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,”
