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humaling · 7 days ago

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catharsis.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: weeks of supressing his emotions, finnick finally breaks down when he's got you back in his arms.

warnings: depictions of ptsd and dissociation, brief mentions usage of needles, the usual hunger games

word count: 5.1k

author's note: i wrote this in the middle of my writer's block

The beach is emptier than usual. It looks larger too—vast and surreal beneath the high-noon sun, which blazes from a sky so blue it almost hurts to look at. Wisps of clouds drift lazily above, forming and dissolving into shapes that never settle. The ocean, painted in shifting bands of teal and indigo, breathes with a rhythmic hush. Each wave spills onto the shore with a soft sigh before retreating, whispering secrets back into the sea.

They crash in hollow roars that fade into fizzing foam, while seabirds wheel overhead, their cries sharp and echoing in the openness. Somewhere farther down the beach, a laugh—light and familiar—breaks like fragile glass before the wind carries it away.

The air is thick with the scent of salt and sun-warmed driftwood, undercut by something deeper—earthy, ancient, like the breath of something slumbering beneath the tide. Finnick can taste the salt on his lips, sharp and mineral, as if the sea had kissed him and left its mark.

Sand clings to his damp feet, gritty and warm. Every gust of wind carries a fine mist of saltwater that cools the sunburn on his skin. The breeze tugs through his hair, tangling it with strands of seaweed scent and ocean musk.

Tiny crabs dart in and out of their holes like whispers with legs, and gulls strut just beyond the waves, pecking at sun-bleached shells. Footprints scatter across the sand, only to vanish one by one under the tide’s reach.

There’s a strange stillness in the pauses between waves, a momentary hush that feels like the world holding its breath—trying to remember something it once lost. The horizon stretches wide and endless—not with promise, but with a quiet kind of sadness, the kind that makes you feel beautifully small.

Then he hears it.

Soft. Sweet. A voice he knows better than his own.

“What are you doing, Finn?”

He turns his head and sees you standing there. You’re wrapped in a white knitted cardigan over your baby-blue sundress, arms folded gently across your chest. Your hair flutters in the breeze, and your eyes—sparkling, alive—are fixed on him like he's the only thing in the world worth seeing. A small, knowing smile rests on your lips.

Finnick smiles back. He steps toward you, slowly, drawn like a tide to the moon. There’s something about the way you look at him—like he’s the one who hung every star in your sky. With each step he takes, your smile widens.

“What are you doing, Finn?” you ask again. But this time, there’s a tremble in your voice—barely there, but it strikes him like a cold wind. There’s fear behind it.

A tear slips down your cheek. He doesn’t understand. What’s wrong? He wants to ask, but the words are caught in his throat like sea glass. He tries to move faster, but with every step forward, you drift farther away.

Finnick frowns, his pace quickening—but you keep retreating. The beach stretches out, impossibly long, the sky too bright, the seagulls crying louder now, shrill and broken.

You’re sobbing. He can hear it now.

“What are you doing, Finn?” you keep asking, over and over, your voice cracking, lost and desperate.

His vision begins to spin—slow at first, then faster. He doesn’t know if it's him or the world around him that’s turning. The sand seems to tilt beneath him. The light sharpens, then shatters. The rhythm of the waves falters. The dream begins to unravel.

The sky dims, just slightly at first—so subtle that Finnick almost misses it. The blue fades into a washed-out gray, like watercolor left too long in the rain. The waves lose their shimmer and start crashing harder, more violently, their sighs turning to growls. The seabirds no longer cry—they scream, their silhouettes swirling above like ash in the wind.

Your figure flickers.

One second you're there, the next you're not—just a distortion in the air, a mirage caught between waves. Finnick blinks hard and finds you again, still retreating, your steps too light to leave imprints in the sand. He calls your name, but no sound leaves his mouth. His throat burns as if filled with salt.

The beach is longer now. Wider. But unfamiliar. The driftwood is gone. The shells, the footprints, all erased. The sand is darker, no longer golden but muddy, slick with something that stains his feet as he runs. The ocean reeks—metallic, thick with copper and rot.

“What are you doing, Finn?” Your voice cuts through the air again, only now it’s cracked. Frantic. You’re crying harder. Your body shakes as if you’re being pulled by invisible strings.

Finnick sprints toward you, but the space between you grows with every breath. The wind howls, cruel and cold now, carrying not sea mist but smoke. Thick, black, choking smoke.

The sky has turned to fire.

And suddenly, the beach is gone.

The sand hardens beneath him, shifts into metal plates and broken earth. Jungle trees rise around him like prison bars, their roots strangling the ground. The air grows humid, heavy with heat and blood and memory. He knows this place.

The 75th Hunger Games arena.

You’re still there—but you’re not standing anymore.

You're kneeling. Wrists bound behind your back. Your dress is soaked in something dark, your hair matted to your face. A bright spotlight swings down from nowhere, bathing you in harsh white light. Everything else falls into shadow.

“What are you doing, Finn?” you whisper again—but your voice is mangled now, forced from your throat like it hurts to speak. Your mouth is trembling. Your lips are bloodied.

He tries to run to you, but his legs won’t move. The more he fights, the heavier his limbs become. The arena floor holds him fast like quicksand.

A figure emerges behind you.

Masked. Gloved. Capitol white. A Peacekeeper? No—worse. A ghost stitched from Finnick’s guilt. One of the ones who watched. Who recorded. Who paid.

The figure steps forward and grabs you by the hair, yanking your head back. Your scream slices straight through Finnick’s ribs.

“What are you doing, Finn?” you cry again, more broken this time. Begging.

“Stop!” he roars—and his body jolts upright in bed.

He's drenched in sweat, soaked to the bone, like he’s just been dragged out of the ocean. It runs down his forehead, jaw, neck, clinging to him in beads and rivulets. His chest heaves with every ragged breath, and his throat burns—dry, scraped raw, like he’s swallowed salt or screamed himself hoarse.

For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is.

The silence is deafening. His hands clutch at the sheets, still reaching for you in the dark. Your cries echo in his ears, and the image of you—broken, wrecked—sends a cold shiver down his spine. He wonders if you’re still breathing. If the nightmare was only a reflection, or if the reality you’re enduring in the Capitol is somehow even worse than his mind could bear to imagine.

He doesn’t know what to do. What to say. Not when he’s here—deep underground in the bunker of District Thirteen, safe and sound, far from the Capitol’s torture chambers and Snow’s control. Here, he doesn’t have to smile, doesn’t have to perform. All he has to do is survive another day. Another sleepless, useless day knowing that you took his place.

And if he had known the truth—that Plutarch never intended to prioritize you—he would’ve never agreed to the plan. Damn Snow. Damn Coin. Damn the so-called freedom they’re all chasing. None of it matters without you. None of it is worth it if you’re being tortured for his sake.

You weren’t supposed to be part of the plan.

You weren’t a rebel, or a soldier, or anyone important to the Capitol—not publicly. You were just a girl from District 4 who loved the ocean, who smelled like salt and sea lavender, who always laughed with your whole chest like you didn’t owe the world a single explanation. You were just his. That was your only crime.

They took you before the bombing ever started.

Snow must’ve known. Must’ve calculated exactly how much leverage you’d hold. Because when the rebels pulled Finnick out of the arena—bloody, broken, half out of his mind—he didn’t know. He had no idea you were already gone.

He only found out after.

They were in the hovercraft, headed somewhere. The wind roared outside the metal shell, and Katniss lay unconscious on the floor. Finnick had been silent for hours, staring blankly at the floor, fingers twitching like he could still feel the arena burning under his skin. His thoughts were barely stitched together, all blood and static and your voice faint in the back of his skull.

Then the hovercraft started banking in the wrong direction.

He glanced up. “Aren’t we going to Four?”

Plutarch paused, fiddling with his earpiece like he hadn’t heard the question. But Finnick could always tell when someone was lying to him. It was a sixth sense by now. The silence gave it away.

He sat up straighter. “I said—we’re going to Four, right? To evacuate the districts?”

Plutarch exhaled slowly. “There’s been a change. We’re diverting. District Four is compromised—we’re returning to Thirteen immediately.”

Finnick's blood turned to ice.

“What do you mean compromised?” His voice cracked on the last syllable. “What do you mean?”

Plutarch’s eyes flicked to Haymitch, then back to Finnick. “She’s gone.”

The world tilted. Everything dropped out from under him.

“What?” he breathed.

“We believe she was taken. Before the bombing began. We didn’t know until it was too late. The Capitol wanted insurance.”

“No. No. No—” Finnick stood so fast the hovercraft lurched. “She’s not a rebel! She’s not a part of this! She’s not—you said she’d be safe!”

“Finnick—” Haymitch tried, but it was already too late. Finnick exploded. Chairs clattered, fists swung, voices shouted. He didn’t remember grabbing Plutarch’s collar, or slamming him into the wall, or the raw scream that tore out of his throat.

“You said she’d be safe!” he shouted again. “You used me! You lied!”

Haymitch had to sedate him that day. Finnick had been shaking with rage, completely undone, his fists bloodied from the way he’d slammed them against the hovercraft walls. Plutarch had barely managed to stumble away unscathed, but not before Finnick roared something guttural and animal, something broken beyond language. It wasn’t just anger—it was grief already taking shape, a kind of hysteria that bloomed in the hollows of his chest the moment he realized you were gone.

When he came to, it was all wrong.

The lights overhead were dimmed, casting a washed-out gray across sterile walls, and the air smelled too clean—like chemicals and cold steel. There was a monitor beside him, beeping softly in rhythmic intervals that matched the frantic thump of his heart. He lay on a thin hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling as disorientation clung to him like fog. His limbs felt heavy, his mouth dry. Everything inside him was humming with something urgent, something scared.

He didn’t know where he was at first. Didn’t remember how he got here. But he remembered you. The last thing you said, the sound of your laughter, the image of your eyes looking up at him like he held the sky in his hands. He remembered thinking you were safe—tucked away in District Four, far from the Capitol, far from the Games. He remembered believing that. Clinging to that.

Then the door opened with a soft click, and the pieces snapped together like shattered glass being reassembled by force. He was in District Thirteen. That much was clear now. He’d been sedated because he tried to kill Plutarch—Plutarch fucking Heavensbee—for leaving you behind. For lying. For pretending this plan didn’t have cracks in it. For sacrificing you in the name of rebellion. His girl. The only part of this world that made sense. Left in the wreckage of a strategy that barely worked.

You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t even involved. But you loved him, and that was enough. Enough for Snow to mark you. Enough for the Capitol to drag you out of your home like you were some sort of threat. Enough for them to use you.

Days passed in a haze of tension, then weeks. Finnick asked every question he could think of—Where is she? Have they seen her? Is there a plan to get her back?—but the answers never changed. No sightings. No updates. Just stammering words and diverted eyes. It was the same every time: no one knew. No one could confirm anything. And silence, Finnick learned, is worse than the truth. Because silence leaves space for the mind to invent horrors.

Then one afternoon, when he was sitting in the cafeteria—half-staring at a cold tray of food he wouldn’t touch—the wall screens flickered to life. The sound came first, the soft applause of a Capitol audience, the too-bright voice of Caesar Flickerman introducing his guest like this was a parade, not propaganda. And then there he was.

Peeta.

His face was pale, drawn, foreign. Not the boy Finnick knew. Not entirely. But through the careful, manicured conversation, through the calculated questions and veiled threats, Peeta’s voice faltered just once. A pause. A name. Your name. A single mention, hidden in the shadows of what he could say.

It was enough.

Finnick stopped breathing. The room spun slowly, like gravity shifted sideways. You were alive. Somewhere, somehow, still breathing. Still fighting. Still there.

But that relief never came.

Because the moment hope ignited in his chest, it turned to ash. If you were alive, it meant you were in the Capitol. Which meant you were in Snow’s hands. Which meant you were enduring God knows what for the simple sin of loving someone the Capitol had already bled dry.

And Finnick knew Snow. Knew the way he twisted love into punishment. Knew how he took pleasure in breaking the beautiful things. Snow had to know what you meant to him. And if he knew, then there were no limits to what he’d do. Not to you.

Finnick swallowed bile. His hands trembled under the table. The noise in the cafeteria faded to a dull roar as panic tightened its grip on his chest.

In his mind, he could already see it. The room they kept you in. Too white. Too cold. Too silent. Surgical lights humming overhead, machines hissing, monitors blinking. Men in sterile coats moving toward you with practiced cruelty. Your wrists bound to metal. Your breath hitching in shallow gasps. And your voice—cracked, strained, calling for him even when you knew he couldn’t come.

He would’ve traded places in a heartbeat. A thousand times over. He wanted to. But he couldn’t. And that helplessness, it made him feel like he was drowning with no ocean to blame.

He spent every night after that curled up in the dark of his bunk, fingers clenched around the pearl necklace you gave him—a keepsake from another life, when love didn’t feel like a weapon. He held it like a lifeline, something to keep him tethered when the nightmares came. When the guilt came. When he imagined your voice on repeat in his skull and couldn’t tell if it was memory or madness.

And even when the tears welled in his eyes, he bit them back hard.

Because crying wouldn’t save you.

But he swore—on the sea, on his soul, on the blood in his veins—if he ever got the chance to bring you back, he would burn the whole Capitol to the ground.

"You did well, kid," Haymitch said as Finnick stepped into the control room, where Cressida and her crew were already stationed. His voice was gruff but not unkind, and the hand he placed on Finnick’s shoulder was meant to ground him—to offer comfort. But the tension in Finnick’s body didn’t ease. If anything, it coiled tighter.

His thoughts were chaos. Did the distraction work? Did they get to the Tribute Center in time? Did they find you?

The questions slammed against his ribs like tidal waves, each one louder than the last. His mind couldn’t settle, not until he saw you, not until he knew with certainty that you were out—that you were breathing.

“Where’s…” he tried, but the words caught in his throat, breaking apart before he could finish.

Because if this didn’t work—if the rescue failed—if you were still in the Capitol, or worse, if you’d been lost in the chaos of it all… then what was the point? What was the point of stripping himself bare for the entire world to see? Of reliving the trauma, the pain, the shame he’d buried so deep for so long? If the Capitol still had you, if they took you despite everything—then Finnick didn’t know what the hell he would do. Or who he would become.

“They’re on their way back,” said a soldier at the comms, without looking up. “They got everyone.”

Finnick didn’t wait. He pushed past Haymitch without a word, eyes scanning until he saw Katniss standing at one of the monitors. Her posture was tense, her hand braced against the metal panel, watching the screen as updates flickered across it in rapid, blinking feeds.

He came to stand behind her, and Katniss turned slightly—enough to give him space, enough to let him see for himself.

There you were. Slumped against the side of a stretcher, unconscious, unmoving—but alive. Your clothes were the white hospital gown, your face smudged with soot, but you were there. Real. Tangible. No longer just a figment of his hope. Finnick’s breath hitched, his knees nearly giving out as the weight that had been pressing down on his chest since the arena, since the hovercraft, since the first night without you—lifted, if only slightly.

Still, the sight of your limp body made his stomach twist. You weren’t awake. You weren’t speaking. And he needed to hear your voice like he needed air.

“She’s all right, Odair,” Boggs said from the screen, calm but firm. “She inhaled carbon gas during the extraction, but she’ll recover.”

Finnick closed his eyes for a second and let the words sink in. You’ll recover. That was all he needed. Not perfection. Not instant healing. Just a sliver of hope to hold onto. Just a future to imagine again, one where your laughter echoed against salt air and you weren’t a ghost in his dreams.

You were coming back to him.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Finnick let himself believe it.

When the feed cut out and they confirmed the dropship had landed, Finnick couldn’t sit still.

He was like a storm contained inside four concrete walls, pacing back and forth across the dim room in relentless, sharp strides. His arms were crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he was trying to physically hold himself together. His jaw clenched, then unclenched. Again. And again. His lips moved with muttered words no one could quite make out, though Katniss was pretty sure he was rehearsing the list of things he’d say to you when he finally saw you. Or maybe it was a prayer. Or a curse. Possibly both.

“Still no update?” he asked for the fifth time in ten minutes, eyes flickering toward the corner where Haymitch stood nursing a lukewarm cup of something caffeinated and miserable-looking.

Haymitch didn’t even glance up. “If I say yes, will you stop wearing holes into the floor?”

Finnick stopped pacing long enough to glare at him. “If you say yes, I might kiss you.”

“Well then by all means,” Haymitch drawled, waving his cup in the air, “keep pacing.”

That earned the faintest laugh from Prim, seated on a nearby bench with a small tablet resting on her knees. She’d been helping with medical inventory, but her eyes kept drifting to Finnick—gentle, understanding. Katniss cracked a quiet smile, shifting in her seat. She was trying to be patient too, though her fingers twitched against her thigh, betraying how much she wanted to see Peeta.

But Finnick couldn’t sit. Wouldn’t.

Because it didn’t matter that you were breathing through a mask somewhere in the medical wing of District 13, safe behind thick metal doors. He hadn’t seen you yet. Hadn’t touched your skin. Hadn’t heard your voice or looked into your eyes to know for sure you still remembered him. That you still knew him. That the Capitol hadn’t carved you into someone unrecognizable.

Every minute they kept him from you was a minute he felt slipping off the edge of sanity.

He turned again, hands twitching now as he made another pass across the room, his footsteps echoing soft but heavy.

Katniss watched him with quiet eyes, unsure of what to say. She had never seen Finnick like this—not in the arena, not even when Annie was mentioned in passing. This wasn’t the charming Capitol darling with the ocean smile. This was someone unraveling, pulled thread by thread in slow, agonizing silence.

Beetee sat across the room, typing steadily at one of the consoles as final data from the rescue uploaded into the system. His voice was soft, absentminded. “They’ll need to monitor her vitals before visitors are allowed. Probably just another hour—standard recovery window.”

Finnick froze mid-step.

Then turned to face Beetee with a look that made Prim’s hand tighten around her tablet and Haymitch lift his head in warning.

“She’s been monitored for weeks,” Finnick said, voice low and tightly coiled. “By people who tortured her. She doesn’t need more procedures. She needs someone she knows.”

Beetee blinked, clearly startled, then nodded. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”

But Finnick had already turned back to the wall, pressing his palms against the cold concrete, like he needed something solid to keep him grounded. His shoulders trembled—not with weakness, but restraint.

Haymitch stepped closer. “They’ll let you in the second they can. You know that, right?”

Finnick didn’t answer. Just nodded once, barely perceptible, like if he said anything else it might undo him.

He leaned there in silence for a long moment, breathing through his nose, trying to keep it together. The room had gone quiet again, save for the hum of the lights and the soft beep of a monitor somewhere down the hall.

Prim stood up and walked slowly toward him, small and steady. She didn’t say anything. Just reached into her pocket and handed him a sealed, wrapped gauze bandage—one of the ones with the calming balm built in. The ones used to help soldiers sleep.

“You’ll want to have something on you,” she said quietly, “in case she wakes up scared.”

Finnick stared at it for a second before his hand closed around it.

“Thank you,” he whispered. His voice cracked.

He was still pacing the moment the announcement echoes—You can see the rescuees now—Finnick moves without thinking. His body surges forward like it’s been launched, instinct overriding everything else. There’s no asking permission, no glancing back. Only motion. Only need. Only you.

The corridors blur around him, concrete walls and fluorescent lights streaking past like ghosts. His feet hit the floor hard, but he barely feels them. Each breath drags in like it’s being pulled through a cracked lung—fast, shallow, ragged. The pressure in his chest builds so violently it makes him feel sick, like the panic is rising into his throat, threatening to choke him before he even reaches you.

Every turn down the bunker hallways is a jolt, each one disorienting, every second spent not touching you a second too long. He blinks, but his vision still spins. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears that won’t stop. The world feels distant and too loud all at once, like he’s underwater and the current is screaming.

You’re here. You’re here. You’re here—but the thought offers no comfort.

Not when the other thoughts creep in faster, darker, louder. What if you’re not the same? What if he walks in and finds someone else wearing your face? What if you look at him and flinch, or worse—look through him like he’s no one at all?

His stomach twists, nausea curling in heavy waves. His hands won’t stop shaking. He clutches the gauze bandage Prim had given him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, like he’ll fall apart completely if he lets go. His free hand scrapes along the corridor wall as he runs, needing the cold concrete beneath his fingers to remind him this is real, that this isn’t another dream, another nightmare turned sideways.

He can’t stop seeing you in the arena.

Bound, bloodied, sobbing his name through cracked lips.

He can’t stop hearing your voice, begging him in that dream: What are you doing, Finn?

His breath stutters. His ribs feel tight, constricting like iron bands. Everything inside him aches. He thinks of the way you used to look at him—like he was something whole, something safe, something beautiful. And he wonders, with dread thick in his throat, if the Capitol stole that from you. If they took the way you saw him. If they made you forget what they had no right to touch.

He rounds the final corner, stumbling slightly. His knees feel too loose, his body uncooperative, like it’s unraveling just as he’s finally about to reach you. The hallway stretches endlessly ahead, and at the far end—just beyond a flickering strip of lights—he sees it.

The door to the medical wing.

He slows as he approaches it, breath catching in his throat like a hook has sunk into his chest. His hand rises to the keypad, hovering midair as his fingers tremble violently. He punches in the code with more force than necessary, as if that might make the door open faster.

And when it does—when the seal hisses and the door unlocks with a mechanical sigh—he’s hit with the weight of it all. The silence. The sterile scent of antiseptic. The stillness.

Finnick takes a few measured steps inside before settling in the middle of the chaos. Nurses and doctors move quickly around the floor, voices raised with clipped instructions, med carts rattling across the sterile tile. Soldiers stand along the walls, still armed, still tense, their presence humming with post-mission adrenaline.

But none of it mattered to Finnick.

What mattered was you.

You’re sitting on a hospital bed at the far end of the room, near one of the triage bays, hooked up to a monitor that beeped out a steady rhythm—proof, somehow, that your heart hadn’t given up. You hunched slightly under the weight of exhaustion and bruises and whatever invisible thing still clings to you from the Capitol. An oxygen mask hangs across your face, misting faintly with each breath. A nurse beside you is checking vitals, but your eyes aren’t on her.

They’re on him.

The second you see Finnick, your whole body stills—like the air around you thinned, like something in your chest finally unlocked. Your hand trembles as it rises to your face. And then, slowly, with more defiance than strength, you tear the oxygen mask away.

“Wait—miss, you need to—” the nurse starts, but you’re already moving.

Unsteady, barefoot, half-dragging your IV line—but it doesn’t matter. Your legs carry you like you’ve been waiting for this moment for years. You run like it’s instinct. Like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

You throw yourself into him with the full weight of your body, and he catches you like instinct, like breathing, like he was born to hold you. You bury your face into his shoulder, and Finnick sways with the impact, arms wrapping tight around you, fists twisting in the fabric of your gown. You smell like antiseptic and smoke and something raw he can’t name. You’re shaking. Or maybe he is. Maybe the both of you are.

He doesn’t care who’s watching. Doesn’t care if Katniss is near, or Haymitch, or the medics scrambling to grab your IV cord. None of it exists anymore. Just you. Just this.

His chest caves. His knees buckle. He sinks to the floor with you in his lap, your legs tangled in his, your arms looped around his neck. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, Finnick Odair weeps.

Not silent tears. Not the kind he’s trained to hide. But full-body, broken, shaking sobs that rip through him like waves crashing against jagged stone. He clutches you harder, tighter, his face buried in your shoulder as if he’s trying to disappear inside the place where you still exist.

“I thought you were gone,” he chokes out. “I thought they took you from me. I thought—I thought I was never gonna see you again.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. Your eyes are red-rimmed, glassy, wide with disbelief and something deeper—something that still trembles like a wound. Your voice breaks when you whisper, “I thought you forgot me.”

Finnick’s breath catches like it was punched out of him. His hands cradle your face, trembling as they cup your cheeks, your jaw, your temple—anywhere he can touch.

“Never,” he says, his voice wrecked. “I never stopped thinking about you. I dreamed of you every night. I remembered every breath, every laugh, every look. I didn’t forget you, baby, I couldn’t. They would’ve had to carve out my heart to make me forget you.”

You let out a soft, wounded sound and lean forward until your foreheads touch, eyes fluttering shut, your breath mixing with his.

“They hurt me,” you whisper. “But they couldn’t take you from me. Not really.”

Finnick’s eyes squeeze shut. More tears fall. He presses kiss after kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips—soft and reverent, like he’s apologizing with every inch of him.

“I should’ve been there,” he rasps. “I should’ve protected you. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry—”

“Stop,” you interrupt, your voice firm despite its fragility. Your hands grip the collar of his shirt, your forehead still pressed to his. “You’re here. I’m here. That’s all that matters now.”

And it is.

You’re here.

Alive.

Broken, yes—but still you.

And Finnick has never felt so much relief pour through his body all at once. It’s not quiet. It’s not graceful. It’s ugly, and loud, and shaking. But it’s real.

So he lets it happen.

He sobs into your skin. You cry into his chest. And the two of you sit there on the cold floor of the med wing, clinging to each other like you’re trying to fuse yourselves back together from the jagged pieces the Capitol tried to break.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts.

He just knows that this is the first time in weeks—months—he doesn’t feel like he’s dying.

He has you. And that’s all that matters.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader #hunger games finnick #finnick odair #the hunger games #finnick x reader #finnick odair imagine #thg finnick

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humaling · 7 days ago

Text

close to you; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair x reader (afab, rare/no use of y/n, female pronouns are used)

word count: 14.5k (sorry)

warnings: the usual hunger games warnings (violence, child murder, prostitution, etc). also smut (fingering, p in v, oral (m receiving)) mdni -- pretty pls!

summary: you're both victors — him from four, you from eight — assigned to mentor tributes from district nine who lack a mentor. you hate him because he played the role so well, accepting the gifts and glory of the capitol with a wide smile and charming words. unbeknown to you, the feeling is not mutual.

a/n: crashing out because of sunrise on the reaping so i wrote this.

DAY TWO — THE OPENING CEREMONY

It had been too soon since you'd last seen him, six months ago at your victory celebration in the Capitol. The circumstances were vastly different now, but the routine remained the same.

Physically, you were feeling your very best: strong and healthy, plucked and scrubbed and painted to perfection. But your prettiness, and all the work your prep team had done to your face and body paled in comparison to the unattainable beauty of him.

He, of course, was Finnick Odair, the person next to you subtly coughing and dragging you from your own mind and into the real world. You chose to ignore the cough, knowing who it was from and that he was doing it on purpose.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice said in an almost sing-song voice. No response, you wouldn't give him that. “You’re standing right next to me.” Again, silence. “I know you’re just ignoring me now, I’m not stupid.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” it slips out before you realize you’re supposed to be ignoring him, which only infuriates you further. Defeated, you turn to face the person with a voice so irritating you were about to commit a crime.

“Ha! Knew that would work,” Finnick smiled, showing off perfect rows of pearly white teeth. He was so perfect it was infuriating. You noticed, with an ounce of satisfaction, that his canines were razor sharp, sharper than most, and his front teeth stuck out from his lips ever so slightly when he smiled. It felt nice to know even the great Finnick Odair had flaws. Even if they only added to his charm, it made him imperfect, human.

“Whatever, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, trying to brush off the fact that he knew just how to get under your skin. It worked every time.

“Whatever, Odair,” he mimicked, raising his voice several octaves in a poor attempt to imitate you.

You were going to kill him, you were sure of it. Grab that stupid statue next to you of a soldier with a sword, and fashion it into a weapon of your own.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I can see you plotting already… so just remember, we’re supposed to be working together on this,” Finnick let out a chuckle as your eyes flashed in frustration, not because of what he said, but because he was right. You two were stuck with each other, whether you liked it or not.

“You two!” A high pitched, accented voice snapped, which you instantly recognized as Phaedra Day, the District 9 escort. “Please, come meet the tributes before the parade!”

Immediately you dislike her. Aside from her obvious disregard for her tributes’ wellbeing — that’s obvious from the way she shoves the two children forward — she’s the pinnacle of Capitol excess, and it shows everywhere. All the cosmetic surgery she’s had over the years gives her face an overly full effect, like a stuffed turkey.

She’s got this awful orange hair, not like the lovely ginger color you’ve seen, no, this is as bright as the flames of a house fire.

Her makeup, you think, is the worst of all. It’s hard to pull off orange eyeshadow, orange blush, and orange lipstick, and Phaedra is definitely not the exception. You suppose it’s meant to compliment her hair, but it just looks clownish.

Finnick greets her with a kiss on each cheek, and comes away with two orange splotches on both his own. You decide then you’ll hang back and let them do the talking.

“Well,” Phaedra nudged the two tributes forward. “They're your mentors, they're not going to bite. Introduce yourselves!”

“Hi.” The girl couldn't be older than twelve, with sandy brown hair, bright green eyes, and a smattering of freckles that made her look even younger.

“Eulalia!” Phaedra clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You can’t have expected them to remember you from the reaping, and that is not a proper introduction! What did we practice?”

The girl — Eulalia — straightens her back immediately, the curious, childhood look in her eye fading into something somber. “I’m Eulalia Overfell, I’m twelve years old, and I’m from District 9.”

��Nice to meet you,” you force a bright smile on your face, hoping this girl can't see the sadness in your eyes. You're rooting for her already, she’s your tribute, but you know realistically her chances are so very slim. You introduce yourself and look expectantly at Finnick, who seems like he's busy cozying up to Phaedra instead of paying attention to who actually matters: your tributes.

“Finnick Odair,” he rolls his eyes in a dismissive gesture, as if waving away the pointed glare you'd been shooting in his direction. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

You give him another look that you hope can only be described as shooting daggers.

Then he surprises you — sticks out his hand and greets Eulalia like a proper adult, giving her his undivided attention. “It’s nice to meet you, Eulalia.”

It’s so unlike the eye roll and bored tone he used with you; he’s done a complete switch in a matter of seconds.

“Miller,” Phaedra gives him a pointed nudge, reminding you there’s another tribute. “Go on.”

The boy wears a brooding expression, brown eyes dark with distrust and hate, refusing to open his mouth.

Phaedra sighs, like she’s been dealing with this all day and expecting no less. “This is Miller Keene, he's fourteen. He has yet to learn his manners, so don't mind him.”

She shoos him away like a fly buzzing around her head, and focuses all her attention on the two of you. Or maybe just Finnick, by the way she's batting her lashes and twirling a strand of her hair. “You know, I’m just so glad that I have you two for this year! Old Mazie was absolutely dreadful company! I mean, she could barely hold a conversation. Always muttering to herself in the corner…” Phaedra sniffed in displeasure, then turned back to Finnick. “I look forward to working with you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he flashes her a smile that's borderline seductive. You're about to object that this whole thing feels inappropriate when Phaedra is gone, rambling about finding the District 9 stylists and how they're never going to be on time at this rate.

You feel gross and uneasy in her presence for a number of reasons, however harmless she might appear. One, because of the way she was looking at Finnick, like she’d devour him in an instant. Two, because Finnick didn't even look bothered by the attention, no, he seemed to relish it. Three, because you knew of Mazie, of her story: she’d been driven mad during her games almost fifty years ago from a cumulation of starvation, dehydration, and witnessing multiple deaths right in front of her. Phaedra never had to worry about something every parent’s worst fear in the Districts. She had no idea how heartbreaking it must be, to lose your child once in the Reaping and then twice upon returning home.

Her comment also makes you wonder why Finnick was chosen for the task of mentoring tributes that were not his own. I mean, it made sense they’d give the tributes to you; you had no experience and the Capitol likely didn't care. But Finnick? The Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling? Wouldn't he be of better use mentoring his own tributes?

You zone out a bit, curious to be on this side of the parade — it was only last year you were preening in a chariot just like your tributes were now.

Unfortunately, your tributes didn't stand out in any particular way. You’d been chatting up a storm with as many people you could find, but none seemed interested in taking such a huge risk on two tributes who were not likely to make it past the bloodbath. Finnick had spent all his time with Mags, the aging District 4 mentor, and the Capitol citizens with her, instead of being by your side.

Right now you’re watching him as he talks with what you think is one of his many admirers, though you doubt he’s doing it in favor of Miller or Eulalia. No, her hand is squeezing his bicep and she’s laughing a little too hard for the conversation to be about sponsorship.

You feel a tug on your arm and tear your gaze away from Finnick and down, to find Eulalia slipping her hand into yours. You murmur a quick hello, unsure as to why she’s requesting your attention, when she whispers, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“What— oh, definitely not—” You splutter, your cheeks burning. “No, what would make you think that!”

She shrugs, “I dunno. You just keep staring at him. When my sister had a boyfriend, all she did was stare at him.”

“I—” How could you explain to a child that you were essentially slut shaming him in your head for not doing his actual job?

“Everyone stares at me, Eulalia. She just recognizes perfection when she sees it.” Finnick’s somehow snuck up behind the two of you and overheard everything, which is mortifying. He’s grinning at you, placing his hands on Eulalia’s shoulders while she giggles.

“Finnick’s a little self obsessed, don't mind him,” you say as you tug Eulalia back to your side, intent on leading her and Miller back to the tribute penthouse before he can bother you two any more.

When the two tributes are fast asleep, you whirl around to face Finnick, who has the sense to look a little bit worried at the anger etched into your features, though he still retains the easygoing air about him. His body leaned against the doorframe of his room — coincidentally across from yours — with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes surveyed you with an air of caution, waiting for whatever storm that's been brewing in your brain.

“This is not something I’m doing alone! They were eating me alive out there, and you were gone!”

“Relax,” he sighs, dropping his arms so they now rest at his sides. “I’ve done this before, y’know. I know what I’m doing.”

“It didn't look like you were doing anything, honestly!”

Your heart is racing now, palms sweaty as the weight of responsibility comes crashing down on you all at once. His nonchalance bothers you even more. You wish he'd show a sliver of actual human emotion, not this cocky, flirty personality that leaves no room for anything else.

But it’s his, “grab a drink, honey, and calm down”, is what really sets you off.

“Look, if you want to do… whatever it is you do with all your Capitol friends—lovers—whatever, do it on your own time! Not when we’re supposed to be securing sponsors!” You whisper-shout, careful not to wake either Eulalia or Miller.

His mild expression melts into something unreadable. You think a hint of anger flashes across his face for a split second, but it’s gone before you can confirm if it’s real or just a figment of your imagination. You’re leaning towards the latter, because you’ve never seen Finnick angry before.

“You have no idea how lucky you are, do you?” He scoffs without bothering to give you a second glance as he retreats into his room.

“You better be here tomorrow at breakfast to help them before training!” You call after him, but he doesn't respond, just slams the door shut behind him.

It felt good to get a reaction from Finnick, but now, in the silence that followed, you couldn't help but feel a bit bad. Confused, but also guilty — your last comment had certainly struck a nerve. But what did he mean by lucky?

Lucky to be in charge of training two children who were bound for death? Lucky for your grandmother to die while you were in the arena, leaving nobody left in your life to care for you? Lucky for your friends to have all but abandoned you once you'd returned, off put by how much you'd changed?

If anything, he was the lucky one. He had Mags, who cared for and loved him like her own son. He was adored by everyone in the Capitol, and had a string of lovers that trailed behind him, ensuring he would never be lonely.

It was time to face it — maybe your anger towards him was misplaced and rooted in something else entirely. You were jealous of how he was surrounded by people admiring and loving him. It was something you yearned for so deep inside your chest it hurt.

DAY THREE — TRAINING

You were up before the first light, dedicated to making today better than the disaster known as yesterday. You were busying yourself before the rest of your ensemble awoke, pressing powders and creams into your skin, tickling your lips with a painted brush, and penciling in details that would make you seem up to date on Capitol trends without appearing too gaudy.

Soon you begin to hear the stirrings of everyone else in the apartment — Phaedra’s loud, obnoxious voice rang much louder than the quiet chatter of Miller and Eulalia as she directed them towards the dining room.

By the time you sat down for breakfast, almost everyone was there: both tributes, their prep teams and stylists, and Phaedra. The only one absent was Finnick, whose empty seat was directly across from you.

“I know you must be nervous,” you began, noticing how neither tribute had touched their food. “I want you guys to go to as many stations as you can, okay? Not just the weaponry — the survival stations really came in handy for me last year.”

Eulalia poked at her scrambled eggs with a fork, face pale and filled with concern, not disinterest. “Everyone’s a lot bigger than me.”

You weren't sure what to say to that, because it had never been an issue for you. You’d been eighteen upon your Reaping, and there were only two mouths to feed in your home: yours, and your grandmother’s. She’d owned a tailor shop, and while the two of you were never wealthy, you never battled real starvation. Compared to the tributes you had faced, you were fully grown and only slightly malnourished, like all district children were.

A scrape of the chair legs against the floor alerted you to the fact that Finnick had arrived and was taking his seat, saying, “Size can only go so far. You’re small, but you're quick. Use that to your advantage.”

Of course he would know something about that; he'd won his games at just 14, the youngest ever victor in the history of Panem.

“What about weapons?” You look towards Miller, surprised that he’s saying anything at all.

“Well… there will be stations that can teach you, find one that comes easier than the rest and—”

“You’d probably be pretty good with a scythe or pitchfork,” Finnick interrupts you like you weren’t even there. “I’m assuming, at least, since you're from District 9. Grain and all.”

Miller nods, sinking back in his chair as if to muse over what Finnick has said.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, shooting a pointed look at Finnick. “You shouldn't count on unusual weapons being in the arena, and tributes are rarely gifted their weapons of choice, even if they’re exceptionally talented.” That last part was a dig at Finnick, and you study him from the corner of your eye, hoping he’s just as annoyed as he makes you. You know it's petty and childish, but you're still upset about last night.

Of course, he doesn't give you the satisfaction. “The gamemakers want a good show more than anything. If you see something in the training center that you think you’d be good at, practice and use it later for your private session with them.”

“Don’t show off your skills in front of everyone,” you interjected. “You don't need to become a target.”

He finally turned to you, his voice laced with displeasure. “Well, they're already targets, sweetheart. They're going to be in an arena full of kids trying to kill them.” He turned back to Miller and Eulalia, who were both staring with wide eyes that shifted back and forth between the two of you. “Listen, the more practice the better. Focus on the weapons, it’ll give you the best chance.”

“Well, I was just telling them to go to all the stations, actually. Most tributes die from natural causes.” You’re trying not to grit your teeth for the children’s sake, but he’s making it exceptionally difficult by going against everything you’re saying.

“Okay, that’s fine and all, but I don’t think—”

“Well, I think they should be heading down now to the training center! Don't want to miss a moment of such valuable time!” Phaedra interrupts Finnick before it can turn into a full scale argument between the two of you, shooing Miller and Eulalia out the door before either of you can protest.

“What's your problem?” You ask Finnick once the room is empty.

“My problem?” His voice is brimming with disbelief. “You’re the one who's had a problem with me since the beginning!”

“I’m so sorry,” you almost let out a laugh at how ridiculous he was being. How could he not realize it? That he was a traitor to the Districts, and you weren't obligated to like him. “Is this the first time someone's ever disliked you? I mean, I know you're probably used to being pampered by all your Capitol buddies…”

“There you go again,” the muscles in his jaw suddenly have his mouth sealed shut with tension. “You make all these assumptions about me, and you haven't even bothered to ask if any of them are true. Do you know what I—” He cut himself off, glancing around the room like he's looking for someone. Or like he's being watched. “Nevermind.”

His fork clatters against his plate as he pushes his chair back abruptly, before heading off to his room.

Well, he was right about that. You did have your assumptions, but they were all based on everything you'd seen the past couple of years on live television.

Dinner is perhaps more awkward than breakfast, mainly because Finnick and Phaedra don't bother showing up, so it's just you, your tributes, and their stylists.

Making conversation is painstakingly difficult, mainly because neither of them seem to have much to offer to the questions you ask them past a nod or a short “yes” or “no”. Not that you blame them — no, that would be entirely unfair.

You’d spent the day alone in the Capitol, chatting up various people who'd sponsored you or were known to be particularly generous in past games. But it seemed like no one was willing to take a risk on a small twelve year old who looked no older than ten, and a brooding boy who wouldn't offer so much as a grunt to anyone.

“You'll have tomorrow and the following day in the training center,” you started. “But the last day is when they start to do the private sessions, so tomorrow’s your best bet to lock down any skills you've been working on.”

Eulalia nods. “The trainer at that foraging station said I was really nifty with plants,” she offers, but in a way that you suspect is meant to try to cheer you up more than anything.

“That's great, Eulalia!” You beam at her, because you remember the worst part of the Games — keeling over as sharp stabs of hunger plagued your body, while your throat turned as dry as sandpaper.

She asks to be excused the same time Miller stomps off to his room, leaving you alone in the living area of the penthouse.

I need a drink, you sighed softly to yourself, finding a near empty bottle of wine from dinner and pouring some into the same glass you’d used.

You turn the television on, flicking through the channels of awful reality shows, Panem news updates, and of course, recaps of previous Hunger Games in preparation for the 70th.

You’ve seen this one before— it's the one where the arena was a snowy forest, the freezing temperatures killing off nearly all the tributes in the first few days. You’re so engrossed in the recap you almost don't hear the door opening.

You do hear Phaedra’s loud laughs echoing down the hall from the entryway, and turn back to see her stumbling through the door. Finnick is right beside her, offering you a tight smile as he guides Phaedra, who has to be drunk, with one hand, and holds her heels in the other.

Not my problem, not my problem, not my problem, you repeat the mantra in your head, hoping your attention will go back to the TV in front of you.

You weren't drunk (you decided you’d want to be shot the day two glasses of wine inebriated you), but you were a little tipsy. Just a little. Enough for your filter, but not your inhibitions, to be gone.

The now empty wine bottle sat pitifully on the coffee table next to your equally empty glass, as if begging to be refilled. Since it’d been almost empty when you'd scavenged it, you weren't too far gone. Not far gone enough.

You happen upon the kitchen in search of another bottle as Finnick re enters it, not sure whether or not to make polite conversation or ignore him.

He makes the decision for both of you, “How’d they do today?”

“Alright,” you shrugged, biting back a jab about him not helping you during dinner. An awkward pause follows before you realize you're meant to give him something back, so you add, “Eulalia’s got a knack for foraging.”

“That's good,” Finnick’s clearly in his own world and paying little attention to you, searching the fridge for something to eat instead of asking for an Avox to do it.

He’s so lost in thought, saying absolutely nothing to annoy you, that you realize, for the first time, how young he is. You’d always associated him with being much older, since he had so many years of experience on you.

But his features were just so quintessentially… boyish. There were no lines on his face like there were so many other tributes, save for the small indents where his dimples popped out when he smiled. He was tall and lanky — not awkward with his long limbs, but like he still had time to grow into broader shoulders. His face, although perfectly chiseled and sculpted to perfection, had a fullness to his cheeks that could only be thinned out with age. The only thing that felt fully grown about him was the deep frown etched into his face at the moment, like he was worrying about something a nineteen year old wasn't meant to.

“I thought we already talked about your staring problem,” his voice is low and smooth, bringing you out of the trance you'd been in.

“I was just… observing,” you say, embarrassed at being caught in the act. You were just curious to know more about him, and whenever you spoke you seemed to stray further and further from that objective.

“Uh huh…” He squints his eyes at you, like he's studying you as well, to figure out what's going on in your head.

“Try to show up on time tomorrow.” It felt foreign to have a conversation with Finnick without it resorting to an argument, so of course you had to ruin the moment. “They’ve only got a day left before the private sessions, and I think… I think they could use your experience. And I think Miller likes you, for whatever that's worth.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “An insult and a compliment in the same sentence, all wrapped up in a bow just for me,” his teeth were beginning to poke from his lips, transforming his face into a full on smile. “You’re spoiling me.”

There was another beat of silence before you say goodnight and rush back to your room, hoping tomorrow will be better — it seems like that's become a daily wish before you fall asleep. One day it'll get better.

DAY FIVE — PRIVATE SESSIONS

Everyone was fast asleep in their rooms, the house silent save for the low murmur of the television as you watched an interview recap from previous years, a notepad in hand. You were trying to decide if it was a good or bad thing that neither of your tributes had nothing to make them stand out. With mediocre training scores, your job was turning more into an impossible task than ever.

The elevator door dings open, and you know it can only be Finnick, since he'd yet again left right after dinner.

“Why are you still up?” you ask as he passes by, though this time he doesn't bother slowing down and heading straight for his room.

“Just… preparing for tomorrow, I guess.” You notice his lips are inflamed and smudged with a lavender shade of sparkly lipstick, glitter trailing down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His eyes are just as puffy as his lips, red rimmed and glassy, but all that pales when you see the long, rather deep scratch on his chin. It’s still bleeding slightly and trickling down the same path carved by the glittery lipstick, disappearing beneath his shirt and leaving a slight stain against the white.

Your instinct want you to jump up from the couch and ask what's wrong, any disdain you have towards Finnick melting away for just a brief moment. You're not even sure why, but maybe it's because this is the first night in several days he's left after dinner and not returned until late.

“Are you okay?” It slips out before you can suppress the humanity in you entirely. It had to be the blood that was making you ask.

He doesn't respond, save for a short nod, and slams the door behind him. You're left feeling disgruntled at what you saw. Who’d hurt him?

You went back to your interviews, but your mind remained distracted by what you’d seen. You’re trying desperately to return to the state of engrossment you’d been at before you were interrupted, but it was no use. With a sigh you shut the television off, rubbing your eyes that were growing heavy with sleep. You’d just passed the door of your room when you heard a loud clatter of something against something ceramic, followed by a quiet fuck.

“Finnick?” You called softly, uncertain.

“It's fine, I’m fine,” came the hurried response, though it was accompanied by a hiss of pain.

You decided, against your better judgement, that you were going to investigate what all the commotion was about. As quietly as you could, you opened the door to his room and tiptoed towards the adjoined bathroom, where the soft glow of a light under the door crack gave away his location.

“Finnick? Are you okay? I— I’m coming in.” You wait for any sign of protest, but upon hearing none, take a deep breath and open the door.

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth, leaning towards the mirror in front of the sink. “I’m fine.” The countertop was scattered with clutter, colognes and lotions and other knick knacks. There seemed to be an array of things that’d fallen into the sink as well, which explained the clatter you’d heard earlier.

“Holy fuck that looks horrible!” You blurt out, then instantly wish you hadn't said anything. The small scar was now oozing more blood than before, dripping down his face and neck. He hadn't bothered to wash off any of the glitter either, so now he just looked… well, horrible. As horrible as someone with Finnick’s face could look, which still rivaled you on your best day.

“Thanks,” he said dryly, not even turning to look at you, still obsessing over the wound on his chin. “You can go now.”

“You’re doing it all wrong,” you blurted out as he wiped at his chin with a cotton pad, which only further irritated it. “Here,” you made your way towards him, grabbing a gauze from the first aid kit he'd opened and carefully turning his head to face you, pressing the gauze gently into to the wound.

He didn't say thank you, but he wasn't protesting, either. Just watched you from the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

“How’d you get this? It looks…” nasty, “...bad.”

The smile that appears on his face is rueful. “Capitol trends have gotten a little wacky lately,” he begins, and then hesitates. “Some people have cat claws instead of fingernails nowadays.”

Oh. So it was one of his lovers? It certainly didn't look like he was okay with it, but what could he have done to warrant such a reaction?

You threw the gauze in the trash, craning your neck to get a closer look at the wound, before reapplying more. “That… that sucks.”

You want to ask him how exactly he acquired this, but something tells you he won't be forthcoming in his answer.

“Yeah,” he huffs, “It does.”

“You’re probably going to need stitches,” you squinted at the cut. It was precariously deep; you wondered why he wasn't more vocal about the pain he must be in. “You can probably go to one of the hospitals in the Capitol—”

“No,” he says abruptly. “Absolutely not, I don't… I don't need that right now.” He pauses, “Can you do it?”

“Oh, I don't think I’m—”

“I’ve seen you stitch before. Saved your own life with it,” he says softly, and you're suddenly embarrassed and flattered at the same time. He remembered your games? Where you’d stitched 17 and a half stitches into your own stomach, passing out before the 18th had been completed, just as the trumpets began blaring.

“But this is your face, this is like…” you splutter, hands beginning to tremble, “... a national treasure! I don't want to fuck it up, they’ll have my head for sure.”

“You just keep showering me in compliments.” A real, genuine laugh passed from his lips, and you're surprised at how different it sounds from the one he gives when Phaedra makes an awful joke, or when a Capitol woman lays her hands on him. This one is sweet, melodic almost.

“Just… are you sure?” You tug at your lower lip, drawing blood by how hard you bite.

He nods, so you lead him to sit on the toilet, and stand in front of him to get a closer view. The circumstances are much better than they were in your arena, but it's still far from ideal. You, a wannabe seamstress with minimal experience, should not be working on a face famous for his exceptional looks. This could all go so wrong, and you didn't even like him as a person, which made it worse, because if you didn't like him, then why were you so nervous to fuck it up?

You get to work soon after, trying desperately to calm the shaking of your hands.

You wet a washcloth under the sink and bring it to the wound, patting it carefully. Gently, you move the washcloth down to his neck, wiping away the glitter that stained his bronze skin. He didn't object, just sucked in a sharp breath as you tugged the collar down, revealing an angry but fading purple bruise and wiping the cloth over that, too.

The silence is so, so loud. Yo turn to grab an antiseptic, the quiet hisses of pain making you pause before he urges you to continue swiping it across his chin. One hand gently cleans while the other rests on his cheek, allowing you to move and angle his face to best suit your needs for the task.

Aside from that, there's nothing, not even an insult or two thrown either way.

Like when he'd been in the kitchen he's zoned out, allowing you to take a closer look at him.

His eyes, glazed over and off into some far off place, were a perfect representation of the ocean; mostly green with a light blue mixing together to form a beautiful seafoam that people always claimed to get lost in. He had that youthful look about him, the frown he wore had melted away into an almost relaxed expression, which was odd considering the situation he was in.

You continued to work in silence, taking an extra long time to clean the wound to avoid the stitching for as long as possible.

He let out a hiss of pain as the needle pierced his bronze skin for the first time, to which you immediately jumped back and said, "I'm sorry! I can stop, just tell me when you need a break. Please."

He shakes his head ever so slightly, in silent approval for you to continue. "It's fine. Just do it."

Your fingers steadied after the first stitch, like a natural instinct summoned all your grandmother's teachings and flooded them through you.

It was over quickly, but you forced him to remain still, busying yourself with preparing a dressing so you didn't have to acknowledge the way his eyes followed your every move.

"Just hold still," you said quietly, pressing the cream to his chin and leaning in ever so slightly to make sure every inch of your stitches were slathered in ointment.

When you step back to take a look at your handiwork, you feel like somehow you're overstaying your welcome.

You didn't like how the bathroom had grown hot and stuffy, didn't like how his eyes had gone from glazing over to staring intently at you and never leaving.

You didn't like how his hands, which had been resting motionless on his lap, had started to fidget with the loose fabric of his pants, occasionally brushing against your legs, which were pressed up between his — as you worked on his chin, of course.

And you especially didn't like how whenever his fingers accidentally brushed against the skin of your legs, you felt like jumping out of your skin.

"Change it tomorrow," you instructed, clearing your throat. He nodded, watching you leave.

DAY SEVEN — THE INTERVIEWS

Today had been no better than the last one, or the one before that. The only thing was different was that you and Finnick had gone an (almost) two full days without getting into any squabbles, which was a big improvement. Even Phaedra commented something about civility at dinner.

He’d also made an effort to help Miller and Eulalia prep for the interviews; he was so loveable in the Capitol it only made sense for him to take the reins on this one.

You’d tried to help when you could, adding in tidbits of information that you thought could be useful. Phaedra even chimed in once in a while, whenever she would wander back to the penthouse in between her very full day of… whatever she did. Certainly nothing useful.

Now, night was just beginning to fall, and only you and Eulalia were sitting on the couch watching the interviews. Miller hadn't even bothered to stay past mealtime, and Phaedra and Finnick were off doing who knows what.

Both tributes had remained entirely unremarkable, and while that was not to their advantage, it wasn't to their disadvantage either. They were brushed off as tributes certain to die in the bloodbath, nothing more, and as much as that angered you, you understood why people thought that way.

“You should go to bed, Eulalia. You have an early morning tomorrow,” you said once the interviews had concluded. You felt that alluding to the fact that she was headed towards her death was a better thing to do than outright say it.

Eulalia nodded her head, though she didn't make any moves to leave. “I’m scared to go to bed,” she admitted after a long moment. “I… I think I’ll have nightmares.”

“I know,” you purse your lips, remembering how you felt the night before your own games. “But you need sleep, you'll regret it tomorrow if you don't even try.”

With a resigned nod she stands up, making her way slowly into her room.

Then, it's silent on the District 9 floor, empty in the living spaces save for yourself.

You’re halfway through a much needed massage of your temples when you hear the door creak open and assume it’s an Avox, until you open your eyes and see Eulalia running out of her room with a terrorized expression frozen on her face.

“Eulalia!” You jump up from the couch and run to her, “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, eyes as wide as saucers.

“About tomorrow?” You asked, a hand on her shoulder and trying to coax an answer out of her.

She nodded, her bottom lip wobbling for a moment before she immediately burst into tears. “I miss my mom,” she let out with a sniffle, her little body shaking from the sobs that began wracking her body.

You could almost hear your heart smashing on the ground in a million little pieces. You were there in an instant, on your knees to be at eye level with her as you held out your arms. She didn’t hesitate, burying her face in your shoulder and continuing to sob, which only broke your heart further.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” you said in what you hoped was a soothing voice, trying hard not to let a tremor seep in. “It’ll be okay.” Now you’re just lying to her, an evil voice in the back of your head snaps.

She clung to you like a lifeline, her small hands wrinkling the silk of your dress but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

“It was so scary,” she hiccuped, “I didn't even make it past the bloodbath.”

You pried her hands from your clothes so your own could find her face, thumbs gently gliding over her tear stained cheeks. “You are so brave, remember that, okay? And remember what Finnick and I have been teaching you, and you’ll be okay.”

Her sobs turn into small hiccups as she listens to your words, trying to make the rational part of her brain take over. But she's so young, and she's feeling so much, it's only a moment before the tears explode once more, and she's inconsolable.

You wish there was something you could do, but all that comes to mind is helping her back to bed, a proper routine despite it being in the middle of the night.

The door open and Finnick walks in, stopping short at the sight of you two curled on the floor of the living room. His eyes widen when you mouth the word nightmare, Eulalia’s face still buried in your shoulder.

“Hey, look!” You said as brightly and spinning Eulalia around to look at Finnick. “Why don't we both put you to bed?”

Eulalia nods, still sniffling, and says, very meekly, “Okay. Finnick’s strong.” She says it like he'll protect her from her own mind. Then she straightens up. “Can we please stay out here? I hate my room, it's so dark and scary and—”

“Of course,” Finnick spoke up. “You know, the night before my games, Mags made a pillow fort for us in the living room.” He begins to drag pillows from your room, his room, and Eulalia’s room while you tend to her.

You take time to brush her hair before your fingers twist the long locks into two loose braids. Her sobs have quieted down again, her eyes closing on themselves as sleep began to lull her.

The two of you crawl under the couch, which Finnick has done up with pillows and blankets to make a true fort that eases Eulalia’s fears just a bit. Not enough to coax a smile, but enough to quiet her sobs and hiccups.

“Please don't leave,” Eulalia begs, looking slightly embarrassed, but it's clear she's too tired and worn down to fight the embarrassment completely.

“Of course.” You tuck the blanket under her chin, trying not to let the rising bile in your stomach spill from your lips. She was just a baby, with little tear stained cheeks and deep circles under her eyes. Too young to be weighed down with the possibility of imminent death the next morning.

You lay down next to her, still in your finery from the interview day, but you don't even let that bother you anymore.

You’re so focused on Eulalia you don't even notice Finnick’s been by both your sides the entire time, settling down a little ways away from the both of you, with Eulalia in the middle.

She’s fast asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, even snoring softly as she cocoons herself into your side.

When you wake, the sun is streaming through the cracks in the blinds. Eulalia’s gone, the only trace of her being the dried tear stains on your dress and the mess of blankets and pillows around you.

Your heart is heavy as you go through the motions of getting ready, allowing your prep team to do what they pleased. You’d be in the Capitol all day starting in an hour, watching the games.

DAY EIGHT — THE HUNGER GAMES

The night dragged on without an end to what had been a torturous day, which had passed at a snail’s pace that had only added to its misery.

Despite everything, all your blood, sweat, and tears, Miller didn't make it out of the Cornucopia. Not like you'd thought there would be a different outcome; he'd made it clear he didn't want to give anyone a show, he just wanted to die. He'd been slaughtered by a Career not even thirty seconds into the Games. Eulalia had surprised you, her face not projected onto the sky next to Miller’s, grabbing a pack by her feet and racing for the mountains.

That didn't mean you weren't miserable and drowning your sorrows in a bottle.

“I need another glass,” you decided out loud to no one but yourself, mustering up the balance to rise from the couch and head over to the kitchen and make the drink happen.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I don't think being hungover is a good look for sponsors. Especially since you seem to know best,” a small chuckle sounded behind you, scaring the ever loving shit out of you and causing you to drop your wine glass on the floor.

“Shit— What the fuck, Finnick?” You almost shouted, before realizing you had two sleeping children down the hall. “I thought you'd be out all night again!” You lowered your voice to a hiss as you crouched down to pick up the larger shards, not knowing if there was an Avox around at this time of night.

Finnick had been leaning casually against the doorframe until he heard the glass shatter, and was by you in an instant. “My plans ended early,” he offered little more than that.

You let out a sudden cry of pain as a shard sliced your palm open. The blood, dark and red and warm, immediately sent you into a panic.

Your heart quickened, a strangled cry barely managing its way past your lips as you were thrust back into the arena like you always were. Other people’s blood you could handle just fine, but the sight of your own caused your vision to become slightly blurry, from dizziness or tears you weren't quite sure.

Then, a palm on your shoulder. Grounding you, bringing you back to the present. You’d cut your hand on a broken wine glass, you hadn't just murdered a child. You were in the penthouse as a victor, not as a tribute. Blinking back tears you looked up at Finnick, whose hand was still on your shoulder, and stood up abruptly. You hated the look of pity in his eyes, it made you sick. You didn't need pity from someone who was contributing to the very system that made you like this.

You were about to open your mouth, lash out at him to distract from the pain of your hand, when an Avox melted from the shadow and hurried to clean up the mess you’d made.

“We should fix that up,” Finnick suggested gently, cautiously — like you were a wounded animal — his hand trailing down to the small of your back and gently guiding you to a bathroom. Normally you’d be brushing him away, because in what world would you accept help from him.

But you didn't have the strength to argue. Not when it was the night before. Not when Miller was dead and and Eulalia would soon follow. You simply nodded and let him lead you to the bathroom in his room, your head on autopilot as you stood leaning against the cool marble of the countertop.

You remembered being here a couple nights ago; things had remained the same except now your positions were reversed.

“Didn't think I was that sneaky,” Finnick joked as he looked around for first aid supplies, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“Don't give yourself so much credit, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, the quip making you feel slightly more normal. This was what you did. Show him you hated him through petty jabs and dirty looks. The past few days had been too pleasant for either of it to last.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, holding your wrist and gently examining the cut to make sure there were no glass splinters. “Then what was so interesting you didn't hear me open the door?”

“My brain. Duh,” you huffed, hoping he couldn't smell the alcohol on your breath.

“Your brain, or the wine?” Finnick’s eyes, that beautiful green flecked with blue that you pretended not to notice, were lit up with laughter.

“Maybe a little bit of— ow!” You yelped, trying to pull your hand away from whatever was making it sting so bad.

“Oh relax, don't be a baby,” Finnick kept a tight grip on your wrist so he could work, gently cleaning the wound with an antiseptic. “I know you've handled much worse.”

“I was so much nicer to you… This shit still hurts,” you grumbled under your breath, trying not to think about the last part of his comment. Yeah. You’d faced much, much worse. But perhaps the softness of the Capitol had grown on you, and you were becoming less and less accustomed to hardship. “Oh my god!” You exclaimed in horror. “I’m turning into you!”

This gave him pause. He had discarded the alcohol wipe and was reaching for a cream when he stopped. “I’m assuming that's not a compliment, coming from you… so tell me, what does that mean?”

You laughed, then hiccuped. “I’m getting soft! I’m letting all this nice stuff in the Capitol blind me from every horrible thing I’ve ever experienced at their hands.”

You’d meant it as more of a lighthearted jab than anything, but he’d gone completely still as he looked at you. His eyes seemed to darken, erasing any traces of blue or warmth, leaving an unreadable expression behind. Your eyes trailed down to his jaw, which was now clenched.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He asked softly. So softly, you thought you’d imagined it. It was then you noticed how close his face had gotten, forcing your neck to crane up and meet his gaze as he towered over you, your back pressed against the sink counter.

“I mean… yeah, sort of,” You shrugged. “People adore you here. I mean, look at all the gifts! All your friends and girlfr—”

“I hate the gifts. And they’re not my friends. Or my girlfriends,” he cut you off sharply. “You don't know… just… nevermind.”

His grip on your wrist tightened as he applied the cream, his movements slow and his eyes glued to your hand as to avoid eye contact.

“I— I don't know,” you admitted, watching his nimble fingers work expertly to wrap your hand. He exhaled sharply but didn't respond, pretending to be absorbed in his work.

“All done.” He dropped your hand and took a step back. Already you felt his body heat disappear from you, but it wasn't a warm welcome. You just felt cold. And mean.

“Wait, Finnick,” you grasped onto his wrist with your good hand, stopping him in his tracks and forcing him to look back at you. “Explain it to me.”

You wanted to know what he meant, and perhaps you felt a little bit guilty for the genuine hurt you'd seen in his eyes. One of the many assumptions you'd made about Finnick Odair was that he was immune to feeling anything but cool and charming.

He looks around for an escape, nostrils flaring and his palms closing and then flexing. Those famous sea-green eyes get that faraway look you've seen only a couple times.

Selfishly, you take time to notice the features you hadn't absorbed before. You observed veins of his forearms that ran up and disappeared behind his sleeves, where the muscle of his biceps were barely concealed through the thin material of his shirt. You even took notice of how his bronze hair seemed to match his skin, the pearly white of his teeth making his sun drenched tan even more striking.

“I won't judge you,” you say quietly, stupidly, because that's pretty much all you’ve done.

He seems to see the irony in your statement too because he laughs, coldly. “I’d tell you if I believed you even a little bit— but all you’ve done is judge me for things out of my control.”

“You're right,” you inhaled sharply, though it pained you to admit you were wrong to his face.

There's a long pause before he speaks again.

“President Snow sells me— my body. To the Capitol citizens. Those gifts… they’re pity gifts from people who buy me. I don't love any of them.”

Out of all the things you thought could come out of his mouth, that arrangement of words was something you could never even imagine.

“Oh.” Think of something better to say, you fucking idiot! You began cursing yourself for such a bland response, but nothing could compete with the overwhelming guilt that was rising in your chest.

Every awful, horrible, vile thought you'd ever had about Finnick Odair was based on the assumption he liked the Capitol’s attention, relished in it. But they were— they…

He took your lack of response as a dismissal. “Yeah, told you. Your hand’s fine now, so I think you can go now.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” You hurried to correct your response. “I didn't mean— I just didn't know he did that.”

It suddenly occurred to you that he might be listening in on your very conversation. Finnick sees your realization and shakes his head. “We’re fine in this room.”

“Oh.” Now you can't stop thinking about every awful, horrible thing you'd ever thought about Finnick, every malicious word you’d spat at him was now resurfacing as a bitter bile in the back of your throat. “Oh my god, Finnick, I had no idea, I’m so sorry—”

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don't need your pity. There's nothing I can do to change it, he’ll… he’ll hurt Mags if I try to say no. I just wanted you to know so you’d stop looking at me like that.”

Suddenly his words make sense. Lucky. Because in a way, you had no one left you cared about, no one Snow could hold over your head. You were lucky, so lucky in that sense, you didn't even know it was a possibility.

“I know you don't want pity, but I really am sorry. Not just for your situation but— for every awful thing I’ve ever said to you. I would've never said any of those things if I knew.” How do you begin to bring up why you felt the way you did? That you were so incredibly jealous he could lead a life full of luxury and companionship?

“Thanks,” he shrugged. “You didn't know. How could you? Everyone you loved was already dead by the time Snow got his hands on you. You’re lucky for that. Once Mags goes…” Then I’ll be free, is what you're certain he wants to say.

There's a lapse in the conversation and you just stare at him, talking him whole in a completely different light. You don't even care that he's staring right back at you, when normally you'd be embarrassed with his undivided attention.

“Well thank you. For fixing up my hand.” You raised your bandaged hand up and saw a slight smile cross his face.

“Just returning the favor,” he responded simply. “Can you let go of my hand now, or are you planning on hanging around all night? Not that I mind—” You dropped his hand like it was a burning coal, much to his amusement.

“Can we… start over? Please?” You asked, feeling like a little kid on the school playground again. “As friends?”

“And here I thought we were friends all along…” He sighed dramatically.

“Forget it! I take it back!” You rolled your eyes and shuffled your feet in an attempt to bypass his large frame blocking the doorway, when his hand slid down to your waist.

“I was being serious! We’ve always been friends, since the day we met. You just didn't know it yet. You had to go through a mean streak.” His eyes bear into yours and suddenly the fingers splayed across your waist feel like burning embers against your skin. His eyes, that always remind you of the ocean, feel like they're setting you aflame with the intensity of his gaze.

“Alright, now you're just being dramatic,” you huffed after a moment, sidestepping him and heading towards the kitchen. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk, trying to focus on the ground in front of you and not the way your heart was beating so rapidly, like it was determined to leap out of your chest and run back towards the bathroom. Towards him. Your mind traced back to that drink you’d been in search of when Finnick scared you.

Every trace of your mess was gone, from the broken glass to the drips of blood that had threatened to stain the carpet. You rummaged around the cupboards for another bottle of wine, sighing in frustration when your search came up empty.

“It’s on the top shelf,” Finnick appeared out nowhere again, causing you to jump.

“You have got to stop doing that!” You whipped around. “Didn't you learn from literally ten minutes ago?”

He put his hands up in self defense, though a ghost of a grin outlined his features. “I’ll try to remember. For next time.”

“Can you grab it for me?” You asked, surprising even yourself as you looked back at him standing in the hallway.

With a nod, Finnick crossed the space between the two of you into the kitchen. Instead of asking you to move, you felt a feather light touch at your hip as his hand ghosted over your dress. You could now feel the heat of his body radiating on to your back, could feel the light, warm breaths he took as he stood for a moment before reaching above you. With a gentle firmness, he scooted you over so he could strain to reach the last of the wine bottles.

You sucked in a breath as you felt his chest against your back, sturdy and warm, and resisted the urge to lean into him. You were so tired of being strong for your tributes. You wanted someone to protect you, tell you everything would be okay.

But you didn't have that. Not anymore. Ever since your grandmother had died you’d been all alone — alone on your Reaping Day, alone on your victory, alone now.

“Red or white?” You felt Finnick’s lips almost brush against your ear, snapping you out of your morose thoughts and sending a shiver down your spine.

“Uh— I— you choose.”

The heat was gone just as quick as it had arrived, and the rest happened in a blur. Before you know it you were one, two more glasses into the newly opened bottle, your cheeks flushed from laughing and your body hot from the alcohol.

Ugh, how did you even hate him? He was so funny. And pretty. Especially his eyes. Had you mentioned how pretty his eyes were?

“I think I’ve heard it from everyone but you, to be honest,” Finnick chuckled.

“Oh— did I really say that out loud?” You hiccuped, now entirely sure you would fully overheat.

“Yeah,” he grabbed the glass from your hand and placed it on the coffee table in front of you. “Not to ruin your fun, but you should probably stop now. It’s… a big day tomorrow. You need to be ready. For Eulalia.”

“Right.” Suddenly the lighthearted atmosphere turned somber, like all the joy in the world had been sucked from the room. Your head was still heavy and dizzy, but you no longer felt as if your lips were so loose.

The two of you take your drinks to the couch, where you see a glimpse of Finnick’s real personality. He's still charming and confident, but not in a cocky way. He's surprisingly sweet, and somehow remembers everything about you. No seriously, everything. Things you hadn’t even mentioned directly to him or anyone around you, but from your interview and the interviews from your former friends once you’d reached the final eight.

In turn, you tried to learn more about Finnick, the real Finnick, and not the persona he put on. You learned his mother and father had died when he was young, just like you, and that he'd trained in the Career Academy in 4 as a poor substitute for finding a family. He found it in Mags, who’d been the closest thing he had to a mother, friend, mentor, and grandmother all in one.

“Does it get easier?” You asked after a particularly morbid joke about the Hunger Games.

Finnick shakes his head. “Not really. You just get more used to it,” he hesitates before continuing. “It's like grief. You just think about it less often, but it's always there. And when you remember…” his voice catches in his throat. “It hurts just as badly as when it first happened.”

“Well that fucking sucks,” you sigh, downing the last bit of your wine, earning a laugh from Finnick.

You chat a bit more about things that don't even matter, but there's something that continues bothering you as you talk.

“I really had no idea,” you blurt out, repeating yourself for what seemed like the millionth time that night. You’d apologize a billion more before you felt even an ounce less guilty.

“I know,” he says simply, and that's what you like about talking with him. He doesn't brush it off, say everything you said is okay, but he doesn't blame you either. He just accepts it as is.

“How'd you get so… okay about all of this?” You asked him.

He ponders for a moment, like he’s never really thought about it himself. “I’m just desensitized, I think. I care about Mags, and as long as she's safe… I can deal with the rest of it.”

“And if something happens?” You can't help but ask.

He shudders slightly. “I don't think you’d recognize the person you become.”

“Evil? Insane?” You half joked.

But he's not smiling anymore, and the glazed over look in his eye has returned. “No. More like damaged beyond repair.”

Oh. Well isn't that a morbid thought. Another question suddenly pops into your mind. “Why are you telling me all of this? I said all those things… I hated you up until like… four days ago.”

The smiles returned, though this one is unlike any one you’ve ever seen before. It's genuine and sweet but it's so, so sad. “I’m lonely, I guess.”

That hits you right in the gut because you’re lonely, too. So lonely.

So the two of you decide, at least for the night, to seek company in one another's loneliness.

DAY NINE — THE HUNGER GAMES, CONT.

Your mentoring had been cut short early into the second day. Eulalia, who'd done everything right, had been killed by a pack of bat mutts, who'd descended upon her while she sought shelter in a shallow cove in the mountains. With their huge wings and even bigger talons they'd dragged her off deeper into the cave system, though not before you’d witnessed them ripping out chunks of her flesh.

It was so bloody and gruesome you’d run off in the middle of a conversation and thrown up your breakfast.

That's why you were in the bathroom stall, leaning against the cool ceramic of the toilet and not caring how disgusting it was. You felt sick, so sick to your very core, wishing that Eulalia’s nightmare had been her reality instead of whatever had just unfolded before your screen.

All you want to do is go back home — not back to the tribute apartments, not your house in the Victor’s Village, but home. The little, shoebox apartment above your grandmother’s tailor shop in 8. It was tiny but it was cozy, perfect for the two of you and always smelling like the home you were now longing for.

But that's not an option. The most you could get away with was showering and retiring for a few hours, returning after lunch. You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt and force yourself to stand, wobbling a bit on your heels.

When you walk out the door you’re greeted by Phaedra, who’s got a sour expression on her face.

“Oh— there you are. Can you believe this! Day two and I’m already done for the rest of the Games! Why didn't you train them better! Oh, I bet Finnick probably distracted you— not that I can blame you, but you could've been a little less selfish!” You realize now that she's drunk, but that doesn't stop the anger boiling in your stomach at her comments.

She's probably one of the Capitol citizens buying him for her own pleasure. Your lip curls in disgust but you have the decorum and common sense not to make a scene.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” is all you end up saying. This just causes Phaedra to scoff and push past you.

Today is the worse day of your life. So much worse than your Reaping Day, than your victory tour, than anything. Because this time, it's your fault.

When you walk back to the apartment, it reminds you more of a graveyard than anything.

Finnick seems to think the same; you're not sure when he came back but he's sitting on the couch with his face in his hands.

There's nothing you want to say to him. Nothing you can say, really, but he says something that forces you to listen anyways. “It's better this way.”

“How,” you gasp in disbelief he could say something so horrid.

“The alternative would've been worse for her.” And suddenly it dawns on you what he's thinking, he says it at the same time the thought comes to your mind. “She would've turned out like me.”

“She was only twelve, they wouldn't have—”

“I was fourteen,” he cuts you off, though not harshly. If anything he seems pained. “They said they waited until I was sixteen, but they lied. For their own consciences.”

Yeah, now the conversation’s over. You make your way to your bathroom, trying as hard as you can to compose yourself, make yourself feel just the slightest bit human.

It doesn't work; you spend the rest of the day feeling like a zombie, laying on the plush mattress of your bed and not moving. The goosefeather pillows are so comfortable it has the opposite effect you desire, only reminding you more that you’re in the Capitol.

You only know it's become nighttime when Finnick comes in because the sun of midday and sunset have both passed, fading into a deep twilight that remains. All you want to do is sleep, wash away this horrid day with a good night’s rest, but you can't. You remain paralyzed on your bed, studying the intricate carvings of your ceiling, counting how many little birds there were in a row.

“Glad to see you're alive,” Finnick’s voice is grounding and familiar, but also a reminder of what has happened the past two days. Of who you’ve lost and how you lost them.

“Barely,” you groan without lifting your head to look at him, a numbness overtaking your body as you're brought back to reality.

“I told you it'll get easier,” he said, “the first ones are always the hardest.”

The bed dips and you can feel Finnick’s body heat radiating off of him, but you don't move, don’t. even turn your head to look at him.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated. “It just kills me that I can't do anything about this.”

There's a long moment before he responds, “I know. I hate feeling powerless, too.”

It's nice to lay with him, have him articulate every emotion you're feeling without even having to tell him anything at all. It's comforting.

You’re not sure how much time passes before you hear Finnick rustling around, and ignore it until he's tugging on your wrist. “I have an idea.”

You hope he's going to whisk you away somewhere so incredibly far from here, but your journey stops at the pillow fort you’d created two days ago. It feels like a memory frozen in time, too painful to look at but too painful to move.

You’re not even sure why you’re doing this, subjecting yourself to feeling your grief so strongly. When the two of you are comfortably settled into the fort, it's as if you're thrust back in time. It feels weird, but not unwelcome. You’re lying flat on your back like you were earlier, beginning to count each thread in the plush blanket.

“I don't even know why I feel like this! I barely knew them — I spoke like, four words to Miller!”

“Because you're human,” he responds almost immediately, rolling over and propping his head up with his hand. “It would be weird if you didn't feel so bad.”

You suppose he's right. Not mourning them at all would make you no better than the Capitol citizens betting on and cheering for tributes.

You’re burning alive. You pound on the door to the oven, begging and screaming to be let out, until your vocal cords are fried. You try to move, but it's such a tight fit you can't help but squirm uncomfortably, feeling restrained.

Let me out, let me out, let me out! You scream into oblivion, but no one hears you. It's just you, the oven, and a pile of burning embers that crackle and pop as they get hotter.

Stop moving, the oven groans, starting to shake you.

Then let me out, you struggle harder against the straightjacket that binds you.

Go back to bed, the oven grumbles again.

Wait — the oven?

You wake with a gasp with sweat dotting your forehead, desperate to inhale gulps of cool air.

What a weird dream, you think sleepily, the stuffiness around you making you feel as if you’re melting.

You remember, then, that you’re sleeping in a pillow fort, which has to be trapping all your body heat within the confines of the blankets and pillows. All you want to do is fling the blanket off you and strip yourself of the pajamas that stick to your skin like wet paper. And move away from this stupid heated pillow. Who even has heated pillows?

With a groan, you move to throw the blanket off you and sit up, only to find your arms trapped against your body. Now you’re a little more awake, blinking the sleep from your eyes as they adjust to the darkness.

“Has anyone ever told you about your sleep habits?” A very familiar, very human voice rumbles against your ear. “Because they suck. You move around so much.”

Oh.

You were not confined to a straight jacket. No, those were arms you had examined carefully when he wasn't looking, studied the smoothness of the tan skin, the muscles rippling underneath when he flexed to tighten his grip around your waist.

His arms circling your waist, tugging you closer.

His voice, causing vibrations in the chest that was currently pressed against your back, repeating the voice of the oven in your dreams.

“Wh— what are you doing,” you whispered, relieved your voice was working but hating how unsure you sounded.

“Dunno… kinda just woke up like this,” he yawned, not moving. “Think this means I’m irresistible even in my sleep.”

It's nice, but weird. His voice is heavy with sleep, making it sound deeper and rougher than it normally is. That, combined with the way his arms, corded with muscle, don't leave your waist, and the firmness of his chest�� it makes your heart beat at an astronomical pace, your breath quickens, your knees weak.

“You’re trembling.” He's propped up on his elbow again, his fingers drawing small circles up and down your arms in a motion that's meant to be soothing, but it just makes you want to squirm.

Every fiber of your being is vibrating, all the emotions of the past week finally catching up with you in this very moment.

You’re not sure when the energy shifted, but it's gone from something warm and compassionate to something far more serious.

He loosens his grip enough for you to roll over onto your back, the breath catching in your throat at the intensity in his gaze. Yet again you’re reminded of the ocean, letting those sea green eyes with flecks of blue swallow you whole.

When you speak, your voice is shaking like the rest of your body, your words muffled with unspilled tears. “I’m so tired of being lonely, Finnick.”

“Then don't be.” Without hesitation, his lips dip down to meet yours, and it feels like you've jumped head first into a frozen lake, then dipped into molten lava the way you're both shivering and on fire at the exact same time.

They're warm and soft and they feel like the home you've been craving, and it’s crazy you could ever think otherwise. His hand reached up to cup your face and glide a thumb over your cheekbone, the rest of his fingers tangling their way into the hairs at the nape of your neck.

As he pulls you impossibly closer, the kiss deepens and you can finally taste him. It’s so new it just makes you hungrier, like you’ve been starving your whole life until now.

It makes you feel alive again.

You whine as he separates from you, then quickly change your tune as his mouth reattaches further down. The sensation of his cool teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck, followed by the warmth of his tongue elicits a moan which he quickly swallows with another kiss.

You want him more than anything you’ve wanted in your entire life, you're sure of it.

Still connected, your hands trail down the exquisite planes of his chest to the ridges of his abs, marveling at the hard muscle and how they flex instinctively with each touch.

He's just as touchy, mesmerized by the softness of your skin as his hand slips under your shirt and inches its way up to the underside of your breath, stopping immediately when you let out a soft gasp.

He whispers your name, coaxing the two of you apart just long enough for him to look at you. Really look at you — not just as an enemy, or a fellow mentor, or even a friend. He stares at you like you're the only other person on the planet, the only one that ever mattered.

The intensity of these emotions startle you and you instinctively draw back, because how can you feel so strongly for someone you’ve known for so little time?

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately, his hands leaving your body and leaving you not only cold, but wanting more.

You nod earnestly, “I just got overwhelmed for a second— I’m good. You don't have to coddle me.”

He shakes his head. “I'm not coddling— I’m just making sure this is something you want to do.”

You remember then, the conversation you’d had with him about Eulalia’s death.

And I was fourteen when it started, but they lied about that too.

Suddenly you feel ill— no, selfish. Your hand immediately retracts from its place by his torso. “I’m so sorry, I should've asked— I didn't even think—”

He cuts you off with a kiss, a sweet and gentle thing that eddies all worries from your mind. You doubt he's ever kissed anyone with such tenderness before, especially since he's said his only encounters have been with Capitol citizens. “It's okay,” is all he says.

This time it's you who surges forward and closes the gap, desperate to make up for the lost seconds you'd spent talking.

If you were going slowly and sweetly before, pulled back by hesitation, it's all gone now. Finnick’s fingers unfurl from the back of your neck and trail down to your hips, pulling them flush to his own. You felt his desire for you then and there, evident through the thin material of his pajama pants, and suppressed a shudder.

He continues grasping at your hips until he finally rolls flat on his back with you on top of him, head bumping against the blanket roof of the pillow fort.

One slow rock of your body against his and you know it's all over. “Please—” you beg, your earlier conversation still on your mind though you were desperate not to let it ruin the mood. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

His fingers gripped your hips even tighter, staring at you like you were ethereal. “I don't think I’d ever ask you to do that,” he admits, which only makes you blush harder, on top of the heat you were originally feeling. You kiss him again, desperate for the feel of his lips on your own.

Your hips rolled more forcefully this time, earning a moan from Finnick’s lips that barely escaped past your own. He broke the kiss for a moment, only to tug impatiently at the thin shirt that did little to cover your hardened nipples, which had grown sensitive to the slightest touch. Once the shirt was off and he was in full view of your newly bared skin, he reattached your lips immediately, then broke the kiss yet again to stare. He shifted you easily so that he was more in a sitting position with you on his lap, his back pressed against the bottom of the sofa behind you.

You felt slightly embarrassed at this and the way his sea green eyes roamed your skin, devouring every inch that he came into contact with.

It seemed like he was completely in tune with your mind, always knowing what you were thinking without you saying anything. “You're so beautiful,” he whispered, swallowing hard before bringing his hands up to your chest. They were large, warm and a welcome contact against your breasts, which were aching for something. You arched your back towards him, desperate for more, more, more, and let out a sigh of pleasure as he kneaded them between his hands before bringing his mouth to your chest.

He trailed open mouthed kisses around the swells of your breasts, teasing you as his tongue before taking one nipple into his mouth.

You don't think you can wait honestly. You're certain you’re a wet mess beneath the silk of your pajama shorts, so desperate to feel him you want to skip everything else.

Finnick seems to be keen on taking his time though. When his hands leave your breasts and trail down to the waistband of your shorts, you stop him, shaking your head ever so slightly.

“No,” you remove his hands and urge him to lie flat on his back, wetting your lips in anticipation. “I want to say sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” he looks at you through half lidded eyes. When you plant a kiss on his collarbone and suck a hickey onto the hard planes of his chest, his eyes immediately widen as he lets out a groan. You can feel his heartbeat increase rapidly as your kisses descend downward, taking your time to kiss every freckle, every scar, everything imperfect that makes him so much more real.

One hand tangles itself in your hair when you reach his waistband and palm him over his pants, while the other fists the blanket next to him as he tries to regulate his breathing.

He can't help it though, as his hips buck involuntarily at your touch. You know it's just his body’s reaction but it makes you feel desired; something you haven't felt in a long, long time.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his pajama pants and boxers, a little nervous at the sight that awaits you. It's long and thick and already glistening with precum, twitching as you wrap a hand around his cock and truly feel him for the first time.

“You don't—” his eyes flutter shut, like doing anything but moaning requires great effort “—have to apologize for anything.”

“Finnick,” you laugh a little. “I want to.”

He seems to like this answer, his head falling back on the pillow behind him as you flatten your tongue and run it along the underside of his cock.

He’s so obviously into you there’s no time for any insecurities to cross your mind. It's given you a new state of confidence as you take the head of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue around and lapping up the bead of precum that had gathered. Finnick’s hip twitch, like he's fighting the urge to thrust up into your mouth.

You don't want him to hold back, not even in the slightest. You want to see him completely unraveled at your touch, which is why you squeeze his hip and look up at him through your lashes.

“Fuck,” he gets out through gritted teeth, the hand in your hair tightening its hold as you begin to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, determined to take him deeper with each one.

“You're so— I—” he can't even muster a full sentence as you moan around him, sending vibrations down. It's addictive, having so much power over him while also wanting so desperately to please him.

His hand that's in your hair pulls you back from his cock.

You begin a protest, “I wasn't done—”

“I need to feel you,” he chokes out, fingers still locked in your hair as he brings your head towards him. Your lips crash together in a perfectly synchronized move as he sits up, flipping you over so that your back is now the one pressed against the blanketed floor.

Despite his eyes being so wild with desire, Finnick is so, so gentle as he connects your lips together once again, this kiss being so much more searing than any of the ones you've had before.

He wants you, so bad he thinks he might die if he doesn't get you. But when he looks down at you, eyes wide and wanting, he knows there's no need to rush, because he has you. All of you.

His hands fumble with your shorts before he pulls them down your hips, tossing them to the side before returning his full attention to you. His hands tease you as they pry your legs apart, trailing slowly up your legs and rubbing small circles along your inner thigh.

“Stop— teasing—” you squirm, desperate for something, anything he could give you.

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” he grins, his hands sneaking up further and further until they've just barely brushed your clit, but it's enough to have you whining again.

“Finni—” he cuts his name off with a kiss, this one just as sweet as the rest of them. At the same time, he connects fully to your clit, rubbing slow, tantalizing circles that have your hips bucking for more.

He takes this as an invitation to sink one long finger into you, enjoying how your back arched as you chased his touch. After more slow, easygoing pumping he added another finger.

“That's it,” he coos, his eyes never leaving yours.

You realize at this point neither of you have been very chatty — but that's probably because you prefer to have your lips connected, not spilling out ramblings.

“Please, Finnick— I can't wait any longer, I—” You let out a moan as he adds a third finger, and you can feel the familiar tingling sensation begin to take over.

“You can do it,” he coaxes, “Just a second."

You try, you really do— but when he curls his fingers inside you and presses his thumb to your clit the coil unravels and you're gripping his shoulders, crying out his name as your fingers rake through the soft bronze waves of his hair and tug on them ever so slightly.

You inhale and exhale quickly, trying to regain your composure. He's looking at you with a self satisfied smile, but you're not satiated. You want him, all of him, and you tell him so.

This time he obliges.

He leans in and kisses you once more, tongue sliding past your lips, and you can feel his cock pressed against you. He's hesitating again, half wanting to make sure you're okay, half trying to reassure himself it's not a dream. It's real, he's about to be inside you, and you're practically begging for it.

In an act of finality you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until in one thrust, he's done it.

It stings, and you gasp, only because it's been a while and his size takes some getting used to. His fingers grip your thighs as gently as he can muster, his lips never leaving yours.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Finnick groans, burying his face in your neck and peppering kisses along your collarbone.

His pace is slow and steady at first. As it becomes more comfortable, his pace becomes more relentless, his hips snapping against yours as he fucked you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you breathless, sending scratches down his back and marring his otherwise perfect skin.

His thrusts increase in both force and in pace as you feel every inch of him filling you.

You're overwhelmed with pleasure, unable to say anything and resorting to just squeezing his shoulders and digging your nails into them.

His lips find yours for the millionth time, and it's then you can feel that all too familiar pressure building.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he panted between kisses. “You’re so perfect — squeezing my cock so good.”

You can't muster a response as the overwhelming pleasure of your second orgasm overtakes you, not even noticing Finnick continuing his pace to chase his own release.

You feel him as he collapses on top of you, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before he rolls off you. You're empty and cold for a moment before his arms wrap around you. Their weight is a welcome presence. It makes you feel protected. Safe.

He falls asleep before you do, and in the pale morning light, not only is Finnick’s face relaxed, it's truly weightless. His arms don't move from your torso, even in sleep. His eyebrows occasionally twitch in response to whatever dream he's having, but overall he looks so peaceful. So much younger, too, without the frown or seductive smile he normally wore.

It's then that you decide you’re no longer as lonely as you thought, because you need to study him for the rest of your life.

You’ve never been inside the President’s Mansion. It’s even more intimidating than the grounds that surround it. The walls are tall and imposing, making the rooms feel empty and chilled and making you feel tiny and insignificant.

They’re decorated with wood paneling, hand carved with so many details it makes you dizzy trying to look at them all. Plush rugs just as ornate as the walls cover the dark wood of the floors, making your steps — and anyone else’s — near silent.

“Your home is beautiful,” you breathe out to the man in front of you. He doesn’t look that intimidating, but you are on the verge of screaming in terror if he doesn’t say something soon.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s a shame you haven’t gotten the chance to visit before now.” President Snow motions for you to take a seat in front of his desk instead of continuing to stand there awkwardly.

You fumble your way into the chair, and you hope he can’t hear your heart threatening to leap out of your chest and explode all over his beautiful carved oak desk.

“Have I done something wrong? Like— am I in trouble?” You force out the question that’s been eating you alive.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth pushing into his puffy cheeks. “How did you find mentoring with Finnick Odair to be?”

The way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes terrifies you, but not more than the fact that he hasn’t answered your question. The way his eyes, beady and cold, are staring at you expectantly suggests he knows everything that happened in the tribute apartment. Everything.

“Oh— it… it was fine.” Your nails are now digging into your palms, probably strong enough to draw blood.

“I’ve heard you and Finnick Odair have come to a newfound… friendship.”

Your blood runs cold, confirming every anxious thought you’ve had since stepping foot into this place. “We…”

He raises a hand to stop you, like he’s not interested in any excuses. “I’m sure he told you how he helps the Capitol,” he began, and you feel sick. Help was a poor excuse of a word to describe what Snow did to Finnick. “And I’m sure you know why you haven’t been asked to help as well.”

Because everyone who loves me is six feet under, you think. All except— no. He wouldn't.

“Well I’m telling you, that changes now. If you have any reservations about this, I encourage you to think of your new friend.”

There’s no way he would harm Finnick to keep you in line, he’s so much more valuable than you are. Surely he’s bluffing, and you want to say that, when he continues.

“If you’re willing to risk his life to see if I’m bluffing, there’s nothing stopping you. I would just encourage you to think hard.”

Panic is rising in your chest, threatening to force sobs out your throat as you nod. “Can I go now?”

He nods, and you try not to sprint out of his office.

Finnick, on the other hand, doesn’t need a meeting with President Snow to be reminded his newfound fondness for you has its consequences.

Once Mags had passed, he was supposed to be free. Now, he’s only extended his sentence to life.

#humaling's recs

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humaling · 7 days ago

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where’s finnick? odair he is!!

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humaling · 9 days ago

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( ☆ ) . * i once believed love would be burning red . . . but it’s golden, like daylight !!

f!reader x finnick odair

starry’s sweets — order #004

ask : “hi!! your writing event is so cool! can i get a medium box of strawberry cookies with graham crumbles and chocolate chips please? thanks!!” — anon

summary : when finnick odair almost dies to save your life, you feel almost indebted to him once you and the rest of squad 451 arrive at tigris snow’s shop in the capitol. finnick gets force-fed pain medication to dull the burning in his leg from the mutts and you nurse him back to health as he becomes extremely loopy and extremely cute.

warnings : injuries, finnick odair almost dies but doesn’t, loopy & drugged up finnick (pain killers/morphling), cute considering the situation they’re in

word count : 1.4k

He slipped. Ushering you and everyone else up the ladder first, making sure you could get to safety, Finnick slipped as he tried to climb, screaming out your name. You didn’t hesitate, lunging for him, grabbing onto his arm as Katniss had the sense to hold onto your waist, hauling the two of you up before dropping the Holo to kill the mutts.

You were frozen in place when the explosion happened, breathing heavy as you clung onto Finnick as if he would disappear if you let go, dead killed by the mutts. In a different world, where you didn’t reach him in time, or where he slipped through your hold and cried out for you as he was torn to pieces by the mutts. Those alternate worlds flashed through your head, holding onto Finnick was the only thing that grounded you in reality.

“I’m okay,” he assured you, voice strained. He wasn’t okay. He lived, sure, but his left leg was bloodied and torn from the mutts. It was salvageable, mostly just broken skin, deep bite marks, teeth from the mutts still lodged into his flesh, but you had to hurry.

You sought refuge with a Capitol woman that looked as if she was part tiger. Tigris her name was, ironically enough, a friend of Cressida’s. She ushered you into a hidden cellar, providing you with bread, cheese, and a vial of morphling she said could help with pain. Finnick refused to take it initially, telling you to save them for someone else, but you, with some help from Pollux, forced them down his throat with some water.

The cellar is cramped as you all squish together, only enough space for five bedrolls to be spread out. Finnick is quickly succumbing to the medication, sprawled out on the ground on his back as you do your best to clean and disinfect his wound, a dazed smile on his face as you try your best to carefully dig the teeth out of his flesh.

“What are you smiling at?” you ask, grabbing a small bottle disinfectant.

“You.”

You shake your head, a small smile on your face, but your eyes are tired and he can tell. “You’re really drugged up, aren’t you?” you say, holding his leg still so he doesn’t jerk away at the sting.

“I’m not,” he argues, though his words are extremely slurred.

You shake your head and continue to tend to his leg, wrapping the wounds in gauze and bandages before you go to sit next to him. “All set,” you say, knees hugged close to your chest as your chin rests on them.

“Thanks, gorgeous.” He smiles up at you, bright and cheerful, as if he didn’t just almost die.

“Gorgeous?” You give him an odd look at the name. You hadn’t known each other very long, the two of you met in District 13 and only started to bond after some training together. You were a medic, originally, but you wanted to do more, be more useful.

It’s not as if Finnick never complimented you. You became friends quickly, and he’d give you decent pointers on your fighting, while you taught him how to splint a broken bone or properly clean a wound. He’d tell you how talented you were with a needle and thread, suturing up bad cuts, or that you always managed to pull off the dull gray of the District 13 uniforms. You chalked it up to his habits, left over from when he was the Capitol’s golden boy, but not much else.

“Yeah. Gorgeous,” he nods, propping himself up on his arms, loopy grin still on his face.

You just snort, moving to get some of the food Tigris had provided the Squad and sitting down next to him again, legs criss-crossed. “You should eat.”

“You should eat,” he retorts lamely, taking the bread from your hands and clumsily shoving it into your face.

“We can both eat, Finnick.” You take the bread back, splitting it and the cheese between the two of you.

The two of you eat in a comfortable silence, watching as the rest of the Squad attempt to get comfortable in the cramped space, tending to their own wounds and eating the small amount of rations Tigris could spare for you. As you eat, your mind wanders a bit to what would happen if you succeeded. If you and the Squad managed to get into the President’s mansion and Katniss killed Snow.

Would you return to District 13? What would you do then? Just continue to work in medicine? Or maybe you could travel Panem? You’ve been stuck in 13 your whole life, haven’t seen anything outside of the grays of the building, haven’t tasted anything outside the slop they tried to pass off as food. You could visit the other districts, help rebuild some of them. You want to stay hopeful, believe that there will be a world without the Hunger Games, a world where you’re not quarantined in the walls of District 13.

You’re snapped out your thoughts when you feel a weight in your lap, looking down to find Finnick’s head resting there.

“What are you doing?” you ask him quietly, glancing at the others to see if they were watching. They weren’t, too distracted by their own problems or trying to rest.

“What are you doing? You’re all quiet and stoic.”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?” he asks.

“About this. This whole mission. The rebellion. What will happen after,” you explain, hand idly moving to his hair, smoothing it back from his face.

“What do you think will happen?”

“I think we can win,” you say. “I think Katniss can kill Snow, then we’ll go back to 13 and figure it out from there. What I’m mostly worried about is what will happen after we win. To me, specifically, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve been in District 13 my whole life. I’ve never known anything different. But after the rebellion, after Snow’s dead, I don’t want to just stay there. But I’m not sure where I’d go,” you explain.

“You could come with me,” Finnick offers.

“What?”

“To District 4. With me. We could use more healing hands in 4.” He starts rambling, pretty out of it, staring distantly up at you as he talks. “And it’d be nice to be able to see you everyday. We could be roommates. It gets lonely in 4. I mean, I have Annie, and she’s a great friend and all, but she needs her alone time a lot, which makes sense considering everything she’s been through, but it’d just be nice to have someone there with me always, you know? It’d be nice to have you with me always.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” you laugh softly, still combing your fingers through his hair.

“I’m not,” he insists, sitting up.

You just shake your head, changing the subject. “You should rest. Sleep,” you say pushing him back to lie down on the bedroll.

He grabs onto your arm, tugging you down with him. “Sleep with me.”

You snort a laugh at the accidental innuendo, but move pass it, knowing he didn’t mean it in that way. “I’ll be okay, Finnick. There’s not enough space.”

“We can share a bedroll,” he argues, still tugging at your arm.

“It’ll hardly fit the both of us,” you try to reason. “Seriously, you’re injured and you need to sleep off the morphling anyway.”

“We’ll fit,” he says. “Come on, just trust me.”

“How?”

He lies down, letting go of your arm, instead wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you down so you were both lying on your sides, face to face, legs tangled. “There. See, we fit.”

“Finnick—” you attempt to protest. This could hardly be comfortable for him.

“You’re not putting any pressure on my leg, I’ll be fine,” he insists.

“That’s not what I was worried about.”

“Then what?”

“This isn’t—I don’t know—weird or awkward?” you ask.

“Why would it be weird or awkward?”

“It’s just— Nevermind. Try to get some sleep,” you say.

“Okay.” He lets go of it easily, pulling you closer and pressing a clumsy kiss to the top of your head.

“Finnick?”

“Hm?”

“What was—” you pull your head back to look at him again.

“Will you come with me?” he asks. “After everything?”

“To District 4?”

“Yeah. To District 4.” He nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He kisses the top of your head again before settling back down onto the pillow. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

The name draws another small laugh from you. “Goodnight, Finnick.”

a/n: i'm so sorry to the anon that requested this its actually cheeks but i could not get inspired for the life of me </3

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humaling · 11 days ago

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i didnt wanna post them bc they're very precious(?) for me but so yk ive read each greeting and u guys brought a smile on my face and warmed my heart <3 u guys are so sweet

THANK UOU SO MUCH FOR THE BIRTHDAY GREETINGS I LOVE U ALL 🩷🩷🩷

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humaling · 11 days ago

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THANK UOU SO MUCH FOR THE BIRTHDAY GREETINGS I LOVE U ALL 🩷🩷🩷

#u guys r awesome

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humaling · 11 days ago

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more little knight!finnick and little princess!reader thoughts cause yes

- princess!reader realizes finnick doesn’t get the same food she does. while she gets fresh fruit, soft rolls, honey cakes and other yummy foods, finnick always has a little bowl of porridge with a piece of crusty bread or on the rare occasion, stewed plums. she doesn’t understand why finnick doesn’t get the same food as her so she feels bad. so the next time she and finnick are eating together, she asks for extras and then gives it to finnick once the nursemaids look away.

- princess!reader also notices how finnick’s shoes aren’t the best. they’re old and worn down, even the sole is slowly falling off. she notices when they’re running in the gardens together, finnick stumbles and winces, then she sees them, and she asks “do your feet hurt?” finnick responds with “a little bit” then she asks “are they cold?” and finnick says “only sometimes.” once finnick leave for the day with his mom, she walks to her dad’s study (the king) and adorably demands that new shoes be made for her ‘nick cause “my knight needs proper shoes to protect me!” the next day finnick finds new black boots with little waves embroidered on them.

#i love knight fin and princess reader🥹

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humaling · 12 days ago

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holding you like home — finnick odair x reader

summary ۶ৎ you're suspicious over finnick's sudden clinginess.

warnings ۶ৎ allusions to finnick's prostitutions, finnick's awfully clingy

word count ۶ৎ 2.5k

author's note ۶ৎ mi bday special cuz im officially an adult in 42 mins ( ｡ﾟДﾟ｡)

There’s a shift in the air.

You could feel it from a thousand miles away. Hell, it’s like you have a sixth sense when it comes to Finnick—an internal alarm that goes off the second something is off with him. And this morning, it rang the moment you woke up.

Finnick’s arms were wrapped too tightly around your waist, his body practically fused to your back, his nose buried so deep in the crook of your neck it felt like he was trying to melt into you. You didn’t even have to open your eyes to know: he’s hiding something.

The problem is, you can’t figure out what.

It started with how hard you had to work just to get him out of bed. He clung to you like a lifeline, whining and pouting like a lovesick teenager. His sea-glass eyes held a look that was too intense for just morning cuddles, and when you cupped his face and asked what was wrong, he only gave you this goofy, love-drunk smile before pressing soft, distracting kisses to your lips. “Breakfast can wait,” he mumbled, flipping you over with too much ease for someone who looked so emotionally frazzled.

Then came the kitchen.

Your house is small, especially the kitchen, tucked into your inherited little wooden beach cottage, filled to the brim with mismatched pots and hanging herbs. Two people don’t fit in there, not without bumping hips and brushing arms—and Finnick? He was practically glued to you. Wherever you moved, he followed, hands around your waist, his head nestled in the crook of your neck again like he was trying to memorize your scent.

It would’ve been sweet if you weren’t so damn hungry. And if you weren’t still recovering from the thirty minutes of relentless affection earlier.

At one point, you spilled batter down your shirt from how many times you bumped into him.

That was the last straw.

You turned around, firm hands on his broad shoulders, brows raised in tired disbelief. “Baby,” you said, tone edged with warning. “Will you please just sit here and look pretty?”

He let out an exaggerated huff but nodded quickly the second your brows lifted higher, that signature ‘don’t test me’ look you’ve perfected over the years. He pressed a kiss to your nose—loud and wet and obnoxiously smug—and plopped himself down in one of the wooden chairs with a dramatized sigh. You backed away slowly, eyes narrowed, watching him as if he might leap right back up again the second you turned around.

He sat there like nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t been acting weird as hell since he got back last night.

Now it’s afternoon, and you’re curled up in the pink nook by your bedroom window, knees tucked under your chin, your fingers holding a book you’re not really reading. You’ve been trying to research flowers for your garden. Finnick built you a greenhouse just last month—white picket fence and everything—because you mentioned once, half-asleep, that you wanted to grow your own vegetables. Tomatoes. Garlic. Onions. Anything so you wouldn’t have to keep hauling yourself down to the market every few days.

It took him a day and a half to build it. Just showed up grinning with dirt on his cheeks and a ribbon tied to the gate latch.

But today, your mind can’t focus on gardening.

You keep replaying everything from the moment you woke up. The bed. The kisses. The slow, almost too tender sex. The shared shower—where Finnick insisted he wash your hair. The way he kept looking at you like you might disappear if he blinked too long. He’s always been affectionate, yes, but this was different. This wasn’t just clingy. This was like he was terrified.

He finally left the house an hour ago to swim, saying something about not missing his daily laps. It took you twenty-five minutes to get him out the door. He kissed you repeatedly. Begged you to come with him. Told you it wouldn’t be fun if you weren’t there. And when you refused—because, frankly, the ocean is freezing and you’re not trying to die today—he pouted like a child and dragged his feet all the way down the porch.

You shake your head, trying to will the thoughts away. Surely, if it were something serious, Finnick would’ve told you by now. He’s never kept things from you—not since the night he finally told you what the Capitol really made him do during those long absences. Not since he looked you in the eye and admitted the truth with shaking hands and a voice that barely held together.

You didn’t flinch, judge or looked at him differently. You just held him. Because you were glad that he let you in. That he trusted you enough to share the darkest parts of himself.

You love Finnick. That much is undeniable. Sometimes you think about where you’d be if you hadn’t met him two years ago—and the image is always darker. He pulled you out of a hole you didn’t even know you were sinking into after your parents died in the fire at District 4’s fish market. It was a freak accident—took several others too, including Finnick’s uncle, the last family he had.

So yeah. It’s an understatement to say you’re worried about him.

You glance down at your notebook and realize, with a tired blink, that you’ve scribbled “causes of Finnick’s sudden clinginess” instead of “causes of pest infestations in a garden.”

Your pen stills, and you blink—once, then again—staring down at the page as the weight of it all finally settles in. Even now, with two rooms and a closed door between you, you can still feel him—his presence like gravity tugging at your chest.

Before your thoughts can spiral deeper, the door creaks open and Finnick steps into the room.

He’s a mess. A towel is draped over his head, soaked and sliding halfway down his neck. His bronze skin is glistening with seawater, droplets trailing down his bare chest and soaking into the waistband of his shorts. He’s left a winding path of damp sand from the hallway, every step tracked in prints that smear slightly with each move he makes. His feet are bare and his curls are still dripping, little beads of water falling onto the wooden floor.

You stare at him from the window nook, frozen for a second, your book slipping slightly from your lap.

He looks at you like he hasn’t seen you in years.

Then, without a word, he crosses the room, moving with that same effortless grace he always has—except this time it’s less like a flirtation and more like a need. When he reaches you, he doesn’t pause or ask permission. He just climbs right in, damp and heavy and all saltwater heat, stretching himself across your curled-up body like he belongs there. Like he has to be there or he’ll unravel.

You grunt under the sudden weight, your hands instinctively bracing against his slick shoulders. “Finnick—”

He silences your protest with a peppering of kisses across your face. Cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, lips—he leaves no space untouched. Each kiss is frantic, uncoordinated, wet with ocean and something deeper—something you still can’t name.

“I missed you,” he mumbles between kisses. “God, I missed you. I was only gone for an hour and I missed you.”

“Finnick,” you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as he continues his unrelenting affection. “You were literally just—hey! You’re soaking the cushion!”

“Don’t care,” he mutters into your neck, arms wrapping tight around you like you might disappear if he lets go. “You smell better than the ocean.”

“Finnick,” you say again, softer this time. There’s a flicker of something uneasy in your chest, something too big to ignore anymore.

You push him back just enough to see him clearly, your hands moving up to cup his cheeks—firm, steady, squishing them together until his lips pout in that ridiculous way that practically begs to be kissed. It takes everything in you not to give in to the urge.

Instead, you hold his gaze.

His sea-green eyes blink at you, wide and soft, still wet at the lashes.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Finnick blinks at you, lips still squished between your palms. He gives a pitiful little hum, eyebrows raised innocently like he’s got no idea what you’re talking about.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, words slightly muffled through his puckered mouth. “I just love you, that’s all.”

You narrow your eyes. “Mmhmm.”

He tries to lean forward again, aiming another kiss at your jaw, but you tighten your grip on his cheeks and pull back just enough to stop him.

“Nope,” you say firmly. “We’re not doing that.”

His brows knit together, the pout deepening. “Doing what?”

“You trying to distract me with kisses and charm so you don’t have to answer.” You tilt your head, voice still teasing but firm beneath it. “We can sit like this for the rest of our lives if we have to. I’ll hold your face hostage, Finnick Odair. Don’t test me.”

A beat passes.

Something shifts in his expression. The smile fades. His mouth relaxes under your hands, and his eyes—those heartbreakingly beautiful eyes—drop slightly, losing the usual glint of mischief. He swallows hard, and when he looks back up at you, it’s like something inside him finally gives way.

“I had a dream,” he says quietly, almost like he’s ashamed of it. “Last night. You died.”

The words hit you like a jolt, but you don’t move, don’t flinch. You just keep your hands on his face, grounding him.

“You died,” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “And it felt so real. I woke up and—I couldn’t breathe. I thought I lost you. I thought—God, it was so stupid, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how I waste so much time just… assuming you’ll always be here.”

He leans into your touch then, like he needs it to keep going.

“I realized I can’t do that. I don’t want to waste a single second. I don’t want to go another day without making sure you know how much I love you. How much you mean to me. Because if something happened to you and I didn’t say it enough or loud enough or clear enough…”

His voice trails off, and then he breathes out—soft and hoarse, like the weight is finally leaving his chest.

“I’d rather spend one tomorrow with you, making sure you know I love you,” he whispers, “than a thousand tomorrows without you… and never get the chance to say it.”

You stare at him, heart squeezing painfully, lips parted—but the words don’t come. Not right away. Because what do you even say to that?

You don’t say anything right away. You just release his face with the gentlest touch, then open your arms and pull him into you—tugging him into your chest like you're trying to shield him from the very world that haunts his dreams.

He doesn’t resist. He folds into you like a tide pulled home, arms locking tightly around your waist, his cheek pressed into your shoulder. He holds you like he thinks you might vanish again. Like it’s your last night together. And it breaks something inside you.

You run your fingers through his still-damp hair, slow and steady, the same way someone might soothe a frightened animal or calm a child after a nightmare. He trembles once. Just once. But you feel it. And it makes your chest ache.

“Finnick,” you murmur softly, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “I know you love me.”

His arms stiffen slightly, like he’s unsure if you’re just saying it to soothe him, but you pull back just enough to see his face, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

“I know it,” you repeat, firmer now. “Not just because you say it. But because you show it.”

You smile faintly, eyes locked on his. “You built me a greenhouse in less than two days just because I said I wanted to grow tomatoes. You kiss my forehead every time I fall asleep reading. You get up before sunrise to untangle my wind-chimes when the sea breeze knots them up. And when you think I’m not looking…” Your voice catches a little. You look at me like I hung the stars in your sky.

His eyes are glossy now, red at the rims, but he doesn’t look away. You don’t let him.

“You’ve already told me you love me a hundred different ways, Finnick. Even when you don’t say it.”

You rest your forehead against his, nose brushing his as you close your eyes. “So next time you have a dream like that… just wake me up. You don’t have to wait. You don’t have to hold it in. I want to be the person you can fall apart with. Okay?”

Finnick nods, slow and silent. And then he kisses you—not with urgency this time, not to dodge or distract—but like he’s memorizing the shape of forever on your lips.

It’s warm and slow and almost shy, like he’s still trying to believe you’re real. His lips move against yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his hands trembling slightly as they cradle your waist, holding you like something precious. Like something breakable. Like he’s scared he might crush you if he holds too tightly, but terrified you’ll slip away if he doesn’t.

You kiss him back just as slowly, threading your fingers into his damp curls and brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones, tasting salt—maybe from the ocean, maybe from him. Neither of you pulls away. Time stops. The only sound is the faint ticking of the old wall clock in the corner and the hush of waves crashing somewhere in the distance, just beyond the house.

When you finally part, it’s only because you both need to breathe. Finnick leans his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers. “Ever.”

“You won’t,” you whisper back, just as fiercely. “You’ve got me. For as long as you want me.”

His eyes flutter open. “Forever, then.”

You smile, tears burning quietly at the edges of your vision. “Forever sounds just right.”

He pulls you in again, tucking your head under his chin, wrapping himself around you until you can barely tell where you end and he begins. His heart beats against yours like it’s trying to speak a language only the two of you understand. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Heavy with everything that didn’t need words.

You stay like that for a while. Wrapped in each other. The sun dipping lower through the bedroom window, casting everything in a soft amber glow. Outside, the waves keep crashing. Inside, he’s holding you like he’ll never let go again.

And he won’t.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader #finnick odair #hunger games finnick #the hunger games #finnick x reader #finnick odair imagine #thg finnick

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humaling · 13 days ago

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finally had time to read "rome fell" and i just noticed it was my request 😭 THANK YOU SO MUCH !! you brought it to life better than i could ever imagine 🥹 i love how you included marriage struggles because it's such a real thing to happen after a traumatic event as i've seen it. such a fan of how you write !!

and also, "phantom's tide"— all i can say is "WOAH!" woah ... so amazing ... 16k words of shared pain between them ough ... angst 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️ conveyed the feeling of losing yourself in every performance so well that i was fully invested 😭 ANYWAY ! hope you have a wonderful week ahead of you !!

— 🐞

AAAHH THAT WAS YOU i was so worried that maybe i wrote "rome fell" differently from what u asked since i leaned more onto angst and the fluff in the end was short (and lazy imo😓) im glad it lived up to ur expectations!!

im gonna be honest writing phantom's tide was a pain in my ass😭i felt like it was too much to process or something was missing and was literally having second thoughts to release it although i already scheduled it in advance. also it's literally my longest work yet and it drained the hell out of me—i think it's what caused my (still present) writer's block😭😭😭 but i still enjoyed writing phantom's tide bc of its concept!!!

anw i ranted there oop but thank u for ur support hehe hope u have an amazing week too!!

#🐞 anon

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humaling · 13 days ago

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Hiiiii I just wanted to say that your fics are amazing!! Like omg??? I totally haven't been obsessed and finished like the whole Finnick tag tho haha :P

THANK YOUOU im so happy you liked themmmm <33 there's def more coming soon ahahsjsh

#ask #im so sorry i didnt saw this right away #i was so busy w summer class

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humaling · 13 days ago

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Wait wait wait, I saw the pfp wrong 😭

I shall recall it : 'new-theme-every-month-era'

hehe

-🫧

(K I‘m gone now (ﾒ﹏ﾒ))

pls i legit cant keep a theme for a month😭😭😭 tbh i cant find the right aesthetic for this acc

#🫧 anon

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humaling · 13 days ago

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Pia has entered her 'high - era'

(I fr almost didn’t find you in my following list (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ )

btw I loveee the drabbles, pls continue writing them (>ᴗ•)

Have a lovely day! <3

- 🫧

boo i love u ur (and everyone too!!) continuous support literally gives me the motivation to pick up a pen and start writing—or in my case, open a google doc and start typing. i hope u and everyone else have a wonderful day/night <3

#🫧 anon #im so soft for u guys

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humaling · 14 days ago

Text

Phantom's Tide.

pairings: finnick odair x capitol!reader

summary: finnick odair is the capitol’s golden boy—polished, paraded, and drowning beneath the weight of everything he’s forced to be. the last place he expects to find a moment of quiet is in phantom’s tide, a dimly lit capitol bar tucked away from the usual spectacle.

warnings: the usual hunger games (deaths, violence, trauma, prostitution), they're both exploited.

word count: 16.7k

author's note: it's a rewrite of my old (unpublished) work "where the current hesitates" and also incorporated details from a specific request because it shared the same plot

Finnick Odair doesn’t like the Capitol–no, he despises it. He loathes it with every inch of his being.

If Finnick were to choose between his house in the Victor’s Village and the Capitol, he would choose that house anytime. It may be empty and lifeless, void of any colors but he’d rather be back at District 4, his home, than be in the streets of the city that was the root of his despair.

If he could hide forever in his little victor house back in District 4, he would. Oh dear god he would. He’d rather rot in that cold lonely mansion of his rather than to step a foot out on these godforsaken streets filled with people that view him only as an object to fulfill their desires.

The smell of the streets makes him gag. It’s full of excess–of overpriced perfumes, sickly sweet and synthetic that covers the rotting smell underneath it. The scent is so thick that he can practically taste it on his tongue. The streets are never quiet. Always buzzing with laughter, hollow music, and the forced cheerfulness in the voices. Every sound echoes with his footsteps, crawling under his skin. The neon lights blind him–too bright, too eager to mask the darkness that lurks underneath it. Everything in this place glitters, from buildings to people, and it’s all a front. A façade to fit with the cruelty and artificiality of the people that live here.

Finnick walks through the city, passing the grand fountains and towering structures that are designed to impress, but all he sees are ghosts trapped in the cracks. The survivors who walked through these streets shared the same fate as him–victors, yet never truly free. The big screen flickers to life, flashing the smiling faces of tributes paraded like champions, but he knows the truth. Right now, they are fighting for their lives in the arena, clawing their way out of it. A small, shameful part of him is relieved. That most of them won’t have to walk these streets the way he has.

The Capitol calls it entertainment. He calls it a graveyard.

Finnick remembers why he’s here, walking through the dead of the night, with the wind howling past him. He needed an escape from everything and the overwhelmness of it. His tributes are alive. Barely. One clings to life with the nasty gash on her side and the other running around the arena like a headless chicken with nothing but pure adrenaline and luck. It won’t be long until he’s sent back home again– to mourn, to loathe himself and return again to be paraded by the people of its city. As if he’s the grand prize.

He shivers at the cold breeze, his shoulders slumping and his bare hands moving inside the pockets of his trousers. He remembers the conversation he had with the mentor from District 12 earlier. Haymitch had leaned in close, a glass of some expensive beer in his hand, his breath reek with liquor. His voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

“Go to that bar,” he murmured to him. “Trust me.”

Finnick doesn’t trust Haymitch, but he does trust that the old man understands misery, so here he is.

The bar is small and unassuming compared from the gaudy establishments around it. The neon lights doesn’t scream for attention, in fact it barely flickers to light, as if to remind the world that the bar still exists, and there aren’t much Capitol citizens in ridiculous outfits clamoring at the door. It’s tucked into the quieter side of the Capitol like a hidden precious treasure chest lost in a cave.

Phantom’s Tide. Finnick reads the name under his breath, the words unfamiliar yet heavy on his tongue. An odd name, he thinks, as his gaze drifts to the neon signage; dim, flickering, barely calling for attention.

His eyes lower to the metallic doors, dull and weathered, yet polished in places by time and touch. Above them, a lone lamp buzzes softly, casting a pale glow that shimmers against the surface. He stands there for a moment, the weight of the night pressing against his back. Then, he exhales and pushes the door open.

The first thing Finnick notices when he steps inside Phantom’s Tide is the quiet. Not the forced, artificial silence of the Capitol’s wealthier establishments, but something heavier, deeper. Like the hush before a storm, or the sea just before it swallows a ship whole.

The air is thick with salt and aged wood, a scent so familiar it tugs at something in his chest. The dim lighting casts shifting shadows over the dark-planked floor, the glow from low-hanging lanterns swaying just slightly–almost like rippling water. The murmur of voices is low, intimate, but they don’t carry the same hollow cheer he’s used to in the Capitol.

Then, his gaze lands on the bar itself. Made of dark, repurposed shipwood, its surface worn smooth by time but marked with something else. Names, initials, small carvings etched into the wood’s surface. Finnick knows what they are before he even has to think about it. Remnants of those who have passed through. Some still alive. Some not.

And just past the bar, hanging in the corner, sits a rusted ship bell–silent, untouched. Yet something about it feels like a warning. Or a promise.

A glassed sliding door was placed between him and the bar– as if it’s separating him from a whole new world. The faint glow of dimmed lights emits an otherworldly vibes from the other side and the faint humming becomes much more prominent with each step he takes as he dives deeper into the bar.

His fingers reach out to the door, sliding it to the side and step inside and he hears it clearly. A voice. A low, smooth, yet laced with something dangerous. Not loud, not demanding, but impossible to ignore. It slips through the air like silk and hooks onto something inside him, dragging him forward before he even realizes he's moving.

It isn’t just a song, it’s a call.

His head twists to the side, eyes falling on multiple booths, chairs, tables and odd decorations. Each decoration is a different aesthetic from the other yet blends well together with the plainness of the wooden furniture and the bland colors of the place. He sees familiar faces sitting around–fellow victors and some faces that he isn’t familiar with. He finds it hard to believe but could it be possible that there’s a Capitol citizen that lives under normalcy?

It feels like his eyes deceive him but when he catches sight of something extravagant from the corner of his eye, he realizes this place isn’t a haven for the tributes as much as Haymitch made it out to be.

Then his gaze shifts on the small stage at front. Crimson curtains tied to the sides with gold-like colored ropes, an auburn light shone above a performer. You.

You sit at the front of the bar, fingers gliding over worn ivory keys, your body half-turned toward the audience but distant, as if you belong to the music rather than the room itself. The melody is slow and aching but your voice carries it with an ease that makes it feel dangerous. Like the pull of a tide. Like drowning but not fighting it.

It's not the kind of voice that begs to be heard. It's the kind that demands surrender. It wraps around the room, curling under skin and sinking into marrow, luring people in, making them forget why they even came. Finnick swallows hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

For a moment, he doesn't think about the arena, or his tributes, or the Capitol's sickening grip around his throat. For a moment, there is only your voice.

Finnick can’t tear his eyes away from you. He tells himself to look away, to shake off the weight pressing into his chest, but it’s like he’s caught in a tide—helpless against the pull. When your song slowly comes to an end, he finally wrenches himself back to reality. The motion is abrupt, almost violent. His body jerks as he turns away from the stage, feet dragging toward the bar like they’re weighted down.

The bartender is already watching him when he arrives. Not with curiosity, not with disinterest—but with a look that makes Finnick’s skin prickle. Knowing. Understanding. Like the man can see something buried deep beneath his surface, something Finnick isn’t ready to acknowledge. His jaw tightens, a scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He sinks onto a barstool, exhaling through his nose as the bartender wordlessly slides a menu in front of him. The movement is smooth, practiced, effortless. Unlike Finnick, who still feels unsteady, like the floor isn’t as solid as it should be.

“Welcome to Phantom’s Tide, gentleman. I am Marcellus and I will be accompanying you with your every journey with the Missus.”

Finnick’s brow arched at the odd name. Missus? Was it the singer at the front? Or the owner of the bar? He doesn’t dwell on it much longer as his mind drifts off again when your voice echoes through the speakers, filling in not only his hearing but his senses too. A shiver runs down his spine.

His eyes flicker at Marcellus and the menu, eyes aimlessly scanning through the variety of drinks, his fingers tapping on the wooden counter.

“What would you recommend for me, Mar-cel-lus?” Finnick tests the name on his tongue, feeling it foreign but wary. His sea-green eyes shift back to the bartender who only chuckles at him.

Marcellus grabs a towel and a glass before he speaks. “Well, there are a few fan favourites of our customers– the Golden Gale is a shimmering, honey-gold cocktail with a sweet and dangerous kick to it.

Nightlock Kiss, a deep purple drink with a tart, almost poisonous berry flavor.” He pauses, looking back up at Finnick. “But safe to drink, of course.”

“Sounds Capitol-ish.” Finnick comments, clicking his tongue.

Marcellus grins, “each districts has their own type of drinks too, Mr. Odair. Salt & Storm is a briny, dark rum cocktail with hints of lime and smoke, like a drink meant for sailors riding out a tempest while High Tide is a crisp, refreshing drink with coconut, pineapple, and a touch of sea salt, evoking the feeling of a calm ocean breeze.

If you would like to forget everything tonight and not remember it when you wake up, I would recommend The Leviathan. A deep, almost black cocktail with blackberry, dark rum, and a smoky finish– bold, mysterious, and a little… dangerous.”

Marcellus smirks, staring deep into Finnick’s soul that he feels disgustingly naked right now. It’s like the man understands the scars carved onto him than he does himself and Finnick hates it.

Finnick swallows again, his eyes moving to the wall mirror behind the bartender. The music has come to an end and you were getting up from your seat.

“What does the Missus likes?”

Marcellus tilts his head to the side, feigning speculation on what his boss would like before he replies.

“The Siren’s call is based on the Missus’ taste and voice. Would you like to try that, sir?”

Finnick curtly nods and the bartender is on his feet, disappearing from his sight to work at the side on the special drink. A sigh, that he doesn’t know he’s holding, is released and he feels his shoulder relax for the first time he has stepped a foot in this secluded bar.

“Make it two please.”

You slip into the seat beside him, effortless and unassuming that it makes Finnick flinch. A sharp, barely noticeable movement, but enough to betray him. Your voice is in his ear again, curling around his senses like a plague. He didn’t hear you approach; not the sound of your footsteps, not even the shift in the air beside him until you were already there. Until your presence was impossible to ignore.

His wide eyes lock onto you. Up close, you’re even more striking. The white light overhead casts a soft glow on your skin, highlighting its smoothness— he bets it would feel as light as a feather beneath his fingertips. Your hair curls at the edges, cascading over your back and brushing against your bare shoulder. Your cheeks, round and rosy, make him wonder how they’d feel cradled in his palm. But it’s your eyes that hold him still, that quiet twinkle drawing him in like a tide he doesn’t know how to resist.

Then, you smile. Small and gracious towards Marcellus who winks at your way. “Two Siren’s Call coming right up, Missus.”

Something tightens in Finnick’s chest. It’s ridiculous, but it’s there. A sharp, unwanted twist of irritation curling in his gut. His fingers tap once against the counter, a slow, deliberate movement, as if grounding himself. He’s not sure what unsettles him more–the fact that you haven’t even looked at him yet, or the fact that it bothers him.

Either way, he hates it.

“I believe this is the first time I’ve met the Capitol’s Darling.” You spoke, voice sweet and smooth.

Not as low as when you sang, but just the right pitch to send a slow, deliberate shiver down Finnick’s spine. His heart picks up its pace before he even realizes it.

Finnick flashes a smile—one he’s perfected over the years, sculpted into something effortless since the day he won his Games. It’s charming, polished, and calculated. But there’s no joy in it.

Beneath the golden boy’s grin, there’s a child trapped in a man’s body, bound by the ropes Snow wove around him, forcing him to perform. To please those around him. Marking him the golden prize.

You’ve heard the whispers—what Snow forces him to do, what the Capitol takes from him. You know his scars run deep, deeper than the trenches of the sea, carved into him like waves eroding stone. The Capitol has turned him into a myth—Finnick Odair, the Darling of the Capitol, a siren draped in gold, a trident polished to gleam under their lights. But you see what they do not.

You see the wreckage beneath the surface.

Finnick has been drowning for years, caught in a current he never asked for. They threw him into the water when he was fourteen and called it victory, but victory should not taste like salt in the lungs, like water filling the mouth until there’s no room left to breathe. They tied chains around his ankles, heavier than any anchor, and dressed them up as laurels, parading him through the streets like a trophy salvaged from the deep. And every time they called his name, every time they demanded he perform, the weight only dragged him further down.

Because that’s the thing about drowning—no one sees it happening. Not at first.

The Capitol adores the way he shines, the way he shimmers like sunlight on the surface of the sea. But they do not see the struggle beneath, the frantic kicking, the aching lungs. They do not notice that Finnick Odair has not been breathing for a long, long time.

But here, in this place, the water is different.

Your bar is not a lifeboat. You do not claim to be a savior, nor do you offer salvation. You cannot stop the tide, cannot undo the years he has spent beneath its mercy. But this place? It is a cove, a place where the waves quiet, where the pull of the ocean loosens just enough to let him remember what it feels like to float. Here, the water does not demand, does not crush, does not steal the breath from his lungs.

Here, for a moment, Finnick Odair does not have to drown.

And that is why you built this place. Not for the lost, but for those who have been cast adrift for too long, waiting for even the smallest glimpse of shore.

"Careful. Sing like that too often, and the Capitol might start fighting over you next." Finnick quips, a teasing smile settling easily on his face, but his eyes tell a different story. He plays it off as a joke, effortless as ever, but there’s truth buried in the words. He knows what it’s like to be wanted for all the wrong reasons.

You study him, watching the way he delivers the words like they’re light, weightless—meant to slip past without a second thought. But they don’t. Not with the way his fingers tap against the wood, not with the way something flickers behind that easy smile.

Marcellus sweeps in, large, rough hands setting down the drinks you ordered. He takes a cinematic bow before slipping away, leaving you and Finnick to yourselves.

"And what if I don’t want to be fought over?" you murmur, lifting your drink to your lips. You don’t look at him when you say it, but you can feel the way his attention sharpens, the way the air shifts.

For a brief second, he doesn’t answer.

Then, softer than before, like the tide pulling back, he says, "Then I hope you know how to swim.”

The words linger between you, dissolving into the dim hum of the bar. Then I hope you know how to swim. It should be playful, should slip away like the rest of his easy quips, but it doesn’t. It clings to the air, heavy, pulling at something deep beneath the surface.

Your fingers trace the rim of your glass, thoughtful. "And if I don’t?" The question is quiet, but deliberate. A test. A truth you aren’t sure you want the answer to.

Finnick’s lips part like he might say something, but instead, he exhales, tipping his head back slightly. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his gaze flicking toward the mirror behind the bar. For a moment, he isn’t here. He’s somewhere else, lost in waters neither of you can see.

Then, with the kind of ease that feels too practiced, he smirks. "Then you’ll learn. Sink or swim, sweetheart."

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and you watch the way the amber liquid coats the glass when he sets it down again. His fingers remain curled around it, knuckles taut despite his casual posture.

"And you?" you press, tilting your head. "Did you have to learn?"

The question lands. You see it in the way his smirk falters– not fully, not noticeably to anyone who isn’t paying attention. But you are.

Finnick doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, regarding you with something between amusement and caution. Then, finally, he chuckles, low and quiet. "I don’t think I ever had a choice.”His voice is light, almost dismissive. But the weight beneath it is unmistakable.

The ice in your glass shifts, cracking softly under the heat of the room. You lift it again, letting the burn of the alcohol coat your throat before you set it down, gaze steady on him.

"Neither did I."

A beat of silence stretches between you. Neither of you break it. The bar hums around you—glasses clinking, low laughter, the distant hum of another song beginning—but here, in this small pocket of space, it’s just you and him.

Finnick’s fingers drum lightly against his glass, his smirk still in place but softer now, as if he's weighing something. Then, as quickly as a wave pulling back to sea, he exhales sharply and leans in just a little, head tilting toward you.

"Well, that’s enough brooding for one night, don’t you think?" he says, voice slipping back into something smoother, more practiced. He gestures toward your drink with an easy grin. "Tell me, sweetheart—does the Missus usually drink her own creations, or is the Siren’s Call only meant to lure others in?”

The shift is seamless. Too seamless. A lifeline he throws himself to swim back to familiar waters, away from the depths he almost let himself sink into. You can see it for what it is—an attempt to slip the mask back on, to retreat to safer ground where he’s the one steering the current.

Still, you allow it. For now.

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the way the liquid catches the light. "Depends," you say, playing along. "Do you think I’d drink something that’s meant to drown others?"

Finnick lets out a small chuckle, something quiet but genuine. "I think," he muses, lifting his glass and tipping it slightly toward you, "you’re the type to make sure they enjoy it before they go under.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he’s speaking about more than just the drink—that makes your breath hitch for just a second.

You raise your glass to his in a small, knowing toast. "Then you should tell me if it’s working."

Finnick holds your gaze, eyes glinting with something unreadable, before he clinks his glass softly against yours and takes a slow sip.

"I’ll let you know when I’m drowning.”

Finnick’s words settle between you, lighter than before but still carrying that familiar weight. You watch the way he swirls the amber liquid in his glass, the way his fingers remain loose around it even as his grip tightens, just barely. He plays it well—this game of pretending—but you’ve been around enough people who wear masks to know when someone’s holding theirs just a little too tightly.

You take a slow sip of your drink, letting the warmth coat your throat before you finally speak. “Well, Finnick Odair, I have to say, I didn’t take you for the kind of man who enjoys drowning.”

He chuckles, low and smooth, as if he expected the remark. "That’s the thing about water, sweetheart. It can kill you just as easily as it can keep you afloat. The trick is knowing which way the current’s pulling."

"And which way is it pulling you now?"

Finnick hums, thoughtful, before flashing a grin. "That depends. Are you planning to throw me a lifeline, or let me drift?"

You tilt your head, feigning consideration. "I guess that depends on whether or not you deserve saving."

His smile twitches—so quick, so small, but you catch it. It’s there and gone in a blink, replaced by something unreadable. Finnick leans in slightly, resting his elbow against the bar, studying you in return. "That’s an awfully dangerous game to play, Missus.”

"And here I thought you liked danger."

Finnick exhales a laugh, shaking his head. "I like winning."

"Funny," you muse, setting your glass down. "You don’t seem like you’re winning right now."

He stills for just a fraction of a second, the mask slipping again before he forces it back into place. But you saw it.

Finnick leans back, stretching his arms as if shaking off the moment. "You wound me, truly." His smirk is back, practiced and sharp, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something that says he knows you see through him.

You shift in your seat, mirroring his earlier playfulness. "Then I’ll buy your next drink. Consider it an apology.”

Finnick raises a brow, amusement flickering across his face. "Oh? And what if I ask for something expensive?"

"Then I suppose you’ll owe me."

A slow grin spreads across his lips. "That almost sounds like a trap."

"And if it is?"

Finnick studies you for a moment longer before shaking his head, laughing under his breath. He lifts his glass, clinking it against yours once more.

"Then I guess I’ll have to see how deep the water goes.”

Finnick’s words settle between you, light on the surface but dragging something deeper beneath. The moment lingers, charged, but before either of you can push it further, an interruption slices through.

A sharp whistle. A voice that grates like nails on glass.

"Well, well. Isn’t this a sight?"

Finnick’s body tenses, the shift barely perceptible, but you feel it. His fingers tighten around his glass, his shoulders straightening as he exhales through his nose. Then, with a practiced ease that only someone like him could manage, he schools his expression and turns.

A Capitol man stands a few feet away, draped in silk and arrogance. His rings catch the bar’s dim light as he gestures grandly, smirking as his gaze flicks between the two of you.

"Didn’t take you for the type to enjoy these little hideaways, Odair." He leans against the bar, all effortless confidence, before his sharp eyes settle on you. "And I certainly didn’t expect to see you keeping such fine company."

You don’t react. You’ve been around these types before—the ones who think their names hold more weight than their actions, the ones who believe they’re untouchable because of their status.

Finnick, ever the performer, leans back against the bar, a smirk sliding into place. "Even I need a break from the grander scenes sometimes."

The man chuckles, low and knowing. "Oh, come now. You and I both know the Capitol doesn’t give breaks.”

His words slither between you, calculated. Finnick’s expression doesn’t falter, but there’s something cold behind his eyes. A flicker of something you can’t name—not quite fear, not quite rage, but something caught between.

"Speaking of which," the man continues, tilting his head. "Are you taking requests tonight, or should I find my entertainment elsewhere?"

You inhale slowly. You know what he means. Finnick’s aware of it too. The air shifts, tightens, and for a moment, you wonder if Finnick will say something sharp, something reckless or he’ll play it smoothly like always. He takes a measured sip of his drink, then exhales through his nose.

"As much as I’d love to entertain you," he drawls, voice like silk stretched too thin, "I’m afraid my evening is already spoken for.”

His fingers drum against the bar once—subtle, but close enough to you that it feels like a tether. Like an anchor.

The man hums, clearly amused. His gaze lingers on you, speculative.

"And what about you, my dear? Surely, you can’t keep him all to yourself."

You finally lift your eyes to him. Hold his gaze.

Then, with a slow sip of your drink, you reply, "I can. And I will."

Finnick stills for half a second. Barely noticeable, but you catch it. The words surprise him.

The man studies you, lips curling slightly like he’s considering how far he can push. But something in your stare gives him pause. Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he raises his hands in mock surrender.

"A shame." He glances at Finnick. "Don’t stray too far, Odair. You know how we get when our favorites go missing."

Finnick doesn’t respond. Just lifts his glass in a wordless toast, a smirk barely holding together at the seams.

The man lingers a moment longer before finally retreating into the crowd, his presence leaving a stain in the air.

A long silence follows.

Finnick exhales, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. Then, almost too casual, he mutters, "I hate that guy.”

You huff a laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. "Didn’t notice."

"Really? I thought I was being subtle."

Another stretch of quiet. Then, softer, you say, "You don’t have to do that, you know."

Finnick tilts his head, playing innocent. "Do what?"

"Perform."

Something flickers in his expression. A crack in the mask.

It vanishes just as quickly.

Finnick leans back, turning the conversation on its head before it can go any deeper. You lifts your glass, nodding toward his. "So, what do you think of the Siren’s Call? Or should I be insulted that you haven’t finished it yet?”

The shift is effortless—too smooth, too practiced. A calculated retreat dressed up as playful banter.

Finnick glances at your glass, then back at his. You study the way he masks the weight of the moment behind a teasing smile. You’re testing the waters, seeing if he’ll follow your lead.

Slowly, he lifts the drink to his lips, letting the cool burn settle on his tongue before swallowing. Then, meeting your gaze, he reply, "I was just savoring it."

For the briefest second, something flickers in his expression. Amusement? Relief? Maybe something else entirely.

Then, as if on cue, you grin. "Good."

Neither of you say anything more, but the silence feels like a conversation of its own.

Morning came faster than Finnick expected. He could’ve sworn he’d only just closed his eyes five minutes ago, but the light spilling through the window said otherwise. He never truly slept these days—never deep enough to drift, always too aware of the silence around him. By the time the alarm buzzed against the nightstand, sunlight was already casting long stripes across his face. It irritated him more than it should have.

He moved through his morning routine with a familiar heaviness, each motion dragging as his thoughts lingered on his tributes. One dead, probably. Hopefully both. As harsh as it sounded, it was kinder. Mercy, in this world, often looked like death.

When he sat down in the dining area, breakfast was already waiting for him—pancakes stacked high, crisp bacon still steaming. The smell made his stomach clench with hunger, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything the night before. Too exhausted. Too hollow to feel hunger then.

He reached for the tablet beside his plate, eyes flicking across the home screen of the Hunger Games site as he took a bite. Caesar Flickerman’s voice filled the room, smooth and falsely cheerful. Finnick paused mid-chew.

His female tribute was dead. Mauled by a mutt after separating from her allies. He swallowed hard, lips pressing into a thin line. The guilt didn’t even sting anymore—just settled like salt in old wounds. He shut the app with a flick of his thumb and opened the Panem national news feed instead.

The elevator chimed, sharp and sudden in the quiet morning air. Finnick barely registered the sound before the soft thud of hurried footsteps followed, echoing off the marble floor like a warning bell. He looked up just in time to see Mags emerge from the hallway, her silhouette framed by the open elevator doors as they closed behind her with a whisper.

Something was wrong.

She wasn’t moving like herself. There was a stiffness in her gait, a tension pulled tight across her small frame. Her face—usually calm, lined with that quiet sort of strength she carried like armor—was pinched with worry. And when her eyes met his, they held something heavy. Something that made the air in his lungs turn cold.

Finnick sat up straighter, heart beginning to stir with unease. The tablet in his hand buzzed softly, the screen lighting up again, but he didn’t look at it. His gaze stayed locked on Mags, tracking every wrinkle in her brow, every falter in her step.

“Mags?” he asked, rising to his feet quickly, the chair scraping back with a quiet groan. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she crossed the distance between them, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Her hands lifted—shaking slightly—and settled on his shoulders. The touch was gentle, but he could feel the tremble beneath it. The kind of tremble born of something unspoken.

His brows drew together. A deep frown carved into his face. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

Still, she didn’t speak. Just gave her head a slow shake and patted his arm in that quiet way she had, like a mother steadying her child without needing to say anything at all. But her eyes said everything. They shimmered not with tears, but with something deeper. Dread, maybe. Or grief. Or both.

She hadn’t spoken much in years—not since the Capitol nearly stole her voice for defending him. He’d begged her not to ever do it again. Promised he could take the hits, promised he’d be fine. He wasn’t, but she was all he had. Her and Annie. And he needed her safe.

“Sit,” she finally whispered. The sound was gravel-soft and strained, barely there.

Finnick didn’t argue. He sank back into his chair without a word, the tablet still clutched loosely in his hand. Mags reached for it, her fingers frail but purposeful as she slid it from his grip. The light from the screen spilled across her face as she scrolled, illuminating every line of her weathered skin. But it didn’t make her look old. If anything, it highlighted her strength—the softness she still carried in a world that tried so hard to beat it out of her.

Finnick set down his fork, a piece of half-eaten pancake forgotten on his plate. He took the tablet from her with a quiet breath and looked at her one last time, the question still in his eyes.

She gave a single nod—slow, solemn—and stepped back.

His thumb brushed the screen. The brightness made him blink.

The breath caught in his throat as his eyes focused on the screen. At first, it was just a blur—black and white, grainy, distorted. But the longer he stared, the more it sharpened. Two figures sat at a bar, glasses raised in a toast. Red circles had been drawn over their faces, like targets. Arrows stretched out to the side, connecting them to high-resolution photos—clear, damning, and unmistakably real.

One of them was him.

Finnick went still, frozen in place as his gaze drank in the image. His bronzed hair was slightly tousled, like it had been run through once or twice. His eyes were squinted, caught mid-laugh, and his mouth curved into a smile that he didn’t recognize at first—because it wasn’t the Capitol’s. It wasn’t the trained, dazzling grin he wore like armor. It was genuine. Wide. Easy. The kind of smile that belonged to someone who had, if only for a moment, forgotten the weight on his shoulders.

Then there was you.

Sitting beside him, angled ever so slightly in his direction. The curve of your lips was small but sincere, a softness in your expression that felt intimate, unguarded. Your gaze was lifted to him in a way that the Capitol would twist without hesitation. They would call it affection. They would call it dangerous. And they would make it into something it was never meant to be.

Hovering above the image, loud and grotesque in bold, capitalized letters, was the headline:

“SECRET SERENADE: CAPITOL’S DARLING CAUGHT SIPPING SIN WITH PHANTOM SONGSTRESS!”

Finnick’s stomach dropped, the color draining from his face in a slow, sickening wave. The city’s noise faded into nothing—no clatter of his fork against the plate, no buzz from the street outside, not even Mags’ quiet breathing from across the table. The world shrank to the rhythmic pound of his heartbeat, thudding in his ears like waves crashing against a rocky shore.

The tablet pressed sharply into his palms, but he didn’t loosen his grip. The headline glared back at him, your face beside his in a grainy still. He needed to see you. Immediately. His tributes vanished from his thoughts, the Games forgotten entirely.

He said nothing to Mags. The chair scraped violently across the floor as he stood, slamming the tablet down on the glass table with a force that cracked through the silence. He grabbed his coat, shoved on his shoes, and bolted for the elevator.

His mind spiraled with questions as he moved. What if Snow got to you? Were you safe? Had you seen the article? You must regret spending time with him now. You had to. Or did you not? No, that couldn’t be. A scandal like this—especially with someone like him—there’s no way you hadn’t heard. Maybe paparazzi were already swarming your bar. Maybe worse.

Finnick ran through every possibility. Who could’ve leaked it? No one knew he was there—except Haymitch. But Haymitch wouldn’t. Not when he had his own ghosts, his own grudges. Could it have been one of Finnick’s Capitol admirers? Unlikely. He would’ve noticed someone following him. He always did.

The streets were mostly empty. Capitolites rarely stirred before noon, and it was just past eight. His footsteps echoed off the polished pavement as he made his way toward the poorer side of the city. Phantom’s Tide sat tucked away like a forgotten relic, half-hidden in the Capitol’s shadow.

He stopped when the bar’s sign came into view, heart hammering. The street was still clear. No cameras. No commotion. For now, the odds were in his favor. He knew the place wasn’t yours, not really—you were just the face of it. A front. The bar was tied to underground dealings, and the people who gathered there looked like they’d survived things even Finnick hadn’t imagined.

Despite spending the entire night with you, he realized how little he truly knew. You'd answered his questions with sly deflections, turned the conversation back on him before he even noticed. And he hadn’t minded. He’d been too tired, too raw, too drunk on your voice to push for more.

His jaw tightened. You were a mystery. You carried yourself like someone weighted by something invisible but impossible to ignore. There were ghosts in your eyes, in your silence. It was that silence that kept him at your side until two in the morning, half-shitfaced and unwilling to leave.

He reached the door. It was unlocked. Strange, given the "closed" sign hanging outside. He stepped through the wooden corridor with urgency but caution, his footsteps muffled by the creaking floor. The familiar scent of aged wood and salt met him again, oddly grounding.

Marcellus stood behind the bar, back turned, nursing a drink like he’d been waiting all night.

Then Finnick heard it—a piano. Soft, precise. He turned.

You were on the stage.

Your head was bowed, hands poised over the keys. The notes of Clair de Lune floated through the room, delicate and aching. You didn’t look up. You played like you weren’t alone, but you didn’t need an audience. Like the music wasn’t a performance, but a confession.

The final chord hung in the air, long after it ended. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Finnick exhaled slowly, like surf withdrawing from shore.

And only then, only after the last echo died in the wood-paneled room, did he say softly—barely above a whisper—

"That was beautiful."

He didn’t expect a thank you. He didn’t even expect you to answer.

He just needed to say it.

Because for the first time in a very long while, something had cut through the noise. And it was you.

You turn slowly in your seat, and your hair falls with the movement—soft strands slipping across your cheek, framing your face in a way that doesn't feel staged, but still impossibly perfect. The dim light glows around you, a warm amber that halos your figure against the dark wood of the bar and the stage’s heavy shadows. For a moment, Finnick doesn't see a performer or a stranger. You look like something ancient—a sea-bound deity carved from moonlight and secrets.

But it isn’t just your beauty that catches him off guard. It’s the quiet. The absolute stillness in your posture. You’re not startled by his presence. You're not rushing to explain or to ask questions. You sit there like you already know everything that’s happened, everything that will. That composure settles around you like armor. No panic. No fear. Just acceptance. And that unnerves him more than any storm ever could.

For a second too long, he watches you, and he knows he's slipping. Letting his guard down when he can't afford to. His brow pulls into a furrow, and he clenches his jaw—not in anger, but in self-preservation. This wasn’t why he came. He didn’t come to admire you, or drown in the way your eyes lift to meet his without hesitation. He came to get answers. To make sure you weren’t in danger. To fix something—if that was even possible.

He tells himself that again, like a tether: Stay on track. Don’t lose focus. Don’t let this become something else.

Then your voice cuts through the air, calm and steady, unbothered.

“I’m assuming you’re here because of the photos.”

The sound of it fills the room, echoing softly off the aged wood and quiet walls. No judgment in your tone. No panic. Just a simple, clear observation that lands with more weight than accusation ever could.

Finnick swallows once, his mouth suddenly dry. He nods, the gesture short, his voice just above a whisper when it comes. “I saw them this morning.”

You don’t respond, not immediately. Your hands remain on your lap, one thumb brushing across the other in a slow, absent rhythm. You’re entirely composed, like this isn’t the beginning of a Capitol storm you both know is inevitable. Your serenity makes his pulse tick faster, because it’s not indifference—it's something else. A kind of knowing. Like you’ve been through worse and didn’t flinch then, either.

He steps closer, his boots silent against the floorboards. “Didn’t take them long,” he says, eyes lingering on you as if trying to read beyond the still surface. “They’ve already turned it into a spectacle.”

You offer the smallest, ghost of a smile—but it’s hollow, bone-deep. “The Capitol thrives on spectacle. And fantasy. We just happened to be convenient.”

The words sting because they’re true. Because you say them with such clarity, so stripped of panic or frustration, it makes Finnick feel volatile by comparison. He wishes you would react—just a little. Raise your voice. Ask him why he came. Ask him how it happened. Be human.

But instead, you remain as you are—measured and unyielding—and it scrapes against the raw nerves he’s been carrying for years.

He wants to argue. To say that you weren’t just convenient. That what happened last night wasn’t meaningless, even if it started as a distraction. But he bites down on it, holds the words behind his teeth like they might burn on the way out. He doesn't know what the truth is, not yet—not when everything he touches seems to blur and slip between what’s real and what’s performance.

Instead, he exhales, slow and shaky, and rubs a hand down his face like it might ground him. "I didn’t know who else would’ve done it," he mutters. "Only a few people knew I was there. Haymitch wouldn’t sell me out. Not like this." He doesn’t expect you to answer that either, and you don’t.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, studying him like you're trying to decide what kind of storm he is—whether he’ll crash against your shore and retreat, or if he’s the kind that stays and carves out pieces over time.

“Someone always benefits,” you say eventually, your voice steady but distant, like you’re narrating the story from the outside. “The Capitol man from last night—he left with a bruised ego. People like him don’t take humiliation quietly. He knew who you were. He saw the opportunity. And he took it.”

Finnick’s eyes narrow slightly, jaw tight. “Then he’ll get what he wants. All of them will.”

You don’t respond with comfort. You don’t offer soft reassurances or empty platitudes. You simply nod once, as if to acknowledge that yes, he’s right. Yes, this is the cost. And no, there’s no easy escape.

The silence settles again, heavier now. Finnick’s gaze drops, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. For a man who’s mastered the art of charm, of banter and seduction and performance, he finds himself stripped bare in front of you. No script. No audience to please. Just this quiet room and your unshakable calm, and it unnerves him more than the Capitol ever could.

He looks back at you, eyes searching your face—still serene, still unreadable. “How are you not angry?”

Your eyes meet his, unflinching. “What would anger change?”

That answer makes something in his chest pull tight. It’s not defeat in your voice—it’s something else. Resignation layered with wisdom. Like you’ve been angry before. Like you learned the hard way that fury doesn’t always burn down the right walls.

Finnick shifts his weight, restless now, the silence pressing into him from all sides. “They’re going to want more,” he says, almost bitter. “Of us. Interviews. Appearances. A story.”

“They always do.”

“And you’re just… fine with that?”

You give the smallest shake of your head. “No. But I’m used to playing parts.”

Finnick flinches at that—visibly. Because he knows. Because he's one of those parts. Because last night, you let him pretend he was just a man in a quiet bar listening to a beautiful song, and he let himself believe you were someone untouched by the Capitol’s rot.

Now he sees that you’re not untouched—you’re just better at hiding it.

“You don’t have to perform with me,” he says quietly, his voice stripped of polish now. Just truth. “Not here.”

You look at him again, and for a brief second, there’s a flicker in your expression. Something that wavers—just for a heartbeat—before it seals away again beneath your cool exterior.

“I know,” you reply, and there’s something almost kind in the way you say it. Almost.

Then you stand, the piano bench creaking gently beneath you. The movement is smooth, unhurried, elegant. You straighten your dress with a quiet grace, then step down from the stage, your gaze never leaving his.

“And you don’t have to save me, Finnick Odair,” you add, voice soft but unshakeable. “That’s not why I let you in.”

And with that, you walk past him, your steps echoing through the quiet bar, leaving him standing there alone in the golden remnants of your music, unsure if he’s just been dismissed or invited deeper into something he’s not ready to name.

But he doesn’t follow you right away. Not yet.

He stands there for a beat too long, as if the ground beneath his feet has turned to water, and he can’t quite decide whether to swim or sink. Something heavy presses in his chest—something tight and raw and unfamiliar. His heart, metaphorically or not, feels like it’s resting in his hands. He debates whether to offer it, to lay it out in the open where you sit bathed in calm light. But he gets the sense you already know the answer. You’ve known from the moment you turned around.

You’re back in the same seat you’d occupied last night—only now, the weight of your presence feels different. Marcellus is there again, unbothered as ever, setting a tall glass in front of you. The drink glows with a pale pink hue, crystalline and delicate. Beside it, another glass waits, filled with dark liquid that glints like oil under the lights. Finnick recognizes it instantly: Salt & Storm.

Without thinking, his feet move forward. His body follows before his mind finishes forming the decision. Maybe it’s the drink. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t ask him to leave. That you didn’t turn your back on him. He takes that as a silent invitation—maybe a dangerous assumption, but he’s too tired to second-guess it.

He sinks into the seat beside you again. The chair groans slightly beneath his weight. He doesn’t look at you at first, only at the polished bar top, now cleared of everything except the drinks and a sleek, matte-black tablet resting under your fingers. He catches the way your index finger taps lightly, absently, like you’re keeping time with some rhythm only you can hear.

“Your tribute’s doing quite well,” you murmur, eyes still on the screen as it lights up your features.

Finnick blinks, the words pulling him from the haze of his own thoughts. He follows your gaze and notices the tablet is synced to something—your fingers swipe across it once, and a low hiss whispers from above.

A hidden mechanism in the ceiling responds. A flat screen slides down with mechanical grace, humming softly into place in front of them. Finnick’s lips part slightly at the sight, surprise flickering across his face. He wasn’t expecting anything like this. Not here—not in a place tucked away on the frayed edge of Capitol opulence. But then again, nothing about this place—or you—has ever fit into the mold he expected.

The screen flickers to life. The Hunger Games appear in real-time. The feed cuts to District 12’s girl—Katniss Everdeen. Finnick recognizes her from whispers and half-formed rumors: the one who got an eleven in her private session, despite showing very little during public training. She crouches in the trees now, movements quiet and deliberate, a knife clutched in her hand as she inches along the branches.

Finnick’s brows draw together, eyes narrowing slightly. His attention sharpens. He sees what she’s going for before the camera does—the subtle glint of a hive in the canopy. Then the shot cuts to the ground, revealing the sleeping forms of the Career pack. His tribute—Jace—is among them. Glimmer is nearby, too close to the base of the tree.

A voice, smooth and familiar, filters through the broadcast—Caesar Flickerman, explaining to the Capitol audience the danger of tracker jackers. The Capitol eats this up. Another moment of drama. Another inch toward bloodshed.

“Well,” you murmur, lifting your glass and taking a quiet sip, “I guess not anymore.”

Finnick turns to look at you, head tilting slightly.

“Him and Glimmer are pretty close to the nest,” you add, voice still calm, observational. Unbothered.

“You think so?” he asks, raising his glass and taking a slow sip. The rum hits his tongue first—dark and briny, just like Marcellus had described. There’s a faint smokiness that lingers in the back of his throat. It tastes like storms and regret.

You nod once, as if the outcome is already written in stone. “Yeah. Even if he survives this, he’s not going to last long.”

Finnick studies your profile, the way you speak without flinching, without sugarcoating. There’s no venom in your tone—just certainty. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does. You speak about death like you’ve already made peace with it. Like you’re just waiting for the world to catch up to your truth.

“What made you think of that?” he asks, the question coming out quieter than intended. Not because he doubts you. Because he wants to understand.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you watch the screen, your expression unreadable. Like you’re seeing something deeper than just the footage. Like you’ve already calculated every move three steps ahead, and the outcome no longer surprises you.

When you do speak, your voice is quieter, but no less steady.

“He hesitates,” you say, eyes still trained on the screen. “You can see it when he’s forced to decide. His hands shake when no one’s watching. Not enough to notice unless you’re looking for it. But it’s there.”

Finnick turns his head slightly, watching you more than the screen now.

“And hesitation,” you continue, “gets people killed in the arena.”

There’s no cruelty in the way you say it. Only truth. Heavy, cold truth, spoken like someone who’s carried it for a very long time. Like someone who’s watched people die from hesitation before.

Finnick looks down at his glass, fingers tightening slightly around it.

“Guess I hoped he had more fight in him,” he says, not to argue, but because he needs to say something. Anything.

You finally glance at him. “Hope,” you say softly, “is just another name for mercy.”

He doesn’t know what you mean by that exactly. But the weight of it settles between you, pressing into the quiet space like the beginning of a storm.

The screen flickers, and the camera cuts sharply back to Katniss.

She’s bracing herself now—hands steadying against the branch, jaw set with silent resolve. Then the blade bites through wood. One cut. Two. Finnick can almost feel the hive trembling from here. The hum of danger seems to fill the bar, as if the Capitol’s spectacle is leaking through the walls, poisoning even this quiet place.

He watches your eyes as much as the screen. You don’t flinch. Not when the tracker jacker nest plummets. Not when Glimmer bolts upright and screams. Not even when Jace—his own tribute—scrambles backward, disoriented, face twisted in pain as the stingers bury themselves into his arms, his neck.

You simply sit there, glass in hand, calm and still and untouched.

But Finnick feels it. A shift—not in your posture, not in your voice, but behind your eyes. Something flickers in them. Not pity. Not horror.

Recognition.

He watches as Jace goes down. Not immediately. But the shaking starts in his limbs, the way the venom takes over too fast, too deep. Glimmer's already gone—her body spasming as she crashes into the underbrush, face contorted in something beyond pain. The others flee.

Jace’s screams get quieter.

Finnick’s chest tightens, but not in the way he expects. There’s sorrow, yes. Frustration. But more than that, his gaze is pulled toward you again.

“You already knew that was going to happen,” he says, not accusingly—but with a kind of awe. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t look at him. Your gaze remains fixed to the screen.

“I suspected,” you say, your voice low. “They camped too close to a tree that didn’t match the rest. Too high. Too quiet. If you’ve watched enough Games, you start seeing patterns.”

Finnick swallows, the salt of the rum still clinging to the back of his throat. “You sound like you’ve studied them.”

“I have,” you reply simply.

He turns to face you more fully now, curiosity tightening in his spine. “Why?”

You finally look at him, eyes cool, unblinking. “Because understanding what kills people is the only way to survive them.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. The answer is clean, polished, but not empty. It rings with something else. Something heavier. And he can’t help but wonder what exactly you’ve survived—and at what cost.

The television carries on, jumping between tributes—blood trails, hidden cameras, the eerie quiet that always follows a burst of violence. Finnick drinks slowly, but his focus never quite leaves you.

“You’re calm about this,” he says after a moment. “All of it.”

You hum softly. “Someone has to be.”

“But you talk like you know them,” he adds, glancing back to the screen. “The tributes. Like you can read them.”

You rest your elbow on the bar, fingers lightly circling your glass. “Most people don’t look closely. They watch the Games to be entertained. But if you know what to look for, you can see everything. Who hesitates. Who calculates. Who’s pretending.”

He watches you in silence for a beat, then asks, “So tell me—who do you think’s going to win?”

You’re quiet at first.

Your eyes trail back to the screen, where Katniss is now retreating through the trees, face pale, body heaving from the effort. She’s smeared with dirt and blood, a smear of death behind her. But she’s alive. Still moving.

“Katniss,” you say, voice sure.

Finnick raises a brow. “The girl from Twelve?”

You nod once. “She doesn’t play the game the way they want her to. And they hate that. But the Capitol doesn’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t want to be loved. She survives because she’s not pretending. Because she does what she has to, even when no one’s watching.”

He studies your face—serene, composed, carefully arranged—and sees it: a crack. Just the faintest flicker. Your lips tighten, almost imperceptibly. Your gaze falters for a split second. There’s something in your eyes that doesn’t match your voice.

Sadness.

Not for Katniss, not exactly. Something older. Deeper. Like watching her reminds you of something you’ve tried very hard to forget. Or someone.

Finnick leans back slowly in his chair, his fingers tightening around his glass. The cold press of it is grounding. He watches you as if you’re the one on screen now. Like if he pays close enough attention, he’ll see the whole picture. The truth beneath the poise.

“You talk like someone who’s been in an arena,” he says quietly.

You don’t respond. You don’t smile. Don’t deflect. For the first time, you don’t immediately offer a polished reply.

You just take a slow sip of your drink, and when you set the glass down, your fingers linger at the base—just long enough to suggest you’re steadying something unseen.

Finnick doesn’t push. He lets the silence stretch between you, fragile but oddly full. It’s the closest he’s come to understanding you, and yet it only deepens the mystery.

And for the first time since the headline broke that morning, he stops thinking about the Capitol, about the cameras, about how all of this looks.

Because now he’s wondering who you really are and what it cost you to become this composed.

Without a word, you reach forward and swipe the tablet screen. The television above hisses softly as it retracts back into the ceiling, the whirring mechanism swallowing the broadcast and leaving only silence behind.

The room feels quieter without the noise of the Games bleeding through it, but not peaceful. No, the silence here is the kind that waits—full of unspoken things pressed tightly between words.

You sit still, one hand wrapped loosely around your glass, eyes on the space where the screen once hung. Something in your shoulders shifts—barely a movement, but enough for Finnick to see it. Like you’re coming back from somewhere far away. Somewhere you didn’t ask to go.

He watches you carefully, brow furrowed just slightly, thoughts still tangled in the way you’d spoken about the Games—about the tributes, about death, about Katniss. There’s too much weight in your voice to belong to someone untouched by it.

He leans in a little, voice low and careful. “Who are you?”

It’s not a threat, and it’s not a challenge. It’s something softer. A genuine attempt to understand you. To make sense of the pull he feels toward someone he still knows almost nothing about.

You don’t answer immediately. You take your time, sipping your drink with the same patience you wear like armor. When your gaze finally drifts back to him, it’s steady. Clear. You aren’t hiding—but you aren’t baring yourself either.

You give him just enough.

“Just a girl who got out of the trenches.”

The words are simple, almost casual. But they land with the weight of something heavy and real. Finnick goes still.

The trenches. That phrase wasn’t random. It’s one he’s heard whispered before—spoken quietly among those who know how deep the Capitol’s rot really goes. A codeword, of sorts. A way of referring to the worst of the districts. Not just poverty—but the underworld beneath it. The black market. The places where kids disappeared and didn’t come back. Or came back wrong.

He studies your face again. Calm. Still. But the words echo in his head now with deeper meaning.

He’s heard rumors. Of girls taken from their homes under the guise of recruitment, opportunity, "special training." Girls who vanished from forgotten corners of the districts and ended up somewhere between Capitol property and Capitol possession. Sometimes as servants. Sometimes as less. Sometimes they were never seen again.

You don’t look broken. You don’t even look angry. But that calm—that quiet composure—you wear it like a survivor. Like someone who’s spent a long time being looked at, handled, shaped, and is now very good at not being touched at all.

Finnick's voice is quieter when he speaks next. “You’re from a district.”

You don’t deny it. You just give him a faint smile—tired, and not unkind. “A long time ago.”

His throat feels tight, but he swallows it down. “How did you end up here?”

Your gaze slides away again, toward the bar’s long shadows, toward Marcellus in the corner who pretends not to listen but hasn’t missed a word. “Same way most of us end up in the Capitol,” you say softly. “Someone noticed something they wanted.”

Finnick lets out a breath. It’s not surprise that hits him—it's recognition. He knows exactly what it means to be wanted for all the wrong reasons. To have someone see you not as a person but a prize.

You look back at him, and for the first time, your composure falters—but not from weakness. It’s from the weight of truth. It’s in your eyes—something distant and aching.

“I didn’t come here by choice,” you say, and though your voice doesn’t break, there’s a shift in it—a faint hollowing at the edges. A note too quiet for the Capitol to ever notice, but clear enough for someone like Finnick, who knows what it means to live with a cage around your throat.

“But I stayed,” you continue, glancing down at the rim of your glass. “I built something from it. Not much. But enough to breathe.”

Finnick doesn’t speak. He watches the way your thumb moves along the edge of your drink, slow and methodical, grounding. There’s something reverent about the way you say it—enough to breathe—as though even that small luxury was something you had to fight for. Or steal.

After a pause, you add, quieter, “I was lucky.”

Your words don’t sound like someone boasting about luck. If anything, they sound like someone confessing survivor’s guilt.

“There was a man,” you say. “He found me when I’d run out of exits. Didn’t ask for anything. Just opened a door.”

You don’t name him. Don’t elaborate. But something in your voice tightens, almost imperceptibly, when you speak about him. A flicker of emotion that’s neither fear nor longing—more like reverence. Or debt. Whoever he was, he changed the course of your life, and you carry that change like a quiet scar.

“He’s the one who built Phantom’s Tide,” you say, and for a moment your gaze lifts, scanning the walls as if you can still see the blueprint of his presence tucked between the wood grain and flickering lanterns. “I just keep the lights on.”

Finnick leans forward slightly, elbows resting against the bar. “Is he still around?”

You shrug, but there’s something guarded about the gesture. “Sometimes. He comes and goes. He prefers the shadows.” Then, a breath of a smile. “I think he likes it that way.”

Finnick processes that slowly. There’s more you aren’t saying—he can feel it in the way you keep your posture steady, in the soft way your voice drops at certain syllables. You’ve lived in silence so long it’s become a language of its own. But he’s fluent in those silences too.

“What did he save you from?” he asks, voice gentle now.

Your eyes flick to his, but only briefly. It’s the first time you look… wary. Not afraid. Just uncertain about how much to give. But you don’t lash out. You don’t shut down.

You just say, “Someone who thought I belonged to them.”

The words are quiet. Clean. Like glass held up to the light. But Finnick feels the cut of them anyway.

He doesn’t press after that. Doesn’t need to. The meaning hangs there between you, unspoken and undeniable.

His hands curl slowly around his glass again. “Then I’m glad he found you,” he says.

You nod once, thoughtful. “So am I. I wouldn’t have survived the Capitol without him.”

Another long silence stretches between you—but this time, it feels different. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just shared.

The bar is still empty except for the two of you and Marcellus, who stands a polite distance away, polishing a glass with the patience of someone who’s heard a thousand stories and knows not to interrupt any of them.

Finnick looks back toward you, really looks at you—and he sees not just mystery, but resilience. The kind you don’t earn without bleeding first.

“You said you built something,” he says quietly. “This bar… this place... it’s more than just a job, isn’t it?”

You glance at the piano in the corner, the etchings in the bar wood, the low hum of safe quiet that wraps around the walls. Your voice is calm as ever when you reply.

“It’s a place to land,” you say. “For people who’ve forgotten what stillness feels like.”

And Finnick, with his own salt-bitter heart and years of being paraded like a living trophy, knows better than to ask for more than you’re willing to give. But still—something about the way you say it leaves a mark. A tether.

Because now he doesn’t just want to understand you. He wants to protect you, even if it seems impossible given the circumstances now.

There was something suffocating about President Snow’s office, though it wasn’t the size. The room was vast—cathedral-high ceilings, gleaming floors, floor-to-ceiling windows framed by carved stone columns. It should have felt open, airy. But it didn’t.

It felt like a tomb.

Finnick Odair stood at the center of it, hands relaxed at his sides, wearing the same careless ease the Capitol expected from him. As if he wasn’t already calculating the exact pitch of his voice, the shape of his smile, the safest way to leave this room with his soul intact.

The air smelled like white roses.

Dozens of them—arranged in vases too perfect to be handmade, lining the corners, shelves, and sills. The scent was thick and cloying, almost sweet, but Finnick could still smell what lay beneath. Decay. Blood. The rot of power that had been left unchecked for too long. Whatever Snow was hiding beneath the perfume, it was working.

The President sat behind his black-glass desk like a man holding court. Everything about the room gleamed—sleek, sterile, immaculate. No clutter. No mess. Just a gold pocket watch ticking faintly near his elbow and the illusion of control sharpened to a blade.

Snow’s fingers, thin and liver-spotted, tapped once against the armrest. It was a soft sound. But deliberate enough to make Finnick’s spine go rigid.

“Odair,” he said smoothly. “It seems you’ve found yourself in another pinch.”

He said it like they were equals. Like this wasn’t another chain being fastened around Finnick’s throat.

Finnick gave the smile they all liked. The easy one. The one that hinted at charm and mischief, even when his stomach was coiled tight. “Capitol’s been restless lately,” he said lightly. “You know how it is—can’t let me go a full week without a scandal.”

Snow returned the smile, but it was lifeless. His lips curled, but his eyes stayed cold.

“Indeed. It seems the people still fawn over you, even as you grow older.” He said it with the tone of someone admiring a relic. “I can’t blame them. You were born for this, after all. Some people have survival in their blood.”

Finnick tilted his head just slightly. “Should I take that as a compliment, President Snow?”

Snow lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Depends.”

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a white envelope. Laid it on the desk and turned it toward Finnick with two fingers, precise and unhurried.

Finnick stepped forward. He didn’t hesitate—hesitation meant weakness. He slid the envelope toward him and opened it. The photographs inside were crisp, printed on thick Capitol-grade film.

The first image hit hard.

It was you—still wearing the dress from earlier, but in a different setting. A private room. Feminine touches softened the edges of the space: a messy vanity, floral wallpaper, a wooden dresser. You sat by the window, brushing your hair with one hand, a small book open on your lap. The photo had been taken from across the street. Through the glass.

Finnick’s grip on the photo tightened slightly.

The next image was from Phantom’s Tide. Older. Taken from a darkened corner of the bar. You were onstage, seated at the piano, your back to the camera. A man stood behind the curtain’s edge—older, with gray-streaked hair and a formal tuxedo. He didn’t look like a Capitol man. No shine, no cosmetic perfection. His face bore the marks of time and truth. And yet, the way he looked at you—quiet, composed, reverent—said everything. Finnick recognized him instantly.

The bar’s owner. The one who saved you.

Then came the last photo.

You, alone on a Capitol street, standing at a grave. A black trench coat wrapped around you, your hands buried deep in the pockets. Your gaze was downcast, fixed on the headstones beneath you. Finnick squinted at the lettering—Loving Husband and Loving Wife.

A pulse of something cold moved through him.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on Phantom’s Tide for some time,” Snow said, voice deceptively casual. “Their front—or should I say, your Missus—caught my attention. I haven’t heard a voice like that in years.”

Finnick lifted his head slowly, meeting Snow’s gaze. “You already had a plan,” he said, the realization landing like a stone.

Snow’s smile widened, just slightly. “Clever boy. It writes itself, doesn’t it? A victor from District Four, falling in love with a mystery woman with a siren’s voice. Oh, they’ll devour it.”

Finnick’s jaw clenched, though he kept his expression even. He’d long since learned that fury got you nowhere with Snow. Not unless it was staged. Controlled. Performed.

“A love story,” Finnick said flatly. “That’s what this is to you.”

Snow leaned back slightly in his chair, hands folding neatly over his stomach. “Not just any love story. The love story. A tortured romance. A siren and her golden boy. Mystery and scandal, tamed by adoration. It’s already taken root. And the more they believe it, the more they'll forget the unrest.”

Finnick’s chest felt tight. Not from fear. From the bitter taste of understanding.

“You leaked the photos.”

Snow’s brows lifted, mildly amused. “Oh please. I could do better than that.”

He said it with such confidence, such finality, it made Finnick sick.

“You’re going to destroy her,” he said, voice lower now.

Snow’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, I disagree. If anything, I’ve given her what she never had—an audience. Access. Protection. Do you know how many Capitol elites are requesting her already? She’ll sing at every high event in the city. And you’ll be there. On her arm. Looking every inch the perfect pair.”

Finnick hated how cleanly the cage was constructed. There was no blood, no overt threat—just expectation. Just the illusion of a gift. And behind it, the same trap they’d all fallen into.

“You’re pushing her into the spotlight,” he said, jaw tight.

Snow’s smile dropped, finally. His eyes sharpened.

“I’m giving her purpose,” he corrected. “And you’re going to help her keep it. Or I’ll remind the public exactly what District Four’s favorite son did to stay alive.”

Finnick said nothing. He couldn’t speak through the burn in his throat. The shame. The fury.

“I want a public appearance,” Snow continued. “Two days from now. A benefit gala. You’ll arrive together. Smile for the cameras. Let them see what they want to see.”

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.

“And tell your little bar singer that from now on, her music serves the Capitol. If she plays the part, she’ll be safe. If she doesn’t, well. I’m sure there’s a spot still empty for the owner.”

Finnick stared at him—hated him in a way that felt carved into his bones. But he nodded once, not because he agreed.

Because that’s what you did when you were already holding someone else’s leash.

Without another word, he turned and left the room, the scent of white roses clinging to him like rot.

The Capitol gala was nothing short of obscene. The event was housed in a glass hall perched atop the city’s highest tower, the ceiling a domed projection of shifting constellations and artificial auroras. Every surface glittered—columns gilded with gold, chandeliers like falling stars, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, reflecting every guest like a cruel trick of symmetry. The music was soft and distant, more ambiance than melody, and it filled the space like perfume: heavy, lingering, and too sweet to be comforting.

The guests came adorned in layers of elegance and artificial grace—dripping with sequins, synthetic feathers, and jewels too large to be tasteful. They sipped wine laced with something numbing and laughed in rehearsed rhythms. But beneath their painted smiles was hunger. They weren’t here for art. They were here for spectacle. For the story. For you.

Finnick sat in the front row, planted in a velvet-lined chair that felt like it was built to trap its occupant in comfort. His suit, chosen by stylists hours earlier, clung to him perfectly—sleek black tailored to emphasize his shoulders and trimmed in glints of blue, like stormlight. On the outside, he looked every bit the Capitol’s darling: poised, polished, and enviably composed. But inside, his nerves were pulling taut, stretching to a fray. His hands remained locked together in his lap, not out of etiquette but to stop their tremble.

He scanned the room with quiet dread, watching sponsors and ambassadors and Capitol socialites gossip behind glittering masks and cocktail glasses. Every one of them had come because the narrative had already been spun—of course they wanted to see the bar singer with the siren’s voice, the one who’d supposedly tamed Finnick Odair’s heart. It didn’t matter if they’d heard you sing before. They didn’t care about the music. They came for blood dressed in silk.

Then, your name rang out over the speaker system.

Finnick's chest pulled tight as light applause stirred the crowd. It wasn’t warm. It was expectant. Like the opening act to a show everyone believed they’d already seen.

You stepped onto the stage, and for a breath, the room hushed. You looked otherworldly—polished, elegant, untouchable. The gown they’d put you in was silver, the kind of silver that shimmered with every step like running water under moonlight. Your hair was pinned up with cruel precision, makeup delicate but deliberate, lips painted in a quiet, tragic shade. You looked like a dream.

But Finnick didn’t see the dream.

He saw your hands.

The subtle way they hovered at your sides a moment too long before settling at your waist. The single, quick inhale that slightly lifted your shoulders. The way your gaze scanned the room—not for approval, not for admiration—but for threat. For the first crack in the ice.

It was your first time performing before a crowd like this. Not just rich, not just powerful—but watching. They didn’t want to listen to you. They wanted to possess you. And you knew that.

Finnick felt helpless. He hated every second of it. Hated that he was down here, dressed up and powerless, while you were alone on that stage, being repackaged and offered to people who didn’t know your voice wasn’t a gift—it was a shield. He’d told himself he’d protect you. He hadn’t figured out how yet.

Snow’s words echoed bitterly in his mind. She’ll sing at every high event in the city. And you’ll be there. On her arm.

You had barely spoken on the way here. No dramatic declarations, no complaints. Just a quiet nod when you passed him backstage. He wasn’t sure if it was reassurance or resignation. But whatever it was, it had hollowed him out.

Now, he watched you sit at the piano.

The room was silent, the crowd leaned forward in that poised, hungry way only Capitol elites could manage—enthralled not because they cared, but because they’d been told to.

You placed your fingers gently on the keys. There was a pause—a breath in the fabric of the evening—and then the first note rang out.

It was light. Almost too delicate to carry. Like the sound of water striking glass, sharp and fragile all at once. You followed it with another, and another, the melody building in slow, aching chords.

The crowd listened. But Finnick didn’t watch them. He watched you.

Because this wasn’t just a performance. It wasn’t a debut. This was survival.

The music began softly, slow and deliberate, weaving its way into the towering gala hall like mist curling across still water. Each note settled gently into the air, not demanding attention but gradually pulling it in, one breath at a time. The melody had no urgency, no fanfare. It moved with the weight of something old and unspoken, like a lullaby passed down from ghost to ghost. It drifted past golden chandeliers, down silk-clad backs, through the stillness of crystal glasses paused mid-sip. No one dared speak—not because they cared, but because they couldn’t look away.

You sat poised at the piano, every inch of you styled to perfection. The silver gown shimmered under the lights, delicate and regal, like something made of moonlight. Your hair was pulled away from your face, your lips painted a subtle, tragic red that matched the hush in your eyes. You looked immaculate, untouchable. But beneath all that shimmer, there was something else. Something quieter. Something only a few would see.

Then you began to sing.

Your voice was low at first, breathy and careful, as though you were coaxing the words from somewhere deep in your chest. The lyrics themselves weren’t obvious—there were no Capitol theatrics, no soaring ballads. Just a slow, ethereal story wrapped in metaphor. A woman walking barefoot across the ocean floor. Light above her but always out of reach. Stones beneath her feet that never drew blood. Creatures in the deep that whispered her name and sounded like men.

It was haunting, delicate, and strange. A spell disguised as a song.

Most of the room was enchanted, but only on the surface. The Capitol guests swayed gently, heads tilted like connoisseurs enjoying a rare delicacy. They smiled, whispered among themselves, marveled at how your voice seemed to coat the air in silk. But they didn’t hear you. Not really. They didn’t know what they were clapping for. They didn’t realize what you were giving up.

But Finnick did.

He heard everything.

He heard the way your voice lingered just a little too long on certain lines, the way you dipped lower when you sang about silence, how you faltered—so subtly it could be missed—when the lyrics touched on monsters cloaked in velvet and perfume. You never looked down at the keys, never looked away. You faced the audience with eyes that didn’t plead or ask. They warned.

Finnick watched from the front row, heart pounding quietly behind his ribs, as you laid yourself bare in a room too shallow to notice. While the Capitol applauded the illusion, he was left staring at the truth.

You weren’t just performing. You were speaking.

He saw it in you. The finality. The way your body carried the song like a weight it had already accepted. You had entered this room as the Capitol’s newest obsession, and you would leave it as something else entirely: claimed. Visible. Watched.

He saw not the songstress dressed in silver, but the girl who once sat quietly by a window, brushing her hair with no idea that a camera lens was fixed on her from across the street. He saw the figure standing behind crimson curtains, watching over you with quiet devotion. He saw the grave with two names etched in stone—lives you had once been tethered to. He saw the trench coat, the way your hands stayed deep in your pockets not because of the cold, but because they had nothing left to hold.

He saw the girl who had survived more than anyone had asked of her.

And now, she was giving herself away again—piece by piece, under the guise of performance—because she knew she had no choice.

He realized, in that moment, that you weren’t just singing to the room. You were saying goodbye.

Goodbye to Phantom’s Tide. To the peace you’d built. To the quiet life you had carved out from wreckage. That stage had become your final moment of solitude, even under the glow of chandeliers and under the gaze of hundreds.

You weren’t crying. You weren’t trembling. But the resignation was there.

You were saying goodbye to the version of yourself that had once been free.

And Finnick, watching you from the front row, understood something he hadn’t before—not just the stakes, but the cost.

Because while the Capitol clapped their manicured hands and sighed at your beauty, he was the only one mourning the girl behind the song.

Finnick found his way backstage with practiced ease, slipping from the spotlight and into the shadows while the crowd remained enthralled, still murmuring about your voice, your presence, your mystery. No one noticed him vanish. All eyes were still on the stage, still on the singer they believed belonged to them now.

His pulse thudded violently beneath his ribs, like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. His hands were clammy, and he wiped them down the sides of his tailored pants without a care for the fabric. His thoughts were a storm—scattered, sharp-edged, looping on one thing only: you.

He caught sight of movement beyond the velvet curtain—the familiar swish of silver fabric, the ghost of your silhouette—and without thinking, he moved. Pushing past staff, makeup artists, and handlers all chattering into headsets, he muttered soft apologies under his breath but didn’t stop. He didn’t slow until he was standing in front of you.

You had just stepped offstage, but it looked like you were still half-lost in the performance. Your eyes were wide, pupils still blown from the adrenaline, your breath shallow. You weren’t shaking—but you weren’t steady either. Finnick’s gaze scanned you in an instant, taking in every inch, every tremor, every unspoken thing in the quiet around you.

He didn't know what he was looking for. An injury, maybe. A sign of how deeply it had hurt. Or maybe—selfishly—some flicker of resentment. Something that would confirm what he feared most: that you hated him for dragging you into this.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The words felt stuck somewhere deep in his chest, raw and unfinished, like his throat had sealed itself closed. So instead, he stared.

Give me something, he pleaded silently. A look. A word. Be angry with me. Scream. Curse. Anything.

But you just stared back at him, quiet and unreadable. Then, slowly, your fingers twitched at your sides. Your mouth parted slightly, as if tasting the moment before speaking. Your voice, when it came, was so soft it barely registered over the noise of the crowd behind the curtain.

“Was I good?”

Finnick’s heart broke a little at the sound.

There was no bravado in your voice. No Capitol polish. It wasn’t the cool, collected veneer you wore so often. It was something far more fragile. Something real. The question wasn’t about approval. It was a quiet confession—Did I survive it? Did I do what I had to? Your tone carried the weight of someone standing at the edge of a ledge, waiting to see if the fall had been worth it.

And he saw it now, clearer than ever—the cracks. The way your calm had held through the performance like silk drawn over glass, but now, up close, he could see where it had begun to fray. Your breath was just slightly uneven. Your posture, usually perfect, was a hair off-center. The tremble in your voice—barely there, but enough—felt like a splinter breaking through the surface.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Relief. Grief. Something in between. It washed over him all at once.

Maybe it was because he could finally see you—not the performer, not the Capitol’s idea of who you were. But you. The version of you who wasn’t made to be watched. The girl from Phantom’s Tide. The girl who had walked through hell and still learned how to sing.

He swallowed hard, his own voice thick with something he couldn't name.

“You were amazing,” he said, and the words came out softer than he expected. Like a prayer. Like something he’d been holding onto from the second you stepped onstage.

At first, you didn’t respond. You just looked at him for a long moment, breathing through the silence between you, your lashes low, your shoulders beginning to ease.

And then—almost like a secret—you smiled.

It wasn’t the kind of smile the Capitol would recognize. It was small, barely there, quiet and soft around the edges. Familiar. The kind of smile you’d given him at the bar, days ago, when the room had been dark and the conversation light—when he’d made a quiet joke about a Capitol dish trying too hard to taste like something from the sea. You’d laughed then, just under your breath, and given him that smile, like it was a gift.

You offered it again now, and it broke something in him.

Because it meant that somewhere beneath all the spectacle, beneath the eyes and the stage and the silver, you were still there. And somehow, you were offering that piece of yourself to him.

Six months later, the story was still yours—just no longer in your hands.

The Capitol had consumed it entirely, twisted it into something far shinier and far more hollow. What had started as a single performance became a routine, a brand. You and Finnick were the Capitol’s new obsession: the golden couple, the haunting songbird and her tragic victor. You were no longer people. You were a fantasy polished for screens and perfume billboards, your names stitched into gossip columns and sponsorships like decorative thread.

You performed everywhere. Not just at benefits or galas, but at state dinners, private banquets, tributes’ memorials, and once—sickeningly—at a wedding sponsored by one of Snow’s inner circle. Your voice became the sound of the Capitol’s self-congratulation. Each song stripped a little more from you, and you let them take it, piece by piece, like skin from bone. You never cracked. Not in front of them. But Finnick saw the toll in quieter ways.

He saw it in the way your posture grew straighter, sharper. The way your hands, once soft at your sides, now always rested perfectly still in your lap when the cameras were near. The way your smile came on cue. Beautiful, practiced, devastating. You had become the Capitol’s perfect painting—untouched and untouchable.

And yet, Phantom’s Tide was never emptier.

It was still open—technically. Still standing. Still glowing dimly at the edge of the city. But it wasn’t yours anymore. Not really. Not when most of the regulars had stopped coming, chased away by Capitol executives and curious elites who only visited to see “where it all began.” They snapped photos. Ordered drinks they didn’t finish. Asked to hear you play, then talked through your songs. It had become a landmark instead of a sanctuary.

Marcellus said little. He never asked questions, never made demands. But Finnick noticed how often he looked at the front door now. How long he stared at the floor after you left to attend another Capitol event. There was grief in his silence. A shared one.

As for you and Finnick—something in you had shifted.

Not in hatred. Not even in resentment. Just in distance. The more the Capitol pulled you both forward, the less you had left to hold onto.

You still smiled at him in interviews, still touched his hand when the cameras watched. But offstage, the silence between you grew longer. He started to dread the sound of your shoes on marble, the rustle of your dress as you moved past him backstage without speaking. He used to find comfort in your composure. Now it felt like a wall.

He wanted to ask what you were thinking. If you hated him. If you missed the tide, or the bar, or the version of you he met the first night—the one with bare feet, a ghost in her eyes, and a piano beneath her hands.

He wanted to ask what you were thinking. If you hated him. If you missed Phantom’s Tide, or the late hours spent at the bar, or even the version of you he met the first night—the girl with bare feet, a ghost in her eyes, and a piano beneath her hands. That girl didn’t wear polished gowns or perform for crowds that wanted to devour her. She existed in quiet, in candlelight, in places the Capitol had no access to.

Finnick often wondered if things would’ve been different if he had fought harder for you. If he had dug his heels in sooner, if he hadn’t brushed off the Capitol man that night with such defiance. If he hadn’t been so careless. Would he still be stuck here, right where Snow wanted him?

The answer, of course, was yes. Snow had already planned this long before the first photo leaked. That much had become painfully clear the moment Finnick stepped into the President’s office. Whatever illusion of choice they thought they had was just that—an illusion. Fate had already bound the two of you together, and there was no cutting through that knot.

Now, six months later, he stood silently beside you in the elevator, both of you returning to the suite you shared in the Tribute Center. You used to return to your apartment near Phantom’s Tide, but ever since the paparazzi began camping outside your building, hounding for a glimpse, Snow had “generously” offered you a place in Finnick’s Capitol suite. You resisted at first. But after a long talk with the bar owner—quiet, measured, persuasive—you’d agreed. Finnick had waited at the bar with Marcellus, while the doors were closed for the day. The excuse had been renovations. The truth was, no one could breathe.

You leaned back against the elevator rail, posture poised as ever, your eyes locked straight ahead. You didn’t so much as glance at him as he swiped his card and pressed the button for the fourth floor. The silence between you had grown familiar—quiet, civil, but hollow. You stood beside each other like distant stars locked in orbit, never quite touching.

He had asked you once before—two months ago, when he was too drunk and too tired of pretending. He’d slurred the question softly into the low light of the suite: Do you hate me? You hadn’t answered. Just helped him out of his jacket, walked him to bed, and waited for him to sleep. The next morning, when he woke up with a hangover and a throat full of regret, you had breezed past his apology and asked if he wanted breakfast. He thought that was something—progress, maybe. But the moment the next interview aired, the two of you slipped right back into the pattern. Smiling on stage. Silence off it.

Now, as the elevator doors opened and the two of you stepped into the corridor, Finnick didn’t wait.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice low but certain.

You paused mid-step, turning on your heel to face him. Your expression didn’t change, but your body shifted—your weight falling back slightly, like you were bracing for something. “Sure,” you said quietly. “What is it?”

You leaned against the wall, lifting one leg slightly and reaching for the strap of your heel. The exhaustion in your posture was subtle, but he saw it. Before you could finish unfastening the clasp, Finnick stepped forward.

“I’ve got it,” he said, already kneeling down in front of you. His fingers moved carefully, undoing the strap and slipping the shoe from your foot with gentle precision. He set it aside with a soft click against the floor before reaching for your other heel.

“Us,” he murmured. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

You didn’t speak. You let him remove the second shoe and stay knelt there in front of you, like someone laying down a truth he didn’t know how to carry anymore.

“I know I’m the reason we’re in this mess,” he continued, still not quite meeting your gaze. “And I know you resent me for it. Don’t deny it.” He stood now, taller, more certain, and pointed at you with a slight shake of his hand. “I’ve spent six months beside you—I know when you’re upset.”

Your brows pulled together, arms folding defensively over your chest as your eyes narrowed. “We barely speak to each other.”

“Exactly,” he said, without missing a beat. “And you’re terrible at hiding your emotions when you think no one’s watching.” His tone sharpened, but not in anger—more like desperation. “You cry when you think you’re alone. In the kitchen. At the bar. Sometimes right here at the entrance way in this damn suite.”

Your voice dropped to a warning. “Finnick.”

But he shook his head, firm. “No. I want you to know that I see it. That we’re in this together. And that you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He reached out and took your hands.

Your skin was soft, warm. Too soft. Too clean. It made his calloused fingers feel out of place, like his hands didn’t deserve to hold yours. But still, he did.

“I don’t cry,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. Your tone was sharp, yes—but it was cracking. He could feel it in the way you squeezed his hand just slightly, as if your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Yes, you do,” he replied gently. “I hear you. And so does Marcellus. He’s two weeks away from poisoning me in my sleep if I don’t get my shit together.”

You looked up at him, stunned. Your mouth parted slightly, but no words came. They never did when it mattered most—not when the truth was too heavy to carry out loud. Finnick felt your hand twitch in his, like you were about to pull away, but something kept you still.

He could see the storm behind your eyes. The overwhelm. The exhaustion. The weight of it all pressing down until it was hard to breathe. The Capitol. The performances. The headlines. The silence. And now him, standing here, refusing to let you wear your armor in peace.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because deep down, you didn’t know how to fix any of it.

You felt like you were there again—fifteen, small, terrified. Paraded through the shadows of Panem’s underground, claimed and owned and sold by people who smiled through masks while they carved pieces of you away. And now here you were again, dressed in silver, praised for your beauty, watched by millions—and still just as powerless. Still just a girl trying not to be devoured.

“I don’t need saving,” you said, your voice low but fierce, the kind that trembled with restraint. Your hands were still locked in his, and you hated how solid his grip felt—how grounding it was when everything inside you was coming undone. “So stop looking at me like I’m some shattered thing you need to fix.”

Finnick’s brows drew together, and he didn’t let go. His hands were still around yours, warm and steady, but he didn’t move. “I don’t think you’re shattered,” he said, barely above a whisper, but his tone carried weight. “I think you’re exhausted. And you keep pretending you’re not.”

You scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. “Exhausted? I’ve been exhausted for years, Finnick. This isn’t new. This is just the price of surviving.”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze locked to yours like he wasn’t going to let you turn away again. “It’s not surviving anymore. It’s drowning.”

That struck something deeper than you expected. You tried to pull your hands away, but he held on—not forcefully, just enough to make sure you didn’t slip away again like you had all these months.

“I know what drowning looks like,” he said. “Because I’ve done it. I’ve smiled through it. I’ve told the Capitol exactly what they wanted to hear while everything inside me was being torn apart. And I see that in you now. Every day. You think you’re carrying all this weight because you’re strong, but you’re not supposed to do it alone.”

You laughed, but it cracked halfway through. “Then what, Finnick? I’m just supposed to collapse in your arms and let you carry me? Is that what you want? For me to fall apart so you can feel needed again?”

His eyes didn’t flinch, even when the words hit hard. “No. I don’t want to carry you. I want you to let me stand beside you. That’s all. I’m not here to be your hero. I just want to stop pretending we’re both okay when we’re not.”

Your breath hitched at the honesty in his voice. For so long, you had convinced yourself that if you could just keep your head up, keep your spine straight, they wouldn’t win. That if you smiled when they told you to and sang when they demanded, you could keep some version of yourself intact. But the truth was, you had been crumbling slowly under the surface, piece by piece, and no one had dared to say it aloud—until now.

“You get it,” you said, but the words came out splintered, torn from your chest like they’d been waiting too long to surface. “You know exactly what it’s like—to be looked at, wanted, paraded like you’re something beautiful but never yours. To be admired and consumed and put on display, but never really seen. You know what it’s like to survive by giving them what they want until you can’t remember what you wanted anymore.”

You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked as the tears pushed closer to the surface. “That’s what I hate the most. That I did everything they asked. I smiled. I played along. I let them dress me up and rewrite me and sell me off to the highest bidder—because I thought maybe if I just cooperated, they’d leave the people I care about alone.”

Your throat tightened, the next words nearly caught in it.

“But I think somewhere along the way, I stopped protecting them and started protecting the version of me that wasn’t already gone. I don’t even know who I’m protecting anymore”

“I do,” he said quietly. “You’re protecting the version of yourself that didn’t have anyone. The girl they tried to erase. And I think you’re still fighting for her. Even if you don’t know how anymore.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes burning. Your voice cracked as you said, “I hate this. I hate all of it. I hate the dresses and the cameras and the way they pretend like they know me. I hate that Phantom’s Tide isn’t mine anymore, that I can’t even walk outside without someone following me. I hate that when I sing, I don’t feel anything. It’s just noise. It’s not mine anymore.”

Finnick stepped closer, his hands tightening around yours—not in a possessive way, but in a way that said he wasn’t letting go. “I hate it too,” he admitted. “I hate that I brought you into this, even if I didn’t mean to. I hate that I let it happen. That I smiled and stood beside you when I knew how wrong it all was. I thought I was protecting you. But I wasn’t. I was just watching you disappear.”

For a moment, the silence between you thickened, not in tension, but in the shared understanding of what had been lost. There were no easy answers. No promises of rescue or escape. Just two people too tired to keep pretending they could shoulder it alone.

“I don’t want to be saved,” you said, your voice quieter now, not defensive, not cold—just tired. “I just want to feel like I’m still me. Like someone sees that I’m still here, under all of this.”

“I do,” Finnick whispered. “And I think you see me too, even when I forget who I am.”

The weight of that admission settled between you like a steady heartbeat. There was no resolution. No perfect solution. But there was something else now. Something neither of you had allowed before.

You weren’t looking for a savior.

And neither was he.

You didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to unravel, nothing left to confess. But you didn’t let go of his hands either. You stood there in the corridor, breathing in sync, still barefoot, still raw. The world outside still roared for your names, still called you theirs, but in this space—here—you were just two people learning how to be seen again.

He didn’t try to comfort you with promises and you didn’t pretend to be fine. But for the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

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