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And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 16

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 15.8k Chapter Summary: Sometimes, he wishes his father was an angry man instead of a sad one. - Haymitch hates himself enough for all three of them. Finnick sees it in the way the man avoids his eyes, in the way he drowns himself in silence now that there’s no alcohol left to do it for him. In the way he haunts his end of the medical wing like a specter, a voiceless banshee—bringing with him the tidings of decades of death and disappointment. Katniss doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. Her hatred for her mentor is raw, all-encompassing, and it spills over to Finnick every time she looks at him. Like now. ----- Chapter 16: Finnick spends his childhood waiting; his only real companions are his anger and loneliness, and they never let him go. He does the same now in Thirteen, with only his grief for company. Haymitch has a lot of problems with Thirteen and the militarized moles that run it. But his biggest issue, by far, is with the lights. Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau, @honethatty12 , @drunkfrogg, @sundawn1990, @blackdxggr , @ferrarifinnick, @sadsnails69, @paperncvks, @gaz0xx A/N: This was posted back in April on Patreon, and it would have been longer if my friend hadn't told me to stop being a deadbeat daddy and to feed my children, and feed you i shall. Believe it or not, this chapter was written way before sunrise on the reaping came out, at least way before I read it, and I went back and added some things to make it more lore-accurate. I'm trying something new with the chapter summaries. I'll include a bit from the chapter itself, and then an original summary I make up to describe the past and the present, kinda as a writing exercise for myself. I think I'll go back and do the same for the other chapters. Tell me what you think of it! This contained the very last AI voice line from years ago. Farewell, AI Finnick. You can rest now. I hate this past so much; it feels so underwritten and overwritten, even though it's supposed to mimic and make you feel the monotony of Finnick's childhood. I'm trying to get through all the asks you beautiful ppl send me, and I'm damn near a whole year behind, but I'm chugging along! No asks left behind. My Ko-Fi MY PATREON

Past (ii) - Finnick

[5] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick doesn’t understand why everyone is dressed in gray.

He tugs at the stiff collar of his shirt, the fabric scratchy against his neck. It’s his father’s shirt—too big, sleeves rolled awkwardly at his wrists. His small hands peek out, fingers cold in the chill coming in from the sea. He looks around at the adults gathered near the docks, watching the way they stand in quiet clusters, speaking in voices softer than the tide.

The men are mainly silent, their nets piled beside the docks, untangled but unused—dry. The women wear dark shawls, their eyes fixed on the water, speaking in low murmurs that Finnick can’t quite catch. They look at him sometimes, but not for long. He hears someone whisper his name, but his father’s hand tightens around his shoulder, and the voices drift away like foam over the waves.

His father doesn’t speak at all.

The boats are ready, their hulls rocking gently against the pier. Finnick’s feet dangle off the edge where he sits, swinging back and forth, toes brushing the surface of the water. The sea is calm today, almost too calm. The kind of stillness that makes Finnick fidget because it feels like everything is holding its breath.

A shadow falls over him, and he tilts his head up to see his uncle Ewan standing nearby. The man carries a small wooden box, worn and plain, no bigger than the space between Finnick’s hands.

His uncle crouches beside him, setting the box down carefully between them. His large hands linger over the lid, rough fingers tracing the edges.

Finnick squints at it, confused. “What’s in there?”

His uncle hesitates, then ruffles Finnick’s hair gently, though his smile doesn’t reach his eyes like Finnick’s used to. “Something of your ma’s.” His voice cracks, just for a second. “We’re giving it to the sea.”

Finnick frowns. “Why? Won’t she need it?”

The man’s eyes soften, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes the box closer to Finnick, the weight of it surprisingly light when Finnick picks it up. He doesn’t know what he expected to feel—something warm maybe, or heavy, like her presence still lingers there. But it’s just empty wood.

He doesn’t open it. No one tells him not to—no disapproving looks or warning grunts from his father. It just feels like he shouldn't look, something timid and afraid stopping his little fingers short of the latch. Instead, he traces the chips and grooves that must have been made by accident.

His father appears beside him, back from talking to the man whose boat he’s borrowing. He’s standing tall, gaze locked on the horizon. Without a word, he crouches down and begins tying knots at the end of a long fishing net, the kind Finnick has seen hundreds of times. But this one is strange—new, silver-threaded, and untouched by the sea. It doesn’t smell like fish or salt.

“Why’re we bringing the net, Pa?” Finnick asks, glancing at the boat where another man coils more of the shimmering rope.

His father’s fingers tighten around the knot, tugging it firm. The muscles in his jaw shift, but he doesn’t meet Finnick’s gaze. “For your ma,” he says quietly.

Finnick looks down at the box in his lap. “But she’s not here.”

“She is,” his father replies, and though Finnick doesn’t understand, he doesn’t ask again.

-

The boat glides smoothly out to sea, the oars dipping silently into the water. Finnick sits near the bow, wrapped in a too-large jacket that smells like fish and his father. The wooden box rests beside him, shifting slightly with the rocking of the boat.

They don’t talk much as the shore disappears behind them.

Finnick watches the birds, their wings slicing through the sky in slow circles. His father rows, the sound of the oars steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Other boats follow them—three or four, filled with people from the village. Some of them hold lanterns, their faint glow reflecting off the water like small stars.

“Pa,” Finnick says, pointing at one of the lanterns. “Are we having a party?”

His father’s grip on the oar falters for just a second.

“No, Finn,” he says softly and leaves it at that.

The sea stretches endlessly in all directions, swallowing sound, swallowing light. When they’re far enough from shore that the land is nothing but a thin line in the distance, his father stops rowing.

Everyone does.

The boats drift together in a loose circle, and for a long time, no one moves.

Then, slowly, his father stands. Finnick watches as he reaches for the box and cradles it carefully in his hands. His uncle lifts the net, holding it between them like something fragile.

“Hold this,” his father murmurs, passing one end to Finnick.

The net is cold in his hands, the weight of it unfamiliar but not heavy.

“What’re we catching?” Finnick asks, glancing over the edge of the boat. There are no fish beneath the surface, only his reflection staring back at him.

His father doesn’t answer.

The adults begin to lower their nets into the water, their movements slow and like they’re scared of disturbing the sea. Finnick mimics them, and together, they hold the net until there’s nothing left between their hands but empty air. He watches as the net slips below, disappearing into the deep.

The box follows, held gently in his father’s hands until the water begins to pull it away.

“Pa,” Finnick whispers, watching it drift further. “I think we lost it.”

His father kneels beside him, wrapping his arms around Finnick’s small frame.

“The sea knows her now,” his father says quietly, voice thick like the fog that's started rolling over the water.

Finnick glances at the place where the net and box vanished, frowning. He squints, trying to catch sight of something below the surface, but all he sees is the way the sea swallows everything.

His father’s breath shakes against his ear, but Finnick doesn’t know why.

By the time they return to shore, the sun has begun to set. The lanterns that once flickered across the water now hang low, their flames nearly spent.

Finnick’s father lifts him from the boat, setting him carefully onto the dock. His feet feel strange on the wooden planks, as if the sea still rocks beneath him. The adults gather near the end of the pier, whispering words Finnick doesn’t quite catch.

Finnick lingers by the edge of the dock, watching the waves lap against the shore. His father stands behind him, staring out over the horizon.

“Pa,” Finnick asks softly. “Is Mama coming home?”

His father doesn’t answer right away.

The sky darkens, the last light of day bleeding into the water, but Finnick doesn’t leave. He waits, even when his eyes grow heavy, and his fingers ache from the cold.

At last, his father speaks, his voice low and rough.

“She is home, Finn,” he says. “She’s with the sea now.”

Finnick’s small brow furrows. He doesn’t understand.

But when his father reaches down, gently taking his hand, Finnick doesn’t pull away.

The waves hum softly against the dock, and somewhere beneath them, his mother rests.

[9] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick’s never liked school.

It wasn’t his schoolmates—not really, not entirely. Sure, there were kids who annoyed him, kids who tried too hard to be his friends, or girls who blushed and giggled whenever he looked their way. But it wasn’t them. It wasn’t even the long hours of sitting still in a hot, stuffy classroom. No, the problem was bigger than that.

Finnick has never liked school.

Not that he hates it, exactly, but what’s the point? At nine years old, he already understands that half the kids around him won't make it past fifteen, and the teachers won’t admit it, but they know it too. Every year, someone’s older sibling would vanish, name called in the Reaping, their faces never seen again. But here they are, pretending that what they want to “be” someday matters.

As the rest of the kids file into the room, Finnick sits hunched over his desk, his pencil scratching as he doodles on the edge of a workbook page. A boat drifted on a sea of lines, its tiny sails catching a wind that didn’t exist. His pencil moves lightly, quickly, the tip scratching faint grooves into the paper. He likes drawing boats—they remind him of his pa, of the ocean, of a life that feels bigger than this tiny classroom. He doesn’t want anyone to see, though. This isn't for them.

“Hey, Nick!” A voice squawks beside him. He winces at the nickname, keeping his head down. It grates on him every time.

It’s the mayor’s daughter and her twin brother. They always sit near him, always try to catch his eye, their attention thick and syrupy. They must be convinced he’ll be flattered by it. He isn’t.

“My name isn’t Nick,” Finnick mutters, not looking up. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t be so serious,” the girl teases, nudging her brother and giggling. “What’re you drawing?”

“Nothing,” he says, flipping his workbook close, hiding the boat from view. His face stays blank, but his grip on the pencil tightens. He can feel their eyes lingering, waiting for him to cave, to give them something more, but he keeps his gaze steady on his desk. People always want more. They want him to charm them, make them laugh, and give them pieces of himself. But Finnick isn’t interested in giving anyone anything. Not really.

Before they can push further, the teacher claps her hands at the front of the room, calling for attention. Finnick leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching as the twins finally take their seats.

“Today, we’re going to go around and share what we want to be when we’re older!” she announces, her smile wide, eyes crinkling like this was the most exciting topic in the world. “Think big now, everyone.”

Finnick barely keeps from rolling his eyes. Think big. He glances around, watching the other kids’ eager faces. Some of them are beaming, already raising their hands, ready to share.

“I wanna be the president.”

“I wanna be a diver!”

“I want to drop the anchors.”

It’s all just make-believe, a little game that they all agreed to play, like imagining their way out of Four can somehow keep them safe.

“What do you want to be when you’re older, Nick? I bet you want to be something cool.” The girl whispers.

He scowls, pressing his pencil a little harder into the paper. “That’s stupid,” he says flatly.

They both blink, looking at him like he just told them something shocking.

“What’s stupid?” the boy asks, frowning.

“This.” Finnick gestures toward the chalkboard where the teacher had written, What I Want to Be When I’m Older in big, loopy letters. “None of this matters. We’re nine. Any of us could be dead in three years.”

A gasp comes from somewhere behind him, and the twins go quiet, their smiles fading. Finnick glances around, taking in the uncomfortable faces of his classmates, the way some of them looked down at their desks.

“Finnick,” the teacher says sharply, her tone slicing through the silence. “Do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

He shrugs, his gaze steady. “It’s stupid. All this ‘what do you want to be’ stuff. Anyone in this class could go into the arena. So what’s the point of pretending?”

The room goes quiet, a few kids fidgeting in their seats. Some look down at their desks. The mayor’s daughter glances at him, her smile gone, her cheeks flushed. Finnick can feel the teacher’s glare, the heat of it like the sun bearing down on him.

“Well,” she sighs, setting her chalk down with a clatter, “if you’re so sure of that, why don’t you tell us what you want to be?”

He feels his stomach twist, irritation flaring. Finnick hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek. For a second, he almost says it—I want to be a fisherman, like my pa. Or at least, he used to. Used to picture himself out there hauling in nets with the salt in his hair and the wind at his back. He wants to tell her about the boats, how he likes the smell of the sea at dawn, how he wants to live on the waves, the way he thinks his mother must have done before she’d left them.

But he can feel the eyes on him, the curiosity waiting to pounce, and he remembers. He remembers making the mistake of saying that very thing out loud once, had made the mistake of foolishly and eagerly saying that his ma will come back from the sea. He can’t forget the way these same kids had laughed at him, taunting him for believing that. They’d laughed, calling him a “baby” for thinking she’d ever come back for him.

The memory makes him angry. But worst of all, remembering makes him embarrassed, makes his cheeks flush hot and his eyes and ears burn. He sets his jaw, his face closing off. He presses his lips together, refusing to answer.

“Finnick?” Mrs. Pritchard’s voice has a sharper edge now, a warning.

“I don’t want to be anything,” he says flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s stupid.”

A few kids giggle. Mrs. Pritchard frowns, her patience thinning. “If you don’t have anything productive to share, perhaps you’d be better off in the headmaster’s office.”

She doesn’t wait for him to argue, just points to the door with a look that tells him this isn’t up for debate. He shrugs, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walks out of the room, not sparing the mayor’s twins another glance as he makes his way to the door. He doesn’t care. Headmaster Thomas would threaten him, tell him he needed to be respectful, but Finnick’s good at tuning him out.

-

The headmaster waits for him, and like always, his office is stale and stinking faintly of tobacco, mildew, and old herring. The man’s beady eyes peer over a thick stack of papers, settling on Finnick with a practiced frown as he shuffles his notes. Finnick sits there, slouched in the chair as the man drones on about “attitude” and “respect.” Finnick barely listens, his eyes fixed on a crack in the wall, the way it spiders out across the paint like a web. Headmaster Thomas keeps going, waving his hands, his words more bark than bite.

“You keep this up, and I’ll be forced to call your parents,” Thomas finally says, crossing his arms. “Clearly, you need a lesson in discipline, young man.”

Finnick blinks, then laughs.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he says, his voice light but mocking like the man is stupid—which he is. “My mom’s dead, and my pa’s at sea more than he’s on land. He’s probably halfway to the Outer Islands by now, so you’re better off talking to one of those fish. But if you really want a meeting, you can ask the waves.”

The headmaster’s face goes tight, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He holds Finnick’s gaze for a moment, and Finnick holds it right back, unflinching. After a beat, he just sighs, nodding toward the door, waving Finnick off with a dismissive flick of his hand.

“Fine,” he says, his voice weary. “Go on. You’re dismissed for the day. Come back tomorrow with a better attitude.”

Finnick leaves without another word, swinging his bag over his shoulder as he steps out into the bright afternoon. Getting sent home early is no real punishment.

He walks down the main road, kicking rocks and watching his shadow stretch out long beside him. The streets are filled with adults; the only kids not in school are Finnick and the ones on their parents’ backs. The further from the main square he gets, the emptier it is. The sound of seagulls fills the air, wings beating against the steady roll of the ocean. The day is warm, the air thick with the smell of salt and seaweed, and he finds himself heading toward the harbor like he always does, like maybe, just maybe, today would be different.

But when he gets to the docks, he only sees the usual faces, the men unloading crates and stacking nets, his shoes scuffing against the cobblestones as he scans the docked boats. Hoping, just once, to see his pa’s ship docked early. One of them is the sand-haired deckhand who works alongside his father, a burly man with a weathered face and a daughter who died in the arena two games ago. He sees Finnick and shakes his head, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Not today, lad. Sorry. Might be another week yet.”

Finnick just nods, not letting the disappointment show on his face. He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but the familiar ache settles heavily in his chest. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He keeps walking, heading for the edge of town, his path well-worn by now. He reaches the little shack near the edge of the village, where the old couple keeps watch from their creaky porch. They’d helped look after him sometimes when he was younger, giving him warm soup and gentle smiles that made his chest ache a little. When they see him approach, the old woman, stooped and gray, waves him inside, her face creased with a welcoming smile.

“Stay for dinner, Finnick?” she calls, her voice crackling with age. Her husband, nodding along beside her, pats the chair next to him, an open invitation. “We’ve got stew on the pot.”

“Thanks, but no,” he says, forcing a smile he doesn’t feel. “I have homework.” He doesn’t really, but he’s tired of their food, tired of the same stew they make week after week, tired of being reminded that he needs someone else’s kindness to get by.

They don’t argue, just nod and wave as he turns back toward the shore. He’s already spent too many nights eating with them, bowls of bland stew and stale bread, everything tasting like the dust of old age. Today, he wants to be alone.

He keeps walking until he reaches the shore, the place he always ends up. He sits down, his knees tucked up to his chest, his hands digging through the sand until his fingers close around small, smooth stones. The tide rolls in slow and steady, brushing over his shoes as he picks it up and throws it, watching it arc and then disappear into the water. He throws another, then another, each one skimming the surface before sinking out of sight.

He stays until the sun dips low, the sky stretching into streaks of orange and pink that melt into the horizon. When he finally rises, dusting off his clothes, his body feels heavy, the emptiness familiar now. Something he wears. He trudges back to the small, lonely house, pushing open the door to nothing.

The house is empty, quiet except for the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. He drops his bag on the table, heading to the kitchen to make himself dinner. There isn’t much—just some bread, a can of fish, a few wrinkled potatoes his father had left behind. Standing on tiptoes, he pulls bread from a shelf, slicing it carefully with a dull knife, eating it plain and dry because he hasn’t figured out toast without burning it yet. He stands on his tiptoes again to drag down a bowl and mashes the potatoes as best he can, the motion automatic, his hands moving without much thought.

He eats standing up, staring out the window at the last of the light fading from the sky. The house feels like it’s holding its breath, and he tries to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest, the ache that spreads through him like a bruise. He hates it. Hates the quiet, doesn’t know how to get rid of it. He used to scream and scream in hopes that it would echo back and feel like something or someone. But it’s a silence that can’t be filled by one person. He hated it for so long that he convinced himself that he liked it.

When he’s done, he rinses his bowl, puts it back on the shelf, and heads to his room.

He gets himself ready for bed. He cleans up, brushes his teeth, and climbs into bed alone, tucking the thin blankets around himself. Pulling the blanket up to his chin, the fabric rough against his skin. His gaze drifts to the window, to the sliver of sky he can see through the cracked glass. He blinks, his chest tight, his lip quivering, but he swallows the feeling down, burying it deep. He isn’t a baby. He isn’t going to cry.

But as he lies there, the empty house pressing in around him, he can’t help the way his eyes grow damp, the tears slipping down his cheeks as he stares up at the ceiling, his breathing steady, his heart heavy with a loneliness he’s too young to understand but too old to shake. He pulls the blanket up over his face.

You’re not a baby, he whispers to himself, closing his eyes against the dark. You’re not a baby anymore. And he lies still, breathing through the ache, waiting for the dawn.

-

Finnick doesn’t mind the sea. In fact, most days, he loves it. Loves the way the waves kiss the sand in endless rhythms, the way the breeze carries the smell of salt and freedom. But today, the sea feels like it’s mocking him.

It’s a slow day at the harbor, the air still and the water stretching out like an endless mirror. The boats are docked, their nets hanging empty, swaying in time with the tide. Finnick’s perched on the edge of the pier, a fishing line dangling from his hands, though he doesn’t expect to catch anything. His dad’s boat is gone again, off toward the Outer Islands.

“Another week,” the same sand-haired deckhand had said earlier, not unkindly. “Might be longer, lad. He’ll be back when the winds favor him.”

Finnick had nodded like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t care.

But he does care. He cares a lot.

The others tease him sometimes for how often he comes down to the docks, asking if his dad’s boat is back yet. ‘Docked Odair,’ they call him with grins, their voices loud enough for everyone to hear. He laughs along with them, shrugging it off, but the words stick. They always do.

“Oi, Finnick!”

He glances up to see Nyle and Mareen, the twins from school, waving at him from the shore. They’re a little older, the mayor’s kids, with hair always combed neat and clothes that aren’t patched three times over. He knows they’re here for the same reason they always are—to hover, to chat, to bask in whatever scraps of his attention they can gather.

“What’re you doing all the way out here?” Mareen asks, her voice light as she approaches. She’s holding her sandals in one hand, her bare feet sinking into the sand.

“Fishing,” Finnick replies simply, his eyes on the line.

Nyle snorts. “Out here? You know you’re not gonna catch anything like that, right?”

Finnick shrugs, reeling the line back in. “Guess I like the quiet.”

He knows it’s a lie the moment he says it. The quiet isn’t what he likes—it’s what he’s stuck with. Quiet means his Pa isn’t back yet. Quiet means another night in an empty house, eating dinner alone. Quiet means nothing to do but think.

“Hey, Finnick,” Mareen says, sitting down on the pier beside him. Her smile is wide, too wide, like if she makes it big enough he won’t have any choice but to see it. A gift instead of a natural reaction to seeing him. “We’re having a picnic later. You should come.”

Nyle flops down on Finnick’s other side, grinning. “Yeah, bring your charm, man. My sister won’t shut up about it.”

Mareen flushes. “Shut up, Nyle.”

Finnick doesn’t respond. He just lets the line dangle in the water, staring out at the horizon. He doesn’t want to go to their picnic. He doesn’t want to hear their chatter or play their games or pretend that he fits into their polished little world.

“I’ll think about it,” he says anyway, because that’s easier than saying no.

The twins talk over him, voices overlapping as they tease and laugh. Finnick nods along, throwing in a word or two when it feels necessary, but his mind is elsewhere. He watches the waves, watches the sunlight dance on the water, and wonders if his Pa is out there somewhere, hauling nets under this same sky.

Eventually, the twins get bored. They wander off, leaving Finnick alone with the waves and the faint hum of the harbor in the distance. He stays there for a while, the fishing line still in his hands, even though he knows they were right. He won’t catch anything.

When the sun dips lower in the sky, Finnick finally stands, brushing sand from his pants. He heads home, his footsteps slow, dragging through the dirt paths that lead back to the small house.

Finnick moves through the familiar motions—untying his boots, rinsing his hands, fixing himself something to eat from the scraps in the cupboard. The bread is stale, the fish salty, but he doesn’t mind. He eats standing by the window, staring out at the fading light.

When the dishes are clean and put away, Finnick climbs into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin. He stares at the ceiling, his chest tight, his mind restless. He thinks about the twins and their laughter, about the men at the docks, about the boat that might not come back for another week, or two, or more.

You’re not a baby anymore, he tells himself, blinking up at the dark. You don’t need anyone.

But the thought doesn’t feel true, not really. Not tonight.

As he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the sea. Of waves crashing against the shore, of nets full of fish, of Pa’s voice calling his name, as happy to say it as Finnick is to hear it. He dreams of home, the kind that isn’t empty, and for a little while, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy.

-

The first time his father called him Odair Jr., Finnick felt a swell of pride so big it threatened to burst out of him. He was four, maybe five, standing on the deck of their little boat, the salt air sharp in his lungs.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the sky was already streaked with pale pinks and oranges as Finnick clambered into the small boat. The cool morning air smelled fresh and crisp. His pa was already at the helm, his broad back to Finnick as he maneuvered the boat out of the harbor. The wooden planks creaked under Finnick’s feet, and the soft slap of the waves against the sides of the boat made everything feel alive, as if the ocean itself was welcoming him.

"You ready, lad?" Pa asked without turning around. His voice was low, steady—the same voice Finnick had heard a thousand times before, but now it felt different, like it was meant just for him.

"Yeah," Finnick said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but the reality of it was even better. The boat rocked gently beneath his feet, and he could see the wide expanse of the sea in front of him—endless, blue, and full.

Pa smiled, his face lined with the deep creases of years spent under the sun. "Good. I’m going to teach you how to read the sea today. You’ll know where to fish and when. It’s in the water, Finn. You just have to learn to listen to it."

Finnick nodded, his heart swelling with pride. He’d always wanted this—his father's attention, his approval. His mother used to say he looked like him, but it was more than just the way his features resembled the older man’s. It was this, the way his father’s hands worked with the ropes, the way he handled the boat with the ease of someone who had done it his whole life. Finnick wanted to be that, wanted to be him—strong, capable, and confident.

Pa handed him the nets. “You take this end. Watch me,” he said, guiding Finnick’s hands. "The sea’s like a woman, Finn—treat her right, and she’ll reward you. Treat her wrong, and she’ll show you who’s boss."

Finnick looked up at him, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

Pa's lips curled up at the edges. "The sea’s got moods. She’s gentle one day, rough the next. You’ve got to feel her, not fight her. You’re in her world now. Just like you’ll be in mine one day." He slapped Finnick’s back with a hearty laugh.

The warmth of his father’s hand on his back was searing. It felt like he was being given something important. He smiled and nodded, his chest puffing out just a little bit more.

They worked together in the quiet of the morning, casting the nets into the water. Finnick watched the way his father moved—fluid, confident, as if he were one with the sea itself. He felt something stir inside him, a deep, aching desire to prove he could do this, too.

“Ready, son?” Pa’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Finnick nodded without hesitation.

The boat rocked beneath his feet, but his father’s big hands steadied him, his voice low and warm.

“Look at you,” his pa said, his grin wide beneath the shadow of his weather-beaten cap. “Odair Junior, eh? You’re a natural.”

Finnick had grinned back, wobbling as he tried to mimic his father’s stance—feet planted wide, knees slightly bent, hands gripping the net like he’d been born to it. His pa laughed, a deep, rolling sound that seemed to carry over the waves, and Finnick felt like the whole world was smiling with him.

They spent the day like that, his father showing him how to spot the best fishing lines, how to tie different boating knots, how to read the water like it was speaking to him.

“The sea tells you everything you need to know,” Pa said, his accent curling the words in a way that made them sound like a secret.

By the time they returned to shore, Finnick’s arms ached and his face was sunburned, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

He wanted to tell his ma about everything he’d done, about what pa had called him. But when they got home, she was already in bed, her figure small and still beneath the thin blankets. His pa’s smile faltered, just for a moment, before he clapped Finnick on the back and told him to get washed up.

Finnick’s father was a man built by the sea: Kaius Odair.

His skin was darkened and rough, creased like the wood of his boat, and his hair was streaked with silver long before Finnick’s time. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with hands as big as Finnick’s whole head, calloused and strong from years of hauling nets and tying ropes. But it was his eyes that Finnick remembers most. Green as shallow tides, with a sharpness that could cut through the thickest fog. His father’s gaze could command a room—or a crew—with a single look, but there was a softness there too, hidden beneath the layers of salt and wear.

“He’s got your eyes,” Finnick used to hear from the women in the village, the very same ones who'd swear his eyes were his mother's after the sadness took her away. “Spitting image of his mother, but those eyes? Those are yours.” His father would smile at that, a quick, fleeting thing, and ruffle Finnick’s hair.

“Good thing he got her looks,” he’d say, his voice low and teasing. “Don’t need another face like mine scaring the fish away.”

-

Finnick’s feet sink into the wet sand as he walks along the beach, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He doesn’t know why he always ends up here—maybe it’s habit. Really, he has nowhere else.

The tide is out, the waves lapping gently at the shore. He picks up a shell, turns it over, and hurls it into the water. It skips twice before sinking.

He wonders, not for the first time, what his life would have been like if his mother hadn’t walked into the ocean that night. Would she be standing here now, calling him back for dinner? Or would she still be in bed, staring at the ceiling while he whispered stories to make her laugh?

The truth is, he doesn’t know. And that, more than anything, makes him angry. Not knowing.

He kicks a piece of driftwood, sending it tumbling down the beach. He knows she wasn’t well. His father always said the sea took her, that she didn’t mean to go. But how could she just leave him behind?

-

The days—years after his mother’s death felt heavy in a way Finnick doesn’t have the words for. The house, once filled with the quiet hum of her voice and the soft shuffle of her steps, is now still. His father’s movements are slow, mechanical, like he’s going through the motions of life, but not truly living it. He works harder than ever, disappearing into the boatyard for hours, sometimes days. When he returns, his eyes are shallow pools, his back hunched. His mother’s absence had hollowed them both.

Finnick sits at the kitchen table, the chair creaking beneath him. His fingers trace the edge of his mother’s favorite cup, the one she’d always used for tea. It's cracked now, the line of damage stark against its faded floral pattern.

He walks to the door of the shed one evening, watching as his father hammers away at the wood, his face set in a permanent scowl. Finnick stands in the doorway for a long time, waiting for some sign, some acknowledgment. He clears his throat. Finnick shifts his weight, his fingers curling into his sleeves.

“When will you come back home, Pa?” he asks, his voice small, unsure.

His father doesn't look up, doesn’t even stop his work. “Don't know. Tomorrow, maybe. A week,” he grunts.

Finnick swallows, but the words feel like stones in his mouth. He wants to shout, to demand more, but he stays silent.

Sometimes, he wishes his father was an angry man instead of a sad one.

-

Finnick sits on the edge of the pier, his feet swinging over the water as he watches the boats bob in the harbor. The sun is setting, turning everything gold and pink, but he’s barely paying attention.

The deckhand said something earlier. Something about how lonely it must be, being an only child.

Lonely.

Finnick frowns, kicking his heel against the wood. It hurts. He does it again. He doesn’t know why the word feels so weird, but it does.

The waves slap against the posts below, steady and soft, and Finnick closes his eyes for a second. He tries to imagine someone sitting beside him.

An older brother, maybe. Someone big enough to make the kids at school leave him alone. His brother would probably be strong, with broad shoulders like Pa’s. He’d show Finnick how to tie better knots, how to throw a punch the right way, how to stop feeling so small all the time.

His brother wouldn’t let the house be so quiet. He’d tell jokes at dinner or sing the shanties their pa used to hum when Finnick was little. He wouldn’t make Finnick wait alone, standing at the docks every day, hoping their pa might come back sooner this time.

Sometimes, he thinks it might be nice to have a sister instead. A big sister who’d teach him how to look for the good fish or help him build something better than a lopsided sandcastle. Someone who’d let him follow her around without rolling her eyes.

He picks up a pebble from the pier and turns it over in his fingers. “Do you think Mom wanted more kids?” he whispers to no one. He doesn’t really remember her face anymore, not clearly, but he remembers her voice sometimes. Soft. Quiet. He doesn’t think she smiled a lot, but when she did, it made her whole face look different.

Maybe things would’ve been different if she hadn’t left.

Finnick throws the pebble into the water. It skips once, twice, before sinking out of sight.

Other times, he pictures a little brother instead. Someone smaller, someone who’d look up to him the way Finnick always looked up to Pa. He’d teach him how to swim, how to hold his breath underwater, how to pick up crabs without getting pinched. If anyone teased him at school, Finnick would stand in front of him, arms crossed, until they backed off.

He thinks about a little sister, too. Someone with a laugh that could make the house shake. He’d show her where to find the best shells, how to braid seaweed into her hair. He’d carry her on his back to the market and make her dinner when Pa was gone. He’d promise to keep her safe.

But, like his parents taught him, an Odair's promise doesn't mean much at all.

The dock creaks under his weight as Finnick shifts, picking up another pebble. He rolls it between his fingers, frowning at the horizon. He wonders if his pa ever thought about having more kids. Or if they talked about it, before she walked into the sea.

Finnick throws the pebble harder this time, but it still sinks. Everything does, eventually.

He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, staring out at the water. It’s not like he’d wish a sibling into this life—not with the Games waiting for them like a storm cloud that never goes away. But still, he wonders what it might have been like.

How it might feel to share the waiting.

Someone to sit with him on the pier. Someone to hold it all with him and help carry the weight.

Someone he could be proud to look like.

But there’s no one else. There never was.

-

“Finnick!” Mareen’s voice rings out, bright and eager, as she waves to him from the shore.

He’s sitting on the edge of the pier, his feet dangling over the water, a fishing line in his hands. It’s all the same as before. He doesn’t look up, pretending not to hear her until she’s closer.

“You’re out here again?” she asks, tilting her head. Her sandals dangle from her fingers, her toes curling against the wooden planks. “What are you even fishing for?”

“Nothing,” Finnick replies simply, reeling the line back in.

Nyle appears beside her, his grin wide and teasing. “You just like looking dramatic, don’t you?”

Finnick rolls his eyes. “And you like hearing yourself talk.”

The twins laugh, their voices overlapping as they settle beside him. They’re always like this, popping up wherever he is, dragging him into their orbit. Part of him finds it annoying, but another part…another part didn’t mind.

He tells that sad, lonely part of himself to shut up.

“You’re so serious all the time,” Mareen says, leaning her chin on her hand. “It’s kind of cute, you know.”

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” Finnick asks, though his tone has as much bite as a guppy.

“Nope,” Nyle says cheerfully. “You’re our favorite.”

Mareen grins, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah, Finnick. You’re just so…damn mysterious.”

Her voice catches slightly on the curse, like she’s not quite sure how to use it. The word sits heavy in the air, awkward and out of place. Finnick glances at her, raising an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

Nyle, not wanting to be outdone, leans in with a smirk. “Yeah, you’re so mysterious, it’s damn annoying.” He stretches the word out, as if saying it slower will make it sound more natural. It doesn’t.

Finnick exhales sharply through his nose. “You two sound ridiculous.”

“What? No, we don’t!” Mareen protests, her cheeks flushing. “We curse all the time. Like sailors!”

“Real sailors,” Nyle adds, puffing up his chest.

Finnick rolls his eyes again, turning his gaze back to the water. “Sure you do.”

The twins exchange a look, deflating slightly, but they quickly recover. Mareen nudges Nyle, who nudges her back, their laughter bubbling up again as if they can’t stay serious for more than a moment.

“You’re no fun,” Mareen declares, sticking her tongue out at him.

“And you’re too much fun,” Finnick replies dryly, though there’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He stares out at the horizon again, the fishing line slack in his hands, and wonders if his pa’s boat is out there somewhere, sailing farther and farther away.

-

Finnick doesn’t like school.

Not the hard benches or the creaky desks, not the endless droning of the teacher who talked more about the Capitol than anything useful, and certainly not the other kids who always whisper about him. The classroom smells of chalk dust and sweat, the air warm and stale, the kind that makes his skin itch. Every day feels like the last—a steady crawl of hours marked by the sun shifting across the classroom floor.

At lunch, he sits alone, chewing on the dry bread his father left for him that morning. The crust scrapes his gums, but he barely notices. His eyes are fixed on the window, on the thin strip of blue that peeks through the grime. Beyond it, he knows the sea is waiting. The waves seem so much closer than they are, as if he could step out of the classroom and straight into the surf.

He wonders what it would be like to spend the whole day out there, toes digging into the wet sand, watching the tide roll in and out. He imagines the salty spray of the water on his face, the sun warming his skin. It feels like freedom, and so out of reach.

“Your mom was weird, too,” a voice cuts through his daydream.

Finnick freezes.

It’s one of the older boys, leaning over his desk with a smirk. His voice is loud enough to carry, but not loud enough for the teacher to care. “Always quiet. Always sad. Guess it runs in the family.”

Finnick doesn’t respond. He just clenches his fists under the desk, his nails digging into his palms. He doesn’t let the boy see the anger bubbling under his skin. He’s good at that—at staying quiet, at keeping things locked down, far, far away.

Eventually, the boy gets bored and moves away, laughing as he joins his friends. The sound of their voices fades into the dull hum of kids talking and eating and talking some more, but Finnick’s chest feels tight, his heart pounding against his ribs. He should have punched him.

What makes him angrier than anything is not what the boy said, but the fact that he may remember more about Finnick’s mom than Finnick does.

It’s not fair—none of it is fair. Other people have these perfect, vivid memories of her, while his own are nothing but fragments: the way her hair smelled like saltwater, the hum of her voice when she thought he wasn’t listening, the cool press of her hand against his forehead when he was sick.

Some days, he wonders if he’s making it all up.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, a long stretch of waiting for something—anything—to change. The teacher’s voice drones on, the words blending together into meaningless noise. The other kids whisper and snicker, their voices grating like sand in his ears.

When the bell finally rings, Finnick grabs his bag and slips out of the classroom before anyone can stop him. He doesn’t head home right away—he walks toward the docks instead, his feet moving automatically, the sound of the waves growing louder with each step.

The tide is low, the wet sand glinting in the afternoon light, and he stops at the edge of the pier, his bag slung over his shoulder. For a moment, he just stands there, staring out at the horizon. The sea stretches endlessly before him, the waves rolling in a steady rhythm, and he wonders—not for the first time—what it would feel like to let the sea carry him away. He’s never felt closer to his mother.

-

[10]

The first thing Finnick notices when his father comes back is how much older he looks. His face, always tanned and weathered, seems more lined now. His shoulders, usually strong from hauling nets and working on the water, now sag, as though they carry something heavy and invisible that he can't put down.

“Finn,” his father says, his voice low and gruff. He drops a small bag onto the kitchen table, filled with the usual trinkets—shells, carved figures, bits of polished stone.

Finnick doesn’t rush to greet him. He just sits at the table, arms crossed, watching as his father moves around the room. The silence between them is thick, the kind that's settled over their home ever since his mother’s death. He doesn’t ask where he’d been, or how long he’ll be staying this time. He already knows the answers. Out and Don't know. His father’s return is never something to celebrate. It’s a pause in the dragging boredom, nothing more.

“Brought you something,” his father says, pulling a small charm from his pocket. It’s a smooth piece of driftwood, carved into the shape of a fish.

Finnick takes it, turning it over in his hands. The carving is small—about the size of his palm—and it feels rough, the edges uneven. His father has handed it to him with barely a word, the gesture almost absent. The lines of the fish don't remind him of the waves his father can read so well. They don't remind him of the sea at all. They feel like something forgotten, or a half-finished thought.

“Thanks, Pa,” Finnick mutters, his voice quieter than he means it to be. He sets it on the table.

He glances up at his father, hoping for more. Maybe a smile. Maybe something to remind him of the man who once called him Odair Jr., who had taught him to read the sea and pull the nets. But his father doesn’t look up. His rough, calloused hands keep working on something in front of him, automatic, his attention fully absorbed in the task at hand.

“Put it with the others,” his father says absently.

“Yeah,” Finnick replies, his voice flat. He rubs the fish charm between his fingers, feeling its grain, but it doesn’t soothe him.

His father hesitates for a moment, his hand resting on the back of a chair. He finally speaks, his voice rougher than usual. “You’ve been managing alright?”

“I guess,” Finnick replies, his voice flat. “Same as always.”

There’s a pause. Finnick feels it pressing down on him. His father nods slowly, but the movement seems to be more for himself than for Finnick. The words hang in the air.

His father sits down slowly, his movements stiff, almost reluctant. Finnick watches him, waiting for something—anything—but his father just stares at the table, his hands folded in front of him.

The driftwood fish charm sits between them, small and unimportant. His father hadn’t even looked up when he gave it to him. Finnick shoves the charm into his pocket and turns away, walking toward the window where he can see the sea. But the ocean feels far away now, as distant and uninviting as his father.

His father is here, but not really. And Finnick, for the first time, isn’t sure if he wants him to be.

-

Finnick crouches by the shoreline, his toes digging into the cool, damp sand. The sun has just begun its climb, casting a golden glow over the water, but the village is already awake. He can hear the hum of activity behind him—men shouting, nets being hauled, the rhythmic clatter of crates against the docks.

He should be helping. His father always said that every able hand was needed, but Finnick likes these mornings to himself, when the tide is low, and the world feels full.

He drags a stick through the sand, tracing lazy patterns—swirls, lines, a crude sketch of a boat. His eyes dart to the horizon every few seconds, scanning for his father’s return, though he knows better than to expect it.

“Morning, lad.”

The voice startles him, and he turns to see Old Garris, one of the harbor workers, standing a few feet away. The man’s face is creased like an old map, his eyes kind but weary.

“Your dad’s not back yet,” Garris says gently, as if Finnick hasn't already figured that out.

“I know,” Finnick replies, shrugging. He turns back to his drawing, trying to appear unfazed.

Garris doesn’t say anything else. He just nods and moves on, his boots crunching against the rocks. Finnick watches him go, a small pang of envy tugging at his chest. Garris has a son, an older boy who works alongside him, their laughter echoing across the docks.

Finnick imagines what it would be like to have that—someone steady, someone who’d stay. But then he shakes the thought away, burying it beneath the sand.

-

He can still hear his ma humming sometimes, though he knows she’s not there. But for a moment, it feels like she’ll walk through the door, arms full of whatever she gathered that day.

His father always said it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t want to leave.

Finnick wants to believe him. But sometimes, especially in the long, quiet nights when the house feels like it’s swallowing him whole, he can’t stop the anger from creeping in.

She should’ve stayed.

The thought always comes sharp and cruel, and he hates himself for it. He knows she didn’t have a choice. But that doesn’t stop the ache in his chest, the anger that rises when he thinks of how she used to hold him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. But he must’ve imagined that too, because he wasn’t enough to make her stay.

Finnick stands at the window again, forehead pressed against the cool glass. His breath fogs the pane, and he wipes it away, trying to focus on the horizon.

His father used to say his mother loved the sea. She was happiest by the water. Finnick wishes he could feel that connection, could believe the sea took her because it couldn’t bear to let her go.

He doesn’t.

Why couldn’t you stay?

The question burns hot and bitter, and then another follows, twisting his stomach:

Wasn’t I enough to make you stay?

-

The harbor is quiet except for the steady lap of waves against the shore. Finnick sits cross-legged on the dock, a spool of rope in his lap, his fingers fumbling with the loops of a knot. His brow furrows in frustration—it isn't coming together like he wants.

“You’re crossing it wrong,” his father’s gravelly voice comes from behind. Finnick startles. He hadn’t even noticed his approach.

His father steps closer, crouching beside him. “Here,” he says, taking the rope. His hands, calloused and sure, moved deftly, looping and pulling the strands with practiced ease. “Like this.”

Finnick watches closely, his heart racing. It has been so long since his father has noticed him, let alone helped him with anything. When he hands the rope back, Finnick takes it carefully, his fingers tracing over the knot.

“That’s it, boy,” his father says, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. “Haven’t seen anyone tie a knot like that in years.”

Finnick’s grin breaks through, wide and triumphant. “You taught me,” he says, his chest swelling with pride.

His father pauses, his green eyes meeting Finnick’s for the first time in what feels like forever. They soften, a faint light sparking in them that Finnick thought had been extinguished so long ago. “Did I?” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Guess I did. Don’t know where the time went.”

For a moment, Finnick sees him—the man his father used to be. The one who laughed loudly and spun him around until they both collapsed in the sand. The man who told him stories of sea monsters and storms and treasures hidden in the deep. That man was still there, somewhere, buried beneath the weight of grief and silence. Finnick’s heart aches with the realization.

The moment is fleeting, as all their moments seem to be now. His father stands, his gaze shifting back to the horizon, the lines of his face hardening again. “Don’t let it tangle,” he says, his voice distant once more, and walks away.

But Finnick holds onto that glimmer, fragile as it is. His father hasn't disappeared completely. Not yet.

Finnick tries to bridge the gap, even if he doesn't know how. He trails after his father like a shadow, waiting for an opening, a chance to pull him back. Sometimes, he lingers in the doorway while his father mends nets or polishes the carvings he no longer gives as gifts.

“Wanna go to town tomorrow, Pa? There’s a festival…”

His father doesn’t look up. “We’ll see, Finn,” he mutters, and that distance yawns.

They never see. Finnick goes by himself.

Other times, Finnick tries sitting with him, side by side, staring out over the water in quiet company. He thinks maybe that can be enough—that maybe just being there will help.

“Pa, what are you thinking about?” Finnick asks once, the question tumbling out before he can stop it. He holds his breath, hoping to be rewarded for his bravery.

His father shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Nothing worth talking about, boy,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

His face goes warm, embarrassed that he even hoped for a different answer. Finnick bites the inside of his cheek, his chest tight with the words he doesn’t say. I’m worth talking to.

Even then, he keeps trying. He mimics his father’s voice, hoping to make him laugh. He asks about his day, trying to tie knots the way his father had taught him. He even leaves little carvings of fish and seashells on the workbench, though his own hands aren't as skilled. But his father’s responses are always short, distracted. His eyes look through Finnick, as though he isn’t there at all.

“Pa,” Finnick calls one morning, clutching the edge of the table where his father works. “You wanna go fishing together this weekend? Just you and me?”

His father doesn’t meet his gaze. “Don’t know, Finn. Maybe next time.”

There is no next time. Not for fishing, not for stories, not for all the little things Finnick wants to do together. The silence between them grows heavier with each passing day, thick as the salt-soaked air of their small home. Finnick feels the distance like the pull of a tide, dragging him further and further from his father, no matter how hard he tries to hold on.

One morning, Finnick watches from the shore as his father prepares to leave again. The sky is still soft with dawn, but the harbor is as active as ever. His father moves with practiced ease; checking the nets, securing the crates, his broad shoulders hunch against the wind. Finnick hugs his knees to his chest, digging his toes into the cool sand until he feels a buried shell prick him. He wishes he would stay—or better yet, wishes he could go with him.

“Pa?” Finnick calls, small voice carried by the breeze.

His father glances up, his face shadowed beneath his weathered cap. “What is it, Finn?”

Finnick hesitates, his throat tightening. He wants to ask why his father had stopped singing, why the house felt so empty even when he was there, why he always seemed to be looking for something just beyond the horizon. But the words tangle inside him, and all he manages is, “Be careful out there.”

His father smiles faintly, though it doesn't reach his eyes. “Always am,” he says, stepping onto the boat.

But as he pushes off from the dock, Finnick notices his father pause. His hands rest on the tiller, his head turning slightly, his green eyes casting back toward Finnick. For a moment, Finnick swears his father’s gaze softened—not with the dull haze of grief or exhaustion, but with something else, something that feels like a spark of recognition.

“Finn,” his father calls, his voice low but carrying across the water.

Finnick straightens, his chest tightening. “Yeah, Pa?”

“You did good with the knots yestermorn,” his father says, his lips twitching into a small, uneven smile. “Making your ma proud. I feel it.”

And then he turns away, his figure once again solid and unreachable as the boat drifts into the horizon. But the words linger, hanging in the cool morning air like sea mist. Finnick sits back down, his fingers finding the grooves in the sand. His father had noticed. He had remembered.

It isn’t much. Just a glimmer. But it is enough to hope. Enough to try again.

Present (II) - Finnick

DISTRICT THIRTEEN

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

A high-pitched beep rings, echoing throughout the empty room. Seven seconds this time. Finnick isn’t sure where the sound is coming from; it’s muffled enough to elude him.

His fingers move with purpose as he loops the rope into intricate knots before untying it and starting all over again. His fingers feel raw, as raw as the skin around his eyes. Both dry and wet, his eyes go long stretches of time without blinking, where he sees nothing at all. He stares at nothing, eyes going in and out of focus. He drifts aimlessly around the room, never moving from his bed.

A bedpan, then nothing.

His vitals, then nothing.

A schedule, then nothing.

His lips are chapped and bleeding from him biting off the dry skin. But the pain from the torn skin, the metallic taste of blood is all beyond him now. His hands, his eyes, his lips, his mind—they’re all independent of each other, all these parts that used to make up a whole person.

He counts again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six—

Fingers snap in front of him in a moment where his eyes decide they want to see after all.

“Finnick.”

Limp brown hair, tired eyes, scowl—

“Katniss.” Finnick croaks; how long has it been since he’s last spoken? “What—” His voice cracks, but he doesn't bother clearing his throat. He doesn't bother finishing his sentence. Doesn’t bother with the water at his bedside that Katniss nods at. Finnick doesn’t bother with a lot of things. Instead, he sinks his canines into the raw, post-peeled divots of his bottom lip and focuses on his hands.

The rope is knotted. The rope. He requested it. Or…was it given to him? He can’t remember which. Who would have known to give this to him? He never… Who knows him well enough?

Star.

You do. You’d know just how to help him. But if you were here, there’d be nothing to fix. If you were here—

“You were crying.” Katniss’s gruff voice startles Finnick out of his thoughts. She must not be doing much talking these days, either. “Again.”

“Oh.” He sniffs, abruptly aware of the wetness on his face. He doesn’t apologize, and he doesn’t think she’s expecting him to.

Her movements are sluggish and drawn out enough that he's able to pick them up in a world that feels too fast-paced for him to pick apart. Whether it's deliberate or not doesn’t matter to him, just slow enough for him to notice without trying.

She lowers herself into a chair across from him, stiff. Maybe each movement for her requires all the brainpower that isn't going towards her attempts of staying angry at him. She sits with her elbows on her knees, hands dangling loose and almost useless between her legs. He's reminded of how numb and useless his limbs became once the fog absorbed into them.

His heart monitor spikes, before abruptly going back to slightly above steady. Not even that can be bothered to remember its scripted response to a dangerous stimulus.

What was the point?

She doesn’t comment on it. In fact, they don't speak. She doesn't ask why he's crying. She doesn't offer comfort. She just sits there, gray eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. At what? He'd find out if he bothered to glance behind himself.

Finnick focuses on the rope, the one thing he has complete control over. With it, the rope burns along the reinforced calluses on his hands. His hands work automatically, looping and pulling, over and over. He tries not to think about the reasons he requested it. Or maybe it was given to him. He can’t remember anymore.

The silence stretches between them, unbroken except for the sound of rope slicing through his fingers. Finnick doesn’t look up, but he knows she's still there. Solid but as steady as wet sand under his feet at high tide.

She shifts in her seat, subtle enough, but still catching attention. He glances at her, but just briefly, and notices the way her jaw tightens, the way those useless hands curl into fists.

“Why are you here?” He asks finally, because if not him, then who?

Katniss shrugs as if it's normal for them to share space and air instead of just a wall. Her gaze is still fixed somewhere unreachable. He only knows because his gaze is going down the opposite road from hers. “I don't know.”

Finnick nods, accepting her answer without question.

They sit in silence, one of the many things they now share, for a while longer—the unspoken weight of the Capitol pressing down on both of them. Finnick thinks about you—about the things they might be doing to you. He wonders if Katniss is thinking the same thing about Peeta.

She stands suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. Finnick looks up at her, his hands stilling on the rope. “You’re not eating.”

“I know,” Finnick replies. She likely heard one of the doctors mention it while she was avoiding her own meal. He can’t tell if it’s a reprimand or an observation, something she doesn't understand, or maybe just something she wants him to know she knows.

Katniss doesn’t say anything else. She just nods once, a curt, almost awkward gesture, before turning and walking toward the door.

Finnick watches her go, the sound of her boots echoing in the hallway. Then he looks back down at the rope in his hands.

One.

Two.

Three.

-

The coarse fibers scrape against his raw fingertips, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t feel it. Not really.

He’s mid-loop when the sound of boots in the hallway reaches his ears. It stops outside his door, followed by the sharp click of the handle turning.

Katniss steps inside. He doesn’t remember when she even left, doesn’t know how long he was in the room by himself, raw and splintered. Doesn’t know if this is the same day or if he lost another one somewhere between the knots of his rope. She looks just as haggard as she does in his memory.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Her gray eyes scan the room, taking in the bedpan by the wall, the untouched water pitcher on the table, the schedule taped to the door. Finally, her gaze settles on him.

Her jaw tightens.

“Finnick,” she says, her voice flat, almost bored.

“...Katniss,” he replies, just as flat.

Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, Finnick thinks she’s going to leave. There’s none of the tentative camaraderie they built in the arena. Whatever fragile understanding they had then was shattered the moment they were pulled from the Games.

She hates him now.

He doesn’t blame her.

Back then, her hatred was born of mistrust—a natural suspicion, given the circumstances. But now, it’s worse. Sharper. Heavier. Laced with something deeper.

Betrayal.

She hates the lies, the tricks, the role he played in manipulating her. She hates him for surviving when Peeta didn’t.

That last one, Finnick understands.

He hates himself for surviving when others didn’t, for being pulled out of the arena while you were left behind. He understands the way Katniss’s hatred festers, the way it eats at her from the inside out. He understands because he feels it too.

But her hatred for him isn’t all-consuming. There’s someone she hates more.

Haymitch.

Finnick should hate Haymitch, too. The man broke his promise, his word. He’d sworn to protect you, to keep you safe, and he failed, just like Finnick had.

But Finnick can’t bring himself to hate him. Not really.

There’s only so much space inside him for hatred, and it’s already filled. His hatred for Snow burns hotter than anything else, but even that has to fight for room against the worry for you that consumes him.

Haymitch hates himself enough for all three of them. Finnick sees it in the way the man avoids his eyes, in the way he drowns himself in silence now that there’s no alcohol left to do it for him. In the way he haunts his end of the medical wing like a specter, a voiceless banshee—bringing with him the tidings of decades of death and disappointment.

Katniss doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. Her hatred for her mentor is raw, all-encompassing, and it spills over to Finnick every time she looks at him.

Like now.

She stands stiffly by the door, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re not eating,” she says.

This feels familiar.

“I know,” Finnick replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

Katniss narrows her eyes at him, and he can feel the weight of her judgment pressing down on him.

The camaraderie they’d built in the arena is gone. There’s no trace of it left. Just the cold, sharp edge of her anger and the heavier silence that fills the space between them. Despite it all, she visits him. When she’s not wandering off on her own, she sticks close for the same reason she avoids everyone else.

No one else understands.

No one but him.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t leave.

Despite everything, she stays.

Her eyes flick to the rope in his hands, watching as he loops and pulls, over and over. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him. A broken man, probably. Another victor crushed under the Capitol’s heel. She’d know.

She shifts towards the seats, the movement drawing his attention. When he glances at her, he catches the way her gaze softens, just for a moment, before she looks away.

Finnick knows she’s angry. Angry at him, angry at Haymitch, angry at the world. But beneath that anger, he sees something else. Something raw and aching that mirrors his own pain.

She doesn’t trust anyone else with it.

He knots the rope again, the fibers digging into his skin.

She takes a step closer, her eyes darting to the rope in his hands. “Why are you doing that?” Katniss asks, her voice quiet now, almost hesitant.

Finnick doesn’t look up. He tightens the knot. Pulls it apart. Starts again.

Just like that, Finn. You're making your Ma proud.

“It helps,” he says simply.

Katniss scoffs, but it’s a quiet sound, almost absent. She moves over to the chair by the wall—the same one he saw her in last, the same one she always occupies—like there's a gun pressed to her spine and sits. Sinking down, ropes suddenly cut, boneless and witless.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. She sits up straighter before abruptly sinking down again.

Finnick keeps working on the rope. His fingers twist and pull, his mind looping back to you, to the Capitol, to the things they might be doing to you.

He wonders if Katniss's mind does the same thing. Work itself in familiar loops, treading familiar waters, retracing its footsteps in the sand. He always ends up in the same spot—has since he was a kid—maybe she does too. Maybe that's why she finds herself here despite wishing they were both dead.

Maybe he's mistaking her for himself.

When she finally stands some time later, or no time at all, her movements are abrupt, jerky. “I heard a new head doctor is coming,” she says, her voice clipped. “For you.”

Finnick nods but doesn’t move. It seems he scared off the last two assigned to him by the simple fact of not talking. He had plenty to say, just not to them.

Katniss hesitates, her hand on the door. She glances back at him, her expression unreadable, before shaking her head and stepping into the hallway.

Finnick listens to her footsteps fade, the silence rushing back to fill the void she leaves behind.

One.

Two.

Three.

He knots the rope again.

Haymitch

DISTRICT THIRTEEN

The light’s buzzing again.

Though it never stopped to begin with. That’s apparently a rule in the hospital wing: keep a constant dim light as opposed to a blinding white in the day and total darkness at night. It’s his only companion in this place. A sharp, incessant drone that drills into Haymitch’s skull and scrapes against every frayed nerve.

It’s loud as shit.

He told them about it. The doctors, the nurses, the officious types who march through the hallways with their clipboards and schedules inked on their arms. He’s told them about it, but they dismiss him with a dismissive nod, the kind that says they aren’t hearing a damn word he’s saying. Just another symptom of his condition, they say. Nothing to worry about, they say.

It is something to worry about. The buzzing is loud enough to crack his skull open, loud enough to melt his brain and peel his muscles from his bones. It may even kill him if he’s lucky. It hums in time with the fluids they keep pumping into his veins, trying to stave off the jaundice creeping across his skin.

They don’t take him seriously. They fill him with fluids at regular intervals, ignore his yellowing eyes, and mutter about detox like it’s an inconvenience. They’re a hyper-military district, not the sort of place equipped to deal with withdrawal. They don’t understand it, don’t care to.

He stares up at it, the light, his arms heavy and limp at his sides. He stares at it, his ally and his enemy, and wonders how he could have failed this spectacularly.

The light buzzes back.

It’s a full-time thing for now, after his heart rate dropped dangerously low, saline dripping into his veins to keep him alive just enough to suffer. His skin feels stretched too tight over his bones, sallow and thin.

“Let him ride it out,” one of them said when he was doubled over, dry-heaving bile into a bucket. “He’ll be fine.”

They don’t understand what this does to a person, how it scrapes you raw from the inside out, hollows you out. He begs for death sometimes, quietly to himself, and other times yelling it out loud. And when he’s not begging for death, he’s begging for a drop of alcohol.

The light buzzes.

Haymitch knows what they see when they look at him. A washed-up victor. A relic of the past, barely worth saving. If they had their way, they’d leave him here to rot.

Every inch of him is a sickly yellow that reminds him of the color of old whiskey bottles. He thinks of Hattie Meeny then, even though he hasn't thought of her in years. His body shakes, a dull tremor that won’t stop, no matter how tightly he grips the blanket draped over him. His throat is dry, and every breath feels like sandpaper. His nose is equally as dry. Itches like a bitch.

He hates the feeling and always attacks the offending body part with chipped nails and spite, punishing the dead skin cells for reminding him he’s alive.

It’s childish, incredibly fucking stupid, even.

But it’s even worse when he can’t reach it. His nose itches so far up that he contemplates taking the needle out of his arm just to reach it. Instead, he wiggles his nose around, sniffles obnoxiously, rubs and rubs, pinches, and stretches until he finds mild satisfaction in the sore, but itch-free feeling. That is, of course, until the stinging pain comes in. So harsh and immediate that it makes his eyes tear up, and his head whip down as something ruptures warm and wet.

A nosebleed.

The burn is almost worth it just to see the nurses’ reaction, a look of fear-tinged surprise breaking through their careful nothingness like a pickaxe when they come across him bloody and cursing and coughing. Red staining his pale white shirt, sliding past his lips, down his chin, and drip, drip, dripping onto their oh-so-pristine floors as he stumbles off of his cot to throw up—the taste of iron bleeding down his aching throat enough to trigger an abrupt and immediate revolt of stomach acid.

They try to come near him with a wet cloth, likely to clean the blood before it dries. But he knows it’s more for their benefit than anything else. So they wouldn’t have to look at the mess he made, probably can’t stand the sight of him even more now. Good.

He uses the sleeve of his cardigan to wipe haphazardly at his chin and upper lip, gathering the blood that managed to make its way into his mouth, and spits it on the floor, waving them away from him with a grunt.

They’ve made sure to put the itty bitty trash can closer in reach.

The light feels extra loud today. Louder than the voices that whisper in his head, louder than the accusations that scream at him when he closes his eyes. The buzzing drowns it all out sometimes, but not always.

Not today. Today, the guilt has free rein to roam.

He asks the light this time, “How did I fail this spectacularly?”

The light buzzes back, mocking him.

He closes his eyes, trying to block out the sound, but it doesn’t help. It’s always there, like the memories. Some of the shadows move out of the corner of his eyes; he feels them brush against his sensitive skin whenever he lets his guard down, and he knows it’ll get a lot worse before it gets anywhere close to better.

He thinks about all of you kids. His kids. That’s what you are, really. His damned kids.

Every single one. The ones who didn’t make it out of the Games, the ones who did. Every tribute from Twelve, every victor who’s walked the line between survival and surrender. More doves for him to let down.

He cares about them. He does. It’s not something he can deny, even if he wanted to. Katniss, Finnick, you, Peeta—all his, in the way only tributes can belong to each other.

He let you both down.

You and Peeta, the best of them all. The ones who still believed in something better, even after everything the Capitol had done to you. He should’ve protected you. That was his job. His responsibility.

But he failed.

And now you’re in the Capitol, suffering God-knows-what at Snow’s hands, while he’s here, tethered to a bed and staring at a light that won’t shut up.

Haymitch has spent his whole life failing the people who matter. He failed his family. Failed the tributes he couldn’t save. Failed the rebellion when it mattered most. And now, he’s failed his kids.

The buzzing grows louder, drowning out his thoughts, his regrets, his shame. He clenches his fists, the IV needle tugging painfully at his arm.

No one believes him about the light. No one believes him about a lot of things.

He thinks about Katniss and Finnick. The other two. The ones who are too much like him for comfort. Those two? They’re the hardest to look at.

Katniss with her fire, her fury, her unrelenting need to fight even when it burns her from the inside out. Katniss, so young and so angry, her edges sharp and jagged in a way that reminds him of himself before the Capitol filed him down. Nothing like Burdock was. She’s prickly and distant; she’s Twelve through and through. And that? That’s what pisses Snow off the most. That someone so beneath him managed to outsmart him. Haymitch knows—he lived it—and she’ll pay the price for it. Haymitch can see where it all might go wrong for her—how she could end up like him, or worse. Maybe not as lucky as he hoped she’d be.

And Finnick. God, Finnick, who was failed so profoundly, so spectacularly. Finnick with his charm, his secrets, the way he bends and breaks himself into whatever shape the Capitol demands. Snow forced him down a path Haymitch narrowly avoided, two different roads leading to the same gallows. He still doesn’t know which outcome is worse: the hollow life he’s living now, or the crueler one Finnick endured.

Those two, Katniss and Finnick, are fighters. Think first, question later. Products of a cruel world that forced them to become cruel in turn. And Haymitch sees so much of himself in them that it aches, like tearing open an old wound that never got to heal.

They’re too much like him. Too damaged. Too good at pretending they aren’t.

He’s tried to guide them in his own way, but what good has it done? Katniss hates him. Finnick… Finnick doesn’t have the energy left to hate him, but he should.

They’re survivors, though. Stronger than he ever was. Maybe they will survive what Haymitch didn’t: losing his love. Maybe Plutarch was right and the fact that they’re only kids won’t matter in the long run.

It’s you and Peeta who keep him up at night.

You and Peeta, who are too good for this world, too good for the Games, too good for Haymitch Abernathy.

Peeta, with his impossible kindness. Emotionally intelligent in a way that makes Haymitch’s chest ache. He’s selfless, charming, softhearted—a compassionate fool in a world that chews people like him up and spits them out. Peeta’s the kind of person you want to believe in. The kind of person worth protecting.

And you…

Haymitch remembers your Games vividly. How could he forget? It wasn’t the Capitol’s usual spectacle. The tributes devolved into savagery faster than he’d thought possible. The Careers turned on each other at the Cornucopia. The bold ones hunted at night, more animal than human. And there was that one kid, the one who ate the bodies—Haymitch can’t even think about that without feeling sick.

And then there was you.

You played the Capitol’s game. You had sponsors because you acted your ass off, but Haymitch saw through it. Not a lovable rascal, just lovable. You ran when confronted. Hid when chased. Tried to warn others off for their own good. Even with an impressive weapon in your hands, violence was a last resort for you, always.

How did you manage to hold on to your humanity in the midst of all that horror? He remembers thinking that back then too, but he…he never got around to asking you. He likely never will.

Like Peeta, you saw a light that had gone out in Haymitch a long, long time ago.

Of course, he cares about all these kids—his kids. But the two of you? He knows Finnick and Katniss would agree with him saying you’re the best of them.

And he let you both get captured, let them clip your wings.

“How did I fail this spectacularly?” he asks the buzzing light above him again and again, his voice hoarse and cracking this time, almost a prayer.

It buzzes back at him, sharp and unrelenting, mocking him, the frequency drilling into his skull. If he stays here long enough, it really might melt his brain and flay the muscles from his brittle bones.

But even that may be too kind for him. The IV bag empties with a soft click, and the nurse comes in to replace it. She doesn’t speak, just swaps the bag and leaves without looking at him.

The buzzing resumes, louder now.

He calls to his love, muttering her name over and over. He even tries her poem, muttering it with a clumsy and halting tongue.

But she never shows.

She must be mad at him; she should be. But it kills him, her becoming yet another person on the long list of people who are rightfully pissed with Haymitch.

There feels like a ball of poison, an aching nothingness, settling in his chest and against his lungs. Pressing his ribs outward and stomping on his pitiful liver that’s already waving the white flag.

Is this what it feels like to be pregnant?

No, pregnancy would come with purpose. It’s a bitter thought. This is just rot. A self-inflicted rot whittling away at the corners of his insides, reminding him that even his own body wants him dead. Instead of life growing inside, it's the absence of it. Haymitch is nurturing a slow death, incubating regret and bile and booze. It's teething on his spinal cord, filling him up like some cruel joke nature decided to play on the desperate. Curling up inside him, gnawing away like it’s starving too.

He wants to reach down his throat and sink his fingers into whatever he touches, even if it hurts—especially if it hurts. Into the rotting and stinking meat, dragging it out, kicking and squirming. See this bundle of joy with his own two eyes, just so he can know there’s something in this world more miserable than him.

Is this the alcohol draining from his veins, making sure they both hurt as it’s evicted? Or…or is this just who he is without his own special brand of medicine? It’s been so long since the last time he met himself. But what a fucking reunion, huh? No handshakes or polite smiles, just a punch to the gut and a reminder of how much he hates the company.

He doesn’t remember much about the boy he used to be, back before the bottle. Before the loss after loss after loss. Just a shadow, vague and shapeless, blurred by time and grief and things better left buried. Maybe he wasn’t worth knowing then either. He doesn’t want to meet the man beneath the booze. He’s certain he won’t like him, and the feeling would be mutual.

So he clenches his fists and wills the ache to pass, like it’s something external, something that can be outlasted. But deep down, he knows better. The real poison isn’t in the alcohol leaving his body—it’s in everything it’s taking with it.

He presses his fingers into his temples. And on top of that, the light is still so fucking loud.

He wishes Chaff were here. A friend. Someone to suffer with him. Bastard probably knew what was waiting for him in Thirteen and chose the cannon instead. The thought almost makes him chuckle, and probably would have if he weren’t so afraid of moving. It’s a better thought than the alternative—that the old boy was this close to making it out, to finding something like freedom, and just…didn’t.

Seeder visits him sometimes. But she doesn’t bring her boys.

It’s for the best. They’re good kids, but they shouldn’t have to see him like this—like a ghoul. And Haymitch can’t guarantee he wouldn’t have hated them for breathing near him, for being young and alive and unbroken.

He already snaps at Seeder, voice harsh and ugly. Every damn time she visits. It’s a vicious cycle. He can’t stop himself, but he hopes she understands. Hopes she knows it’s not her fault, that he doesn’t mean it, not really.

It’s the light.

She takes it in stride, her steady presence both infuriating and comforting. He wants to blame her. Wants to blame anyone. And every time he apologizes, she just shakes her head and sits with him anyway.

She understands; he knows she does, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. Her boys shouldn’t have to see him like this, but she shouldn’t either.

When she comes to see him today, pausing to take in the pathetic state of him and his room, he already feels Jr, his little bundle of bullshit, kicking up unjustified rage. He’s on his back and bloody, lying as stiffly as the cot underneath him, and she does nothing more than frown. She steps around the dried vomit, picks up the cloth and jug of water the nurse left behind, and begins dabbing at his skin. He flinches at the feeling of ice-cold water, glaring up at her but too weak to do more than that.

“That’s fucking freezing.” He grumbles, coming out as a wheeze when he meant to bark. She pauses and stares at him a little oddly—and he’s close to telling her to get the hell out if all she’s come to do is judge him—but she starts cleaning him again before he can. Wiping at the stubborn flecks of blood in his facial hair and at the sweat that’s left his forehead drenched. He doesn’t even know it’s there, doesn’t even notice it until she wipes it away and says:

“This water isn’t cold, Haymitch.” She hums, gentle with her movements, the first softness offered towards him in what feels like years. “It’s still room temperature.”

Oh.

“I’m losing my mind.”

Seeder shakes her head, “No, you aren’t.”

“How the fuck would you know?” He sneers and immediately feels like the piece of shit he is when she barely flinches this time, already used to him turning the venom slowly poisoning him on her. He stares up at the ceiling, mumbling a half-assed apology that he really does mean under his breath. She nods understandingly, like she always does, and doesn’t leave even though she should.

But she stops cleaning him, moves to sit in the chair beside him. It’s only a few feet away, but it might as well be a cavern. She takes the cloth and the quiet softness with her, leaving him with nothing but his own miserable company. It feels like a punishment, though he knows it isn’t

When his throat aches, his nose stings again, and tears blur his vision, Haymitch gives Seeder the only excuse that makes sense. “It’s the lights,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and brittle, like the words themselves are cracking under their own weight.

She doesn’t respond right away. He knows she’s still there—can feel the weight of her gaze—but she doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She just lets it hang between them.

For a moment, he wonders if she’s finally had enough, if she’s going to leave him to rot like he probably deserves. Her silence presses down like the damn IV in his arm, heavy and relentless, and the association he’s made up has given him yet another reason to be angry at her. He expects her to brush it off, to press a cold cloth to his forehead, or start talking about his recovery like it’s something he can plan on a chart.

Instead, she surprises him. “I miss him too,” she says, her voice low and soft. His chest tightens.

The words hit him hard, cutting through the fog in his head like a sharp breath of cold air. He opens his mouth to respond, maybe with something half-clever or half-cruel, but nothing comes. Haymitch blinks, the buzzing light above him suddenly louder, harsher, but not enough to drown her out.

He doesn’t need to ask who she means. And she doesn’t say it outright either. He’s glad; he wouldn’t be able to handle hearing Chaff’s name outside of the confines of his mind.

Of course, she misses him. They all do.

The room feels smaller all of a sudden, or maybe just quieter. Haymitch swallows hard, dragging the heel of his palm across his nose, not bothering to react to the pain of semi-dried blood pulling at his nose hairs.

Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut, wishing she hadn’t said it, wishing the words didn’t hit the soft, tender parts of him he’s spent years pretending didn’t exist. He lets the words settle like the faint hum of the sea he can almost remember. But Haymitch has never seen the sea in person, so he’ll never be able to remember it, even if he tried.

He waits for the anger that usually follows Seeder’s visits to flare, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing left to burn.

“I’m glad one of us can say it out loud,” he manages after a long moment, his voice scraping against the silence.

Seeder’s eyes stay on him, calm and steady. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

“No,” he rasps. “It really doesn’t.”

The weight of his own words pulls Haymitch’s gaze from the ceiling. He opens his eyes and turns his head just slightly, enough to catch the edge of her expression—the tight line of her mouth, the shadows under her eyes. The grief that mirrors his own.

He doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know if he even can say anything. So he settles for the truth, raw and uneven as it feels on his tongue. “Bastard probably had the right idea,” he mutters, his eyes flicking back to the ceiling. “He knew what this place would do to him.”

Seeder huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, though it sounds more like a sigh. “If he were here, he’d tell you to stop wallowing and get your ass up.”

Haymitch can hear him saying it now.

“He’d tell me to pour him a drink first,” Haymitch counters, though there’s no venom in his tone. Just a quiet, aching fondness.

Seeder exhales sharply, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You gonna make me miss you too, Haymitch?”

The words hit like a gut punch, and Haymitch clenches his fists, the IV tugging painfully at his arm. He doesn’t answer because what the hell is there to say to that?

For a long time, neither of them speaks.

He swipes at his nose again with the sleeve of his already blood-streaked shirt. He shouldn't have said anything. Shouldn’t have cracked the door open.

He tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry. His chest trembles with something he isn’t ready to call crying.

“…Remember when…” The words come out broken, half-swallowed, and gasping between breaths. “He’d…hide that damn flask in his prosthetic? Thought he was so clever.”

Seeder huffs quietly, shaking her head with the faintest flicker of a smile. “He was clever. We just pretended not to notice.”

Haymitch lets out something that could be mistaken for a laugh—if not for the sharp breath that follows, hitching painfully. It hurts his throat. “One time…he forgot it was in there during Snow’s banquet. Or maybe a birthday. Took it out and the whole thing clinked—loud as hell during a speech. I thought the Peacekeepers were going to drag him out right there.”

Seeder chuckles softly, shaking her head. “And what did he say?”

“Said it was ‘for emergencies only.’ Told Snow he’d been gifted it by some high-ranking Capitol official and didn’t want to be disrespectful.”

“And they believed him.” Seeder sighs, exasperated but fond.

Haymitch’s lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t last. “Should’ve been here,” He mutters. His voice is hoarse, the weight of it dragging through the sterile air. “He’d have hated this place, but—he should’ve made it.”

Seeder’s expression flickers—briefly—before settling into something unreadable. She doesn’t answer right away. Her hands fold neatly in her lap, and for a long moment, the only sound between them is the quiet hum of the IV drip.

Then, softly—like it’s not meant for anyone else but him—she says, “It’s not the same without him.”

The ache in Haymitch’s chest tightens like a fist around his ribs. “Yeah. Well.” His lips twist bitterly. “We could use his bullshit right about now.”

The memory sits between them, like something fragile wrapped in glass. It stretches just long enough to remind them of what they’ve lost before the weight of absence settles in again.

Haymitch’s grip tightens around the edge of his blanket. His knuckles ache from holding on too hard, too long. The ache beneath his ribs sharpens, rising until the pressure feels unbearable. He feels it rising—grief, anger, guilt—swirling under his skin until the only thing left is exhaustion. “Shouldn’t have been him.”

“I know,” she says quietly.

Haymitch doesn’t look at her when he feels the first tear slip down his cheek, doesn’t bother wiping it away. His breaths come quicker, chest tightening as the weight of everything bears down on him again. It breaks him down and doesn’t bother remaking him.

“I can’t do this,” he gasps, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”

Seeder doesn’t argue. Seeder doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t pretend it’s something he can shake off. Seeder doesn’t move to comfort him.

“I know.” She nods, “You’re doing it anyway.”

It’s not the answer he wants, which probably means it’s the one he needs. She leans back in her chair, her presence grounding in a way that makes him want to scream and sob all at once.

The light buzzes on, relentless as ever. But Seeder doesn’t leave. She stays in that chair, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at nothing—maybe the same nothing Haymitch’s been drowning in. She doesn’t leave, even as the hours drag on and that out-of-body irritability and anger unthaws. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Haymitch doesn’t beg her to go.

Haymitch doesn’t thank her. He doesn’t have it in him. But when she reaches for the cloth again, wiping the dried blood from his chin, he doesn’t pull away.

He closes his eyes and lets her.

#finnick x reader

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