So apparently there are rumours of a new Hunger Games prequel from Finnick’s POV.
I have actually no idea how founded these rumours are – some of the evidence seems reasonable, some seems wishful thinking – but you know, I’m certainly not going to protest. In fact, I have a list:
Things I Need To Know:
More about Careers.
Who gets chosen to be a Career Tribute?
Katniss says it’s a great honour for them, but she’s looking from the outside. Is it only rich kids? Do parents bribe their way to get their kids into whatever Career Academy there is?
Or is it the poor kids? Do they pick promising children out of the orphanage, out of families with too many mouths who don’t have anyone to protest? Is ‘Get plenty of food and training in return for definitely going to the Hunger Games’ just another type of Tessarae?
And for that matter, how many kids are there in each year? Just one boy, one girl? Or do they have backups, a group of five kids the same age who fight for the honour of being able to fight to the death, just in case one of them gets sick before the reaping?
Why did Finnick end up sent in as a fourteen year old? Was there originally an older kid meant to volunteer that year who got injured? The older kid who fled? Did Finnick get legitimately reaped and there’s a culture around not volunteering if a different Career gets their name pulled?
What does it feel like growing up knowing that the girl you’re training with is someone you may have to kill? Not just the training Katniss got alongside Peeta, but a full decade of it.
Annie is the same age as Finnick. Did they think they’d go into the same Games? Had they always liked each other, or was that something that only developed long after?
Things I Want:
I want Finnick to have actually been a standard Tribute with no connection to any rebels during his Games. He can figure out independently that the Games are horrifying, but as of his time in the arena he’s never spoken with a rebel.
Instead, he’s playing the Games. And he’s good at it.
He hunts. He makes flirtatious comments the entire time and winks at the camera, blows a kiss every time he gets a sponsor parachute despite the increasingly jealous expressions of the other Careers.
In fact, ideally, I think the book should commit. I think Finnick should be the one to kill his year’s District 12 girl tribute. A girl about fifteen, dark hair to mark her from the Seam even if he wouldn’t know that word, and in ten years time he’ll meet that girl’s parents in District 13 and not have any words to say.
But right now that’s irrelevant, because he’s part of the Career Pack.
How do the Packs normally work? Do they split up afterwards? Is there a generalised honour code about quietly leaving and giving your fellow members twelve hours to get out, because if District Two gets known for breaking that honour they’ll stop being allowed in the Pack next year?
Did the Pack break neatly this year, or did the others agree to stay together long enough to chase Finnick?
Katniss said it took a few days before everyone realised Finnick was the one to beat. By ‘everyone’, I assume that had to mean the other Careers.
Did Finnick age fourteen, youngest Career that year by far, realise his alliance was about to betray him? Was he warned? Was it an attack in his sleep (probably not, the Careers know how to play for an audience. Unless they went for the leg first, something to wake him up but make sure it's still not a fair fight?)? Did he run from the camp with nothing but his clothes?
The Capitol sent him a trident, record breakingly generous. That had to mean they knew he was good with it – had there been one in the Cornucopia, especially for him in the same way Katniss had been left a bow? Did someone he thought was his friend make sure he didn’t have it? Did the girl from Four, someone he’d known his whole life, end up carrying his first one while the rest of the alliance hunted him?
And it hurts but he's still better off by far than the vast majority of everyone who had ever been a tribute.
Finnick Odair wins. It’s a relatively short Game, but the audience laps it up.
And I want it to only be the halfway point of the book.
Show me Finnick who got home to his old friends gleefully chatting how they want to do the same thing as he just went through. Annie included.
Show me a fifteen year old Finnick watching someone who went to Career Classes with him die brutally while he tried and failed to mentor.
Probably don’t show too much detail about what happened behind closed doors, but show me a sixteen year old Finnick trying to scrub the scent of perfume off while thinking that at least the woman had promised to donate to this year’s sponsor.
The year Finnick was supposed to volunteer, he watched Annie step up, along with a boy who had also been in their classes. Had they been friends? It must have felt safer to befriend the other boys, when only one would ever make it to the Games.
Annie had her breakdown after watching her district partner be beheaded.
What is it like to be a mentor? Surely they have access to more of the camera feed than the public. Not even for propaganda purposes; the audience wants to watch the fight between Three and Eight, not the boy from Seven having a nap, but the mentors of Seven would still want to keep an eye on them.
After the boy that year died, did Finnick get to help keep an eye on Annie?
(And that flood might not have been entirely accidental. What does that part look like from the mentor’s room?)
(Did Finnick hear rumours that the flood wasn’t an accident from someone he shared a bed with?)
Realistically the book can’t go all the way to Katniss’ year. It’s already structure breaking to have it more as a mentor than a tribute POV.
But you could still have a brief mention of Finnick with all the kids in the Career Academy, including a little girl who one day is going to chase someone up a tree and not realise the tree has a Tracker Jacker nest.
And Finnick will get over it, in the same way Haymitch got over the fifteen year old Seam girl in Finnick’s year, because fundamentally it’s always been the Capitol’s fault and every tribute, winner or not, is just another victim.
But right this second that girl is eleven and likes to swim and wants to colour and actually yes, she does know what a Tracker Jacker is, it’s part of her classes on common mutts.
A Just a Parallel I think Would Be Fun:
The first Quarter Quell had involved the Districts having to pick the children themselves instead of a reaping, to decide which of them would be sent to die.
At some point, someone should mention that is more or less what the Careers are. And it’s not quite the same, no, any other District could tell you about that, and the Career kids are lining up for the glory of it, but they’ve still been picked and it really does ensure that the rich kids are in no danger at all.
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Desc. : He's such a liar.
The reddish-brown clay paints your hands a magnificent earthy tone, but you're not bothered about that, not as much as you're worried that you haven't quite perfected the shape of the shell-pot you've been trying for three weeks to get. Three weeks! You don't remember it taking three weeks to learn pottery, for heaven's sakes! But it's special. It's Finnick's birthday, and you know he will scream and shout if you spend anything on it. "Not a single coin." He didn't say anything about spending your time or energy. He deserves as much, with what he's done for you and your family.
A knock on the door snaps you out of your bubble of focus, and you wipe some sweat off your brow with your shoulder. "It's open!"
The door handle rattles but doesn't budge. Okay, so it's clearly not open. Your bad. "Coming!"
Hastily wiping your hands on your apron, you rise to walk to the door.
As soon as the door opens, Finnick's grinning, dimple-to-dimple, and your lips immediately receive something not many get : Finnick Odair's kisses. You laugh, hands wrapping loosely around his shoulder as he shuts the door behind him. "You dating anyone?", he murmurs against your lips.
"Not as of now. You?"
"Couldn't if I wanted to.", he whispers, frustratedly pressing you against your own fucking bookshelf. "I'm here for a month."
A pause. You pull back, tilting your head. "Finnick."
"What?"
"That's shorter than last time."
"Yeah, so?", he asks, fingers running across your cheeks, nose, jaw and hair, to make sure you're real.
"What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing you'd wanna hear. What are you working on?", he questions, spinning you around by the waist so that now you're both facing your pottery wheel, his chin on your shoulder.
"Those Capitol patrons you sent here helped heaps, thank you so much.", you tell him, and he kisses your jaw. "They give commission after commission."
He nods against you, nose tracing the underside of your chin. "Mm-hm. Anything to help."
You smile. He looks up. "I missed that, you know? Been a long while since I saw it."
He's not talking about the last time he went to the Capitol. He's talking about the last time you ever spoke to each other, which was way before he'd been offered a perpetual penthouse at the Capitol for whatever grandiose acts he did to curry that amount of favour with the President.
You smile, letting him hug your torso even harder from behind. "What's this one?"
"It's a shell."
"Who requested that?"
"Passion project."
He huffs, the breath landing right on your collarbone. You can nearly feel his eyeroll. "I thought I told you—"
"You said no money. I used leftover scrap clay. So shut up."
Finnick buries his nose in your neck. "Thank you."
"Shh. You don't even know about this yet. It's a surprise."
He snickers, bringing your clay-smeared hand up and manipulating it until your own fingers run across his mouth as an imaginary zipper. He's such a child. You tut, turning to wipe the stains from his mouth. "Finnick, look you've gone and fucked up your shirt, too!", you sigh, grimacing at the obvious brown on the otherwise neat and ironed white.
"So take it off, then.", he suggests, grinning when you roll your eyes.
"If you're going to be a nuisance, might as well help me out."
"I can't do pottery!"
"Yeah, but you can mix colours for the glaze, right? I taught you ten thousand times how to do it, so get to work."
He salutes you, before gently grouping the colours together, plopping himself down next to you. "Tell me what you want."
"Coral pink."
He smiles.
You've always loved Finnick. Because he's this. He's passion and goof and sunshine at high tide. And when you'd first inched at the line of more than friends, and he'd reciprocated (which was... gosh, how long ago, now? Four years?) he'd been clear that he liked you. But then, slowly, you suppose because he'd gone and been exposed to what else the world had to offer, all the rich, high-end Capitol girls with purses and lipstick and beauty (more of it than you) , he pulled away. Subtle. He began talking about you seeing other guys. "You should branch out, I know I'm awesome, but still." Unassuming things like that.
Soon enough, voila. The complication. The inability to untether yourself from him and his inability to tether himself to you. It's all so confusing and infuriating, but still.
Still, it's always a pleasant affair when he comes back from the Capitol and hops off the train and practically levitates to your door. It's wonderful. It's Finnick, so you're sated.
Finnick jerks his foot and the sand flies across the two of you, but you don't need to shut your eyes on instinct — he covered them with one hand before he even arrived at the thought to tease the sand. You smile when he gently removes his hand. It fades when he opens his pretty mouth. "So, why aren't you dating?"
I'm in love with you, Finnick.
I don't want anyone else, Finnick.
I hate this dance we've been doing for years, Finnick.
None of these thoughts travel down to your tongue.
Instead, you shrug. "Dunno."
His head spins around to face you like this is the freshest new gossip, and one eye closed in the 4 O'clock sun. He looks ethereal. You want to drown. "Oh, come on. Gorgeous girl like you. At least you've been asked out, right?", he questions.
Sure, ten thousand times a day because guys bet that they can give you a better time than the Capitol Golden Boy. Because everyone except you can see what this is — a pastime. Victor (and now Capitol resident) Finnick Odair slumming it with a near-bankrupt potter to stay in touch with his superficial roots. Headlines write themselves.
"Sometimes."
"And you don't accept? Not even for a free meal and a good time?"
"Drop it, Finnick."
He chuckles and it's like music. "I'm just curious, I mean, I can set you up if you want me to, it's not like I don't know people around Four."
You've officially had enough. It feels as though he's taunting you, and usually you'd just convince yourself he's too pure of a soul to do it, but now it truly does feel like he's just mocking this pain you're in.
"Haha, you think I, Finnick Odair, am in love with you because we've been meeting clandestinely for five years? What an idiot. What a naive idiot."
So, you do something uncharacteristic. "Sure, that'd be great."
Finnick's smile doesn't fade like yours, instead, it plummets until there's just him, stone-faced. "Yeah?", he asks, clearing his throat as he looks ahead, at the endless stretch of shore you're walking along.
You, on the other hand, watch the imprints your bare feet make next to his, in tandem. "Mhm."
"You're finally bored of me, huh?", he snickers, but it doesn't call upon the mirth he usually has reserved for you.
"Finnick—"
"No, it's okay, I always knew this day would come.", he sighs, dramatically wiping fake tears from under his eyes. You can't help but laugh. But only half of your breaking heart is used to do so.
He's taking this in stride so much that it just confirms your longstanding suspicion that he genuinely doesn't care. "My girl's all grown up."
THAT. That pisses you off like nothing else can. It's always those little things. "Baby." "Honey." "Gorgeous." "My girl." It's unfair and it's so predictably Finnick that you want to bash his head in.
Since you were eighteen, you and Finnick have been doing this dance, this "how-does-it-matter-kiss-me" , as Finnick calls it whenever you ask him what it actually is.
He seems to want to marry you, sometimes (which you can only see whenever you look into his eyes and see the horizon in them) but he's always ready to remind you that you're free to date anyone else, and that he'll happily bow out.
And maybe he wasn't lying.
"How about Cove?"
"Which Cove?"
"My Cove. Guy who fixes all the fishing boat engines? Dad owns Hayward Hotel?"
Oh, aka, Finnick's best friend since birth. He must actually not care, huh?
"I mean..."
"Don't worry about me, I'm just playing Cupid. You're perfect, and he... can attempt to be. Come on. Good match, you have to admit. I'm gifted in these things, y'know?", he boasts, but his fingers lace through yours as if his words aren't a direct contradiction of this action.
You take a breath, because his hand's made for yours and you can see it, the sky can see it, the ocean can see it, but he can't. And then, "...Sure.", you relent, the word coming out with a sigh.
He smiles, his dimples tiny pools of sunset light. "Great. He's been obsessed with you since the third grade. I'll give him permission, and you could look up into the night sky and see him dancing up there."
Your brows furrow, giving him a funny look. He rolls his eyes. "Because he'll be over the moon?"
He gasps in faux-offense at your eye roll, hands in your pockets as he turns you against the horizon. "What, you're allowed to be creative and I'm not?", he asks, but you don't get the chance to inform that he creativity does not have to go hand-in-hand with dumbassery, because he kisses you as if he's practicing for a proposal on the horizon the next day, as if he didn't just make plans to set you up with his best mate, as if he does love you.
You hate the Capitol being so good at training him because you can no longer tell if he's acting (like he does in advertisements when he pretends that the parfum doesn't smell like horse piss), or whether he means what he does and says.
Finnick's not sure why he was so hasty to do this to himself. He knows he doesn't deserve you, and maybe that's why he's getting two of the best people in his life together, but come on. It's his birthday. He could've let it rest for two days so that he got you all to himself on this day.
And a party thrown by the residents of Four isn't the best place to have this soul-crushing revelation that he just wants you, the ocean and a boat for the rest of his days.
Cove nudges your elbow when Finnick finally gets done with replying to fan mail, and to all the other people at the party who are using it as an excuse to splurge on liquor, before you hand him the gift that he's not supposed to know exists. His astonishment isn't faked. His thumb rubs the underside of the seashell-vase, and he immediately feels it. Your initials, both of yours, right there. He looks up. You grimace subtly. Finnick nods. Right. You'd done that before. Before he'd let you go. Before he'd even floated the idea of setting you up. Before he'd shot himself in the mouth and told Cove that the rumours 'aren't true' and that he's never even thought of you like that. People cheer when they see the gift.
"Dude, thanks!", he exclaims, selfishly taking this moment to show Cove he's always gonna be closer to you than he will, by hugging you a little too long and far too tight.
After the party's over, he washes his face thoroughly in a nearly-empty house (you're still there, helping him clean up) before clearing his throat to call out to you. "Hey, what's this?"
When you arrive, he laughs. "Oh, baby, you gotta be on your toes. This is my own house."
Your brows furrow. "Not following."
"Why would I ask what something is in my own house?"
You don't have time to react because he's clicked the bathroom door shut behind you and has melded his lips with yours. "Thanks for the present.", he says, against them.
You're not sure what to do in this situation, so you kiss back, naturally. "It's no bother."
"So, do you like him?", he asks, in between kisses and shoving hair from your neck so his fingers can dance on each side of it.
"Who?", you ask, slightly distracted by how those same fingers are slowly inching up the back of your shirt.
"Cove."
"Oh, yeah, he's nice."
"Just nice?", he asks, between heavy breaths as he sits you on the bathroom sink like every cliche to ever occur. "Fresh fruit is 'nice', c'mon, baby, tell me what you really think of him."
"He's... different."
He bites your bottom lip, frowning as he opens his eyes. "Different? Good different or...?"
Bad. Bad. He's simultaneously the best parts of Finnick without being Finnick, and that's kind of what you can't put your finger on. They're similar. Like the same things, laugh about the same things, love the ocean the same. But then he speaks, and it's definitely not Finnick. He speaks like he's loved you forever, but Finnick speaks like he's known you forever, and you're not sure why you prefer the latter. You shouldn't. You should want love, not a limbo.
"Just different.", you reply, which doesn't seem good enough for Finnick, but he doesn't press it. Hey, as long as you're not actually going to date Cove, he's fine. He's confused as to what he wants you to do, but romantically interacting with other guys is definitely not on the list.
He hums. "Beach?"
You shrug. "Sure."
Weeks pass. Finnick's still that year older. Cove still continues to awe you with his simultaneous similarity and dissimilarity to Finnick. And the three of you (to all three of your chagrins) are forcibly spending more time together. Hey, they're both sweet when they want to be, and humour you when you rant about your job. Like now.
"And then this."
Cove gapes, gently taking the piece from you, pretending he doesn't see Finnick attempting to braid your hair from your other side. "Holy shit. It's fucking beautiful."
You groan. "It's not even done yet. I gotta glaze it. And it's supposed to be white."
"But still, roses seem super hard to do."
Finnick stops his braiding, tilting his head over your shoulder to squint at the piece in Cove's hands. "A white rose?"
"Yeah. Capitol commission, thanks to you. Special from the President."
Maybe you're imagining this, but there's this tenseness that passes by like a breeze, but it's tangible for a single moment. "He commissioned?"
"Yeah. A white rose and a red one, too."
"I never told him about your business."
"Word must've gotten around."
"Word doesn't just get around in the Capitol. It's carefully curated and distributed. I mean, shit.", he scoffs, sitting up and gesturing for the piece from Cove's reluctant hands. He examines it under sunlight. "I only told certain people — specific people — that would spread the word within their own pretentious art-circles. No way that should've reached the President."
"What, my work is pretentious?"
"No, no, but they're the only ones that appreciate art, and the President is not part of that group. He doesn't even like music. No way he just heard about you and commissioned, let's be honest, you're no Aleg—"
"Finnick." Cove shuts him up at almost the right second, but you hear the first name. Alegra Rion. The Capitol woman who visited Four once and stole your entire first collection and marketed it to the extent that people called you a copycat. You'd never financially recovered from that, and now Finnick's here talking about it like it's a matter of talent and not theft.
"Okay, Finnick.", you mutter, snatching the piece from his grasp. "I don't deserve the President's commission because I'm not as good as Alegra Rion, of course.", you scoff, standing up, sand probably blowing into both the boys' eyes. You hope it understands your wrath and directs itself onto Finnick's alone.
"I didn't mean it that way, you kn—"
"No, actually, I don't know, because you're the first person I told about Alegra, but you're not the first person to call her better than me, like they did the entire summer!"
He attempts to stand and calm you down, but honestly? You're not in the mood to be wrapped in his arms, which you usually are. You hope he gets that fucking hint. "No, just fuck off, okay?"
"Baby, don't take it that way, I never meant it like t—"
"Fuck you, Finnick."
And then you do something you haven't had the heart to do for nearly three years now. You leave Finnick.
Finnick constantly feels like he's going to throw up. His chest feels pressed-on every morning. The sea looks less blue than usual. He hates food. The air feels thick. He's going clinically insane.
It's torture, it's hell, it's all his fault. The only thing he wants to do in Four is spend time with you, and now he no longer feels worthy of it — he doesn't deserve to. That is, if he ever did.
He lies to you all the time. He lied the first second he saw you after what had been a gruelling three months. He doesn't have to be here for only a month. He gets to stay here for two months, but the second one, he'll need to stay in a hotel with a Capitol Patron who's on vacation and wants his services too. He lies about what he had to do to get that Capitol penthouse (which he doesn't want, anyway). He lied about telling anyone in the Capitol about your art — it's been him under several fake names giving commissions. He lied about being okay with you dating someone else. It's like letting his wife be courted by someone else. It's viscerally painful.
Thankfully, the goodbye was short. He'd showed up at your door, apologised, accepted the hug you'd offered him, and left to what you thought was the train station, but he just needed to get to that fuckass hotel as long as his services were needed. Another thing to be thankful for is that he gets a separate room — usually the Patrons don't care enough, and Finnick just has to sleep on the floor (or sometimes, god forbid, the bed) — but this one has a family to keep up a facade to. So, Finnick lucked out, and has his own bed. He has time to contemplate after doing his duty. He stares at the ceiling. It's the exact same as his Capitol one. Stupid. If you're gonna make a hotel to experience Four to its entirety, for vacationing Capitol residents, why do you need to replicate their everyday view? Stupid.
But insulting the Capitol's design choices won't change the fact that his nights are no longer his own, and now... well, neither are you. It's funny, he's been taking your obliviousness for granted. He's always thought you were smart, yes, but you'd always been oblivious to his stupid excuses. "Snow needs me back, another promo." Stupid shit like that. He took that for granted, entirely. He hadn't counted on being so undeniably annoying with that kinda stuff that you'd actually try dating someone else. Ugh. He can practically hear your voice still. "It's not right."
Fuck yeah, it's not right. He's been in love with you since he met you, he got the courage to make a move, knowing full well that he'd be cheating on you if you were to actually date, and he lies every FUCKING time he sees you, and he thinks he deserves you? He actually flinches.
"It's really not right.", your voice echoes again.
Yeah, subconscious, he knows.
"It should be a little more themed, it just looks like a smorgasbord of mildly marine things."
His brows furrow, a funny look on his face. Huh? He sits up quick at that, tilting his head at the door. Unlocked. FUCK! Spare room that he's not allowed to have the keys to because it's connected to the Patron's room and— no!
Your voice gets closer, and he'd usually levitate toward it but he needs to pull himself away from it. He tries the connecting door to the Patron's suite — he's pretty sure it's empty right now — but it's not budging.
"And we'll need things for this small room, as well, we're converting it to become a walk-in-closet for the attached suite.", someone tells you. Someone familiar, but his brain's always been tuned to your voice.
"Yeah, for sure, I just need to see the size of the corners, if you want bigger pieces."
A knock on the door. Fuck. He tries harder at the doorknob.
The door swings open, and there you are. You and Cove. Cove — hotel owner's son Cove — grimaces like he just realised that he'd forgotten who was in this room, and he might as well have. Fake name, totally undercover shit because of the Patron's secrecies, it's easy to slip someone's mind.
But now, you're here.
And he's shirtless and covered in hickeys.
His clothes are strewn on the floor, in haste.
You look repulsed.
He looks repentant.
Finnick watches you slam the door — Cove still inside the fucking room — and he's pretty sure he's lost the hell outta you, and honestly, at this point, it would make no difference if he jumped into the ocean and stayed underwater for a moment too long or not. At least you could have some semblance of joy and peace.
"Finnick, I'm so sorry, man, I—"
"I'm sure you are, man.", he mutters, calmly picking up his own clothes from the floor and folding them into his bag. "Works out nicely for you, right?"
"First of all, you set us up! Don't do that, I would never—"
"You've loved her longer than me, right? You think it's only right, you said so yourself. I don't love her as well as you could, right? That's what you told her?"
Cove doesn't respond.
"Yeah, she tells me all that while we lie naked in bed.", he spits, and he knows it hurts him. Same way it hurts Finnick when he sees you laughing with Cove, something you only started doing after he introduced the two of you. If you hadn't met, you'd still be his. "She tells me things. Do you even know her middle name?"
"I didn't do it on purpose, man, I love you, I would never do that shit, not for anything."
He's well aware that Cove did it by accident. He knows. But it's easier to displace his emotions onto someone who's already ready to receive them, right?
"Cove, genuinely just fuck off, man.", he mumbles, zipping his bag up before pouring himself a drink.
"Finnick."
"Fuck. Off."
Cove leaves. Finnick grieves.
The rain's pounding at the window that night, and he's got to fight to keep his papers from flying, but he's determined. It's your eyes he's drawing, so he can't possibly stop, not when the art is flowing out his fingers like blood. Maybe this is what you talk about when you're crafting shapes out of basically thin air, this catharsis that he's never been able to experience. Maybe this is it. In fact, the rain's so loud that he doesn't hear the knock until it becomes a slam. The door's not locked — he's not allowed to lock it, remember? — and so it's odd that there's a knock at all.
He stands, placing the drawing under the bottle of alcohol he's been trying not to look at too long. If it's fucking room service, he'll—
You look ethereally livid.
Finnick stares at you a while, and you do the same. It's intimate and he missed this. But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to.
"Let me in."
Wordlessly, he moves to the side. When you pass by him, he realises those are tears, not raindrops. They're so remarkably unintelligible from each other, and though it seemed obvious, he'd always thought he could decipher you perfectly, a poem he selfishly kept from the world.
He shuts the door behind him. He looks a little past your shoulder : there's not much on the desk you could throw at him. A gaudy vase from when this place was first decorated. His drawings of you. The liquor bottle. Okay, that might hurt.
"You didn't tell me. We tell each other everything."
Okay, there's a lot of things he hasn't told you, and if Cove — assuming he's the one who's committed the vengeful act of revealing all of his past transgressions — were to choose which one to tell you?
Finnick would bet his ass that it would be the fact that he's slept — had to sleep — with Alegra Rion. Probably. Mostly. If he were smart and evil. It's what Finnick would do, if roles were reversed. No, actually, if roles were reversed, he'd have made a move long before anyone else ever had. But that's digression. "I just... I'm sorry."
"We tell each other everything. Alegra Rion? I always kne—"
As he expected.
"I—I was... drunk, okay? I didn't know it was her!", he cries, because he can't think of anything else.
But you're speaking at the same time as him, and you say, "I always knew she was a creep, but fuck, that's—"
Maybe this is the issue, his lies flow out too smoothly. He doesn't listen to you, just keeps on fucking lying. Cove hyperventilates when he lies. Finnick has been trained in it. He's despicable. It's deplorable that you're even here, entertaining his bullshit.
"Finnick, you're fucking insane, and I don't know why you— we tell each other everything, and you hid th—"
"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was her and—"
"I fucking broke the rose because eurgh, it's disgusting, and—"
It's easy when talking over each other to lose the point the other person's trying to make, but thankfully, the other person is his muse, so he pauses, tilting his head.
"What?", he asks, and it's the first time he notices how you're standing. You're gripping the chair behind you, and the other hand is clenching into your pocket.
"I fucking destroyed that shitty ass rose. Let Snow come and kill me for all I care!"
Finnick's officially lost. "What?" He frowns.
"You've been putting yourself through all of that, and you didn't tell me? We tell each other everything!"
It takes him a moment. But then, there it is. There. The current rushing up his veins. He owes Cove an apology. He owes you an apology. You could die because of treason. You committed treason for him.
He can't speak, and you notice. Finnick has no idea what to say. He lied to make you still like him. He lied more to make you forget everything else about him besides how much he adores you. The lies piled up until he was repulsed by himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?!", you question again, shaking his shoulders.
He shakes his head. "I didn't want to—!"
"Want to what?! You let me rant about Alegra and my sales when you—", you groan in frustration, regret, guilt. "Why didn't you tell me?!",
"Because I fell in love with you!"
The staring-at-each-other begins again, but he muffles it pretty quickly by hugging you. "I'm sorry."
"For being a victim?"
"For lying to you."
"If not me, who are you gonna lie to, baby?"
Baby. You've never called him that. It's only been him calling you that. He breaks at that, and he's not going to be embarrassed about it, because it's in your arms, and this is how it's supposed to be.
Decades pass, it feels like, but the clock probably only ticked a handful of times. "Finnick?"
a few more district 4 headcanons as i work on the next chapter of fame is a gun! this centers mostly around marriage and the little bits of info we get from finnick and annie’s wedding
white wedding dresses are more popular in modern d4, but in the past, colorful wedding dresses were popular! dresses are typically kept secret from the groom and groomsmen
bouquets are typically made of wildflowers, but wealthier couples can normally afford to buy bouquets made of different flowers
rings are exchanged between the couple, but since most people work on boats, they wear their rings on a necklace. some people forgo the rings entirely in favor of a necklace, which is slowly becoming more popular
there’s a traditional song that’s sung at weddings, typically by the wedding parties! its based on a short story/folklore from d4 about a couple who may or may not have existed at some point (which i will fully explore in fame is a gun and possibly in another post!)
this is all i have for now, but if i come up with more i’ll be sure to add it onto here lol
Made a fic… Finnick x reader. Second fic I’ve ever made, be gentle but please do give feedback❤️❤️❤️
Also my ao3 is DoomedByFiction so it’ll be posted soon probably mwah
‘Not as Bad as I Thought’ (work in progress title)
1/?? Chapters, will also go on ao3 soon
She sat on an empty beach, pulling up handfuls of sand, the sensation of the grains was calming as it sifts through her fingers.
Waves crashed harshly against the rocks under the pier. The sounds of seamen making an early return from their excursion.
While observing the darkened sky, she was interrupted by a voice that she could only describe as honeyed.
“Trying to get a shower from the rain?” He remarked.
Turning her head to see who had injected themselves into her thoughts, only to find Finnick Odair, in all his glory.
Her past-mentor, who seemed to find her just about anywhere she went.
He continued, “I’ll admit, it is a good idea.” He paused, breaking his serious expression with a smirk. “Well, if you didn’t have an amazing shower back at your house.”
“Do you need something, Finnick?” She shot back. His presence was irritating when she was trying to have some peace and quiet.
“For you to not catch a cold, sweetheart.” He explained, running his hand through his bronze curls.
“It’s not cold.” She huffed.
“It will be when it’s raining,” Finnick advised. Continuing with a smirk, “Mags wants to see you, c’mon.” He reiterates, already turned and heading back towards the town.
Only at the mention of the elderly woman did her ears perk up, deciding that she would follow him.
“Wait up—”
She ran towards him, not expecting him to turn back to wait for her. Resulting in her bumping into him.
“oof.” The noise was expelled from her as the air was knocked out of her lungs.
She backed away, enough that it was a regular distance, mumbling an apology.
He lifted her chin, leaning in. “If you wanted a reason to touch me, sweetheart. You could’ve just asked.” His breath tickled her cheek.
She flushed as he laughed, feigning his innocence. “Joking, joking.” He held his hands up.
He had always been like this, unapologetically flirty or just touchy.
He had mentored her alongside Mags for the 66th hunger games, playing a huge part in how she won. He had taught her everything he knew despite her trying to refuse his help.
She thought he couldn’t teach her anything since they were both fifteen. (Even though he did win his games at fourteen.)
Now, after five years of co-mentoring and living just across the road from each other in Victor’s Village, he still couldn’t get a hint that she didn’t like him. Even if the little stunt he’d just pulled was making her think stupid thoughts.
The walk back to the village was quick and uneventful. Although she did seek a few glances his way, though she’d never admit such.
Just as the two stepped into the gates of the closed off village, did she decide to break the silence. “So… what did Mags want?” She inquired.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Uh huh.” He glanced over with a smirk.
A light drizzle of rain starts.
“So you lied to me?” She deadpans, crossing her arm over her chest in a defensive manner.
He stops, looking her over as she looks annoyed. “She could want you. You just wouldn’t have known, since you were waiting to be soaked by the rain.”
“I’m going home.” She exasperated, turning on her heals to walk across the street to her own home.
“Wait-“ He caught her shoulder before she could escape him.
He sighs, “Just come inside.” He pleaded softly, like he’d finally dropped his Capitol mask for once.
Everything inside her was screaming at her to just leave, but something about his tone made her pause. “Ok.. fine.” She conceded with hesitation.
Once he got her inside, he walked away from her, leaving her standing by the door.
After a moment of awkward silence of her eyeing up his place, a towel was thrown into her chest.
“Heads up!” He shouts, although the towel had already hit me squarely in the chest.
She looked at him unamused, “Not really how you use that expression.” She deadpanned, picking the towel off the floor.
He was towelling his hair, looking very smug for someone who had just committed towel assault. “It’s ok, you’re fine.” He declared.
“Who said I am?”
“Me.”
A beat passes.
“If you aren’t though… I’ll just have to make some hot chocolate to make it up.”
“Is that how you fix all your problems?” She
still hadn’t left the door mat.
“Depends. So… hot chocolate with or without cinnamon?”
He stares at her until she finally agrees and takes off her shoes, following him begrudgingly to the kitchen.
“Welcome into my humble abode.” He gestured theatrically to his kitchen.
“Nothing about you is humble, Finnick.” She said with a small smile from his theatrics.
“There’s that smile.”
“I wasn’t—“
He cut her off, “You were.”
She gave up on defending herself when he placed two mugs of hot chocolate onto the counter. Making a tsk noise and slapping her hand when she reached for one.
“They aren’t done yet.”
So she waits, watching him putting whipped cream, cinnamon and various other ingredients.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Careful, it’s hot.” He cautioned while handing one of the mugs to her.
“That’s usually how hot chocolate works.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She laughed a bit, then took a sip.
Finnick smirked and waited for her input on his masterpiece.
“So, do you love it or do you love it?”
“It’s good.” She smiled despite wanting to hate him, she just couldn’t find a reason to.
After a while of light conversation he decided to ask, “Do you have plans for the next… I don’t know.. three or four hours?”
She placed her empty mug back on the counter, “What? Why?” She questioned him, confused on why he’d want her over that long.
He lets out a breath, laughing almost nervously. “Well I was planning to have a dinner with Mags tonight, and I kinda sorta forget to make the bread.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
He scratched the back of his neck, “Well, I’m not the best at making bread, and you’re not that bad at making bread.”
“You’re trying to make me make you bread.” She said unamused.
“Yes?”
She huffed, but got up to help him find the ingredients.
“Oh, thank you. You’re an angel.” He thanked in the most serious tone she’d ever heard from him.
And for once, she didn’t find him as annoying as before.
i can’t even sit here and lie yall every time i see someone say they hope/think that the next hunger games prequel will be finnicks games i die a little bit on the inside
like i do think suzanne collins could and would handle the subject matter with the grace it deserves but for me that’s just smth i really wouldn’t want to read or watch, ESPECIALLY since some people really don’t know how to behave (particularly because if there is another book, it’ll be getting adapted into a movie)
i PERSONALLY would much rather the next prequel (if there is one) to either be about
a. annie’s games (we get more info on district 4, and the careers, we get to potentially see the start of her and finnicks relationship, and possibly some hijinks that caused the dam to break)
or
b. the 25th games/the first quarter quell. we get a little bit of info on it from the og trilogy and sotr, particularly that it was the year the first single use arena was made and that it was the year dr gaul coined the term “may the odds be ever in your favor”
i lean more towards the 25th games since it works to branch tbosas and sotr together since that’s the biggest timeline gap we have between books so far, but who knows yk??
idk, that’s just my thoughts that i’m throwing into the void and i think ill be happy with whatever we get if we do get something
headcannon: i love the idea that annie and finnick just absolutely tower over everyone else. finnick like 6”4 and annie being between 5”10-6” i think it’s so so cute 🥰
