughts of your earlier activities away, your cheeks burning as you shiver under the cold water shower. You stand there long enough to have your teeth chattering before stepping out of the shower and drying yourself quickly. You pull on the first thing your fingers touch — a thin, grey sweater that's too big for your lithe frame — and a pair of sweatpants before stepping out of the bathroom and jumping a foot in the air.

You close the bathroom door behind you before quickly making your back to the bed, gently cradling his face in your palms, a part of you melting when he leans into your touch immediately, keeping your voice low as to not startle him.

"Love, what's wro—"

"You were gone," he whispered, his voice breaking with your heart at how desperate he sounded. "You were gone a-and the room was dark and I thought...I thought I heard you screaming—"

"Shhh," you whispered gently, tugging him close until he rested his head against your chest, muffling a sob in the sweater as you gently kissed the top of his head, wrapping your arms around his trembling form. Finnick had far, far too many nightmares about the time you were taken by the Capitol, the months he spent alone, waiting for District 13 to rescue you. While your mind actively blocked those days spent away from him, his was hell bent on tormenting him through his dreams. You sighed, gently whispering to him.

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here. I just needed to clean up a little because I couldn't sleep. You just had a bad nightmare. It's okay. I'm okay. We're okay." He sniffled softly as you wiped his tears away and peppered his face with kisses. You sit there with him in your arms, humming softly to him as you wait for your racing hearts to slow down. It was an old, old sea shanty, sung on boats by sailors with voices too rough.

He eventually calmed down and you sighed, tugging him until he lay down with you on the bed, his face burrowed into your chest. The silence of the room is less suffocating now that you both managed to shred last dregs of fear from your limbs, leaving behind exhaustion and something you weren't very familiar with — sleepiness.

You almost doze off, Finnick's warm breath against your throat too comforting when you hear his small, sleep laden voice whisper softly into the silence.

"I want to move out of The Victor's Village when we get back."

You blink into the darkness, tightening your arms around him. You weren't exactly surprised by his statement but the randomness of it still catches you off-guard. "Oh? And go where, baby?"

Finnick shifts against you to look up at you, his wide, green eyes and pink dusted cheeks making him look so adorable that you can't resist kissing the tip of his nose, making him scrunch it as he continues. "A small cottage on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. We'll decorate it with seashells and get a dog."

You chuckle softly at his enthusiastic future planning, running your fingers through his hair as you nod. "And a cat. And hydrangeas to decorate the front porch. And you could knit us all cute little sweaters to wear around the house."

Finnick beams up at you, his dimples making your heart ache with affection. This is what you fought through hell for, making sure he could lay in your arms like this and smile softly up at you as you both daydreamed of a future that looked so distant but felt just as real as the present.

He snuggles impossibly closer to you as he whispers, his voice serene. "I will. I'll knit you a pink one. And we'll make sure the yard looks like a little meadow where our kids can play."

You press gently kisses to the top of his head, rubbing his back gently as you smile. "Of course. We'll get a swing set too."

You feel him press a kiss to the base of your throat, smiling against your skin as you fall silent again. You could feel his breathing slow down, his lashes fluttering against your skin and just as you think he's falling asleep again, you hear him whisper softly, all the wistful longing for a peaceful happy ending with you bleeding out to leave behind a familiar anxiety, anxiety that he only let you see.

"We'll be okay, right?"

He sounds so afraid that it breaks your heart, leaving you to close your eyes as you try to breathe past the pain of seeing him struggle to hold onto happiness. You tilt his head up and gently kiss his lips, his sigh of relief giving you the strength to summon all the confidence you could as you whispered back.

"Of course, baby. We'll be perfectly fine."

Finnick breathed out softly in relief before kissing you again, pushing you onto your back before straddling you. Your hands immediately reach for his hips as you sit up, pulling him impossibly close, desperate to feel him, to know he was right here and yours to love.

6 weeks after the 65th Hunger Games.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and tried to focus, he could hear it. Wind chimes, his sister laughing as she struggles to keep up with him on her toddler legs, the wet sand making it hard for the three year old and the waves splashing them with salt as he slows down just enough for her to wrap her chubby arms around his legs and think she was the one who caught him.

Her giggles sound bright as wind chimes and just for that minute he can pretend everything's oka—

She drops down next to him in the grass as unceremoniously as one would when sitting down for a boring class. The wind, freezing and cold in a way that's only characteristic to District 4, ruffles his hair as he turns to look at the stranger.

She's familiar but, honestly speaking, so is everyone else in the tiny public school of District 4. But he's never spoken to her, that's something he's sure about. The girl doesn't turn to look at him, instead choosing to look at the waves crashing against the foot of the cliffs.

Neither of them should be here, not really. This small patch of grass and wildflowers was out of bounds for it was perched at the edge of the cliffs that line the back of the school. But Finnick couldn't care less and it doesn't seem like this girl does either but that doesn't explain her presence there, sitting right next to him on the semi-damp grass, too close to be just sharing the space.

His eyes take in her nonchalance for one more minute before he eventually says, "What are you doing here?"

The girl's eyes, as deep as the sea they sat in front of, snapped to look at him and he inhaled sharply, only barely stopping himself from visibly squirming at the intensity of her gaze. She shrugs then, looking back out at the sea as she speaks easily.

"Admiring the view."

He nods and sighs, mimicking her movements as he turns back to the sea too. For a moment, he says nothing, content to stare out at the vast expanse of blue. But after a bit, he turns his head to look back at her. "Who are you?"

Her cheeks redden, just enough to be noticeable that makes something in his heart thaw, before she glances at him, her voice as delicate as lotus silk.

"We, ah, we sit in English together."

He looks at her, actually looks at her, and realises she's indeed the girl who sat next to him in English. Mrs. Hedsson had made them sit together so she could help him keep up but in all honesty, he's spent the past few weeks sleeping in class and for some strange reason, the girl had had neither woken him up nor snitched on him.

He clears his throat, before saying as pleasantly as he could muster up to at the moment, "Of course. You're the smart kid right?"

She raises an eyebrow and tilts her to the side in a way that reminds him of those terrifying, colourful snakes from the arena and their bite making his entire body numb and burn like he was on fire— "I have a name, you know?" She deadpans, a barely disguised sigh in her voice.

He nods, laughing nervously. "Well, do enlighten me on your name." He smirked at her, as he would at the crowds of people in the Capitol or even at the girls here in District 4, but this girl looked at him like he had grown another head, which made his cheeks darken.

She glanced at him curiously, as if he were a very interesting type of lizard before finally speaking. "I'm Y/N."

"You look like a Y/N." *Finnick murmurs. "I'm Finnick. Finnick Odair." He pauses, as if debating how much more to say. "Why don't you ever speak in class?"

"And you certainly look like a Finnick." She looked at him with a frown, making him want to swallow his own tongue. "I do speak in class. You'd know that if you didn't sleep through them."

"I don't sleep through class." Finnick counters, defensive. His face flashes through a few different emotions as he looks at her. Anger, frustration, annoyance, then finally resignation. "I'm trying to figure out..." He sighs and looks back out at the sea. Then, he turns his head back towards her. "... why I'm talking to you."

She shrugs, putting her hand into her pocket and for a second he's sure she will pull out a knife, — like his dagger, like the one from the arena, the weapon he had depended on for the first several days and he braces himself for the pain, for the warm blood to stain his uniform — but all that comes out is a faded blue handkerchief which she unwraps to reveal few pieces of dried mangoes.

Finnick stares at them blankly, a little lost. Dried mangoes which were salted and made during the summer using mango seeds were a delicacy in District 4, far too expensive for the normal people to afford sometimes. And by the looks of her old faded school uniform, the girl wasn't anyone special with enough money to be able to buy such lavish things and the only reason he could think she was able to was probably because of his win that caused the prices of things in the market to drop. So he couldn't understand why she's sharing something as precious as this with someone who could buy her entire existence three times over with all his wealth as a victor.

He looked up at her, confused but she just smiled, placing the handkerchief with the sour treat between the two of them. "You looked tired, you skipped lunch and if you sleep through the next English class, Mrs. Hedsson will send you to the principal's office. The victor status won't protect you from the suspension, you know. So eat and keep yourself awake."

Finnick looked at the mangoes with confusion again. Then, his expression softens and a small smile plays at the edge of his lips. "You're right. I skipped lunch. I should eat something." He takes the mangoes gratefully. "But how did you know I didn't eat lunch?" He asks curiously, taking a bit of the food.

She shrugged again, taking one for herself and chewing on it carefully. "We also have maths together, and it's right before lunch. And you never go to the cafeteria." She paused, rolling the piece of mango between her fingers as she peered at him through her lashes. "Also, Mrs. Hedsson is still not happy about you killing her daughter in the arena. So if you're going to Violet's funeral next week, you should probably try to talk to her about it. Maybe take a gift, make sure it's expensive or thoughtful and write a eulogy. Also avoid her boyfriend, Ren. He and his friends are planning to drag you into an alleyway and beat you up."

Finnick stiffens, visibly agitated by everything she's said to him. "How do you know all these things?" He asks, his tone somewhere between annoyed and concerned. "How do you know I wasn't going to the cafeteria? Or th-that Mrs. Hedsson is mad at me? Or that Ren is gunning for me?"

She only raises an eyebrow at his rudeness and his cheeks flush in embarrassment but he stands his ground, his irritation winning over his guilt. She takes another bite of the mango before smiling in a way that reminds him of a child about to get into trouble.

"People don't like to talk to me. But I do listen to them."

This stumps him a little. You would think someone that looked like that would have more friends but apparently not. But that doesn't subdue his anxiety. "And...you decided today was the day you would share all of this information with me?" He asks, his tone a mixture of disbelief and panic. "Why now? Why me?"

"Because no one else is going to," She says easily, crossing her ankles as she watches a butterfly settle on a wildflower near her feet.

"Everyone here is too self absorbed and desperate to be a part of the Hunger Games fanfare. They're too envious to care about you as a person because they don't like how popular and loved by the Capitol you are. They're all going to be at Violet's funeral next week," she says, turning to look at him. "And watching you get accused by Mrs. Hedsson for her daughter's death or getting beat up by Ren will make them feel like they won over you, that you're not as invincible as everyone thinks you are. So when next year one of them gets selected for the Games and you are mentoring them, they can hold your momentary weakness over you."

She scoffs, pushing her hair back as the wind blows it into her eyes. "The only animals that have a black heart is ayami cermani, a type of chicken," and Finnick can't help but be a little impressed by her random knowledge about chickens with actual black hearts as she continued. "But no. I'm not telling you this out of generosity but because you left your vigilance back in the arena and that's not smart. All of these things have been happening in plain sight around you. Ren glares at you during maths. Mrs. Hedsson targets you in English and you get detention for no reason. Other kids knock into you or stick too close to you for it to be normal. You'd know that if you paid attention."

Finnick pauses, trying to process everything she had just said before he speaks, "And you're giving me a heads up just... out of the kindness of your black little heart?" He asks sarcastically, not able to hide his skepticism.

Finnick flushes at her observations, a little surprised — and also, maybe a little unnerved — to find that some of her criticisms of him are legitimate. "I have been...a bit absent these last few months. You're right about that." He concedes, looking at her curiously. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She whispers back, her eyes trained on the butterfly that was still on the wildflower. "You, of all people though, should be more vigilant."

He raises an eyebrow, popping another piece of dried mango into his mouth before chuckling nervously. "You're too wise for a fourteen year old."

She shrugged before picking up the rest of the snack and placing it, handkerchief and all, in his lap. He glanced up at her, a little surprised by the gesture. "I told you. I listen to people."

His breath hitches in his chest and before he could say something, the shrill ringing of the school bell cuts through the peace of the moment and she stands up, brushing the grass off her faded blue skirt. She looks out at the ocean for a split second and starts walking back towards the school before turning back around, to look at him, her clear, high voice startling him out of his trance.

"Oh and, Finnick? I'm sorry about your family."

He stiffens, watching her walk back to the school without waiting for an answer. He couldn't understand. How did she know? No one did, not outside the people who cared and his fellow victors that lived in the Victor's Village. It only happened last week. How did she know?

But his mind couldn't bring itself to draw connections as it lost itself in the familiar haze of pain. Her condolences hang in the air where she stood as his breathing becomes shallow and his vision blurs, both with tears and the living room floor covered in blood, his little sister's blank blue eye staring up at him, her slight body that didn't even come up to his waist laying across his parents, their own eyes wide open as if surprised even in death and their lifeless gaze feels as heavy as the single sheet of expensive cream paper with names, hotel room numbers and the exact composition of Mags' arthritis medication crumpled in the pocket of his school uniform trousers.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Index.

𓇬 Chapter One: Amygdala.