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It’s taken him this long, he can put it off a little bit longer.
He’s still so afraid of tainting her, of planting the first seed of blackness in her heart. Finnick is a mess, a dark blot on a sheet of paper, and she is CALLIGRAPHY, b e a u t i f u l l y written and accentuated with flowing lines.
She is, in his mind, THE immaculate, and he will forever be the s i n n e r bowing at her feet, whispering for just a hint of FORGIVENESS (for the sins he has not even truly committed).
Finnick has refrained from reaching out to her, shied away from every touch. He has backed himself into a corner, one that only he knows. He YEARNS for her touch, but doesn’t trust himself to. There’s too much that can go wrong. There’s too much left to the unknown — he can’t lose her, not after he’s found solstice in her.
But today is different, today he is brave. Tomorrow he won’t be. Tomorrow he will be a coward again, a child dressed in men’s clothing. But right now, he grabs at her wrist, steadies the side of her face with his large hand — in his grip she’s p o r c e l a i n, looking at him with t h o s e eyes — and presses a kiss to her other cheek, it’s quick and chaste and over much too soon, but he’s done it.
Now all he has to do is WAIT for the inevitable consequences.
At times, it is excruciating for her to speak. Even when she can speak, it is still often difficult, lips stumbling over words when she would just rather stay silent. After watching all of Panem mock her, jeer at her for insanity she did not suffer from, Annie hated to speak. Annie would rather stay silent and safe than speak and run the risk of hearing mad girl, crazy girl, poor little fragile mad girl yelled into oblivion. Still, though, even if she didn't speak, there were only two places in the world that she felt remotely safe; the ocean, and next to Finn. She wondered if he felt the same about her, if he had a clue as to what he meant to her or how much she needed him. Did he know that he was her lighthouse calling to her shore away from the noise in her head, the ghosts in her memories that threatened to sever her from reality and life all together? With gentle, curious eyes, she watched him come closer, felt his warm touch take her wrist and touch her cheek. Then his lips were on her cheek. He felt so stiff in what would be considered by most to be a simple act of genuine affection. But, he was a Victor. She was a Victor. Their actions and affections and thoughts did not align with "most." They were a select group of people with grief and pain so strong that they could never be part of "most" again. She looked at him with soft, thankful eyes. Because while he was still tense and while she still couldn't find speech, she appreciated his soft gesture. Her hand reaches out to rest over his heart and her lips upturn into a quiet smile. It's okay. It's what she wished to say, but she just wasn't strong enough. Her touch is gentle, soft, and undemanding. The last thing she wished for in the world was to scare him. She just hoped she'd accept her quiet form of comfort.