#Mockingjay

[runawaymarbles]

Reading Mockingjay as an adult is extra devastating because. Of course the plucky teenager and her ragtag friends aren't going to sneak into a government building to kill the president with a bow and arrow. That's absolutely ridiculous. It's the kind of thing that's only possible in the kind of propaganda that Coin developed. But she's so good at it that in some ways she tricks the reader into thinking that's the kind of story this is, too--even after 3 books reminding us that pretty much everything that Katniss does the second she volunteers is manipulated by adults pulling strings to make propaganda in some form or another.

[hedgehogs-love-life-2]

you a truther frfr

Comparing Haymitch and Katniss' narrative styles is so funny to me because he's a yapper and she's a gatekeeper. He drops more lore on D12 in the first two chapters of SOTR than she does in the entire trilogy.

Haymitch is like "Yeah, so this person is related to this person who's related to this person and things are this way because of this and this thing actually came from here and this person is actually my best friend and also here's this extra tidbit of random info cause all my lore dropping comes with it's own additional bonus content and all my unnecessary commentary."

And Katniss is over here like "Tf do I care for if y'all know all the lore of District 12? I'm talking about my beautiful husband's beautiful eyelashes."

[stephsycamore]

I think the most radical thing the hunger games does is tell young people that the most revolutionary thing you can do is have unconditional love for humanity. Katniss throughout the entire series is guided by a deep sense of compassion for the people around her. It is what causes her to volunteer, to bury rue, to mercy kill cato, its why she tries to save peeta, why finnick telling her to remember who the real enemy is works, and even though her compassion for the larger world falters when peeta is kidnapped, it comes back when she visits hospitals and asks for mercy for other victors and ultimately, it is love and belief in a better humanity that makes her kill coin. Through it all, she maintains an unfaltering belief in the fundemental goodness of humanity, which is diametrically opposed to dr gaul's and snow's worldview. Peeta is even more unwaveringly compassionate

So the series tells young people that the most revolutionary thing you can be is compassionate. Let compassion drive your politics. Let yourself believe in the fundemental goodness of people. And i think that's deeply important in a world that touts the superiority of pure reason or logic, to allow yourself to be guided by something as emotional as compassion. Katniss everdeen tells us that your politics should be rooted in compassion in a world that thinks detatchment or cynicism is intelligence and i think thats v cool

[idonthavepurplehair]

Gale is honestly one of the most interesting and complex characters in the original trilogy and the fandom does a huge disservice to both him and suzanne for portraying him as an irredeemable monster.

He's not a good person. He is extremely flawed, and a lot of the things he does can't be forgiven. No arguing that.

But he's also a 19 year old guy. He's dealing with an unrequited crush on his codependent best friend, who is his tether not just emotionally but also financially, with their collaborative hunting and his proximity to Katniss getting him better trades in the Hob (I doubt the Hawthorns were as beloved in 12 as Asterid and Burdock).

And then Katniss ends up in the games. He lost his entire support system to the regime and on top of that he has to take on her responsibilities on top of his own. He has to watch her romance with Peeta on live tv and the entire damn country roots for them. OF COURSE he's jealous.

Then she makes it back. She says the romance was fake, but he knows Katniss can't act for shit. Still, he has to make sure, so he kisses her, and it confirms his fears, she's different now, and she doesn't need him anymore, but he still needs her, so he reacts badly, because he's 19 YEARS OLD and honestly what 19-year-old can handle this kind of dumpster fire situation healthily and maturely.

And this is just his relationship with Katniss. His district finally has a victor(s), which is supposed to mean they get it a little bit easier for at least the next year. But instead, they get these new Peacekeepers, and the victory gifts have been eaten by rats and things are getting worse when they're supposed to be getting better. And Gale has always hated the capitol so it's not difficult to imagine that this radicalized him further.

The victory tour where he has to watch Katniss not-really-fake be in love with Peeta. The plan to escape to the woods except Katniss wants to saddle them with half a dozen extra people's worth of dead weight and doesn't see why that is a terribly impractical idea. She's reaped for the games again, and there's no way they'll let her survive again. The baby that he has no way of knowing is fake, the area romance season 2, district 12 being bombed into oblivion and he could only save 800 out of 10000 people.

Then somehow Katniss survives again but he is quickly losing her, but she's not the only person who sees value in him anymore. He has Beetee, the rebels in 13, finally people who appreciate him for HIM. Who want his input on things, who see him as a person and not just an extension of Katniss.

Gale got none of the support, none of the mentoring, none of the insight that Katniss did. No one bothered to remind him who the real enemy is.

There's a conversation he has with Katniss where she tells him that it must be all those trips to the arena that have changed her. No shit Katniss has more perspective than Gale.

So I get it. That he lets Coin encourage his worst behaviours, his violence, mercilessness, hatred. That he's blind to the similarities between 13 and the capitol, that he idolised Coin for many of the same reasons he hates Snow. Because one has oppressed him all his life, and one has offered him vengeance.

I'm just saying, y'all can show him some grace and appreciate the point Suzanne was trying to make with him.

[hedgehogs-love-life-2]

NO YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME

so you’re telling me that after what happened to louella/lou lou haymitch had to watch peeta come back from the capitol as a “mutt version of himself” and question whether the shell of a human with peeta’s face was even peeta at all

and he had to do all that SOBER???

[railmerosalie]

I find it so funny when ppl say that Katniss has no personality, she's so cute and funny! Like do you not remember when she...

1. Thought Finnick was making out with Peetas corpse and was like "damn didn't know he was fruity like that"

2. When Gale confessed his love for her and she was STRIAGHT up like "yeah I know" 💀

3. Saw Peeta had been crying after the first reaping and immediately thinks "damn he's good, playing the weak sympathy card". Like girl he thinks he's gonna die! He's gonna die!

4. Katniss and Finnick wearing the green face cream in CF and scaring the fuck outta Peeta on the beach

5. Just her and Haymitch, especially the first book

6. "I decided to go ahead and like Boggs" - thanks for letting us know queen 👑

7. In MJ when they're trying to film the propos, and she's just horrible at it

8. In the first book when she's trying to drain the pus out of Peetas leg and she just so goddmaned grossed out

9. Saw the cupcakes at the Capitol party and immediately thought that Peeta would love the frosting details

10. In MJ when Gale and Peeta are talking about Katniss choosing one of them, she's just like "gonna leave you two bums here, don't need this shit"

11. Everytime she was unaware of people flirting with her or just being nice. She always think there's some hidden motive... like girl they're your family and friends, they just like you as a person

12. "Nobody needs me" "I do, I need you". Katniss finally admitting her love for Peeta and realises that she can't live without him!! It's such an important part of her growth towards Peeta and no one talks about it!! The girl how has survived everything finally needs not just something, but SOMEONE. And it's HIM (I'm so normal about this I swear)

13. Sassying buttercup at every turn

14. She has the same vibe as goop from Meet The Robinsons (especially with Madge). "Hey Katniss, wanna eat lunch together?" "Hey Katniss, wanna go for a walk into town later"

She's there like:

[im-sleepingbeauty]

he’ll probably be kissing me anyway…

😭😭🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫

[daydreamer-in-reverie]

Started rereading the Hunger Games series and I feel like it’s so overlooked how in 74th and 75th Hunger Games, we don’t know every Tribute’s names, with Katniss only referring to them by their District numbers but in TBOSAS, we knew every single Tribute by name. We associated them with the clothes they wore on the Reaping Day and Suzanne even goes so far as to describe how they looked, however briefly. We see these Tributes and we’re familiarized with them by the little tidbits provided to the mentors and to Snow and Lucy Gray. But we never get this in the original trilogy.

In two generations, President Snow alienated the Districts from each other so much that Katniss didn’t even care to know all the names of the Tributes sent into the Arena with her, with the exception being those who posed great risk against her safety and those she felt great compassion for (e.g. Cato, Thresh, Rue, Mags, Betee, Wiress etc.). Katniss even went so far as to call the D6 Tributes in the 75th Hunger Games morphlings, for their affinity to imbibe in the drugs that help them forget their own traumas (an incredibly hurtful description, in my own opinion, to be known by the qualities you hate the most about yourself). We never know the real name of the 74th D5 girl, with Katniss only referring to her as Foxface and we don’t even know Marvel’s name until we get to the second book and he was Katniss’ first personal kill. Katniss even kills the D4 girl in the books with the same tracker jacker venom that killed Glimmer and yet still, we don’t know her name. We are so removed from the identity of the other Tributes that we don’t even know what some of them looked like beyond brief descriptions of mangled bodies and dead Tributes in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.

And, the thing is, Suzanne established the importance of names in the series. Even in real life, we recognize the importance of being named. It is a fundamental aspect of being human. If you’re ever in a perilous situation where a person might be placing your life in danger, we’re told to remind the person that you’re human. “Keep saying your name, how old you are, where you came from. Remind them you are a human being just like them.” Before any propaganda can work against a group of people, refusing to recognize a person’s name is the first step to dehumanization. And just like the people of the Districts, we don’t care enough about the other Tributes to even want to know their names. Their propaganda worked on us, the readers.

In two generations, President Snow completely wiped out any sense of familiarity and camaraderie the Districts may have shared with the other. In two generations, Snow sowed the seeds of distrust and division into the Districts so deeply that even we, the readers, were affected by the effects of Capitol propaganda. In two generations, the Districts ceased to genuinely care about the others beyond the vague sense of injustice they feel for their shared plight. It’s why Career Districts don’t seem to care about killing the other Tributes. How can you care, to show your compassion and humanity, when you can barely see them as people? Yes, they may have been in the Arena with you. Yes, they may have been starved and beaten and forced into labor like you were. Yes, they might be children just like you. Yes, they might be subjected to the same deplorable system that turned you into virtual slaves. But they are not your friends. They are not your allies. They are strange, with different customs and traditions that you have. You do not share the same values. They do not care about you. At the first chance they get, they will kill you with your bare hands and they will do it with alacrity if it meant their survival. There can only be one Victor and it can’t be them. It has to be you.

[sallamie]

do you think katniss refused to talk after prims death not only because she was traumatized by it but because she forever wanted her last words to be her dead sisters name

[hyperfixatedmess873]

In Mockingjay, Katniss’s squad was called squad 451. Like the book Fahrenheit 451°.

Plutarch Heaveansbee, the man who had a huge ass library, and libraries were considered RARE, named them after a book about censorship.

Plutarch is such an interesting character, the fact that he was trying to stop the games for at LEAST 25 years. And he was so devoted it makes you wonder why he even cared.

[mrs-kmikaelson]

Our Song and Dance Series Masterlist

*COMPLETED*

*note: the photos do not belong to me, but the banner is mine. photos are not indicative of reader's appearance.

Finnick Odair x Reader You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end.

Series warnings: extremely long (this is a warning), exploitation of minors, forced prostitution, unrequited love, complicated relationships, violence, death, suicidal ideation and tendencies, complex mental health issues, psychological "games," torture, grief, war, religious imagery, unhealthy coping mechanisms, made-up names

Total wc: 92K

Series Soundtrack

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

[aeshsar]

hihi. kill me

[girlrandomstuff]

Maybe not the most original take, but “Another Love” by Tom Odell is one of the most Hayffie songs ever, and is making me want to cry my eyes out.

And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight

But my hand's been broken one too many times

So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude

Words, they always win, but I know I'll lose

And I'd sing a song that'd be just ours

But I sang 'em all to another heart

And I wanna cry, I wanna learn to love

But all my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

[entnoot]

Been thinking a lot about The Hunger Games again recently so here’s a Katniss 🏹

[joluvsfinnick]

Etched The Same

f!reader x finnick odair soulmate au

a mini 3 part series

summary - soulmates share a scar. you earn yours in blood, while he earns his in silence. but, he doesn’t tell you. not because he doesn’t feel the same, but because he’s terrified you’ll look at him and wish it had been someone else.

warnings - none

a/n - AHHHHHH i’ve been so so excited to post this!! writing it has been so much fun and i’m praying it ya’ll enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it. anyways. here’s part one!! :)

You’ve never really spoken to the blonde-haired, sea-green eyed boy from your district before.

You’ve seen him in passing, across the square, on television screens, carved into Capitol posters like something untouchable. You’d heard all the girls giggle when his name came up, whispered about how devastatingly handsome he was. Finnick Odair, District 4’s golden boy. Victorious. Untouchable.

And now, so are you. But you don’t really feel it. Not when the nightmares still dig under your ribs. Not when the ocean air no longer smells like peace.

It’s been a few months since you returned from your Games. You’ve been left alone for the most part, which you’ve appreciated. You spend most of your afternoons on the dock now, legs dangling over the edge, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might give you answers. Or take you with it.

The waves lap gently at the wooden posts beneath you. Seagulls call overhead, but their cries sound too loud, too bright, like they don’t belong in a world that still feels gray.

And then, without warning, you hear the creak of wood behind you. Someone drops down beside you with the kind of ease that makes your shoulders jump. You whip your head toward them, half ready, half afraid, but stop short when you see him.

Finnick.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just swings his legs over the edge like he’s done this a hundred times. Like this is just another summer evening. But you know better. You know what it’s like to pretend you’re okay just so people stop looking at you like you’re broken.

“Still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he hums, voice low, like it might shatter something if he speaks any louder.

You don’t answer at first. Your gaze shifts back to the fading sun, its gold bleeding into orange over the surface of the sea. A breeze carries the smell of salt and fish and something softer, like lemon soap on skin. You’re not sure if it’s real or if your memory’s playing tricks.

“Will it ever?” You almost snort.

He chuckles, not because it’s funny, but because of how terribly true it is. There’s something hollow in the sound, like laughter with all the warmth scraped out.

“No,” he says. “Not really.”

Silence stretches between you like a net that neither of you wants to break. You hear the distant clatter of a fishing boat returning to shore. Somewhere down the coast, a child is laughing. The sound feels foreign now, like it belongs to another life.

“You come here often?” You cringe. It’s so painfully cliché, but the silence is painful, you can’t help but ask. Voice quiet, careful not to break the spell.

He smiles, but shrugs. “Sometimes. When I don’t want to be found.”

“Is that often?”

A beat. Then a soft, dry grin tugs at his mouth. “Lately? Yeah.”

You nod. That much, at least, you understand.

The ocean rolls beneath your feet. The dock creaks gently. He doesn’t press you for anything. Doesn’t ask how you’re doing, because he already knows. Instead, you sit in the dying light together, two kids made too old too fast, letting the sea try to carry your silence away.

After a while, he leans back on his elbows and glances sideways at you.

“You know,” he says, with a mock-serious tone, “if I’d known we’d be bonding over mutual trauma, I might’ve introduced myself sooner. Maybe brought a bottle of rum and a dramatic monologue.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Oh? what, no roses and a candlelit dock dinner?”

He grins, clearly pleased to have coaxed a reaction out of you. “I didn’t want to come on too strong. I figured I’d save the roses for after our next soul-crushing memory swap.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, just barely. It’s a strange feeling, smiling without guilt. Like maybe it’s allowed. Maybe he is, too.

Finnick swings his feet a little and hums. “You’re different from the girl I saw on TV.”

You glance at him. “How?” Stupid question honestly. Everyone is different than what’s portrayed on Panem TV. He, of all people, should know that.

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Quieter. Meaner. Less likely to sit next to me without trying to drown me.”

“Still time,” you say dryly, though your voice is softer than before. He laughs, really laughs this time, and it cuts through the fog a little, warm and unexpected. And just like that, something shifts. Not all the way. Not yet. But enough.

—

The dock’s quieter today.

No fishing boats in the distance. No seagulls screaming overhead. Just the steady hush of waves curling against the shore, and the gentle creak of wood beneath you as you sway your feet above the tide.

You hadn’t meant to come back, not really. But something about this spot has started to feel like… yours. A sliver of stillness in a world that doesn’t slow down.

You wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin there. Breathe in the salt and the silence. Your mind starts to wander, brushing against memories you don’t want, until—

“Wow,” comes a voice from behind you. “Back to where it all began. I’m honored.”

You don’t even flinch this time.

You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, there he is again, Finnick Odair in all his uninvited glory, barefoot, shirt loose, hair wind-tousled like he just stepped off the cover of a Capitol romance novel. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask dryly.

He drops down beside you with that same practiced ease, legs swinging over the edge. “Not officially. But I figured since you didn’t flee last time, I might be growing on you.”

You raise a brow. “Growing is a strong word.”

He gasps, mock-wounded. “You wound me.”

“Good.”

Finnick laughs. Not hollow. Not tight. Just warm. The kind that catches you off guard.

“You’re fun when you’re not brooding,” he says.

“I don’t brood.”

“You definitely brood.”

You shoot him a sideways look, but your lips twitch before you can stop them. “I just like being quiet.”

“Mm. And yet here you are, tolerating me.”

You shrug, eyes drifting back to the water. “You’re not the worst.”

“Oh, don’t be sweet,” he teases. “I might start thinking you like me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. A gull cries in the distance. The tide shifts just slightly. For a moment, it’s quiet again. But not heavy like before. Just… comfortable.

“Do you always show up like this?” you ask, half-curious, half-mocking.

He leans back on his hands. “Only when I’m hoping someone might be here.” You glance over, but he’s not looking at you. And somehow, that makes it worse. It makes your stomach twists. He turns suddenly, flashing that signature grin again, like he’s tugging the mask back into place before you can ask what he meant.

“Anyway,” he says, “if I’m going to keep showing up, we should probably establish a routine. Tuesdays, tragic silence. Thursdays, emotionally repressed flirting.”

You laugh, genuinely this time. “Fine. But I’m not sharing my snacks.”

“Oh, heartbreak,” he sighs. “This is going to be harder than the Games.”

—

It becomes a weekly thing. Then an almost daily one.

You never plan it. You never ask. It just… happens.

You show up at the dock. Same spot. Same hour. The sun dips low and golden across the waves, and within thirty minutes, like clockwork, he’s there. Sometimes with two apples, maybe a few sugar-cubes. Sometimes humming. Sometimes quiet, carrying some invisible weight behind his grin.

Other days, he doesn’t come at all. You don’t ask why. You could. You almost do. Sometimes he’s gone for 3 days. Sometimes 5. Only once has he been gone for an entire week. But when he shows up again, smile worn thin and eyes a little duller, you don’t press. You’ve never been good at comforting people, and you know better than to start now. Besides, it feels like there are things you aren’t supposed to know yet. Things he’s not ready to say.

So you sit together. Close enough to count his freckles. Far enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. Time passes. Quicker than you thought it could. Quicker than it has any right to. And somewhere along the way, you start to realize you’re falling for him.

That golden-haired boy with laughter in his mouth and sadness behind his eyes. His flirting always makes you blush, soft comments about your smile, about the way you crinkle your nose when you laugh. Teasing remarks about how you’re clearly obsessed with him because you keep showing up in his spot.

But even as your stomach turns at every smile, every accidental brush of his hand against yours, you remind yourself it’s nothing. Because it is nothing. You both have soulmates out there. People with marks and scars that will match your own in some perfect, cosmic design. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe ten years from now. But until then, you promised yourself you’d wait.

Fate has always been something you took seriously.

You grew up on stories of it, especially your parents. The way your mother met your father as a girl from the outer area of District 4 while he was a more wealthy town boy. The way she collided with your dad at a market stall. Literally—knocked into him hard enough to scrape her elbow on the ground.

It bled. She winced. Apologized.

And he just stood there staring. Then slowly rolled up his sleeve.

Same mark. Same shape. Same scar.

Your mother cried, right there in the middle of the street, and ever since then they’ve been inseparable. That was fate. Not this. Not some boy with the Capitol at his feet and sea salt in his grin who made you feel things he had no business making you feel. So you keep your walls up. You smile when he flirts. You laugh when he teases. You pretend it means nothing.

Even though it means everything.

The ocean stretches wide, calm and endless under a sky turning soft shades of dusk. You sit on the dock beside Finnick, legs swinging just above the water’s edge. He leans back on his hands, eyes fixed somewhere far away, like chasing a memory. After a long pause, you break the silence.

“You ever think about your parents? How they met?”

Finnick shrugs, not meeting your gaze. “They weren’t soulmates, if that’s what you mean.” You blink, surprised. “They just… found each other, even without some perfect fate or magic pulling them together. They chose each other. Every day.”

You study him, then ask softly, “Do you believe in it then? The whole fate thing?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, half bitter, half wistful. “I mean, it’s kind of hard not to when there’s so much proof.” He pauses, his gaze shifting to his feet. “I want to. I do. But I don’t know if it’s something that’ll ever happen to me.”

You turn to look at him, sensing something fragile beneath his bravado. “Why not?”

His eyes meet yours, honest and raw. “Maybe I’m not meant for that kind of connection. Maybe some people just get left behind.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “But your parents… they made it work.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. That choice, that fight, that’s real. Maybe more real than fate.” He bumps your knee with his elbow, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice teasing, “if we were soulmates, I’d be fine with it.” But then his smile falters for just a heartbeat, a shadow flickers behind his eyes, something softer, more vulnerable. You catch it, but before you can ask, he’s back to leaning against his hands, staring out at the water like it holds all the answers.

—

Over the years, you and Finnick keep finding your way back to each other. It’s never daily, never constant, but at least once a week, like a quiet promise neither of you says out loud. It becomes a ritual, a flicker of normal in the chaos surrounding you. You’ve grown close, the kind of close that feels like friendship but lingers just a bit beyond. Sometimes he joins you at the victors’ house for dinner with your family. Those evenings are soft, warm laughter, easy conversations, the kind of moments you both clutch onto. But beneath it all, there’s something stirring. Something unspoken and fragile that neither of you dares to name.

“You know,” Finnick says, elbowing you lightly as you sit on the dock, the salt air mixing with the fading warmth of the sun, “if that soulmate of yours doesn’t show up, my offer to take his place still stands.”

You scoff, shooting him a sideways glance. “Careful, Odair. You’re flirting with disaster.”

He grins, eyes shining with mischief. “Or maybe I’m flirting with you. Which, honestly, sounds a lot more fun.”

You finally meet his gaze, eyebrow raised. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m still holding out for fate to sweep me off my feet.”

Finnick’s smile softens for a moment, just enough that you catch it, a flicker of something real beneath the teasing. He leans in, voice dropping low. “Fate’s tricky. Sometimes it shows up when you least expect it. Other times, it’s stuck in traffic or something.”

You laugh, nudging him. “Or maybe it’s waiting for you to grow a pair and catch up.”

He smirks, eyes locking on yours with a spark that’s hard to read. “Maybe I’m just testing your patience.”

“Testing me?” You lean closer, voice playful but your heart skips. “Be careful, Odair. You might just make me fall for you instead of waiting on that soulmate of mine.”

His grin falters for a heartbeat, replaced by something softer, almost serious, before he masks it with a sly smile. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You bite your lip, trying not to let the sudden warmth in your chest show. “Depends if you’re worth the risk.”

Finnick chuckles, but the sound is quieter now, as if he’s hearing something only he knows. You glance out at the water, the colors of the sunset painting everything gold, and suddenly the space between you feels charged, alive with all the words neither of you dare to speak.

Then your voice drops, quieter, almost fragile. “I really want to find my soulmate, Finnick. I,” You pause. “I don’t think I could ever truly love someone unless fate brought us together. If it’s not meant to be, I don’t know if I could really feel like it was real.”

Finnick’s grin vanishes, replaced by a shadow crossing his face. His heart clenches in a way that feels like it might break. The idea that you believe in fate so absolutely, that you need it to love, crushes something deep inside him. Because he wonders if fate will ever bring you to him.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to smile again. “Well… maybe fate just likes to keep us on our toes.” You don’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes, and for a moment, the teasing fades into something honest and raw. But neither of you say the words hanging heavy between you.

Maybe someday. But not tonight.

Sometimes, when you’re laughing across the table at one of his jokes, your eyes crinkled and bright, Finnick lets himself believe. Maybe, just maybe, you’re looking at him the way he looks at you.

There are moments when you’re walking side by side down the shoreline and your arm brushes his, and you don’t move away. Moments where your gaze lingers too long, where you tilt your head and smile like you see something in him that he can’t even see in himself. Sometimes your voice softens when you say his name. Sometimes your fingers graze his wrist and stay a second longer than they need to.

And in those moments, he starts to think, maybe. Maybe she feels it too. But then, like clockwork, it slips through his fingers. Then, the memory of you and him on the dock comes spinning back. “I don’t think I could ever truly love someone unless fate brought us together.”

And just like that, the hope he’s dared to hold flickers out. Because Finnick knows he isn’t fate. He’s never been anything close to it. He’s a Capitol weapon, a face in a mask, a boy stitched back together by survival and sacrifice. You want signs from the universe. A scar that mirrors yours. A string pulling you toward someone who’s always meant to be yours.

Finnick was never anyone’s to begin with.

So, he swallows whatever warmth had been rising in his chest. Offers a teasing smile in return. Pretends your words don’t hit him like a stone to the ribs. And he tells himself it’s fine. Because even if he’s not your fate, at least he gets to be your almost. And sometimes, when you look at him like that again, he lets himself believe all over again.

—

You don’t mean to lean into him. Really, you don’t.

But it’s late, and the house is quiet, and for once, there’s no noise in your head. Just the rhythm of waves crashing outside, the distant creak of a floorboard upstairs, and Finnick’s breath, steady beside you.

And your body, exhausted from always pretending not to feel.

You let your head tip, just slightly, until it finds his shoulder, then his chest. You freeze for half a second, tense and wary, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays there. Still, warm, quiet. Like he’s been waiting for you to do this the whole time. Your eyes slip shut, and for a brief, stolen moment, you allow yourself the weakness. The comfort. The fantasy of what it might be like to stay here, to be held without questions, to love without fear.

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just listen to the beat of his heart beneath your cheek and pretend it’s your own. And still, even now, even with the weight of his warmth beneath you… you remind yourself:

You’re waiting for fate.

Even if part of you already know. it might’ve been him all along.

He feels it before he fully registers it, your head against his chest. The soft, hesitant weight like a whisper, a secret confession without words. His breath catches. His heart hammers, louder than it ever has before. For a split second, everything else falls away: the Games, the Capitol, the emotional scars that mark them both. Just you. Just this moment.

Finnick’s fingers twitch, aching to hold you close, to never let you go. But he stays still, afraid that if he moves, the fragile thread holding this quiet peace might snap. Because even here, now, with your warmth pressed to him, a wall stands tall inside his chest. He knows. He knows the truth you don’t say aloud. The unspoken hope that fate will bind you to someone else. And the painful possibility that maybe… you’ll never want him.

So instead of pulling you closer, he rests his hand lightly over yours, careful not to scare away the delicate moment. He lets his mind spin with every “what if”, what if this could be more, what if you’re feeling this too, what if he’s the one you were waiting for all along?

But then the silence stretches, and the doubts crowd in, fear and pain twisting inside him. Because loving you feels like the most dangerous thing in the world when everything else is uncertain. So he just holds you. Quietly.

Hoping somehow that’s enough. And somehow, for now, it is.

—

But those moments are soon left behind as the announcement for the 3rd quarter quell creeps up on both of you. You’re both in your living room, watching Snow dig his filthy hands into the clear bowl and unfold that tiny slip of paper.

Then, he speaks. His tone evil and vile as he announces the Quell theme.

Finnick goes silent, jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists. You don’t understand what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. Instead, you stand abruptly and retreat to your room, shutting the door behind you. You curl into your bed like a child, small and scared, the weight of it all crashing down.

Time stretches. Too long. Until finally, soft footsteps shuffle outside your door. A quiet knock. You don’t have to ask. You know it’s him.

Without hesitation, the door creaks open, and Finnick slips inside. He moves carefully, as if afraid to break the fragile quiet. He settles on the edge of your bed, head dipping between his shoulders like the weight of the world rests there. No words come. None are needed yet. He sits there for what feels like forever, still as stone, like he doesn’t trust himself to move. Like if he does, something inside him will split wide open.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. You just stare at the wall, at the way the shadows crawl along the edges of your room like they’re trying to swallow the world whole. The silence stretches. Breath after breath, heavy with things neither of you are brave enough to say.

And then, finally—slowly—he moves.

The mattress dips under his weight as he slides beside you. There’s a long, wavering pause before his hand finds your shoulder, then your waist. He hesitates again, like he’s asking without words, and then you feel it: the weight of him curling in behind you, his arm slipping around your middle as he exhales shakily into the crook of your neck.

You don’t stop him. You don’t even breathe. You just let yourself sink into him.

His chest rises and falls against your back, uneven and trembling. Your fingers find his and curl around them, and for the first time since the screen went black, your lungs stop aching. There’s nothing to say. No promises to make. Just two broken hearts tangled together in the dark, holding each other like it might keep the world from ending.

Neither of you know who’ll be reaped. Maybe it won’t be either of you. Maybe you’ll both get lucky and your names won’t be called.

But something deep down inside is telling you otherwise.