𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: finnick odair x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.6k
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: this is basically just me starting with the "people are watching / then lets give them something to look at" prompt and maybe getting a little lost in the process
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: angst, fluff, violence, blood, injury that whole shebang, I actually proofread this one but that doesn't mean I spotted everything sorry in advance
𝐚/𝐧: apparently the only time I'm capable of writing is when im less than a day away from my constitutional law final and delusional because i've been awake for 38 hours so hopefully this will give me enough dopamine to actually get a passing grade
Finnick knows how this works; he’s known it since he was fourteen years old and first stepped foot in an arena. Since the moment he lost sight of you, since the bloodbath separated you, Snow’s words haunt him with every cannon he hears: "She is just another thing I can take from you."
And yet—
He still dares to believe you’re alive.
Not because the Capitol hasn’t tried. Not because the odds are kind. But because you promised. You swore you’d fight. And Finnick clings to that vow like a prayer, even as the arena’s cannons rattle his bones. Last night, he’d counted the fallen—your name absent from the sky’s grim ledger. But three more cannons have split the air since dawn, and now—
Now he’s not sure what to believe. The rational part of him—the part carved into survival by years of Capitol cruelty—knows the truth: They’re playing with him. But the other part, the raw and bleeding thing behind his ribs, doesn’t care. The rebels’ plan echoe in his head, "Stay put. Wait for extraction." But he’s itching to move, to act, to do something besides sit here and wait. Every muscle in his body is filled with restless energy, his fingers tapping a precise rhythm against his trident. The inaction is worse than any challenge the arena could give him. He wants to run back into the jungle, to tear through the branches until he finds you, but he knows you. That's the cruellest part.
He knows how you think, the way you map escape routes before you even enter a room, the way you always have a back-up plan for your back-up plan. And right now, this beach is your plan. It’s the rendezvous point you had all agreed on before the Games even began, a secret strategy the rebels had managed to lay out. If he leaves, he risks missing you. If he stays, he risks leaving you to die alone. The dilemma claws at his ribs, and around him he can hear the others strategise, but their words blur into static. All he can hear is the phantom echoe of your voice in his head as you tell him it will be okay. Johanna catches his eye from across the beach, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Stop pacing. You’re making me twitchy.” He forces himself to let out a deep breath, focusing on the movement of the water in front of him. He needs to put himself back together; he needs to stay here.
But then—your scream. It tears through the jungle, a sound so visceral his body moves before his mind catches up. He’s already sprinting, the grip on his trident tight as his instincts kick in.
"Finnick, stop—!" Johanna’s voice is lost to him over the rushing of blood in his ears. The trees blur as he runs; he doesn't think about the careers that could be close by, the traps that he could trigger or the fact that he’s doing the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to. The flicker of movement to his right catches his attention, and he’s about to change directions when the jabberjays descend. They’re a swarm of wings and needle-sharp cries as they surround him, their voices stitching together into an illusion of you: your gasps, your sobs, the way you’d whispered his name before being forced apart. He stops moving and staggers to his knees. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. Knows that Snow’s fingerprints are all over this new form of torture. But logic means nothing when his hands are shaking, when his lungs refuse to work, when every instinct screams to run, find, save—
Johanna grabs his shoulder, her nails biting through his skin. "Breathe, Odair."
The jabberjays' cries fade into the jungle's chorus, leaving Finnick hollowed out and raw. Johanna's grip on his shoulder remains, her fingers digging into muscle like she's the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.
"Get up," she hisses, voice low and urgent. "We need to move before those things lure anyone else here." Finnick's hands still tremble as he pushes himself to his feet. The phantom echoes of your voice cling to him, sticky as blood. He wants to argue, to plunge back into the green hell after you, but Johanna's right—the sound of the jabberjays could be a beacon for every tribute left in the arena.
The walk back to the beach is a blur of snapping branches and Johanna's muttered curses. When they break through the treeline, Beetee's head jerks up from the makeshift radio he's been tinkering with, his glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Did you find—?"
"No," Johanna cuts him off, shoving Finnick toward the water. "Go clean up before I toss you in the water myself.” Finnick's gaze drifts to the treeline, his fingers twitching at his sides. You promised you'd fight. He just needs to believe you're still fighting.
You wake to the taste of copper and dirt. The world swims into focus slowly—first the ache in your ribs, then the sticky warmth of blood matting your hair to your scalp. Somewhere in the chaos of the bloodbath, a blow to the head had sent you sprawling into the undergrowth, separating you from the others. The jungle hums around you, deceptive in its tranquillity. Every rustle of leaves could be a mutation, every snapped twig a Career hunting for stragglers. The beach is your only chance—you know Finnick will be waiting there, even if it kills him. You press your back against a tree, lungs burning, and your ribs scream where a Career’s boot found its mark yesterday, but you know you need to keep moving; too much time has passed already. You know the way his voice cracks when he’s trying not to beg, the way his hands shake after nightmares, you know he’s counting cannons, just like you are—each one a fresh wound. So you bite down on the pain and move.
The arena doesn’t kill you quietly; it creeps in through the cracks—the stench of rotting foliage, the too-sweet tang of tracker jacker venom lingering in the air, the way your own sweat stings the cuts on your palms. So you move in bursts, pausing to listen between steps. The arena's traps are everywhere.
When the jabberjays come, their shrieks weaving together your name in Finnick's voice, you almost believe it's real. Your chest cracks open with want, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. The jabberjays' voices fade, but their poison lingers in your bones. You press a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, counting breaths until the phantom sound of Finnick's screams stops echoing in your skull. Every rustle of leaves sends your pulse skittering. The wound on your ribs throbs in time with your footsteps, a fresh bloom of pain with each misstep. You try to focus on the memory of Finnick's hands steadying you after nightmares – his thumbs brushing your wrists in slow circles. Breathe. Just breathe.
The first hint of salt air cuts through the jungle's rot. Your knees nearly buckle at the scent – it smells like Finnick's skin after swimming, like promises whispered against damp hair. The ground begins to slope downward. Somewhere beyond the trees, waves crash in a rhythm you'd know blind. You're close now. So close. A twig snaps; you freeze, muscles coiled.
Then—a sound. Not a cannon. Not a mutation. A rhythmic tap, too precise to be accidental. You know that sound, like you know the hitch in Finnick’s breath when he wakes from nightmares. Like you know the way his fingers drum against your hip when he’s impatient, when he’s afraid, when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t either. The beach is close. You know that rhythm, the way his hands move when his mind is racing, when the nerves he’d never admit to are fraying his control. And just like that, you’re running; you’re reckless. You can smell the sand now; you can almost hear their hushed voices. But the arena has one last cruelty in store.
You feel it before you see it, that split-second prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden hush of the jungle like the arena itself is holding its breath, and you know the fatal mistake you’ve just made. Memories crash over you like a riptide. The bouncing of his knee under the kitchen table on the morning of the reaping, the way he’d flinched when your fingers brushed his wrist, then clung to you like you were the only anchor in a storm. You remember the Tuesday he’d shattered a teacup at 3 a.m., his breathing coming out in jagged bursts. You hadn't asked him why; it didn't matter why. You had just slid down beside him, pressing your forehead to his temple until his lungs remembered how to work.
And that damned peach pie, the memory of flour dusting his lashes as he’d laughed at your frantic perfectionism, only to turn pale as a ghost when you’d yelped at the oven’s burn. His hands, so careful, always so careful, cradling your blistered palms while his voice stayed as steady as the tide. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just pie.” It had been his mother’s recipe, the first thing he trusted you with that hurt to share, and you were more upset over messing it up than the burn on your hands. And that night on the beach, salt air clinging to his lips as he whispered “Promise me” with a desperation that carved itself into your bones. The version of Finnick the Capitol moulded was gone; there was only the raw, trembling truth of him.
It had reminded you of the first time you met. The way Finnick’s laugh had faltered when your eyes locked across the room years ago—like he’d been sucker-punched by his own heartbeat. The Capitol’s golden boy unravelled in an instant. The sun was starting to rise over the water, the soft light showcasing the tension in his shoulders.
You’ve seen Finnick Odair wear a hundred masks, but this—this restless hesitation, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve—is new. You open your mouth to ask him, but he speaks first. “I know you like to tease me about the clichés I tell you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming into the tide. “But I need you to know I mean every fucking word.” When he turns, the look on his face steals your breath. This isn’t the polished charmer from your early days or even the fractured man who once sobbed into your collarbone after a Capitol party. This is something rawer. Something terrified.
Your fingers find the nape of his neck on instinct, threading through sweat-damp curls. He shudders, leaning into your touch like a dying man offered water. “I know,” you whisper. “No.” His hand clamps over yours, pressing your palm flat to his pulse. It’s racing. “When I say I’d die for you, I mean it. Let me mean it.” The words are a blade between your ribs. “Finn—”
“We’ve both known what will happen at the reaping, even if we pretend we don’t.” His thumb traces your knuckles—so gentle, so at odds with the fire in his eyes. “You’d walk into that arena alone just to spare a stranger. That stubbornness is why I—" He chokes. “But you have to let me be selfish too.” A tear slips down your cheek, but he catches it before it can fall from your face. “Promise me.” His voice cracks.“Promise you’ll survive, even if I don’t.”
You want to argue. To shake him until his teeth rattle. But the plea in his gaze is a mirror of your own soul. “I promise.” His exhale is a seismic thing, like he’s been drowning for years. You seize his wrist before he can pull away. “Promise me too. That you’ll fight, no matter what.” There’s a flicker of agony in his eyes, but just like you had known, he knows you need to hear him say it. “I promise I’ll try.” There are so many unspoken words as he looks at you. So many more clichés you know he wants to give to you, so many reassurances you wish you could give him, but the one promise you have always shared is louder than ever: you won’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing they can break you.
So maybe this is how it was always meant to be. The thought comes to you with eerie clarity as Brutus enters your line of vision and his fingers crush your windpipe. You’ve kept your promises, you’ve fought like hell, and now—now you’ve made it back to him, even if only for a final heartbeat. Your vision tunnels, and every gasp is like a knife being dragged through your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Your fingers reach for the blade embedded in your palm — the one you’d taken from another tribute hours ago, the one still slick with your own blood. Brutus snarls as you drive it into his wrist, and for one glorious second, his grip loosens. You suck in a fractured breath, but then his other hand slams you against a tree. “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath is rancid, and stars burst behind your eyes, the world around you fracturing into fragments as he lifts you off the ground, once again stealing your breath from you.
You think of Finnick, the real him, the one who kissed you like he was starving as he trailed a path all over your body, who whispered against your thighs like he was reciting a prayer. Just as you’re about to give in to the memories, throught the static in your ears, you hear it, and Brutus’ head snaps toward the sound.
"Get your fucking hands off her."
The voice is raw with fury, edged with something worse—terror. Brutus actually flinches. It’s a voice you’d recognise anywhere; you’d know it underwater. In a hurricane. At the end of the world. Finnick.
You hit the ground hard, your lungs screaming as they try to reclaim the air you’ve been gifted once more, but all you can process is him. The unmistakably feral look twisting on his face as he slams into Brutus like a tidal wave, the sickening crunch of his fist meeting jawbone—once, twice—each blow precise and vicious, the way his trident lies abandoned behind him; he didn’t even bother using it. This isn’t combat; this is butchery. Your vision swims as you stagger upright, only to collapse again. Every gasp feels like swallowing broken glass, but you have to get to him—
Crack.
The sound isn’t just heard. You feel it in your bones. Brutus’ head snaps sideways, his knees buckling as Finnick drives an elbow into his temple. There’s no finesse, just a boy who’s spent too many years sharpening himself into a weapon, finally cutting loose.
A wet cough wrenches from your throat, and Finnick’s head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. For one fractured second, his rage falters. You’ll remember that look forever. How his eyes went wild, how his breath hitched—like he’d just watched you die. The sound of your wheezing seems to snap him out of his trance. Though he’s covered from head to toe in blood spatter—none of it his—he has never looked more fragile to you. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as one hand cradles your face while the other takes yours, pressing your palm against his ribcage to help you steady your racing breaths. His thumb strokes your cheek in slow, uneven sweeps—a nervous habit. The blood smearing your skin is thick, still warm, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Finnick is looking at you like this, like you’re dawn breaking over the ocean after the longest night of his life.
Despite the ache in your arms, you lift your free hand and catch his—the one that had been tracing restless patterns against your skin—and press his palm to your chest. You know the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat is one of the few things that can anchor him now. A spark flickers to life in his eyes as they roam your face, as if he’s memorising the proof that you’re here, alive.
“I’ve missed you.” The words are too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re the only truth you can grasp. His chuckle is rough, warmth bleeding into the sound, and it reignites the dull ache in your heart—then fans it into a wildfire when he murmurs, “I missed you more.” You can feel the want boiling inside him—the way his adrenaline sings for him to crush you against his ribs, to kiss you like he’s pouring every unsaid vow into your lungs. But he hesitates, fingers twitching against your collarbone. Still afraid, still fragile.
“I’m okay, Finn. I promise.” A smile ghosts his lips, but his next words are barely audible. “Everybody’s watching.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You remember the first oath you ever swore to each other: Don’t let them in. Don’t let them twist this. Your relationship was never just yours—it was a stage play for all of Panem, a performance where even you sometimes forgot where the script ended and the truth began.
Yet here he is, clinging to another promise—the one where he swore to shield you, even from himself. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands hover like he’s afraid touch might shatter the illusion of control. He’s trying so damn hard to be what you need: steady, selfless, safe. But the irony is delicious. His restraint is the proof you crave. It screams what the cameras will never understand—that this, right here, is the most real thing either of you has ever had. So you tilt your chin up, your voice a challenge and a dare as you scan his face: “Then let’s give them something to look at.”
Your words are another whisper, so quiet you fear they might dissolve before they reach him—but then his head snaps up, his gaze scouring your face like a man reading a map in the dark. And then he breaks. He lunges forward, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath. It’s overwhelming, it's perfect, the familiarity of his mouth against yours is everything you had been craving since you last saw him. You kiss him back like it’s the only language left to you, pouring every unsaid ‘I love you’ into the press of your lips. His touch is featherlight yet feverish, hands tracing your arms, your spine, as if trying to memorise you through his fingertips. And in this fragile bubble of shared breath and tangled limbs, you find it—the truth you’ve been starving for.
Finnick kisses like it’s his salvation. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, insatiable, while his arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against him until not even air separates you. You feel the frantic thudding of his heartbeat where your chest meets his, a wild counterpoint to your own. When he groans into your mouth, it’s a sound you want to bottle. It’s not enough. Even now, with his skin against yours and his pulse thundering under your palms, you’re already aching for more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he makes the world vanish.
A very deliberate cough shatters the daydream you’d been lost in, and the two of you spring apart like kids caught making out behind the gym. “You two never fail to disgust me.” Johanna’s voice is flat, devoid of even her trademark sarcasm, and the heat that floods your cheeks is embarrassingly familiar. “If you’re done trying to swallow each other’s faces, we’ve got shit to do.”
Finnick snaps back to reality first, hauling himself upright before pulling you up with him. His hands linger, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re really here. Johanna rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, already stalking back toward the clearing—but not before you catch her gaze flickering over you, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. Of course she cares, she's the one who introduced the two of you to begin with.
“I think she might actually be glad I’m not dead.” You murmur, and his laughter is warm against your ear. The sound settles something in your chest, a reminder: You’re here. You’re together. Maybe, against all odds, things will be okay.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he jokes back. “She’s just relieved she won’t have to suffer through my moping anymore.” The lightness in his grin tells you everything—he’s found his footing again. And so have you. But as Finnick’s thumb brushes your wrist, you both hear it: another cannon in the distance. The Games aren’t over yet.
summary : You and Finnick Odair are trying to navigate through your romantic relationship, but the Quarter Quell approaches and the two of you are thrown again into the Arena. Until Panem is free, you will never be allowed to love each other freely. Both Finnick and you are determined to see the Capitol burn to ashes, for the sake of the people, and for the sake of your love as well.
genre : doomed lovers, angst, fighting for freedom, dystopian, catching fire, mockingjay, lovers to non lovers to lovers again.
warnings : referenced sexual assault, violence, murder, death, torture, intimacy, loving sex, angts and hurt/comfort, do I need to say more ? Its THG, be warned.
numbers of parts : 11 parts, 110.k words. Then, 3 bonus are added. Total : 147.k words.
જ⁀➴ ⠀ׂ autor’s note : it's Basically a fanfic retracing the volume two and three of the franchise. Mind that it’s based on the books canon, and not the movies !! It's my first time as well writing a THG fanfic, so be mindfull and I hope you guys will like it !
chap 1 : until Panem is free (11.k) You and Finnick are secretly dating, hiding your love from the Capitol and enjoying the time you had at the sea. Your last hope of freedom is cut short when the Quartel Quell is announced. The Arena is back right at the corner.
chap 2 : until Panem is free (10.k) you and Finnick are going to the Capitol for the Opening Ceremony of the Quarter Quell. You have one week to start your plan before the Hunger Games begin, and that involves making the Mockingjay your ally. Fire was catching.
chap 3 : until Panem is free (10.k) you are thrown in the Arena with Finnick, but everything doesn’t go according to plan. Staying by his side, alive and safe, seems harder than you thought.
chap 4 : until Panem is free (10.k) caught in the games, you try as much as you can to enjoy the last hours of your life with Finnick. The rescuing from District 13 is right at the corner, but the plan doesn’t go as you expected at all.
chap 5 : until Panem is free (8.k) kidnapped by the Capitol, you are persuaded that Finnick was dead because of you. Everything becomes a blur, your daily journey filled with propaganda, torture, occasionally seeing Peeta and Johanna, until something unexpected happens..
chap 6 : until Panem is free (9.6k) you weren't sure if Finnick was alive. Until you are rescued by District 13, and have to face a new kind of problem. The man that haunted your darkest nightmares.
chap 7 : until Panem is free (9.k) rescued by District 13, being hijacked, you learn how to trust back Finnick, and fight against your traumas. But it’s not as smooth as you thought.
chap 8 : until Panem is free (9.2k) back from the hospital, you learn that Finnick is chosen to be part of the squad that will battle against the Capitol. You decide to join him, training everyday, while you question if your relationship is still romantic or not. But then, Finnick confesses something that will shake you forever. And your first fight with Finnick since the announcement of the Quarter Quell happens.
chap 9 : until Panem is free (9.5k) while you prepare for the mission, you and Finnick are back together stronger than ever. Then, you are sent to the Capitol. You have to say goodbye to maybe never come back alive. Ladies and gentlemen, let the 76th Hunger Games begin ! Till nothing do you part, because even death can’t separate you.
chap 10 : until Panem is free (9.4k) suddenly, your mission takes another turn. Boggs dies, Peeta triggers you and the both of you fall back in a hijacked madness. Reptilian mutts are after your squad, and the promise you made to Finnick makes sense. Till death do you part.
final chapter - epilogue : until Panem is free (13.k) no spoilers.
bonus 1 - Finnick’s pov : until Panem is free (8.6k) you always wondered what went through Finnick’s head while the two of you got separated in the Arena.
bonus 2 - Finnick’s pov : until Panem is free (13.k) you don’t know what Finnick went through back at District 13, and how he handled your kidnapping by the Capitol.
bonus 3 - Finnick’s pov : until Panem is free (15.k) after being hijacked, you never knew how Finnick lived through the nightmare of your fear of him. How he handled the loss of your relationship, and the rebuild of it step by step.
orpheus!finnick x eurydice!reader “how will you remember?” “that I love you?” “yes” “that’s easy i can’t help it.”
i’d tell them put me back in it
finnick odair x victor reader
tw for memory loss, violence (the hunger games), angst, smut, hurt no comfort for a while!
he loved you. the pain in his head was blinding, and the hands of peacekeepers were all he could feel, all over his body. he loved you. he trembled, truly terrified for the first time in his life as they blindfolded him, leading him to a room deep inside the capitol. he loved you. they had him hooked up to wires, pumping him full of chemically generated memories and falsehoods. he loved you. they twisted you into a monster, the antagonist at the center of his anguish. he woke up. he forgot you.
district 13 was a flurry of movement, dozens of people dressed just alike, footsteps echoing through metal hallways, not a lick of laughter amongst the groups. you were in a small room off to the side, kept away from the real work, left to heal, to rest. rest, as if you could relax when finnick had been taken, as if any of this was alright, as if your body didn’t ache with the knowledge that he was somewhere away from you, probably alone. finnick hated being alone, as long as you’d known him, and the thought of him somewhere in the capitol, lonely and afraid, worsened your condition by the second.
after the quarter quell, when plutarch and coin’s plan played out, they’d prioritized katniss, of course. you just happened to get lucky, really, the closest one to her when they took her away, freed you both from the arena. peeta came later, on their last trip down, by sheer luck. when they returned to district 13, finnick and johanna were missing. they’d told you to calm down, told you they’d find him, that he was safe, but nothing worked. katniss held you while you sobbed, comforted you while you screamed, but it wasn’t enough. you laid in that hospital bed, useless and scared, relentlessly tying a knot in a small piece of rope you’d managed to carry out of the arena; the last thing finnick had touched, besides your skin.
they told you this was the revolution, the path to a united panem, a new start for everyone involved. it just felt like betrayal, cold and metallic, plaguing every waking moment. they wanted to safe everyone, but they refused to send anyone to the capitol, refused to bring finnick to you. finnick, your finnick, hurt and terrified, probably being tortured for information, or simply for their amusement. as if half of his life hadn’t been spent under their thumb already. the nightmares kept you up at night, your screams echoing through the empty halls, your mind full of images you couldn’t erase. finnick broken and bleeding, crying for help, just out of reach.
the first time you see him again, he’s a ghost of the man you knew. they won’t let you in at first— they say he needs time, needs quiet, but quiet is all you’ve had since they took him. quiet and waiting and waking nightmares. so you wait just outside the door, listening. you think maybe hearing his voice again will be enough, but when they finally let you in, it isn't enough at all. he’s sitting up in bed, shoulders hunched, arms pulled in tight like he’s trying to fold himself into something smaller, less visible. his eyes snap to you the second you enter the room. those sea-glass eyes that once looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world now flash with fear, pure, unfiltered panic. you stop dead in your tracks. “finnick,” you breathe, and your voice cracks on his name. his whole body tenses, like you saying it hurts him. “stay back,” his voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming, “don’t—don’t come any closer,"
you freeze, hands half-raised, not in defense but in surrender. “it’s me,” you say gently, like he might remember if you just sound right, if you say it the way you used to when it was just the two of you in the quiet corners of the arena, “it’s okay, you’re safe now," but he just flinches like the words are knives. “i know who you are,” he spits it out like it tastes foul on his tongue, “you’re one of them," his words suck the air from the room, out of your lungs, “one of who?”
“the ones from the capitol. the ones who—who hurt me. you were there," his hands shake, his voice rising in pitch, “you laughed. i remember—you laughed while they—” “no,” you whisper, your heart cracking in two, “no, finnick, they made you see that. they put those things in your head, they made you believe—” "don’t lie to me!” he roars, the sound ripping out of him, painful and raw, “they told me the truth, they showed me. i trusted you, and you—” you flinch, not from the volume, but from the pain, the pure betrayal in his voice.
“i would never hurt you,” your voice is shaking. you want, desperately, to reach for him, but you don't, not yet, “finnick, they changed your memories. they wanted you to hate me, because they knew—” “because i loved you,” he says flatly, “that’s what they said, that’s what they took from me," he looks at you, eyes wild and wounded, “so why does it feel like hate when I look at you now?” you don’t have an answer.
you stay frozen as the orderlies come in, gently, slowly, like they’re approaching a wounded animal. he doesn’t fight them, just sits there trembling, sweat shining on his forehead, breathing like he’s still drowning in it. they usher you out without a word, and you don’t resist. the door closes behind you with a final click, and you slide down the wall outside, shaking, trying not to cry too loudly. you press that stupid piece of rope into your palm, tighter and tighter, until it leaves deep grooves in your skin.
days pass. you’re not allowed to see him again, not until they clear him. psych evals, memory checks. behavioral risks. you hear the words like needles, cold and clinical. you wonder how long they'll treat him like something broken. a threat. as if he hasn’t spent enough of his life being owned. you ask plutarch once—“is he okay?” he just sighs through his nose and says, “define okay," that’s all you get.
you wait outside the medical wing every day anyway, silently. they bring you food, which you don’t eat. sometimes, johanna passes by and sits next to you without saying a word. her presence is blunt and solid like stone, a different kind of comfort. she doesn't ask how you are; you think she already knows. then, one evening, a nurse pulls you aside. she doesn’t say much, just nods toward a small surveillance room behind the infirmary. “he’s not ready for visitors,” she says softly, “but you should see this,” the screen is grainy, black and white, but he’s there. finnick sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, back against the far wall. his face is pale, drawn—like the color’s been drained out of him. he’s quiet, focused. in his hands is a thin length of twine, pilfered from a blanket seam or a laundry bag maybe. you don’t know how he got it, you don’t care.
he’s tying knots. slowly, carefully, repeating them over and over. his fingers falter, but he keeps going, like his life depends on it, like the motions are a language he doesn’t quite remember, but his body does. one knot, then another. you press your hand to the screen, tears silently slipping down your cheeks. he doesn’t know you’re there, doesn’t know what the knots mean. but something inside him remembers the rhythm, the purpose, the feeling. a mere whisper of you, still alive in him.
you don’t push to see him again, not yet. you leave things outside his door instead. a little paper packet with another piece of rope.
a note with his name in your handwriting. just that, finnick. a reminder of who he is, before and far beyond this. the seashell he once strung onto a necklace for you after a swim in district four. you never know if he looks at them, but the nurse tells you he stopped having the screaming fits at night. that when he wakes up gasping, he holds the rope. that his hands remember before his mind does. you wait. you hope. you tie knots in your own room, every night. you wonder if one day, he’ll remember the shape of your hands.
it comes like a crack in the dam, a single thought breaking free from the crushing weight of lies. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the rope still clutched in his hands, the knots finally becoming smoother, more fluid. it’s a quiet moment, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound in the room. he’s not crying anymore, not screaming, but the emptiness in his eyes is still there, like something vital’s been erased. something important.
then, just when it feels like everything is hollow, it happens. he’s halfway through tying a knot when the memory hits him, sharp and sudden, like an electric shock. his hand jerks, the rope slips from his fingers. his breath catches, and his chest constricts. he blinks hard, as though trying to clear the fog in his mind, but it’s too late. It’s already there. a memory of you, of the two of you. he’s standing on the beach, water crashing against the sand, salt and wind tangling in their hair. you're laughing, head tipped back in the sun, and he’s beside you, his hand pressed to your back as you walk toward the ocean. his voice, full of teasing warmth, echoes in his head, “careful, love, the water’s colder than you think,"
you roll your eyes at him, but there’s that smile on your face—the smile, the one that always softened the hardest parts of him. he can hear your voice in his ears now, soft and teasing, “you think I can’t handle it?” he remembers how you had splashed him, grinning like you were ready to leave him in the wake of the waves. then, it’s gone. just as quickly as it came, it fades, leaving only a soft ache in his chest. his hands are shaking. he doesn’t know what that memory was, who that was, but the feeling of it sticks—like it’s something he should’ve held on to. something he’s lost. his hands move to the rope again, but they tremble so violently now, he can’t tie anything. he sets it down, frustrated, and rubs his face with his palms, as though he could just erase the confusion.
hours later, you’re walking down the hall, passing the room where finnick's been kept, and you hear it—the faint sound of his voice, quiet, hoarse, like he’s talking to someone who isn’t there. you freeze. “...i remember... the ocean, the waves,” he says, as if testing the words out loud, seeing if they fit, “there was someone... the girl. she... she was laughing," his breath hitches, “she—” a shaky exhale, “she loved me,"
the door is barely cracked open. you’re tempted to go in, to step forward. but something in his voice—something raw, broken, like he's afraid of even the memory itself—stops you. you press your hand against the doorframe, leaning in just enough to hear. “she... god... she was everything," the words hang in the air like a curse. then, finally, his voice breaks completely, "i can’t remember why i hate her,"
you spend days like this—waiting, watching, listening. but each time you step closer, each time you try to fill the silence with something that might remind him, you feel it—the distance. the thickening wall between the man you love and the stranger the capitol has made of him. the frustration swells inside you, churning like a storm in your chest. it’s a helpless kind of rage, the worst kind, because it’s not his fault. he didn’t choose this. but god, it hurts. every second. you tell yourself over and over that he'll remember, that he has to. but he doesn’t,not yet. and the longer you wait, the harder it gets to keep pretending like you have all the time in the world.
it’s late one evening when you can’t hold it back anymore. you’re standing at the window of your quarters, staring out at the dull, metallic skyline of district 13. the shadows stretch across the floor like they’re swallowing you whole. it’s quiet here, too quiet. the kind of silence that’s full of too much unspoken pain. your fingers twitch, almost instinctively, reaching for something—anything—to hold on to. but you don’t have anything anymore. The rope is gone. the notes are gone. and even though you know you’re still here, even though you’re still alive, all you feel is the crushing weight of absence.
you turn. the walls feel closer now, like they’re closing in on you. your heart pounds in your chest, louder than the steady hum of the ventilation systems. you want him, need him. you want him to look at you and remember, to see you again. but instead, you see him in your mind—eyes clouded, voice trembling, distant. when he remembers, he’ll remember the pain, not the love. and that’s the part you can’t undo. that’s the part that breaks you.
and then it’s too much, all at once. the tears hit first, too suddenly for you to catch them, and the sobs come right after. you double over, pressing your face into your hands, as though you could somehow block out the ache that’s splitting you wide open. it feels like you’re shattering into a thousand pieces, and you can’t stop it. you want him. you want to fix him.
but all you’ve got are the echoes, the empty spaces where his love used to live. you slide to the floor, your knees pulled up to your chest, curling in on yourself like a child. your body shakes with the force of it—of everything you’ve lost, of everything you might lose if he never remembers you. you hate this feeling. you hate that you can’t fix it, can’t just walk into that room and make everything right. you’ve been through so much, survived so much, and yet here you are—powerless. and somewhere, deep inside, you realize that’s what hurts the most. not the loss of him. not the memory of the capitol’s horrors, but the helplessness.
you don’t know how long you sit there, the tears eventually tapering off into quiet exhaustion, but the emptiness stays. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you whisper into the dark, barely a sound at all. “i can’t keep doing this. not like this," your throat aches. it’s raw, the admission—like you’ve just torn a part of yourself free, but it’s the only way to breathe. you don’t have the strength to chase him anymore. you can’t make him remember, no matter how much you want to. so you let go. you let it all go. all the waiting, all the fear, all the hope, and you let it burn down into the simplest truth you have left. he will come back to you when he’s ready. when he remembers. when the world inside his mind stops spinning in circles. until then, you’ll wait.
it’s early morning when the knock comes at your door. you’re not expecting it—no one’s ever come for you this early—but the sharp sound rattles you out of sleep. for a moment, you just lie there, the weight of the blanket like a heavy thing over your chest, your mind slow to catch up with your body. then, another knock, a little softer this time, almost hesitant. you blink a few times, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, and pull yourself up. the silence in your room is thick—suffocating, almost. you reach for the door and pause, your fingers hovering over the handle for just a second. then, you open it, and there he is. finnick.
standing in the hallway, looking as lost as you’ve ever seen him. he’s thinner than he was. his hair is unkempt, like he hasn’t bothered to comb it in days. there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and something else—a flicker of confusion, maybe even a little fear. his body is rigid, like he’s bracing for something. you take a step back without thinking, your heart pounding in your throat, and his eyes follow your movement like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything. but the words catch in your mouth, and all you can do is look at him, waiting for the moment to break. he clears his throat, his voice hoarse, "i don’t know why i’m here,”
it hits you—this is it. this is the moment where it either breaks you or pulls you together. his words don’t make sense. he doesn’t know why he’s here, but you do. you know exactly why. it’s the moment you’ve waited for. the moment where he takes one step closer. your throat closes up, and you manage to choke out a single word, barely audible, “finnick,” he flinches, just slightly, but it’s enough to remind you that even though his body is here, the man you love is still somewhere buried under the rubble. the capitol’s poison still clings to his mind. “i remember,” he shakes his head like he’s fighting something off, running a hand through his hair, “i remember the ocean. the knots,” his voice falters, and his gaze drops to the floor, his fingers curling into a fist, “but i don’t remember you,”
your heart shatters. you want to reach out, but you can’t. you’re too afraid to move, afraid he might break further, and you might not be able to piece him back together again. he stares at the ground, his shoulders trembling, “i remember you, i think... but i don’t,” his voice cracks, raw with something close to despair, “how do i remember you if i don’t remember me?” for a long moment, neither of you move. the distance between you feels like miles. then, without thinking, you take a step forward, and then another. he looks up at you in surprise, his brow furrowed, “what are you—?”
you stop right in front of him, not touching him, not yet. just standing close, close enough that your breaths are the same, and you can feel the heat of his body—the warmth that’s always been him. you’re shaking too, just a little, but you can’t stop yourself from reaching for him. “finnick,” you say again, quieter this time, like you’re testing the name out, like maybe if you say it enough, he’ll remember, “you know me. you know me in here," you press your hand over your chest, where your heart is thundering, “you feel me, don’t you?” he doesn’t answer right away, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for something he’s afraid to find. you take another step closer, just a fraction, but enough for him to feel it, for him to sense the truth in your presence.
“you loved me,” you whisper, each word weighted with years of lost time, “i loved you, and I’m not going anywhere, finnick. i’m not,” he stares at you, his face hard with frustration, but you see the struggle there—the war in his mind between what the capitol made him believe and what his body knows to be true. and in that quiet space, with everything hanging between you, you realize something. he’s not lost. he’s just been broken. and breaking isn’t the same as disappearing.
he takes a breath, the sound ragged. his eyes flick to your hand, which is still hovering, a fraction of an inch from him. and slowly—so slowly, like he’s afraid of the consequences—his hand moves toward yours. the air around you crackles. his fingers brush yours, hesitant, unsure. but then, he closes his hand around yours completely, as if your touch is the anchor he’s been searching for. you don’t say anything more. you don’t need to. his eyes are still wide, but the fear in them is softer now. he’s not fully back—not yet. but there’s something in the way he holds your hand, the way he lets himself feel you, that tells you everything you need to know. he's still there.
the first time he speaks your name again, it’s in the middle of the night. you’re lying in the bed they gave you, the one that still feels too cold even when you wrap yourself in the thick blanket. the room is dark, save for the dim light from the corridor creeping in beneath the door. it’s quiet, except for the soft, steady hum of the ventilation systems. and then you hear it. a whisper. his voice, hoarse, uncertain. your heart stops, and you sit up so fast you almost knock the pillow off the bed. his voice—so soft, so tentative—has a crack in it, like he's testing the waters. as if he’s unsure whether the sound of your name still means something. whether it still belongs to the same world.
you push the blanket off and stand. without thinking, you cross the room and open the door. there he is, standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his face drawn and pale, eyes searching for something that makes sense. you don’t hesitate this time. you reach for him, your hand instinctively going out, and he looks at it like it’s a lifeline. “i’m here,” you say softly, almost breathless. “i’m here, finny, i’m right here,"
he flinches just slightly when your hand touches his arm, like he’s still not used to the warmth of a touch that isn’t laced with pain. but then, slowly, his hand comes up to meet yours, and he holds it—not tightly, but enough for you to feel that small connection. you lead him back into your room, wordlessly, and sit together on the edge of the bed. there’s a silence between you now—soft and awkward, but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that feels like an unspoken promise. his voice comes again, quieter this time, “i don’t know how to fix this,” he admits, his eyes downcast, his hands trembling in his lap, “i don’t even know if i can.”
you take a deep breath, steadying yourself, “you don’t have to fix it,” you say gently, “we just need time to remember, time to heal,” he looks at you then, those sea-glass eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something hidden, “but what if i don’t remember everything? what if—what if you’re still just a stranger to me?” you squeeze his hand, your heart aching, “you’ll remember. i know you will," and for the first time since he came back to district 13, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. not the fear, not the confusion, but a spark—like he’s beginning to recognize the familiar warmth in your touch.
the next few days pass slowly, like the breaking of dawn, inch by inch. each time you see him, it feels like you’re meeting him again for the first time. there’s no rush—just patience. you bring him small things that used to matter—pieces of the life you once shared. you show him the knotting techniques again, with slow, careful fingers, and he watches, silently, as if trying to remember the rhythm of it, the feel of the rope in his hands. “you used to do this all the time,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, “i’d just sit there, watching you, and you’d make knots for hours,”
he tries, his hands fumbling, but he doesn’t stop. the rope slips through his fingers, but he doesn’t give up. “i used to like doing this with you,” he says, voice thick with something that feels like regret, “i’m sorry i can’t remember more,” but you just shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips despite the tears in your eyes. “you’re here, okay? that’s enough. you’re already remembering, little by little,” and little by little, he does. it starts with the small things—the laughter, the teasing, the quiet moments when you both sit together, when he leans his shoulder against yours without thinking, and you let the silence speak for you. there’s a tenderness now, a slow rebuilding, like rebuilding a house brick by brick.
then one day, after a long morning of training, he comes to you with a simple question. “do you remember the first time we kissed?” his voice is hesitant, like he’s afraid of what you might say. you look at him, feeling the weight of the question, but also a familiar warmth spreading through your chest. the answer is obvious, even though it’s been buried under everything that’s happened. “of course i do,” you nod, your voice soft, but filled with love, “you were so nervous, finnick. you kept saying you didn’t know how to kiss someone in a way that would make them stay. and i—” you pause, letting the memory flood back, “i told you it didn’t matter. i would stay anyway,"
his face softens, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “i don’t remember it exactly, but i think i believe you,” you reach out, cupping his cheek gently, and for a moment, the world feels still, safe. he leans into your touch like he’s searching for something. and in that moment, you know—it’s not just the memory that matters. it’s the feeling underneath it, the connection, the love that’s always been there, even when it felt lost. “i’ll help you remember,” you whisper, “we’ll do this together,” he nods slowly, his eyes dark and soft, “i want to. i want to remember you, remember us,"
he comes to you later that night, after everyone else has fallen asleep, his movements quiet and his face hidden under the vale of night. he knocks on your door, familiar by now, bright blue eyes meeting yours the second you open it. “are you alright?” you ask, brows knit in concern. he nods, quick and eager, “i had to see you,” he pushes into your room, closing the door behind him, unlike himself, “i remembered- we were home, in four, and we were in bed, you were reading to me. mags was there, she came in and brought us tea-“ he pauses, running a hand through his hair, “you had a ring, a silver ring on your finger,” he grabs at your hand, pulling it to him, “where’s your ring?” your heart aches, threatening to crack open, to spill out everything you’d been holding back, “i lost it during the quarter quell,” you tell him softly, “my hands were slick, it slid off. i’m so sorry,” “we were engaged,” he says the word like it pains him, “you were going to be my wife,” “yes,” you nod, eyes brimming with tears, “you remembered that all on your own?”
he doesn’t answer, taking a rushed step closer and pushing you back to your bed, catching your lips in a kiss. you gasp, hands on his shoulders, heart racing as he kisses you like he’d never forgotten how. “i love you,” he sounds like the words are tearing at his throats, “show me how, please, show me how i used to love you,” you don’t have it in you to protest, to tell him that this isn’t a healthy coping mechanism, finding yourself at a loss for words as he kisses you frantically, tears mixing with your lips. you’re unsure who the tears belong to anymore, if it’s one or both of you, fully overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands all over you, clutching and grabbing like you might slip away again.
“finnick,” you whisper like a prayer, running your hand through his hair, “maybe we shouldn’t rush it,” “not rushing,” he mumbles into your skin, “been waiting to remember, this is a good thing, right? show me, show me how i used to touch you,” you let yourself give in, leading his hands over you, his touch gentle and hesitant, testing the feelings resurfacing for each of you. you take it slow, getting used to each other again as you both peel off each others layers, soft kisses pressed to each others shoulders and shaky hands discarding each others clothes. “you’re so beautiful,” he sounds truly awed, his eyes shining as he looks you over, “never dreamed you’d be this beautiful,” “you’ve seen it before,” you flush, pulling him down to kiss you again. “not like this,” he mumbles into your lips, his hands sliding between your back and the mattress, arching your spine into his touch.
he’s patient, but when he finally pushes inside you, the sound is guttural, his voice raw and breathless, your name falling from his lips like he’s delighting in the memory alone. “i remember this,” he pants, dragging his lips across your chest, hips rocking just slow enough to have your eyes rolling back, “i remember how you feel, how beautiful you are,” he holds you tight and delicate, treating you like some sort of holy figure, like you’ll break if he’s a touch too rough. “i love you,” you bury your face in his neck, your legs locking around his waist, holding him close, “knew you’d remember,” “i love you,” he chokes out, hands gripping your thighs, “could never forget this,”
he takes his time with you, learning all the motions, absorbing the way you look as you come undone like it’s the first time. when it’s over, he stays wrapped up around you, holding you to his chest, kissing your head and running his fingers through your hair, his eyes brimmed with fresh tears. you wake in the morning to him still beside you, watching you as your eyes open, a soft smile on your lips. “hi,” you murmur, kissing his shoulder, “how’re you feeling?” “like i woke up,” he can’t wipe the smile from his lips, kissing your cheek, “thank you,” “mm, don’t have to thank me,” you shake your head, but you know he means it- you brought him back, whether you thought you could or not.
years later, when the war has been won, when katniss and peeta have little children running all over their fields, when johanna is in love with a woman she no longer has to be afraid to lose, people will ask. they’ll ask how he returned from that place, how he remembered when they’d tortured him so extensively. he’ll look at you across the room, a shadow of a smile on his lips, “i couldn’t help it,”
summary: after months of yearning and being separated, you’re finally rescued from the capitol.
warnings: mentions of abuse/trauma, starvation/dehydration, cursing, fluff, kissing, not proof read :3
listen to iris by the goo goo dolls!!
everything was dark. your head was spinning as the dimmed lights of your prison illuminated from underneath the metal door.
it’d been days since you’ve received food or water, your stomach constantly tight and aching to try and devour something.
so when the loud bang on your door pushed it open with force, you hardly noticed as your head hit the pillow.
the only thing you heard was beeping. your eyelids were twitching, clearly not used to the lights that were softly beaming above you.
and at first, it was comforting. finally being in light- until, the regular pattern of your heart grew rapid when you realized how peculiar light was.
your eyes snapped open, adjusting to the bright light as you started to look around frantically.
you were in a hospital. and not one in the Capitol.
an iv was lodged in your left arm, providing you with the nutrients your body so badly needed.
the wafting aroma of sterilized equipment, rubbing alcohol, and pennies filled your senses.
but despite everything, your ears perked up when the voices at the other side of the hospital grew more evident.
feeling your stomach churn, you grabbed the closest thing to you- a needle.
you peered your head around the curtain, not recognizing anyone you saw. a group of four people, each different in health, stood in a small circle.
your eyes drifted to the EXIT sign in the corner of the room. other beds filled the room with only a small curtain in between.
swallowing your own saliva, you gained more courage to fully peek around the curtain.
and when he came into frame, your grip on the needle loosened, and it clanged as it fell to the floor.
“Finnick?” you choked out, almost positive you were hallucinating.
the Capitol has done this to you before. made you see him. but then as soon as your trembling skin does to touch his tanned one- he disappears.
“y/n.” his word was soft, his lip starting to tremble as he broke out into a brisk walk, desperate to reach you, to hold you.
“Finnick-“ you breathed out, almost too scared. scared that if you were to reach out, he would disappear.
he was standing in front of you, your legs trembling with weakness. but the moment his arms slid around your waist, lifting you off the tiled floor, it was all real.
“oh my god.” your breathing was shaking as he held you, your hands going to hold his chiseled face.
you hadn’t noticed the tears trickling down your cheeks until they dropped onto your wrist, but you were far too wrapped in the moment.
you hadn’t seen Finnick in months, not since the Capitol captured you, Johanna, and Peeta during the escape.
and while you were forced into saying things you didn’t mean on camera, breaking Finnick’s heart everyday, he knew it wasn’t you.
the thing that hurt him most was how sick you always looked on camera. it was clear you were deprived of necessities, which only lead to his motivation of getting you out of there.
and while everyone else turned on you, claiming you and Peeta were traitors, Finnick knew. and Finnick understood that the people around him would never understand.
they would never understand what you’re going through, what you went through, who you are.
so as Finnick gripped your chin in his hand, guiding your lips to his, a spark went off, leaving you both tingling for more.
he was gentle, yet passionate, quick, yet soft. you were so light in his arms, only fueling his guilt.
“i love you. i love you so fucking much.” he murmured against your lips, anxious that if he were to pull away, the emotional reunion would end.
“i love you.” you stammered out, his gorgeous blue eyes staring at you lovingly.
he gently places your feet back on the floor, his hands never leaving your hips as he holds you protectively against him.
“i’m never going to let you go again, sugar. never going to let you out of my sight, never going to let you out of my touch. i can’t lose you again.”
his words were an oath, a promise, a swear to you. his voice was broken as he stared down at you, re-memorizing every inch and detail on your face.
“you were the only thing keeping me alive. i knew i had to see you again one day, knew you would hear me and understand me.” you uttered softly, your trembling hand tracing the dimple on his cheek.
“you’re the only thing in this fucked up world i care about. we’re gonna get out of this, together. alright, sugar?” he hums, caressing the back of your head in a soothing manner.
you nod against him, closing your eyes to feel his beating heart. it was so loud against your sensitive eardrum, but so comforting.
comforting to know he was there and that he was real.
“i wanna go home. go to our home.” you confess, scrunching your nose in an attempt to stop the tears leaking from your closed eyes.
“i know, honey. i’m going to take us home. promise.” he swears, more for himself than for you.
you nodded softly against him, not having the energy to respond. his warmth was so soothing and comforting, it began to instantly heal your chilled skin.
after months through hell, torture, and abuse, you were finally where you belonged, in Finnick’s arms. and you were going to stay there for the rest of your lives.
idk if you write for finnick.. but could you write something where it’s the beginning of the quarter quell and he can’t find her? Just pure panic as he runs around the cornucopia?
I’ve never written for him before but I love him! idk how I feel about this but I hope truly that u like it.
Icy hot terror is all Finnick feels when the timer hits one. Loud and disorienting, the bang ripples against the water in vibrations that rumble under his feet.
Where are you?
The sun blares disgustingly into his eyes and skin, an obvious manipulation of the gamemakers sick amusement, but he ignores it, plunging into the only water he’s ever dreaded to tread. You’re not in sight. He’d told you to stay away, to swim, to run as far away from the cornucopia as you could. Don’t risk it, he’d shaken your shoulders, listen to me I’ll find you.
The water is warm and gross against his skin. It’s not as refreshing as the district four that he’s familiar with. It’s hot and fake. He comes up gasping for air, letting the terror settle into his bones as he pushes against the current of a manipulated riptide. Katniss climbs the stone so he does too; pushing his feet deeper into the ground with every step he takes. His breathing is labored, jagged as he runs. He can’t find you, but he will. He can’t find you, but he can find a weapon.
The cornucopia glistens in the sun, never lacking the weaponry he’d expected from it. Bows, arrows, knives, he eyes a backpack stuffed with supplies. Could he lug it with him? Probably not. He diverts his eyes to the trident beside him. Perched in its stand, it gleams in artificial sun as the grip molds to his fingers. He squeezes the deadly lifeline.
The sound of metal on metal scrapes behind him. Katniss. He turns quick, flashing the bangle around his wrist tauntingly. “Good thing we’re allies, right?”
She breathes hard in front of him, eyebrows pulling as she pauses in bated confusion. The weapon doesn’t lower. “Where did you get that?”
“Where do you think?” He gravels, quick enough to be considered panicked. “Duck.”
She listens, dropping to the floor hard enough to sting the weeping palms she balances on. The sick squelch of his trident in the fallen tribute is covered by her hands tight over her ears as she waits for the boom. The gong sounds, and then a scream. An unmistakable scream. It settles in his stomach and throat thickly, sweating his already wet hands. You didn’t listen.
“Finnick!” The voice screams. Sobs. “Finnick! Finnick!”
The sound is nightmare-ish. Something the gamemakers could never manipulate that accurately, and deep down he knows it’s the sound you’ll wake him up from if you ever gets out of this arena alive.
“I’m coming!” His feet hit hard against the gravel as he sprints. His breathing dries his throat quick. “I’ve got you!”
“Finnick!”
“I’m coming-“
The moment skids to a halt as he finds you. Trapped in the arms of a larger, broader tribute, you struggle for air as he headlocks you. He considers doing something rash, but Katniss behind you shakes her head. Like she can see it in his eyes. It’s a slow, quiet moment, hunter quiet as she stalks closer. Finnick eyes her wary to give her away.
“We can talk about this.” Finnick rationalizes slowly. “It’s the beginning of the game.”
“So?” His arm tightens around your neck. Your squeak breaks Finnicks heart.
“Finnick.” You strain.
“Give the viewers what they want.” Finn pleads. “A show. You can’t kill her so quick.”
“I don’t see a bargain being made.”
A bargain? It’s the first ten minutes and he stands next to a gleaming cornucopia filled with sharp armory. He could get something better than a simple metal trident. Throwing knives, poison, a machete. Finnick suspects the victor is doing what he pleaded. Giving the audience a show.
“Take my trident!” He nearly crashes, cool demeanor dropping as he watches you tap the man’s arm in panic, your air slowly constricting. “Give me her.”
It sickens Katniss; the ability to kill someone for views. To feed into the capitals agenda. This is a necessary kill, she reasons, this isn’t for her own survival. This isn’t a selfish homicide; this is Rue in the net, Prim on the stage. This is the girl she could save. Katniss’ fingers loosen, letting the elaborate metal fly from her grip. It hits the nameless career in the back. Her target.
The moment slows in Finnicks eyes. Katniss stands far, arms hanging limply at her sides. She stares at him, grateful for the thankfulness in his eyes that eases her burdened chest.
“Y/N.” He gasps as the man falls hard on you. He runs, helping you from under the heavy weight. “I’ve got you now.”
“Finn.” You weep, hands in his as he lifts you. You stumble, crashing into him hard. He hears a sob in his tribute suit. “I’m sorry.”
“I told you to listen to me.” He doesn’t anger, but this feels close to it as he grips you tightly. “I told you to run.”
You heave, greedy for fresh air, but your lungs are infiltrated by the heady scent of salt water. His hand calms the coughs that rake through your chest, guilty for his scolding. It’s a quiet moment in the calamity of the bloodbath, a stolen moment that he can’t afford to prolong another second.
“Cmon,” He eyes you, hands cupping your face, then falling as he looks up to Katniss. “Let’s go find Peeta.”
Hiiii idk if u take requests but if you do could you write a smut with Finnick Odair where basically finnick is eating her out and she’s tooooo overstimulated and reader pulls his hair a little to hard, in which Finnock replies with
“Yank my hair like that again I won’t touch you for a month.”
A/N: OKIE DOKIE so actually, in my head, Finnick loves it when you tuck on his hair but for you I’ll change it a bit, also I slightly altered the idea of the request ;)
Minors DNI
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Your shared bedroom is set alight by the pearlescent moonlight shining in through curtain gaps, a light scent of sea salt and musk whiffing through the air from Finnick. The scent is intoxicating; you’re sprawled out on the ruffled sheets with Finnick buried between your legs, your loud moans echoing through the room.
The two of you had attended a party earlier on, and from the lack of attention you received from Finnick who was too busy socialising with the other victors, you decided to tease him in hope that he would finally satiate the immense desire you felt. You tried to pull many tricks-softly running your fingers down his arms, tugging on his sleeves needily, and batting your eyelashes at him knowing he can’t resist.
“Honey, I know that you’re needy tonight, I’ll give you what you want when we go home, I promise,” he’d say at your attempts to break him, but you’d whine with a slight pout, unable to wait any longer.
Finnick’s last straw was at dinner when you decided to run your hand up and down his thigh underneath the table cloth, circling that sweet spot of his through the fabric of his pants. Finnick is a patient man, and you knew you were in deep trouble when he sent a stern look your way instead of his usual sweet ‘not now’.
This is how you end up with your legs wrapped around Finnick’s head, hands tugging on his golden blonde hair, as he continues with his assault on your clit. His tongue skilfully flicks and draws patterns on your swollen clit as he fucks you with two thick fingers at a torturously fast pace. You feel your climax building up for the fourth time tonight but is denied that sweet release as Finnick purposely pulls his fingers out before plunging them in your heat again.
You mewl as your climax is ripped away from you once more, feeling so overly stimulated. Your face is tearstained, whining as you accidentally pull at Finnick’s hair a little too hard, making him groan whilst his mouth is still attached to your clit, sending vibrations through your body.
“Careful now, sugar,” Finnick warns as his teeth gently grazes your clit as a warning, making you whimper quietly.
“I-It’s too much…I said I’m sorry Finn, I’ll never do it again…please let me come” you beg, sounding so desperate as you attempt to grind on his face, earning some friction.
“Please-”
Finnick lifts his head up from your throbbing heat, scoffing as he tilts his head at you, his fingers continuing to thrust deeply as he stares you in the eye with a mocking look.
“I expected better than you honey, but you acted like a desperate whore. I told you I would give you what you wanted when we came back home but you were just such an impatient little slut, weren’t you?”
Finnick sneers, his pearly white canines flashing as he does so, “you really can’t go an hour without riding my fingers huh?”
His head dives back between your legs, angling his fingers, and he finds that sweet spot once more which makes your back arch in pleasure. He adds his tongue once more, circling and tracing figure eights on your clit which makes your body shudder and mouth agape.
Finnick has been edging you for nearly an hour, denying you releases after releases, and the overstimulation you feel is almost painful. Every single touch drives you insane and the sensitive you feel is certainly not helping.
Finnick suddenly switches to sucking your clit instead, and you have to use every strength in your body to stop yourself from coming right then or else the punishment would be worse. You forget about Finnick’s warning from earlier, and you accidentally yank at his hair, a raspy growl falling from his lips.
“What did I tell you huh, sugar?”
“Mark my words honey, tug at my hair like that again and I won’t let you come for a month, let alone touch you. It’s time to teach you some self control.”
You whimper at his words. If only you had listened.
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A/N: to whoever requested this, I hope it lived up to your expectations. I did kind of change it a bit so I’m sorry if it’s different to what you wanted 😭 once again, reblog and likes are appreciated, a follow would be great :)
thank you my darling @francixoxoxo for proofing <3
District Thirteen was no ocean, but you would take it over being hunted by the Capitol.
The last while was a blur, one you only remembered in flashes of pain, white coated attendants pouring water down your throat and jabbing your arms with needles. You had scars circling your limbs, memories that life forced you to relive in jarring bursts. All through it you could only think of him, cling to the silhouette of him in your mind that would want you to hang on. Don’t die, you repeated silently. Don’t die. He doesn’t want you to die.
Now there were different doctors attending to you on the hovercraft carrying you and other prisoners to the district that had supposedly been blown to bits. You weren’t lucid enough to process this new information, only that you were safe. And that your love was on the other side of this figurative tunnel.
As the woman dressed in a grey tunic checked your vitals, making a note whenever you winced or even cried out, you summoned thoughts of Finnick.
Ankle deep in the surf, kissing you and telling you he’d always protect you. Holding you on your bed, his body warm against yours as he whispered that you weren’t crazy and that nobody should say you were. Tucking shells into your pockets that you’d find later, often when he was on a trip to the Capitol.
A stab of pain gnawed at your wrist and you seized, whimpering. The woman merely wrote it down, muttering something to herself. Though this physical portion of your examination was painful, you would choose it over the mental part, which had occurred before this. They asked questions that twisted your mind into bits, forced you to remember things that stung you with tears and dragged you into a realm of cloudiness where you could do nothing but cry and rock back and forth.
You didn’t want to answer any more questions. You wanted to curl up in a ball and weep until you fell into sleep, something you hadn’t been able to get for ages.
“Mental instability,” the woman murmured, and your heart plummeted. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.
Folding your arms around yourself, you sniffled, hiding your face in your knees. They already thought you were mad so who cares.
The woman said your name once, then again. She even poked your arm with her pen but you remained still. Finally you heard the click of the door shutting and you let yourself collapse onto your mattress, tears pouring rivers down your cheeks.
There was only one person who could make you feel better and he was still far away. At least he was alive. You tried to console yourself with that.
He’d told you not to watch the games but you couldn’t help it, turning on the television for even just a glimpse of him, or to hear his voice. Seeing him hurt nearly sent you into hysterics, but it was better than knowing nothing.
You were given a cocktail of pills to ensure your sleep, and you swallowed them quickly, hoping the nightmares wouldn’t come.
They did though. It didn’t matter how dreamless they said the pills would be.
Everything felt so clean here, stark and white and too bright. Being so close to Finnick but not being able to see him was driving you up the wall, and it caused your struggle when the doctors were moving you from the hovercraft.
They walked you around a crowded area filled with people in near identical uniforms. The precision was nearly maddening. “We need to run more tests,” a male doctor said sharply, brushing you off like you were a bug on his arm.
You shook your head, tugging at the sleeves of the people practically dragging you down the hallway. “Please. Please let me. I’ve been waiting-“
Your name was shouted from a distance. Freezing in place, you turned your head frantically, trying to see him. Was it in your head? Did you miss him so badly you were hearing him without his actual presence?
Then he rocketed into your line of sight. Your tan, golden-haired knight in shining armor, pushing away men in white jackets and calling for you, reaching his arms out. It was a special place he reserved just for you.
“Finnick!” you called frantically, finally breaking free and running as fast as your feet would carry you. “Finnick!”
When you finally crashed into his chest you were already crying, but it wasn’t out of frustration or anger like it had been for the past few months. You were so relieved you could have fainted, and your knees indeed went weak when you felt his arms wrap around you.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, nearly breathing you in. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
“Finnick,” you couldn’t stop saying, a sob hijacking your words. “Finnick.”
“I’m here. I’m here, baby,” he breathed. Someone said something and he replied, “I’ve got her. I can take her.” His hold tightened on you when a jagged response was given. “If it’s anything like what I had to do I know you’ve done enough. It can wait.”
When Finnick was upset he became authoritative, and it was in anyone’s best interest to stay out of his way. It was no surprise then that he was able to help you down the length of the hallway without struggle.
You gripped his hand like it was going to disappear. He didn’t object, opening the door with one hand and ushering you inside. The room was as minimalist and clean as the rest of what you’d seen so far, but you could see the touches of him in it. A small shell laid on the bedside and there was a length of rope knotted into a bowline tossed on the mattress.
Finnick guided you to sit down, brushing the rope aside and kicking off his shoes, kneeling beside you. He was looking over your face, checking. For what, you weren’t sure.
Finally he spoke again, his voice reminding you of what you might hear pressing a conch to your ear. “I missed you.”
You launched forward, throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. Finnick clasped you tight, not seeming to mind when you began to cry again. A drop landed on your cheek and you realized why. He shook his head once, smoothing your hair as his chest stuttered. “When I found out they’d taken you I…I…” he swallowed audibly. “When the games ended I tried to make them go back for you-“
You pulled back, your fingers finding his hair and stroking it gently. His eyes were fixed on you, oceans roaring within them. “My baby…what did they do to you?”
You sniffled, trying to breathe in and out. “It h-hurt.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, cupping your cheek in his palm. Nodding, Finnick encouraged you to go on.
“It hurt,” you repeated, trying to scrounge up more and becoming frustrated when you couldn’t. Here was the one person you wanted to tell and you were speaking like a child.
It was almost like he could sense it. Finnick nodded once more, shifting so he was lying down and pressing gently on your back so you would too. You settled with your head on his chest, your ear over his heart. The steady thump of it quieted all the noise in your head so quickly that it was like flicking a light off.
One heavy hand stroked up and down your back, soothing you just as you needed. That was Finnick. He always knew what would make you feel better.
Slowly, as he comforted you, more began to pour out about your time at the Capitol. How you’d been wracked with pain for days at a time, injected with substances you didn’t know of. The things they told you.
You made it to your time on the hovercraft after they’d rescued you, muttering about your new diagnosis. Finnick froze at that, his arms tightening around you. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
You sniffled, flattening your palm on his chest. “They r-ran tests-“
“Hey.” You lifted your head at his whisper, finding his eyes aglow, melting for you. “You just need a little help, that’s all. But it’s not forever. I’m gonna be here for you and we’re gonna get through this together.”
When you nodded, he pressed his lips to your forehead, holding them there for a long beat. Your eyes grew heavy, and he stroked your hair until you closed them. You were sleepy, and for the first time in a while, you didn’t fear falling headfirst into your dreams.
Your nails were knives, practically ripping at your skin. You cried out but nobody could hear you, and the voices closed in, crowding you into a corner.
“No. Stop it,” one jutted in, a hand yanking at your palms. “Enough.” The faint whine of a medical tool grated at your skull, and your hands trembled.
“No, no, no,” you sobbed, shivering and shoving your knees to your chest. “No.”
“Shh,” a different voice softened your mind. “It’s alright. Just keep breathing for me. In and out.” You tried opening your eyes, and there he was, blurry but there. His lips curved upwards when he saw you. “There’s my angel. There you are.” A hand slid under your back, encouraging you to sit up. “Right there. Atta girl.”
You swayed, leaning against him. He sheltered you close, seeming to hide you away. “You’re here with me. You’re safe.”
Nodding, you began to let go of yourself, the marks from your nails leaving blood trickling in their wake. Your lower lip began to tremble upon seeing it but he soothed that away too. “We can fix it. It’s okay.”
You slowly began to relax, breathing in and out trying to calm. Finnick kissed your forehead, then your nose. “There we go. You’re doing so good.” Something touched your lips and you sipped the liquid that rushed forth, your throat relaxing.
Silence became your comfort, and you reveled in it. No questions, no reprimanding for all you should have done. Just you and Finnick in this world.
He had been the only thing holding you up in this rigorous place of demand for answers you didn’t have. You wanted to run away from it all back to your ocean with him. He knew it as well as you did. The sea was healing for you as much as it was him. Here you had to make do with the white walls and endless hallways.
“Wanna go home,” you breathed, sniffling into his chest.
“I know,” he whispered back. “I know. I do too.”
You fisted his shirt, taking in a deep breath. “Will we ever get to?” There was no right answer. No real certainty. It made your heart heavy.
Still, he muttered, “Yes.” And you loved him for it.
Propping you up to sit across his lap, Finnick laid a kiss in your hair. “Someday we’re gonna go back to District Four and we’re gonna get married and live right by the ocean. And we’ll be together forever, just you and me.”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, and he kissed your forehead. “We’re gonna be okay.”
“That’s right.” There was a hint of pride in his voice that nearly brought you to tears.
“Finnick?” you breathed, looking up at him shyly. “I’m s-sorry. That you have to do this. I know they need you for more important things and I feel like you do everything for me and I don’t do anything for you.”
He looked at you thoughtfully, allowing the tiniest head shake. “Nothing is more important than you.” Finnick grasped a strand of your hair, flipping it playfully behind your shoulder. “You do more for me than you realize, baby. Haven’t had a single nightmare since you started sleeping next to me again.”
You reached up, wiping one eye with your wrist. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, cupping your cheeks. Finnick kissed between your eyebrows. “I was a mess without you. Ask anybody.”
When you were quiet, he exhaled through his nose, cupping your cheek so you’d stay looking at him. “I had half of everyone in charge avoiding me in the hallway because they knew I was gonna ask when they were going to bring you back. At mealtimes and training and whatever I was no fun to be around cause I was pining so much for you and it made me angry that we knew where you were and nobody was doing anything about it.” Finnick stroked your cheekbone. “You’re all I’ve got. I don’t care about anybody else.”
The earnestness in his eyes sent you reaching for him again, and he wrapped you up in his arms, breathing easy. You whispered into his chest. “When they were hurting me, all I could think of was you. How you would want me to hang on.”
“I’m proud of you,” Finnick said, leaning back so you could lay down. He gathered your hair to rest behind your back. “You’re stronger than you think, sweetheart. Stronger than any of us.”
You hid your face in his chest. He let you lay there, keeping your mind quiet the way it only seemed to when you were with him.
Maybe the roaring oceans of District Four were a thing of the past, but you had your own version in him. Finnick flowed and crashed and soothed the same way as the sea, enveloping you in his embrace and smoothing everything over.
You would dive under for the rest of time, so you could breathe.
Pairing: Finnick Odair x reader
Summary: You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end.
Warnings: long, exploitation of minors, mentions of forced prostitution, suicidal thoughts, implied torture, violence, complicated relationships, complex mental health issues, and i involve finnick more in everything
Words: 8.1K
Masterlist | Part 4
a/n: switching it up, so this part is from finnick's pov. it's basically mockingjay one, then i'll do one more part for mockingjay 2. ly guys!
Finnick Odair was not sure that love existed. Or, at least he wasn’t. He could barely remember what his parents looked like, let alone if they loved each other. But he had Mags; she proved to him that love existed because he loved her. It was the falling in love that he was unsure about.
And then he met Annie Cresta and it was like he suddenly understood. Yes, this was what the poets were talking about. This was love.
But they couldn’t be together.
He was being sold off all the time, taking countless visits to the Capitol. He couldn’t endanger her like that, let her get involved in the fucked up world he lived in. So he didn’t. He loved her from afar, knowing they’d never really be together.
He thought it’d end there, but then one night, he saw you. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was all his own will, but he walked up to you. He’d seen you at these events before, back home, and on TV, but standing there so close to you, it was like it was just hitting him how beautiful you were.
You were a victor, too. But he realized just how alike you were when he watched as you left a hotel room, in the same state as him. After that, it was you who took a chance on him until he almost looked forward to coming to the Capitol, just to see you.
You weren’t Annie. You didn’t remind him of what poets had written. No, he couldn’t describe you or what you meant to him in just words. What he grew to feel for you over time wasn’t akin to anything he’d ever read. This was so much more than that.
He loved Annie, he always would, but being with you made him realize what it was like to be in love.
But he never told you this, never said any of it out loud out of fear that he’d lose you.
Now he lost you, anyway.
The doors to his hospital room opened. He knew it was Katniss, but he didn’t say anything, staring right at the ground in front of him.
If he looked hard enough, he could see your face.
“Finnick.”
He looked up from his feet, but still didn’t look at her. He already knew what she looked like, and it wasn’t much better than him.
She was mad at him. She’d barely spoken to him since they got to 13, but he knew that she couldn’t have been much more mad at him than he already was at himself.
His voice was quiet when he spoke. “I wanted to go back for them—for Peeta, and Johanna, and Y/N… but I- I couldn’t move.” He twiddled his fingers with the rope in his hands, wishing it was your hand he was holding, but he wasn’t. You weren’t there. He left you.
He finally looked up at Katniss. She looked both emotionless and so emotional at the same time, lifeless but alive. “I- I love her, y’know?” He looked back down at the knot he was tying, sniffling involuntarily.
He was trying to keep it together, but without you, that was like trying to fix a broken glass without any glue.
You were the glue that held him together.
And now the Capitol had you.
The words left his lips without much thought. “I wish she was dead.” He chose to stare at a spot on the ground instead of looking at Katniss’ reaction. His chest tightened. “I wish they were all dead and we were, too.”
If they had died, then at least they wouldn’t have been going through this, having to live but feeling so dead, anyway.
Katniss was silent until he eventually heard her leave the room.
There were words she didn’t say that still floated around the room, agreement that she didn’t voice. She was just as broken as him, holding on for dear life. He hoped that she’d keep holding on.
He had to have hope. He had to have hope that he’d see you again, that this wasn’t all for nothing, that they could build a better world that you could both live in. He needed to hope.
That hope was the only thing that kept him holding on, too.
He was in the cafeteria, sitting next to Katniss and Annie when it happened. The fanfare started playing, Caesar Flickerman’s face coming to the screen. He scoffed, tuning out and looking back down at the food on his plate, swishing it around. Recently, it had been hard for him to work up an appetite.
He looked back up when Katniss grabbed his hand, hers trembling. He soon realized why.
It was Peeta, on the Capitol TV.
Katniss got up, walking to the TV and standing right in front of it, shocked. He would’ve gotten up and followed her, tried to console her, but it was as if he was paralyzed.
Peeta was on the TV.
And you were nowhere in sight.
He heard the conversation that had everyone on the edge of their seat through muffled ears. Peeta didn’t look exactly like himself, but he still looked like the golden boy Panem fell in love with. It was so obvious that the Capitol was using him, playing him like a puppet, but what confused him was that they were using him and not the much more powerful weapon they had in their arsenal.
You were the Princess of Panem. Plutarch and Coin knew that; that’s why they wanted you. Katniss could light a fire, but if they also had you, then together you could cause an explosion. If the Capitol wanted to sway public opinion, why wouldn’t they just use you, someone who the people trusted and adored?
Suddenly, his stomach fell.
If they weren’t using you, then it was because you weren’t in a condition to be shown to the public.
He felt a hand on his, turning his head to see it was Annie, looking at him with a sympathetic expression. As if she could hear his thoughts, the smallest of sad smiles grew on her lips. “It’s gonna be okay, Finnick,” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
How the tables had turned. Now it was her assuring him.
In that moment, he understood Annie like never before.
Because he wasn’t so sure she was right.
After Peeta’s interview, Finnick didn’t leave his room much. He’d lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling, pretending that you were there with him. He could withstand the silence if he had you by his side.
But now, the silence was deafening.
Sometimes, he didn’t hear a thing. Other times, your voice would fill the gaps, memories of you flashing before his eyes like a movie. Sometimes, they weren’t memories at all. Sometimes, he imagined a different life for you where you were both happy, in love.
And, sometimes, he imagined what they could’ve been doing to you in the Capitol.
Whenever these awake-nightmares got too vivid, he’d find Katniss and sit with her, knowing she must have been going through the same thing. It was what you would’ve done, what you did with him and Johanna.
You wouldn’t have wanted them to suffer alone.
The next time he was around everyone else, it was per Coin’s request. She announced to them all that Katniss agreed to be The Mockingjay and that, in return, she’d look for an opportunity to extract you, the victors that had been taken.
Katniss moved next to him. “Finnick, I made the deal for Y/N, too.”
It was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Hope—this was hope.
“Good,” he said. For the first time since he left the arena, he smiled. “That’s good, Katniss.” A small chuckle left him.
Maybe he’d get a chance to make those dreams of his a reality.
With a newfound ardour, Finnick threw himself back into the ring instead of avoiding the fight like he had been, sitting in on meetings and doing whatever he could to make this work. He would see you again; he’d make sure of it.
He went with the propo team to 8, watching as the Girl on Fire did exactly what they’d all been waiting for her to do. He wasn’t the only one that was hopeful—so were people in the districts, the people in 13.
They played her propo at the next assembly. The crowd cheered, but as he stood with The Mockingjay herself on the sidelines, she didn’t look so cheerful. Finnick understood this, he understood it well, but he couldn’t afford to think like that with your life hanging in the balance.
She shouldn’t have to either, he thought.
He leaned closer to her, quizzing, “You don’t like hearing a fight song at a funeral, huh?” She looked up at him almost in the same way she did when he made that joke in the arena. At the memory of your response, a small smile arose on his face. “The more people on our side, the closer we are to Peeta and Y/N,” he reminded her.
She nodded, muttering, “Yeah,” and then turning back to the crowd. She didn’t look so convinced, but he left it there, knowing she was coping with this in her own way.
If Katniss loved Peeta even half as much as he loved you, then he’d let her do whatever she felt comfortable with.
But at the end of the day, it was love that kept them both going.
The next time Peeta was on TV, it was a wake up call for everyone. He didn’t look so refined anymore, so clean. There were bags under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in days.
If this was what Peeta looked like and they still had him on TV, then what about you?
A bile rose in his throat. He ran to the nearest trash can and threw up whatever they served that morning for breakfast, your face flashing underneath his eyelids. You weren’t smiling like in the dreams he had, but screaming.
He knew you weren’t dead, that the Capitol wouldn’t kill you, but when he pictured your face, you didn’t look so alive.
Oh, he wished he could’ve made you smile more. But in the world you lived in, sometimes it was too hard to even do that.
That’s why we’re doing this, he reminded himself. We’re trying to build a better world. But there were no words that Coin could say to shake the guilt he felt, guilt for leaving you, guilt for being the reason this happened to you. There was no band-aid he could put over this wound, no pills that could kill this pain.
But he had to push through it, and he couldn’t do that by sitting in his room by himself; every time he closed his eyes, he saw you. So he went to Katniss’ room, finding her in a position so similar to his own.
That was the man she loved on TV, even if she hadn’t come to terms with her feelings. She must have been just as guilty as him, if not more so. Finnick could remember a time when he rejected his feelings for you, too, scared of caring for somebody, scared of this happening.
He went through the Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell, being sold when he was only sixteen, but falling in love with you was the scariest thing he’d ever experienced.
If that’s how Katniss felt, then he didn’t want her to be alone, not when she reminded him so much of you.
So he sat next to her in silence, letting all of the words he wanted to say hang in the air, hoping that she heard them. They sat there wordlessly until Gale came in, telling them it was time to go, that they were going to 12.
It was only when he was about to leave that he finally spoke, deciding that these were words he had to make sure that she heard, words that he needed to hear, too.
“We’re gonna get them back, Katniss.”
She looked at him, forming somewhat of a smile and nodding. After staring at her for a few seconds, he left the room, going to get ready.
She didn’t know it, but the entire hovercraft ride on the way to 12, he repeated those same exact words to himself over and over again.
We’re gonna get them back.
While nothing could really ease Finnick’s worries, seeing the people fight back certainly helped. The revolution was picking up traction. The videos they shot in 12 had moved people so much that they were willing to put themselves at risk, just out of hope for a better Panem.
If they could do that, then he could, too.
He wondered if you knew about any of this, if you were even aware of what was happening or if the Capitol was just keeping you in the dark. Did you know? Did you hear Katniss sing?
Did it remind you of him the same way it reminded him of you?
He had so many questions, and so little answers.
Rebels in district 5 bombed a hydroelectric dam, cutting power in the Capitol. Not long after, Peeta Mellark was back on TV, talking about it. He no longer even looked like himself. He didn’t look like a victor, but like someone who had lost.
But Finnick supposed that was what a victor was.
Beetee managed to get through the Capitol’s firewall, cutting Peeta off with Katniss’ propo. They watched as tears filled his eyes on screen.
That was the first time he looked like himself.
Are you, are you comin’ to the tree?
He faltered. “Katniss?”
Finnick watched as Katniss got closer to the screen, shaking her head. She saw it, too. She saw the man that went into that arena with them.
But then, like a victor would, his mask went back up so quickly.
“The attack on the dam was a callous and inhuman act of destruction-”
Where a dead man called out for his love to flee.
Peeta inhaled shakily, his lips so slightly quivering. “Think about it,” he said. “How will this end? What will be left?” Finnick walked closer to the screen, like he was caught in a trance. Peeta’s previously calm façade had broken and was replaced with someone who looked stricken by panic. “No one can survive this. No one is safe now. Not here in the Capitol.” He shook his head. “Not in any of the districts.”
He stopped, looking right into the camera as if he was staring into Katniss’ eyes. He may not have known it, but he was.
“They’re coming, Katniss. They’re gonna kill everyone.” They heard quick footsteps behind the camera as Peeta rushed to get his words out. “And in district 13 you’ll be dead by morning-”
Then the camera cut out.
Finnick didn’t know what to say, glancing over at Katniss to see her cupping her mouth in shock.
Haymitch was much more calm. With Katniss spinning out, he had to be. “He’s warning us. That was a warning.” Behind him, Boggs said something in agreement.
Katniss looked to have gotten over her shock, frantically turning and fretting, “We have to get him out before they kill him.” She was ignored.
What about you? he wondered. Where did this leave you? But right now, what they needed to worry about was where it left them.
Otherwise, you wouldn’t have anything to come home to.
“It’s time for an air raid drill.” Seconds after Coin spoke, an alarm went off. Everyone that’d been fixed to their spot in the room was up, like they’d been preparing for this for a lifetime, and from what he heard, they had been.
Katniss went running, searching for her sister while he went looking for Annie and Mags, grabbing them and descending down the stairwell as soon as he saw them. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, his mind blank, just as it was in the arena.
If he let his thoughts take control, then he’d lose it, and he couldn’t do that right now. He couldn’t slip up right now with what was at stake.
It was your life on the line.
He couldn’t lose you.
But a part of him knew that, the second you were in Snow’s hands, the you that he knew was lost forever.
Down in the bunker, Finnick sat on the bottom bunk with Mags off resting by herself while Annie had fallen asleep at the top. Sometimes, with her episodes, it was easy to forget that she was a victor, too, that she had danced the same dance you had. But she was, and she was dancing like never before.
He could tell that she had been trying hard to keep it together, but with all of the panic and the noise, it was hard. She fell asleep easily.
Although the bunker was pretty quiet, his thoughts were still so loud. The last time he saw you played out in his head. He could still taste your lips on his, still feel your soft skin, still see your beautiful eyes.
I’ll see you at midnight?
Yeah, I’ll see you at midnight.
But he didn’t. He never saw you again. He would’ve never let you go if he’d known then what’d happen. He would’ve held you longer, kissed you longer. He would’ve told you he loved you.
If he’d known this’d happen, he would’ve told you long before The Games. The truth was, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he fell in love with you. It had always been Annie for him, and you were just there.
But that was exactly it. You were there. You were always there.
Maybe he started falling for you after the first time you slept together. Maybe it was after your fifth time mentoring together. Maybe it was after the time he had a nightmare and you let him hold you. Maybe it was after you smiled, and really smiled, for the first time since you decided to start pretending to be a couple. He couldn’t be sure, but somewhere along the way, you became so much more to him than just Y/N Y/L/N, Princess of Panem and victor of the 67th Hunger Games.
You became the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
He just wished he could’ve told you that.
He was pulled out of his thoughts when someone walked up to him. “Hey.” He looked up, seeing Katniss. She looked beat, her voice quiet. “Can I sit?”
He nodded, moving over so she could sit next to him. She had her family down here, that’s why he hadn’t gone over to her, but he understood why she was coming to him. After going through what they went through, it was easier to be around people who went through the same thing, who were going through the same thing.
Like she was reading his mind, she asked, “Are you thinking about her?”
There wasn’t any need for further explanation. Truthfully, he answered, “Yeah,” looking down at the ground. Every moment he had that wasn’t dedicated to this revolution was spent thinking about you.
After a second, she spoke up again. “Snow’s using her to punish you. He’s taunting us with them.” She scoffed a little. “I didn’t understand that until just now watching that stupid cat.”
She was right. This wasn’t just about propaganda. This was about Snow’s little puppets misbehaving.
So now he was showing them that, even in 13, he still owned them. He still owned Finnick. He still owned Katniss. He still owned Johanna. He still owned Peeta. And he still owned you.
He was using you against him because he knew how much you meant to him, the same way he knew how much Peeta meant to Katniss, even if she didn’t see that herself.
Finnick sighed, debating on whether or not he should say what he was thinking or keep it to himself before deciding that he had held enough in, that holding his thoughts in had never done him any good. So he turned to Katniss and started, “I- Y/N and I, we hadn’t met until after she won her Games. We weren’t really friends, at first, but rumours start fast in the Capitol, especially when ‘royalty’ is involved.” He humourlessly chuckled. “People were saying that we were dating, and so she- she thought the best thing for us to do was to let them believe it, let them have their love story. The alternative, two people coping together- that was a lot darker than what the Capitol could handle.”
She tilted her head, furrowing her brows. He watched as she put it all together. “Wait, are you saying that…”
He nodded. “Yes. It was fake. Our love story was just that: a story.” Surprise was painted all over her face.
“But… you told me that you love her.”
A ghost of a smile came to his face. “I do. I love her. It wasn’t like that at first, but over time, I fell for her, Katniss.” He saw a look pass over her face: understanding. What he was describing wasn’t just you and him; it was her and Peeta. “Y/N and I, we learned how to play the game. If anyone could spot a fake relationship, it was us. After your first Games, we thought your whole romance was an act. We expected you to continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta’s heart stopped and he nearly died that… I knew I’d misjudged you. You love him.”
Katniss looked away, like what he was saying was something she’d never even considered. It was so clear to everyone that she loved him, everyone but herself.
“I’m not saying in what way,” he added, understanding her feelings so well because he’d right where she was. “Maybe you don’t even know yourself. But anyone paying attention can see it.” He maintained his stare, even as she looked away.
With the life they lived, you didn’t want to give yourself to love, to admit that to yourself, to allow yourself to be vulnerable. But you could only hide a love so strong for so long.
She swallowed, gaze still aimed at the floor. “How do you live with it?”
You’re asking the wrong person, he thought, but that wasn’t an acceptable answer. That wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Right now, Katniss was lost; he needed to point her in the right direction.
Even if he still had trouble doing that for himself.
He paused for a moment, searching for the right words to say. “I drag myself outta nightmares and there’s no relief in waking up,” he confessed. “But I- sometimes, when I’m awake, I let myself dream about her.” Finally, she looked over to him. “I dream that, one day, when this is all over, we’re living in a better world, happy.” The corners of his lips quirked up at the thought. “It’s hope, Katniss. That’s how I live with it.”
Katniss eyes were dull, red, tired, but even in the darkness of the bunker, he was able to see a tiny spark light up in her eyes.
Hope.
They’d fallen asleep in the bunker along with everyone else until Finnick woke up to Boggs shaking him, telling him that they had to go. Coin wanted Katniss to get in front of the camera, tell Panem that they were still standing after the attack.
But, as soon as they stepped outside, he watched her fall apart.
Roses.
A rose?
They’re a Capitol favourite.
You hated roses. Looking at them himself, he couldn’t even blame Katniss. He felt sick, too.
She couldn’t do it. She was almost hysterical, so of course Boggs let her go. They couldn’t put her on TV when she was like this. But they also didn’t have time to wait.
With Katniss gone, Haymitch and Boggs pulled him aside to a briefing room, getting started on a new plan.
“Okay, what are we doing?”
They gave each other a look, much like the look Plutarch and Haymitch traded right after the Quell, like they knew something he didn’t, like they were getting ready for him to explode.
“Finnick, the dam that went down in district 5 cut power in most of the Capitol,” Haymitch started. “Their defences are down—Beetee’s gonna be able to get in now.”
His brows furrowed. He already knew that.
Sensing his confusion, Boggs cut in, “We’ve gotten word that the victors are in the Tribute Centre.”
Suddenly, it was like his heart stopped.
You were coming home.
He echoed his thoughts. “You’re going to get them?”
“Yes, I’ll be leading the mission-”
“Well, I’m coming.” Again, they both shared a look, like they were expecting him to say that, and why wouldn’t they? You were his girlfriend; of course, he wanted to be there to save you.
“Finnick-”
He cut Boggs off a second time, repeating himself, “I am coming with you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”
He scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Finnick-”
“If you’re going to get Y/N, then I’m coming with you-”
“You are too valuable to this revolution for them to let you go,” Haymitch said, but Finnick really couldn’t give a damn about whatever reason they threw at him. You were all he could think about.
“I’m not just gonna sit here and do nothing while they’re being rescued,” he retaliated. For over a month, sitting around and doing nothing was practically all he’d been doing, fantasizing about you, unknowing of when he’d see you again or if he’d ever see you again, trying to imagine what you could’ve been going through.
He couldn’t just stand by while you were in a live or die situation.
If you died- no, he cut his thoughts off, refusing to finish the sentence.
You couldn’t die.
Haymitch sighed, glancing away before looking back at him. His eyes were always hard, but at that moment, Finnick saw flashes of sympathy. “You won’t be doing nothing.”
His eyes slightly narrowed. “What do you mean?”
The two shared another look before he told him, “Katniss can’t record right now. But you can.”
Another scoff left his lips, an incredulous look on his face as his voice was laced with sarcasm. “You want me to film a propo while you save Y/N?”
Haymitch didn’t respond right away, just staring at him like he was trying to properly articulate his words. The way he was looking at him unnerved him, like whatever he was gonna say could shatter him into a million pieces.
“Not a propo, Finnick,” he finally said, hesitation evident in his tone. “It’s a lot more than that.”
And, as Haymitch explained to him what they wanted him to do, Finnick learned just how much more that was.
Finnick Odair. That was a name synonymous with royalty, luxury, desire. Before he even met you, that was the name he’d built for himself—or, rather, the name that was thrusted into his arms.
A sex symbol.
When you won your Games, he could remember listening to the Capitol chatter. Stunning, refined, intelligent: a princess. You both already had so much in common, both from the same district, both so young when you won, but suddenly, as he watched you leave that hotel room that night in the Capitol, he realized that you had much more in common than he thought.
You were one and the same.
Those nights you spent together in the Capitol, out in the cold, you were silent. And then, even as you spoke to big Capitol fishes and gave speeches, you were still silent then, too, never speaking out about the injustices you’d been faced with.
Now, Finnick stood outside in the darkness, cold, but this time, you weren’t next to him. You weren’t next to him, and that was because Snow took you.
So he wasn’t going to stay silent anymore.
You deserved better than that.
He glanced around, almost as if he was trying to tell if his surroundings were real, if he was really doing this.
He looked back when Cressida called his name, a careful look on her face. “Yeah,” he said, conveying he was okay without saying it, even if he really wasn’t.
She didn’t look very convinced, but she still responded, “Okay.” She paused. “Take your time. Just remember to keep talking and don’t stop.”
He lightly nodded, looking up in front of him, seeing his breath in the air. For a moment, he was silent, but that moment didn’t last long.
He had been silent for far too long already.
“This is Finnick Odair. Winner of the 65th Hunger Games,” he introduced himself, even though he knew that anyone watching must have recognized him right away. “And I’m coming to you from district 13, alive and well. We’ve survived an assault from the Capitol,” he recited. “But I’m not here to give you recent news.”
What he was going to tell them was much more than news about this rebellion. What he would reveal was about a war that’d started long before this rebellion ever did.
“I come with something much more valuable.”
I haven’t dealt in anything as common as money in years.
Well, then how do people pay for the pleasure of your company?
“The truth. The truth about being a victor, about being royalty.” Bitterness seeped through his tone. “Not the myths about a life of luxury. Not the lie about glory for your homeland.” He looked straight at the camera. “You can survive the arena. But the moment you leave, you’re a slave.”
We will never be free, Y/N.
He took in a breath before he spoke his next words, knowing that they held power stronger than a weapon. He may as well have been pointing the gun at his own head. But if he had to get burned to burn down the Capitol, then he would do it. He would do it a thousand times over.
And so would you.
“President Snow used to sell me. Or my body, at least. I wasn’t the only one.” Your face flashed in his mind. “If a victor is considered desirable, the President gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them. If you refuse, he kills someone you love.” Johanna.
It’s not fair. He killed her family. She said no, and he killed her family.
I know. It’s not fair, I know.
It was never fair. No riches or glory could ever be enough to compensate for that.
“To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry. But I found a much more valuable form of payment.” The corners of his lips upturned slightly to form a small, humourless smile. “Secrets.”
The secrets he knew had the power to rip apart the Capitol’s so called “peace” at the seams. For him, for Katniss, for Johanna, for Peeta, for Annie, for you—this peace had fallen apart ages ago.
Katniss was forced to become the voice of thousands when she could barely do that for herself. Johanna turned to rage. Peeta turned to charm. Annie lost her mind. And you… what about you?
It was about time that this peace was destroyed. It was about time that people understood exactly what victors really lost. And that Panem’s monsters weren’t hiding under the bed.
They were sitting on thrones.
“See, I know all the depravity, the deceit, and the cruelty of the Capitol’s pampered elite. But the biggest secrets are about our good President, Coriolanus Snow.” The biggest monster of them all. “Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How, you may ask, did he do it?” He paused, looking right at the camera as if he was looking right into Snow’s eyes.
He hoped he was watching.
He hoped he was watching as they burned the Capitol to the ground.
“One word.” He lit the match. “Poison.” And then he dropped it.
“He stopped every mutiny before it even started. There are so many mysterious deaths to adversaries. Even to allies who were threats.” He could remember being at one of those dinners, watching a man fall onto his plate, his life over so quickly.
Once you were on the playing board, it didn’t matter how powerful you were. To Snow, you were all just pawns that he could knock off the board easily.
Not anymore.
“Snow would drink from the same cup to deflect suspicion. But… antidotes don’t always work, which is why he wears roses that reek of perfume. Help cover the scent of blood from sores in his mouth that will never heal.”
When Finnick learned this, he could remember the feeling he had, the satisfaction in knowing that a man who had spilled so much blood was bleeding himself. It was karmic.
How ironic was that?
“But he can’t hide the scent of who he really is,” he continued, remembering Cressida’s words. Don’t stop. “He kills without mercy. He rules with deception and fear. His weapon of choice is the only thing suited to such a man. Poison.” He scoffed.
“The perfect weapon for a snake.”
Moments after Finnick’s last words, they were off the air. Cressida’s hand went to her ear, a dark look passing over her face. The Capitol air defence system’s coming back online, she said, and she didn’t get to say much else before he went running inside.
Much like every other day he’d spent in 13, your face came to his mind, but this time was different. This time, they went in to save you.
What if they couldn’t?
No, they had to bring you back- they had to.
He ran and ran until he got to ops, seeing Katniss crying in Haymitch’s arms. As soon as she saw him, she latched onto him and he reciprocated her hug tightly. He had to hold on. He had to.
He wouldn’t survive the fall if he let go.
He knows, he knows they’re in the Tribute Centre, she cried, and then for the second time that day, his heart stopped. He knew. Snow knew about the rescue mission.
His ears rang, eyes going blurry. And then things got a little blurry after that, too. Eventually, he ended up back in his room by himself. He didn’t know how he got there, but he did. All he could hear was your voices in his head.
No, you are coming home-
Finni-
We are both coming come. We are both coming home, Y/N, I swear.
He was supposed to protect you. He promised. He promised you that you would both make it home. But now where were you? You weren’t with him.
You never came home.
At one point, Annie came in, trying to be of some consolation, but she ended up leaving, unable to get through to him. He couldn’t hear her over your conversations that replayed in his head on a loop.
I told you. I’m not letting you die.
A tear raced down his cheek. He knew that you were maybe still alive, that you still had a chance, but that didn’t matter. It was never supposed to get to this point. He was never supposed to let it get to this point, a point where you could be dead.
He was supposed to bring you home.
Yeah, I’ll see you at midnight.
The doors suddenly slid open and Katniss walked in, breaking him out of his spell. He wiped the tears that’d fallen, clearing his throat. “Is there any news?”
Solemnly, she shook her head. “No.” He sighed as she sat down next to him, a big exhale leaving her lips, too. Both of them had passed the point of exhaustion, but it wasn’t like they could rest. Finnick wasn’t sure that he could sleep if he tried.
With this song playing so loudly, how could he?
Katniss was dancing the same dance as him, fighting the same battles. The man she loved was out there, too. She must have been just as scared as him.
They sat in silence for a while until she broke it, her voice raspy and just above a whisper. “Finnick?”
He turned to see her looking down at the ground. “Yeah?”
“I-” she stammered. It was only when she looked up at him that he saw the look in her eyes and knew why she was so nervous.
He shook his head. “It’s fine-”
She scoffed. “No, it’s not- it’s not fine-”
“Katniss-”
She cut him off. “I’m sorry.” Her words made him swallow. He knew she was going to speak them, but for some reason, hearing them was so different, surreal. She exhaled again, maintaining eye contact. “I am sorry.”
Finnick looked away. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her apology, but he felt uncomfortable, looking into her eyes and just seeing the pure sorrow, pity. No, Katniss hadn’t been through exactly what he had, but at that moment, looking into her eyes was like looking into a mirror.
He couldn’t handle that right now, not when he stood at the top of the tallest mountain in the world and had such a long way to fall, everything to lose.
He nodded, accepting her apology without words. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know, she didn’t know him back then. She hadn’t been a victor long enough to know yet. If anything, he was glad that she didn’t get to know their world, that she wasn’t sucked up by the same darkness that took you and him.
He was glad that her and Peeta got time in the sun, even if it was only for a little while.
“Y/N…” At the sound of your name, he turned back to her, seeing her brows furrow, eyes glazed over. “When I met her, she said something to me.” Realization flashed across her face as she looked up. “Was- was she-”
He cut her off, “Yeah. Yeah, she was.” When he blinked, he saw you walking out of that hotel room, the look on your face. He’d never forget the way you looked at him that night.
May the odds be ever in your favour, darling.
“There were more,” he admitted. “Any victor that the Capitol found desirable was taken. Annie only couldn’t because of her madness. Johanna-” a humourless chuckle left his lips. “Johanna refused, and her entire family paid the price.” He look back to Katniss to see that her mouth had fallen open, a look of horror on her face. “You and Peeta were spared because you were together. Hell, that’s the reason Y/N and I got together, to escape all this. And now look where we are.”
With you on the verge of dying and Finnick on the verge of losing everything.
You. You were his everything.
And you didn’t even know it.
“I never told her, Katniss.” He was breathless, like the wind had been knocked out of him. He’d realized this before, knew that he made a mistake, but now it was like he was realizing that he may never get the chance to correct it. “I- I never told her I loved her.”
I’m your girlfriend now?
Oh, come on, Y/N. You can’t be serious right now.
I am so serious right now.
You had no idea. You had no idea that you were the reason he kept living, that you were the reason he kept going, even when it hurt so badly. He’d walk through Hell if he could get to Heaven and be with you.
But what if you never knew that?
What if you died without knowing how he felt about you?
Katniss grabbed onto his hand. He looked to see tears welling in her eyes. “You will,” she whispered. “Hope, Finnick. You need to have hope.”
“Hope,” he echoed. Just like how he saw your face, he was able to see a future just as easily. It was so clear. That better world that Coin went on about, the better world that they were fighting for… it was just within their grasp. He nodded, managing to form somewhat of a smile. “Hope.”
He needed that, now more than ever. If he ever wanted to make it to that better world, to live in it with you, then he had to have hope—hope for the both of you.
Katniss didn’t say much after that; neither did he. Both of them were reflecting on their own, still trying to process all the turmoil that the day had caused. He spent his time thinking of you, imagining that better world.
In a better world, you and Finnick would’ve never been sold. You would’ve met, and he would’ve gotten the chance to fall in love with you the right way. He wouldn’t have been so scared to tell you. You would’ve given back to the community, not taken kids to their deaths.
You would’ve been so happy together.
But that wasn’t the world you lived in.
In the world you lived in, you and Finnick were sold at ages far too young. First, you sold your souls by winning The Games, and then your bodies were sold to people who had no business touching you.
In the world you lived in, you were only brought together because of tragedy. You only dated to try and save yourselves from a much greater evil, not because you loved each other.
In the world you lived in, Finnick fell in love with you. But he couldn’t tell you that, not when his biggest fear became losing you.
But in the world you lived in, he lost you, anyway.
So he had to have hope that a better world was possible- he had to. Not having that was another blow he wasn’t sure he could take.
When imagining your better world turned into reminiscing over all that’d happened to you both, he cut his thoughts off. He couldn’t let himself stop and break down now, not when he was so close to the finish line, so close to you.
So he pulled rope from his pocket, tying the same knots over and over again, a habit he’d picked up at a young age. Focusing on the knots was able to take his mind off everything, allowing white noise to play instead of this song.
He didn’t want to hear it without you.
He did this until he lost track of time. It was only when the doors slid open again that he was broken out of his trance. Katniss perked up right away. It was Haymitch behind the door, looking as enthusiastic as Finnick had ever seen him. “They’re back.”
She gasped, getting up and running right away, but it was as if Finnick was cemented to his spot. They’re back.
You were back.
Just like that, he was shaken out of his shock, standing and quickly catching up with them.
They ran until they were in the medical area. As soon as they got there, he saw Johanna, ripping an IV out of her arm. Her hair was gone, shaven off, bruises all over her pale, pale face.
“Johanna,” Katniss muttered, but Finnick’s attention was elsewhere, eyes darting around the room, searching for you, heart racing.
And then he saw you.
His eyes went wide. “Y/N!” Without waiting another second, he ran to you. After over a month, here you were, right in front of him.
But it wasn’t so simple.
You flinched as his hands went to touch you, making him retract them right away. Your eyes didn’t look in his direction once.
Like you were scared of him.
At the thought, his heart clenched. It was only then that he noticed you were shaking, even as you were covered in blankets.
Your body was littered with cuts and bruises. You were pale, too, so clearly malnourished and sleep deprived. But it was your eyes that really got him. Your beautiful eyes no longer looked so lively. They looked empty.
You looked like a ghost.
“Y/N?” His voice cracked simultaneously with his heart. Why weren’t you looking at him? “Y/N-”
He was cut off. “Mr. Odair.” He turned to see a doctor standing on the other side of your bed, a hesitant look on her face and a look in her eyes that made a shiver go up spine. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”
He glanced back to you, seeing that you still weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was fixed on a spot on your bed. You hadn’t looked up once, even as the doctor spoke. Confused, he nodded, letting the woman pull him to the side, out of earshot from you.
But even as the doctor started speaking, he couldn’t get your eyes out of his mind.
That look in your eye was somehow worse than any of his nightmares combined.
“Mr. Odair, Ms. Y/L/N’s condition is… it’s quite complex,” she cautioned. He furrowed his brows, his worry increasing.
“What do you mean- is she okay-”
“No, I meant- physically, I’m not seeing much to be worried about. Of course, she could be better- much better, but this is what we were expecting.” She paused, glancing at you. “Mentally- I’m not even sure where to begin.”
He glanced back at you, too, to see that you were still staring at that same spot on your bed. He let the doctor’s words register in his brain. You weren’t okay.
“We’ve informed psych, but for now, you’re just gonna need to give her time.” Time.
He let out a breath, feeling his eyes getting wet as what she was saying really soaked in. “You’re telling me to leave.” Just as he got you back.
“Mr. Odair-”
“You’re telling me to leave.”
“Finnick.” She cut him off with a strong call of his name. “Your girlfriend’s mental state right now is unstable. She’s in shock; she’s not herself right now. It is going to take some time to get her out of this state, and it’s going to be hard for you to see her in it. In the meantime, the best thing you can do for her is take some time to collect your thoughts.”
She was telling him to go off and think. Did she know that’s all he’d been doing for hours, thinking and throwing himself into the worst possible scenarios, only to realize that one of them had become a reality?
But he didn’t tell her this, instead looking back at you. You were lifeless. When he looked back at the doctor, there was a pleading expression on her face. He didn’t want to leave you, but she made it sound like the best possible thing to do for you. So he did.
But the truth was, he just couldn’t bear to watch you when you were like that.
You were the love of his life. It was like his heart started beating again when he saw you there, alive, but then it dulled once he really looked at you.
You didn’t look like the girl he fell in love with, the girl that went into that arena, or the girl he said goodbye to. It only took a month, and now you looked like a completely different person, like you had seen things no man had ever seen.
In his haze, Finnick made it back to his room, but he didn’t make it to the bed, collapsing onto the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest as his mind spun.
You were alive. He thought that, when he finally saw you again, all of his worries would be erased, that everything would be okay again, that the world would go back to being in colour instead of this black and white that he’d been stuck in with Katniss.
But nothing seemed more colourful.
Nothing seemed better.
You were here. You were back, Y/N Y/L/N, the same woman he loved, the same woman he’d dreamt about for weeks. You were alive.
But, oh, he should’ve known it couldn’t have been that easy.
Your heart was beating, your eyes were open, and you were there… but that didn’t mean you were alive.
