at12-30

[at12-30]

"trust the creative spark you're feeling, and express it through writing stories that inspire and enlighten."

LITERALLY my sign to write that johanna fic

(been thinking abt her 24/7, rereading her scenes in catching fire, trying to make an edit of her and reading a really fantastic fic about her too)

[at12-30]

out on the oil rig

summary: Finnick leaves reader for the hunger games but returns

word count: 1257

pairing: young!Finnick Odair x m!Reader

warnings: none :)

note: this is my first time writing for Finnick so please bear with me! also, my first time doing one of these little "pre-read" summary so i'm also unfamiliar with that

It was, in all ways, dangerous. 

First, meeting up at the dried-up harbor. Though not many Peacekeepers came around anyway, and no one came here simply because it didn’t hold any value, if Finnick were to get caught it would be bad. Second, the talk of volunteering for the annual games.

The games were an almost guaranteed way to die, whether you wanted to or not, but Finnick was from District 4. One of the strongest. A career district. And it wasn’t coming from a place of need or desire, it was simply that he could– and would– win.

And last, the acute pain he could feel from his… friend– yes, friend was definitely the right word!– at the idea of Finnick raising his hand and shouting the words that would guarantee him a place in the slaughter.

“I don’t understand why you want to volunteer so badly,” Y/N complained while the sun inched towards the waterline, kissing the abundant beaches and hills of District 4 goodnight. “You’re walking, no, running! straight into your death.”

Finnick sighed. “I can win, that’s why. My mentor said that sponsors are obsessed with young volunteers which boost my already high odds of winning. I’ll be back in a week or so and we can share the spoils of my winnings!”

“I don’t want your spoils,” Y/N snapped, rising to a stand. The wind buffeted his hair in the decreasing light, shadows drawn across his tight features. His anger made him beautiful, like a furious sea god ready to strike down an island. The additional water lapped at the rig jacket added to the image, implying that he controlled the water itself. “I don’t want you to leave, Finnick! When you die, I’ll have no one else!”

“I’m not going to die!” Finnick retorted, his usually cool demeanor cracking under the stress of his friend. “You have so little faith in me!”

“Because the odds are against you!” the other boy screeched, a wave crashing against the rig shaking the entire structure. “They are always against you no matter what the capitol tells you!” His voice shook, wavered. It was clear to see how hard he was trying to keep his composure, as best as he could anyway.

Finnick’s resolve wavered then. He couldn’t leave him. They had been together for years, in a constant pull of friend-or-more-than-friend, and they had always fallen back to the former. It was better that way. And yet, Finnick’s heart ached to be able to see Y/N everyday, same as they had always been.

That was the last thing the two of them had said before the reaping the following morning. Like planned, Finnick was the first to raise his hand and volunteer to be the male tribute of District 4. Somewhere several meters behind Finnick, hidden by the mass of bodies, Y/N’s tears flowed steadily but he kept silent as Finnick climbed the stage.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

He didn’t watch the games. Not at first. He watched the interview, just briefly, trying to catch a glimpse of his dead friend. He was alive and well, chattering on and flashing his signature smile as his charming personality always did. That was it, for the first several hours of course.

Y/N occupied himself with Finnick’s chores. Fishing twice as much as he usually would, cleaning and gutting the fish himself, heading into the market to sell his goods and provide something for Mags or the rest of Finnick’s family. It made the rawness of Finnick’s departure that much worse, but when a task wasn’t directly correlated to Finnick it did the intended job.

Come the second day of the games, Y/N was itching to see if Finnick was alive or not. But he resisted. He continued on the carefully crafted routine he had made in a span of hours and when the time came to view the games, he ran to their oil rig.

Nearly a weeping mess, nearly unable to breath with his lungs compressed by his ribs and his grief, he almost didn’t notice that he wasn’t alone.

He had skidded to a halt before coming into view of the Peacekeepers, waited out the painstakingly long hours before they returned to the heart of District 4. Y/N gave in after that, a couple of minutes a day. Watching the other tributes but never seeing Finnick, assuming he’s dead, returning to the abandoned oil rig as late as he could.

Quickly, in the days preceding Finnick’s victory, Y/N became overwhelmed with the amount of things to do in 4. Fish, clean, fish again, sell the fish. Dive for oysters and clams and hunt otters and whatever marine mammals had the poor luck of swimming too close to the shoreline.

At night he’d do something like cry himself to sleep, but it wasn’t so much of crying as it was wheezing and trying to breath through the tears and the heartbreak.

Y/N didn’t see the last tribute fall. Didn’t hear the confirmation of Finnick’s victory. Didn’t see the gleaming trident in Finnick’s hands, a possible gift from the capitol in hopes of a slightly brighter (and bloodier) birthday.

When Finnick returned to his District, everyone was buzzing with excitement at the news. All Finnick wanted to do was bolt past the faces he knew and dive into the ocean, clamber up the old rig and meet Y/N with an assortment of salty snacks.

He waited out the day, going through the motions of a victor, for him. He knew if he ran off now, or too quick, everyone would be suspicious. And then it was time.

It was all he could do to wait. And wait. And wait. As Y/N didn’t show up the night he arrived home. The sun was long past setting and though Finnick had been late, he admitted that this was ridiculous. The random, painful thought of Y/N’s death only dawned on him when he heard the scrape of metal, flap of wet clothes and intensive breathing.

When Finnick’s hands wrapped around the familiar skin of the boy he knew better than himself, it was as if the air had been knocked out of him like in the arena. His boy’s eyes were cold and distant, but Finnick didn’t stop the cry of joy of seeing his partner again.

The bag of game fell to the floor with a low, wet thud as they embraced, Y/N’s breath ragged from exertion and perhaps something else as Finnick apologized again and again before finally, loaded with smug and sass, said how he had told him so.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” Finnick asked as the boys sat under the moon, sharing the fish and the cheese and the sauce. Y/N stayed silent as he licked the fish oil from his fingers, shame crawling up his neck before he answered. He lied to himself the entire time Finnick was gone, but now faced with the question he knew the truth.

“I almost got caught by Peacekeepers once,” he responded. “Didn’t know how often they came so I came out later and later.” Finnick accepted the answer easily, having been afraid that he didn’t show up because of Finnick’s decision to leave. Which was almost the case.

The fishermen stayed out, falling asleep and finding warmth in one another, until the sun threw rich hues of orange and yellow across the sky and chased the darkness away.