Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It starts like this.

I am dizzy as I sit up in bed. It's humid and sweltering inside my home—regardless of the window that has been thrown open—and my sister is resting against me, her skin hot and damp with sweat. I clutch my spinning head in my hands firmly and count backwards until I feel some semblance of stability.

Through the periwinkle light that fills my room, I can make out the dresses my sister set out sometime last night, probably after she snuck into the house and before she slid into bed. I peer tiredly at them for what feels like three minutes at least, and then I am opening my mind to focus on the rest of the senses that are fighting for my attention.

The sound of waves is a familiar and gentle backdrop and I can hear my father conversing with my brother from downstairs. He is talking firmly and using words like "absolutely not" and "never". Words that are ridiculous. From the muffled, wet gasps I can make out, my little brother is crying.

Panic grasps at my heart and squeezes and I don't realize I'm shaking until my sister is lightly patting my forearm, still half asleep. She murmurs something that sounds like an odd mixture between "'s okay" and "don't worry".

I fist my hands around the old, worn quilt that rests on my bed and fight back the inevitable worry that is beginning to overtake me. Today is Reaping Day. I can't ignore that, not with the sounds of my brother's crying climbing up the driftwood stairs. With acknowledgement of this day comes the acknowledgement that two people that I most likely know and have come in contact with at least once will be taken from us and shuttled off to their deaths.

My sister sits up suddenly, now completely awake. She immediately jumps into a speech about what we are going to do today, as if she was wide awake the entire time. My sister is like that. She's older than me by five years, and everything she does is either all or nothing. She can tie any kind of knot to ever have been tied with her eyes shut, she can convince any boy to take her anywhere, and she has an astounding command over her emotions. Her full name is Coral, but she ditched the "l" around the same time she graduated from school, along with six inches of her dark blonde hair. She's engaged to be married in only a few months. She's my best friend, too.

"Annie? Annie?" Her voice is kind but firm, two words that are synonymous with my sister.

I look up and meet her eyes, so much bluer than mine, and allow myself to take a deep breath. The breath fills my lungs fully and I feel a bit of the panic ebbing away. Cora smiles, her face lighting up. She wraps an arm around me.

"There we go! No need to worry, see?"

She takes her arm off me and pushes the quilt off our legs. She pushes past me, perching on the edge of the bed and hanging her legs off the side. She waits until I mimic her, leaning my head against her shoulder. She brushes her fingers through my hair.

"As much as I love our routine Shell, I'm very glad that there's only one more year left after this one. I worry about you."

Her words are delivered to me like soft, pressed flowers would be: gently and wholeheartedly. Cora does not admit to what she is feeling much.

I smile despite the worries. Cora started calling me Shell when I was only a toddler. She made the observation that I was just as fragile as one, and has never wavered from that view. My hobby of stringing shells and creating jewelry did not help to discourage the nickname much either.

"I'm sure I'll be okay," I mumble into her shoulder. She smells like Marv, her fiancée. He always reeks of fish as he spends most his time out on his boat. He's one of the district's fishermen. I guess that's where she was all night. It stings me a bit that she skirted our full routine for him, as dear as he is to me as well. For as long as I can remember, Cora and I made the night before Reaping Day almost a holiday. We would spend the day on the beach, sifting through the sand and collecting sea shells, drifting along the shore in search of sea glass, playing in the surf. For dinner we would always eat clam chowder that we prepared together, followed by frozen blueberries and grapes for dessert. We would spend the rest of the night out on two rickety chairs in the back of the house, looking at the stars, singing silly songs from our childhood. We always went to sleep in my bed—I was usually too afraid and too apprehensive to sleep on my own—and then got ready together the next morning. Cora was there for the day on the beach and then dinner yesterday, but had slipped out of the house after the frozen fruit. I didn't see her again until sometime in the very early hours of morning, when she slipped into my bed as quietly as she could.

I don't bring it up now, because I love Cora. I couldn't bear to make her feel guilty over it. Especially not today of all days, when the risk of her never seeing me ever again is hanging over our heads. I don't want her to have to live with the guilt that she hurt my feelings the last night we had together, if it does end up being the last night.

I press on, worried that she could sense my slight hurt in my silence. "I'll be glad, too. It's nice to know there's only two more years I have to worry, but it still gets almost worse in a way each year, because the odds get stacked higher and higher against me."

At age seventeen, I have my name entered in for the Reaping more times than I did when I was just twelve. Our brother, Arnav, is just turning eight this year. He worries for me more than I do.

Cora tightens her arm around me in a brief, tight hug.

"There's no way they are going to reap Annie Cresta. Your jewelry making abilities are the finest of all in District 4, and we all know the poor Capitol just cannot do without authentic seaside jewelry handmade straight from District 4. Whatever would they wear to their seafood dinners?" Cora teases.

I giggle along with her, relishing in the way it makes some of the worry release me from its clutches. "They would have to result to wearing your rope bracelets."

Cora isn't looking at me, nor I at her, but I know we are both smiling now. She knocks her shoulder against mine.

"Can't have that! There's not a flash of shine on those ropes. And you know how the Capitol loves its shine."

We giggle along, but both of us know that it doesn't matter how much the shallow Capitol women love the fresh pearl and seashell necklaces and bracelets I string together. I can be reaped just as easily as anyone else can, and for today's Reaping, I have a higher chance than a lot of the other younger kids in the pool.

Cora and I pull our nightgowns off. We dress in our Reaping Day dresses in silence, each worrying over our own fears for this day. I turn to Cora and see her slowly and methodically fastening a necklace I made her years and years ago around her neck. It has small white seashells and fragile bits of light blue sea glass, the same blue as the linen dress she is in now. Her engagement ring glitters in the light that's drifting in from the window as the sun rises, and the light makes the fine copper highlights in her dark blonde hair stand out.

I pull at the lace at the hem of the seafoam green dress I'm in, suddenly feeling like I am suffocating. I realize I do not want to leave my big sister. Not today, not next year, not ever.

"Cora," I whisper. "I'm scared."

She turns around to look at me, and her eyes shine with tears I know she will never let herself shed. Her hands shake as she runs her fingers through her hair.

"I remember when you were five, Shell. You saw a cat that had just gotten in a fight with another cat limping down past the bakery. He wasn't injured too badly, but there was a lot of blood. You were in a brand new white dress dad had managed to get for you. I was holding tightly to your hand, until I wasn't any more, and the next thing I knew you were on the ground with that cat, cradling it to your chest. Its blood was seeping all into your dress, and you were crying hysterically. At first I thought you were crying because your dress was getting messed up, but then I realized that's why I would be crying. You were crying because the cat was in pain. You asked me about that cat for the rest of the week, and you even cried a few more times." Cora turns and fiddles with the jewelry in the small box on top of the dresser. Her hands are still shaking. She takes a deep breath and when she has composed herself, she turns back around to look at me. "That's all I can think about on Reaping Day, Annie. Because you are my seashell. Not in the way that you are not strong, but in the way that you are fragile where everyone else is hard. You are kind to your core. I do not ever want to see your dress covered in someone else's blood ever again."

She shuts the top to the box loudly and I taste the saltwater from my tears on my lips. Cora has never said anything like this to me on Reaping Day before. She has always dismissed the threat of me being Reaped. It scares me that she is telling me this, almost like she is telling me goodbye.

She crosses the room and puts her hands on my shoulders. She's a head taller than me, and tears cling to her blonde lashes as she smiles down at me.

"Not that I think you ever will have to, Annie. I just want you to know that it's okay to be scared. Because I am scared too. That's what happens when you love someone: you fear for them. But we are going to be okay. You still have to see me and Marv get married, right?"

I nod, and she busies herself with pulling my dark, long hair back into a bun. I almost wish she wouldn't as she's tying it up. My hair is so long it reaches all the way down my back, and sometimes it feels like a guard against things I don't care to be around.

A small part of me wonders if she thinks of it that way too, and wants it up in case I do get reaped. First impressions are huge in the Games, and she would want me to come off as strong and steady, with my hair pulled up tight and my eyes focused straight ahead, hands unwavering.

I want to tell her that I'm not her, that while she might have been strong and brave enough to even briefly consider volunteering in her prime, I am not.

Arnav clings tightly to my hand as we walk along the cobbled streets. The breeze from the sea is especially harsh today, and I expect storms tonight. Maybe they will be far enough off that I can take Arnav down to the beach and we can watch the lightning off in the distance. It's always been one of my favorite things, even if it frightens me.

"Maybe they won't even take a girl this year! I don't see why they can't just take two boys. Right dad? Right? Don't you think that they could just take boys this year? Then Annie really won't get taken. Or actually! Actually dad! I have an idea!" Arnav jumps up and down, yanking on my arm and my dad's as he revels in his sudden idea.

My father gives him a strained smile. "What idea would that be, Nav?"

Arnav grins up at our father and then glances at me, and even though he's smiling, I can see the remains of his tears from this morning in his eyes. "They should have a test where they see who is the meanest and then they can take those people! That is the fairest."

He presses his palm tighter into mine and looks back up at me. He and I have our mother's eyes, deep green. "They would never take you, Annie. You are the nicest. You didn't even yell at me that time I dropped mom's vase."

Arnav's words are as sincere as he is, and I want to cry again today. Arnav is the only person in this world that I get to take care of. Everyone else takes care of me. Our mother died when Arnav was only one, so he's looked to Cora and I for maternal affection. Our father is dear, but he is gone most of the time. Cresta Nets is a fairly large business that my dad runs all by himself. Cora and I took over taking care of Arnav during the day. I know they would cope just fine if I were to be reaped. I trust Cora more than anyone else. She takes care of me so I know Arnav would be fine with her. But still, I know it would break his heart to lose me, and so I find myself for the thirtieth time hoping my name will not get pulled.

"That is an interesting idea, Arnav. But we don't want anyone to get reaped, do we?" I asked, gently correcting him.

He nods fervently. "You're right. No, it's bad when anyone is. But still, I hope it is that mean girl who works at the produce stand and not you, Annie."

Cora bites off a laugh and even my dad chuckles.

Our conversation comes to a standstill when we reach the gathering in the square. I give my family one last look before I begin making my way to the girls my age.

It's a blessing to be the only one eligible for the Reaping in my family for the most part, but in some other ways it's hard. I would have given anything to have Cora's hand wrapped tightly around mine as I stand here, with the sun beating harshly on the back of my neck. I get the strength I don't have from her, and I am feeling very short on it today.

I stare blankly at the screen as they show the same film they always do, not really paying attention. A glint of bronze has my attention and I find myself absentmindedly staring at the hair of District 4's most recent victor, Finnick Odair. He's watching the film on stage with the other victors, but I get this feeling he is only half watching it as well. He's beautiful, of course, but he's always made me uncomfortable. Perhaps it's the dishonest way in which he comes off. Perhaps it's the smirk he gives to almost everyone. Or perhaps it's that every time I glance at him, all I can see are his muscled arms lifting the trident that dug into the flesh of a girl in his own Games.

District 4's escort, Annora Bellamy, makes her way on stage. Her Capitol fashion of fluorescent skin highlights and bright, cupcake like skirts threatens to give me a headache. I avert my gaze and stare off towards the boy's side. I catch the glance of one of my classmates. He winks at me, and I smile halfheartedly back.

"Now, I will draw the lucky girl chosen to represent District 4 for the 70th Annual Hunger Games! Remember, volunteers will be chosen based on who volunteers first. You may not volunteer for a volunteer. May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Annora Bellamy gives this same speech each year, ever since there was a scuffle in which three people fought over who was going to be allowed to volunteer.

Her fingers—clad with bright yellow nails that have got to be fake—dip into the bowl with all the crisp, white pieces of paper. My stomach is in knots so tight that even Cora could not untie them. I desperately turn my head, longing for a glance of my family. I catch Arnav's eyes. He simply stares at me, not ever breaking his gaze, and it's in that moment that I know I am going to be called. I do not know how. I have had the same sensation a few times while in school. My teacher would be handing out graded assignments, and I would just know the moment right before she called out my name that it was going to be my name.

I was never mistaken when I got this feeling.

I only break my eyes away from Arnav's when I hear Annora Bellamy's crisp, Capitol voice.

"Annie Cresta!"

My eyes drift shut, and I can hear Arnav scream out. I don't have to open them to know what's happening. Cora is gasping, but she's got Arnav wrapped up against her. My father is green and likely to vomit. I even know what my girlfriends from school are doing without looking (probably standing with their jaws dropped, guilty relief in their eyes).

What I don't know is what I'm doing.

I cannot seem to move my body or even open my eyes. My entire body is taut as if all my muscles are coiled for flight. I know I cannot run, as much as I wish I could. I feel likely to pass out any moment, and I cannot breathe, and I want to flee--

"Come on up, Miss Annie Cresta!" Annora Bellamy's voice prods me back to reality.

And somehow, I'm walking. I'm crying, too. Each step I take seems to make the reality sink in further, and all at once, I want to die. I have never wanted to die before. But I know now that I do so badly, if only to save my family. I think of Cora's confession this morning, and a small sob works its way out of me. Oh, my sister. My sweet brother. My steady father. What will they have to watch? What will they see? The end of me?

I trip on the last step before I make it on the stage, and Annora Bellamy steadies me. I will not look out into the audience. I instead stare down at my hands. I touch the rope bracelet tied to my right wrist. Cora made it for me five years ago. I have never taken it off. I push the fingers of my left hand under the small rope and tighten my fist around it. Tears burn against my skin.

I didn't even remember that there could be volunteers, but I'm glad that I didn't. I saved myself pointless hoping. The next thing I am aware of is Annora Bellamy's voice asking for any volunteers for the male tribute, and she's met with silence, just as she must've been for me.  

I finally glance up to see who it is, and at first I am relieved that I don't know him. The feelings of relief are later drowned by dread. I don't know him, but he is younger than me. If I had to guess, I'd say fourteen.

It's a testament to how badly the past four Games have gone that no one volunteers for him. Ever since Finnick Odair's win, District 4 has barely made it a week into the Games. It seems no one is particularly eager to be the one to test our current losing streak this year.

We shake hands, and his hand is so clammy under mine. He has tears in his eyes. And in that moment, I know he is going to be that injured cat from all those years ago.

I am so sorry, Cora.

Chapter Text

The small room inside District 4's Justice Building is even stuffier than my house.

Moisture seems to cling to every surface, even the awful slick, leather loveseat. If I stare long enough at the magenta walls, I can make out a glimmer of sweat glistening on them.

I wish I could open a window. I wish there was even a window that could be opened. I suppose the risk of newly chosen tributes jumping out of it bypasses the risk of us asphyxiating from the humidity.

I can hear Cora before anyone comes to the door. She's talking softly with the guard outside, asking him something, and I can hear her request (whatever it may have been) being denied. The door knob turns a few moments after that, and she walks in alone.

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, suddenly unsure how to handle any of this. This is Cora and I have never had to be someone I'm not around her, but suddenly who I was doesn't seem like the same person any more. Perhaps it's because I know who I was will not be enough as I head into this trial.

"Where are Arnav and Dad?" I ask. My voice comes out just as weak and choppy as I feared.

Cora walks slowly across the floor, her hands fidgeting. She stops in front of me and slowly sinks down onto the floor, until she's sitting cross legged right in front of me. I'm taller than her for once from this angle.

"I wanted to come in separately. I'm sorry, I know that's selfish. I tried to get them to extend your allotted minutes, but they refused." Her voice is thick and I can see the white surrounding the blue-green of her eyes slowly reddening. And I am suddenly terrified to the very core of my being that she is going to cry. I have never seen my sister actually cry.

"It's fine, Cora. There are things I need to tell you that I don't want Arnav to hear, anyway," I whisper. I did not even realize that was the case until I said it, and then I realized that there was a lot I needed to tell her. A lot I needed to ask her.

She rubs a hand over her face and breathes deeply and nothing is said for a few moments. I start to feel panicky, terrified that neither of us will be able to say what needs to be said and she will be taken away and I will miss these last remaining moments with her. I cannot find the strength to say anything though. The words are thick and sticky in the back of my throat, and no matter how many times I clear it, they won't disappear.

Cora reaches up and rests her hands on top of my hands that are around my calves.

The tear that is sliding down her cheek breaks me into tiny pieces. I imagine I am just like the sea glass vase Arnav broke. It was my mother's prized possession. He knocked it off the table and it fell onto the floor, exploding into millions of tiny shards of light green glass.

"Shell," she starts. She sniffs and angrily pushes the tears off her cheek, as if she is furious at herself for crying. It's probably the first time she has cried in years. I hate that it's my fault. "I am going to ask something of you, and I'm so sorry."

Her words confuse me. I glance up at the crystal chandelier and count the teardrop diamonds hanging from it. What could she possibly ask me that would be worse than what I already have to do? What could be worse than dying for the nation you despise against your will?

"Anything," I finally say, looking down to meet her eyes again. They are swimming in tears still.

"Annie, I need you to win," she says. My eyebrows automatically pull down in confusion. Is she joking? I have less of a chance of winning than anyone who's entered that arena for District 4 in probably a decade. 

"Cora…"

"No. Annie, listen to me." She grips my hands so tightly it hurts, her eyes digging into mine almost angrily. "I can't bear to have you die. Do you understand? I can't. I will not lose you. I have already lost Mom. Please, Annie, please. I need you to do this for me. I need you to promise you will win. I need to know that you are going to be coming back home, that today won't be the last time I will see you in person ever again. I need to know that when Marv and I have babies they will have their Aunt Annie. I need to know that I won't lose my sister. I need to know that you will never leave me."

She begins sobbing, and I am certain that the world is ending. My world, at least.

I love her so much I can't even bear to tell her what I need to say. I can't bear to tell her goodbye, because it will hurt her. I can't bear to tell her that even if I wanted to, there was no way I would make it back home. I can't bear to tell her that she has no hope.

So I do the only thing that will make her feel better, and I push her hair back from her face.

"I promise I'll try."

It's all I can give her. Even that leaves me hollowed out and smarting with pain. The last conversation I am having with my sister is built upon lies.

I've never let myself really imagine what this conversation would go like, but if I had, I would have guessed that she would have tightly gripped my arm and told me exactly what to do to win. I would have guessed that she would have taken control of the situation as she always does, and demanded I follow her strategy. I never would have guessed that she would be begging me of things I could never give her.

I want to plead with her to help me. I want her to hug me like she used to and tell me what I am going to do. I want her to fix this. But she can't. I am alone in this, as much as I don't want to be.

Cora stands up shakily and sits beside me on the couch. She wraps an arm around me and pulls my head against her shoulder, just as we did this morning.

"I love you, Annie," she says.

I have to grip tightly to the arm of the loveseat because I feel I'm going to lose my mind. How can this be happening?

"I love you too, Cora."

She presses a kiss to my head, and then she's walking out of the room, sobs still racking her frame. I succumb to hysterical tears the moment she leaves the room. I can't even compose myself in time for my father and Arnav to enter.

Arnav begins wailing the moment he sees me crying, and I hate myself so much in that moment. For not being able to promise Cora I will come home, for scaring my little brother even more.

My father gathers me into his arms and he rocks me, murmuring something that sounds like "my baby". He does not cry, and all I can do is fervently thank him in my head. If he would have cried, I am sure I would have to be dragged out of this room.

Arnav clings to my legs. He begins blubbering something about tridents.

"You get him to teach you! You get one! You can win. Just do what he did and just—just throw it," Arnav rambles on. After watching Finnick Odair's Games, he has this idea in his head that it's easy to use a trident and it's the only sure way to win the Games.

Just as with Cora, I don't have the heart to ask him to stop lying to himself.

"Annie, look at me," my father demands. I lift my head and glance at the stubble on his jaw. He looks down and meets my eyes. "You need to get in an alliance with 1 and 2. They can protect you at least during the Cornucopia."

I know he doesn't think I'll make it very far after that. I appreciate the advice though.

"Okay, Daddy," I find myself muttering. I'm so tired from the emotional turmoil of the day, and I just want to fall asleep here in his arms like a small child.

I can hear a friend from school talking to the guard outside the door, and I grasp my father's arm.

"Dad, I don't want to see anyone else. Please. Will you tell them outside? Will you two stay until visiting is over?" I beg.

He presses a kiss to my forehead and nods. He transfers me back onto the slick couch and then makes his way outside the room to give the guard my request. He comes back in a few moments later.

Arnav leans against my side, his light brown hair sticky with sweat. I push it up off his forehead.

"Arnav, you remember the story of the Maiden of the Sea?" I ask.

He nods.

"Remember the story. I love you," I whisper.

"I love you too, Annie," he whispers, his voice choked with tears.

The Maiden of the Sea was a legend of a young woman who drowned herself after her beloved was killed. She lived on in the sea, and plenty of people in District 4 claim to have seen her walking along the shores at night. I never believed it, but Arnav always loved the story. Probably because of our mother. He thinks the Maiden walks along the shore to protect anyone else who might drown or be killed like her lover. He never bought the idea of heaven, but he fully believes that everyone who dies walks along the shore like the Maiden of the Sea.

I sit quietly with my family until a guard opens the door and tells them it's time to go.

Arnav clings to my hand and I have to physically yank it off.

His eyes are wounded as he walks out.

There will never be enough time to tell them goodbye.

Annora Bellamy ushers us onto the train that is going to take us to the Capitol. My district partner's name is Chiron and he is quieter than I am. He has not uttered one word since his name was drawn, that I've seen anyway.

The train is elegant but too extreme. My room on the train overwhelms me. It's twenty times nicer than anywhere I have ever stayed before. Annora Bellamy assured me as she showed it to me that the rooms at the Training Center would be "much nicer".

I'm left to my own devices after a brief tour of the train. Chiron and I both retreat to our separate rooms. I sit on the edge of the bed and close my eyes and find it is almost easy to pretend I'm in my room at home. I find myself thinking that maybe if I wish hard enough, I could start this entire day over again. A blank slate. Although I'm not sure whether that would do any good. Fate called for my name to end up in Annora Bellamy's hand, and I don't think there's a thing that I can do about that.

I try, though. I sit with my bare feet against the thick carpet and imagine a thousand different scenarios for today. In my first daydream, a girl I pass in the hallways at school is chosen. This upsets me quickly though, and I begin to feel guilty. I switch to a reality in which we all gather at the Square, only to hear that the Games have been cancelled, and that no one is going to be reaped at all.

I am so lost in my own made up reality that I miss the knock that must have come at my door. I also miss the sound of it opening. The next thing I am aware of is a cocky voice breaking the silence of the room.

"The Capitol better be glad your little brother is too young to be reaped. I have a feeling he'd set the arena on fire and then take the Capitol down with it."

My eyes drift open, and it does not seem very out of place that Finnick Odair is leaning against the doorframe. Perhaps I have no more energy left to be surprised today. He's wearing a white button down that is, naturally, completely unbuttoned, revealing his tan and fit body underneath. His black pants are rolled up at the hems, and he's barefoot, too. I meet his eyes that are almost the same shade green as mine, and he has a confident smile on his lips. I find I don't think he's faking the sadness that lurks behind his eyes, though.

Finnick walks the rest of the way into the room and sits down beside me on the bed like we have known each other forever.

"He cornered me at the Justice Building," he explains. "He grabbed my arm and demanded that I teach you how to use a trident, or he would kick me."

Finnick laughs and I laugh weakly along with him. Tears burn behind my eyes; I already miss Arnav.

Finnick angles to face me and extends his hand, his eyes still holding that peculiar sadness behind them. I always had the impression that Finnick loved the Games and any chance to go to the Capitol. He didn't seem too thrilled today, though.

I place my hand against his, too weak and tired to actually shake it with any real conviction. He merely grasps my hand tightly and gives it a friendly squeeze. He lets it fall back down to my lap. I don't want to cry in front of Finnick Odair, but I don't have the ability to stop it.

"I'm Finnick Odair. I'll be mentoring Chiron. Mags will be mentoring you."

I nod my head, keeping my eyes trained on my knees. They look knobbier than usual underneath the lace hem of the dress.

"I'm Annie Cresta," I finally murmur. 

Finnick looks down and searches for my eyes until I finally meet his gaze. He gives me a smile that almost seems sincere, if I did not know who he was.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Annie. Although I would have preferred better circumstances."

His green eyes really are captivating. I find it almost difficult to look away.

"I would have much rather met you at the market," I agree.

He smiles and it lights up his entire face.

"The market! That would have been a great place to meet you. I would be standing by the fruit stand, trying to figure out what to purchase while groups of girls crowded around me. Desperate to talk to me, of course. Can you blame them?" He winks.

I smile back at him, and it strikes me odd the way he is talking. Like he is building a separate reality in his head too, like I just spent the past hour doing myself. I have never known anyone else to do that. It makes me feel strangely safe to know that I am not the only one.

"And I would accidentally knock into your posse while trying to get out of the store, because they always seem to be clogging the exits," I continue.

He laughs like I'm not completely strange.

"And then you would give up trying to leave and instead come join my adoring fans."

"Or really I would push through because I have places to be," I argue.

He reclines back on the bed, resting his hands behind him and leaning against them. As if it is totally normal to be sitting on my bed, joking with me.

"Then I would immediately rush to your aid, because that is the kind of knight in shining armor Finnick Odair is. We would exchange names as I help you carry your groceries."

I turn my head so I can look at him again, and he is still smiling, the cocky smile fading into something softer.

I fiddle with the bracelet on my arm.

"That would have been a nicer way to meet," I finally mutter.

He sits up fully and pats me on the shoulder, avoiding my eyes for once.

"It would have been."

He stands up and makes his way to the door. He turns around as he reaches it. "We are all meeting for dinner in about ten minutes."

I nod, and he's gone as suddenly as he appeared.

I wish I could tell Cora that I just had an actual conversation with Finnick Odair. I was never one of his "adoring fans" as he put it, but Cora sure was. She would love this.

I allow myself to curl up on my bed for the last few minutes I have until dinner. The words I needed to say to Cora still weigh heavily on me, and I know it is going to be a miracle if I can actually eat something.

"We'll be arriving at the Capitol sometime tomorrow. This will be your first time seeing it, am I correct?"

Annora Bellamy has mastered the art of conversing while dining. She seems to have a pattern down: cut up a piece of food, speak for around two minutes, eat that bite of food, repeat process. Her favorite topic is the Capitol.

I am sitting beside Chiron on one side of the table, and Annora Bellamy and Finnick are on the other side. Mags is sitting at the head of the table beside Chiron. She smiles so kindly that I automatically trust her, even though sometimes it is hard to make out what she's saying. She's missing quite a lot of teeth in her old age.

Chiron and I nod in response to Annora's question, and she cheerfully continues.

"Oh, you are going to be so shocked by the grandeur. It's not at all drab like District 4. There are colors everywhere and breathtaking art and fashion. It is wonderful."

She places another piece of chicken in her mouth and chews while we struggle to make conversation back with her. Chiron is obviously not saying anything, as he hasn't yet.

I finally find words to respond with.

"I can't think of anything nicer than home," I whisper. My throat tightens just thinking about it and how much I wish I could be back there right now.

It's true, but as soon as I say it, I realize perhaps the truth was not what most people answered with. Mags grins at me and Finnick looks a bit shocked. The expression is strange on his normally confident and arrogant face. Annora's eyes narrow slightly.

"Yes, well as charming as your content with District 4 is, I just know you will love the Capitol even more! You have nothing to even compare to District 4 yet, but just you wait, dear! You will see."

"Well, you know Annora, District 4 has me. You can't deny that I'm a lot nicer to look at than a lot of the "art" in the Capitol," Finnick says, batting his ridiculously long eyelashes at Annora. She giggles and blushes slightly.

"Well, you are a masterpiece that the Capitol can only have part of the time. That's quite true," she finally answers.

I pick at the food on my plate. I haven't been successful in eating anything since I've sat down. I feel lost and almost as if my skin has been turned inside out. I don't know what to make of any of this, just as I can tell no one else knows what to make of me.

"You should eat," Mags tells me. Her voice is a bit garbled, but it doesn't take long to begin to catch on to what she's trying to say.

"I don't think I can," I admit.

"Try," she urges.

My stomach rolls as I glance down at my plate. None of the food is familiar at all. I have always hated trying new things; it's one of my greatest flaws. It seems that in light of the reaping, that still hasn't changed. The stress from today just doesn't help at all. The strange food is a reminder of how out of place I am, which in itself is a reminder of the limited days I have left to live.

I feel a pair of eyes on me and I look up, expecting to meet Mags', but actually locking eyes with Finnick.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do yet?" he asks.

I'm not sure whether he means what I'm going to do in the arena or how I'm going to do the interview or what. I haven't thought of anything really.

"All I can think about is how I wish this day would have gone. I have no idea what to do," I admit. As soon as the words leave me, I feel raw and vulnerable. I don't know why I said them or why I suddenly feel like I can trust Finnick Odair. Then again, this is the first time I have ever actually met him, and he hasn't done anything yet to make me not trust him. I wouldn't want someone to judge me by what they saw on the television. Besides, the more I look at that pain in his eyes, the more I'm convinced he's not who he pretends to be on the television. I'm just not sure how much different he really is.

"I know what you mean," he assures me, and I believe him when he says that. "Don't worry, you and Mags will figure out something."

Mags is watching Finnick and I talk with an expression that might be considered thoughtful.

"I'm mentoring Chiron," she says.

I can tell this is news to Finnick and Chiron just as it's news to me. Chiron looks at her with confusion, and Finnick quickly rearranges his expression to make it seem like he knew this was happening, but I have a feeling he didn't. Especially since he had just told me earlier today that he was going to mentor Chiron, and Mags was mentoring me.

"Why?" Annora Bellamy asks.

It is a valid concern. The female mentor almost always mentors the female tribute. However, Mags shoots Annora Bellamy a glare at the question, as if she had no right to ask that.

"Because it's going to be best." 

I glance at Chiron, and I think he looks relieved at this change in strategy. I am not sure how I feel about it. I'm not sure how I feel about anything.

Mags finishes her meal and stands up to leave, and Finnick follows her quickly out of the room. Silence falls down on all of us again.

I want to say something to Chiron, but I have no idea what I could even begin to say.

I'm afraid that anything I try to say will just come out sounding like "I'm sorry".

It's midnight when I hear a knock on my door.

I'm sitting in the middle of the gigantic bed, wrapped in a cocoon of thick blankets. I'm not tired at all, but I want to sleep more than anything. I've been sitting here thinking about all the things I wish I could have said for what must have been hours. My dad always said it was strange how I could retreat inside my own head and stay there for such a long time. Now I'm thankful for that ability, as strange as he thought it was. I can't let myself think about the fact that I am going to die. I just keep pressing forward, thinking of other things to keep my mind off that fact. I'm a bit afraid of how I am going to react when I finally let it hit me.

"It's open," I call. I'm assuming it's an Avox, although I'm not sure what they would want at this time of night.

I'm actually a bit surprised this time when Finnick sticks his head in the room.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

I nod slowly. I begin wondering why he even cares enough to go out of his way twice to see me. The idea that maybe he's just a good guy doesn't seem as foreign as it did at the start of the day.

He enters the room fully, a tray in his arms. He sets it on the bed and carefully sits down beside it, simply looking at me.

"I thought you might be hungry. You haven't eaten anything since this morning," he explains, gesturing at the tray.

"Why do you care?" I ask. I can't help it. I'm scared and sad and tired and I don't have the energy to question the motives of Finnick Odair. More importantly, I don't have the strength to question why I suddenly trust him so much.

I've always been trusting to a fault, but I've also been very certain about first impressions. And my first impression of Finnick happened a long time ago, when I watched him kill all those kids in his Games and then work his way through every woman in the Capitol as soon as he turned sixteen. I swore that if I ever were reaped, I would never behave like that. Now that I'm actually in the position though, I find it hard to judge him for anything.

His green eyes seem just as unsure as mine are for a moment. Then his trademark smirk covers his face again.

"Because you're Finnick Odair's tribute. And I can't have you fainting in the chariot tomorrow. My tributes have done poorly enough in the arena as it is, I'd hate to lose one before the Games even start. Imagine how poorly that would look!"

His easy and lighthearted explanation covers something deeper that I can't identify, but I think it might be actual concern. It's right then that I know Finnick Odair is nothing like the person he pretends to be.

"You put on a good act," I say carefully. I eye the food on the tray and hesitantly pick up a strawberry. Did he pick fruit because we joked about meeting at the market over the fruit stand earlier today? Or was it a coincidence?

His face tenses for a moment. He laughs hesitantly. "Well, you know. My acting skills are craved after in the Capitol. Well, those and other skills." He winks for the second time today and I giggle despite myself, biting into the fruit.

"I think you are nicer than you pretend to be," I clarify.

His smile is soft again. It makes his face even prettier. He reaches onto the tray and grabs a grape. He tosses it into his mouth.

"It seems I am," he finally says, as if he is just as surprised as I am. "Maybe more people will like me now!"

I eat another strawberry and watch his hands as they run through his hair. I wonder if he knows how much he got the short end of the deal this year. I want to apologize for the undoubtedly pathetic time I am going to have in the arena. I want to apologize for being gentle Annie Cresta and not a vicious Career. I want to apologize for being me, as fruitless as that is.

"My sister calls me Shell," blurt out suddenly. It's not exactly what I wanted to say, but I figure I can bridge easily to that point from here. Finnick raises his eyebrows.

"That's a strange nickname for a girl named Annie," he says. His expression urges me to continue.

"I've made jewelry with seashells my whole life practically. And she says I'm fragile just like one," I mutter.

I look up to meet his gaze, and he's smiling at me. I decide that I like when he smiles at me.

I'm overcome suddenly with memories of Cora, and I can't help myself.

"Finnick?" I ask.

"Annie?" He jokes.

"If I wrote a letter, would you mail it to my sister in the Capitol?" I know it's against the rules, but the words I never said are hurting me.

He does something odd.

"No," he says, while nodding his head up and down.

I raise an eyebrow at him and something in his expression keeps me from asking.

"It's against the rules," he explains. "If someone even overheard me saying that I would, it probably wouldn't be good for anyone involved. So I can't."

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling, but I can't help it. A sudden warmth overcomes me and an easy smile covers his face as well.

"Well, thank you anyway," I say, and I know he knows what I really mean.

"No problem. What would you need to say so badly that couldn't have said it at the Justice Building?" he asks curiously. He pushes the bowl of fruit my way again, as if reminding me it's there. I pick up a blueberry and roll it between my fingers as I debate my words.

"When my sister came to see me, all she did was beg me to win. She would not let me say goodbye like I needed to. Well, she didn't keep me from doing it, but it would have broken her heart." I accidentally press down too hard on the fruit, and it splits down the middle. I chew it slowly. "I couldn't do it to her. But I wanted to tell her not to watch it."

Finnick's eyes flash and his voice sounds a bit strained. "Not to watch what? The Games?"

I nod. "It will break her heart to see me killed. I don't want her to have to see that."

Sadness and worry are for once very evident in Finnick's eyes. I wonder if he's thinking about watching some of his own friends (or maybe even some of his tributes) die on television.

"Well, you know it's mandatory viewing. So she has to. But I understand what you mean," he says this loudly. I wonder then if we are being overheard somehow. He's right; it is illegal to not watch the Games. And it's not something I should be saying. I meant it though.

He continues. "And don't count yourself out so quickly! You've got the hottest and most talented mentor there is. Don't count me out so quickly, either."

I want to tell him that I already trust him. That I have more faith in his abilities when it comes to getting me out of the Games alive than I do myself. But I somehow feel like I should not say it.

I point at myself. "Seashell, remember?"

Finnick leans back against the footboard of the bed and gives me a look that almost makes me feel as if I'm being x-rayed.

"You know what I think, Seashell?" 

I shake my head. He offers the bowl of fruit to me once again and doesn't continue until I'm chewing a piece of apple.

"I think you are a lot stronger than you think you are."

I choke on my apple as I try to laugh around it. He pats my back and once I can breathe normally again, I look at him disbelievingly.

"Not that I don't trust your keen eye, Finnick, but I am honestly hopeless when it comes to this. I spend my spare time making jewelry. I'm in the same weight class as twelve-year-olds. I've never held a weapon in my life." I'm desperate for him to understand what I know. I want him to know that I'm going to die, that it won't be his fault when I do.

He pushes the bowl towards me again. I roll my eyes but take another strawberry anyway.

"I think you're counting yourself out. You are obviously strong enough to put your sister's emotional needs before your own. You gave her the words she needed to hear when you were supposed to be saying goodbye. As for talents, I know for a fact you can tie knots and make nets. I'm also fairly certain you can swim."

I know how he knows I can tie knots and make nets—most families go to my family's business to purchase them—but I'm not sure how he knows I can swim. I guess he's just guessing, as most people in District 4 can.

"Yeah," I admit.

"Well, that's two advantages you have right there. Just because you're not a master swordsman doesn't mean you are going to die for a fact. We are going to work together, okay? We'll find a weapon you feel comfortable using. I am going to teach you how to protect yourself. And then we will work out a strategy for the Games." He seems so certain that it makes me feel a bit more confident for a moment.

"Okay," I finally say.

He stands up off the bed.

"Now, eat the rest of your fruit. I want you looking buff and strong the next time I see you," he teases.

I grab another piece of fruit.

"Better be careful or I'll be stronger than you." 

He hovers near the door, his eyes laughing in a strange way only Finnick Odair's can.

"Oh Annie, I hope so."

He shuts the door again, and I can't help but feel like the temperature goes down ten degrees once he's gone.

I finish off the fruit and rest the tray on the floor beside the bed. I pull my dress off and curl up underneath the blankets. The last thought I have before I drift off isn't that I am going to die in a few days, or that I'll never see my family again. The last thing I tell myself is that tomorrow, I'm going to make sure to ask Mags why she switched tributes, and maybe thank her for it.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the gravity of my situation hits me full force. Finnick's charm kept it at bay most of the day yesterday, but when I wake up around 4:30 AM and am surrounded by nothing but silence and silk sheets, it takes me down easily. I lay flat on my back for a few moments, trying to fight off the impending panic and distress I can feel ebbing up on me. I try to go about my day, certain that I will not be able to fall back asleep now, but I don't get very far.

I end up sitting on the floor of the shower, weeping for the life I know now I will never have. The shower is extravagant in itself, and for some reason that makes me cry even harder. My sobs wrack my body so much it's painful, and I try to stop crying several times, but it's no use. I give in and allow myself to picture every single event or experience I wanted to have before I died, that I won't get to have now. I repeat "you won't have that, but you have had good" in my mind over and over again like some sort of nonsensical mantra until I find I am almost accepting it. The soft, downy hair of the nieces I will never hold and the gentle, charming smile of the husband I will never have fade out of me and I watch them tumble down the silver drain with all of the wasted water.

I sit for a few moments, and then shakily make my way back to my feet. I'm feeling exhausted again and I have stopped crying, both things I take as good signs. I have never been receptive to pessimistic thoughts. I feel my blind optimism is one of my greatest flaws. I can't help it; I want to see the best in people and the world. So I do. Apparently this trait is staying true to me now, even in light of these challenging circumstances.

I finish showering, feeling renewed in a way and stronger than before. I even think I could feel happy again, at least until I go into the arena. I may be dying, but in the huge scheme of things, it could be worse. My family is safe. I have had a lovely life. And I do have at least some sort of shot in the arena. After all, Finnick is Finnick.

I know deep down that I'm deluding myself, but delusion feels so much nicer than self-pity. Delusion I can do. Delusion I'm good at.

I choose something to wear from the many options in the drawers and then lay back down on the bed. I try to imagine what it must be like for Finnick and Mags. I wonder how they can bear getting to know so many children, only to send them off to their deaths. I envision myself in that position. It doesn't take me long to come to the conclusion that dying in the arena is almost better than coming back out of it.

I drift off in the middle of my daydreams. Annora Bellamy wakes me up at six AM to inform me that the train will be arriving at the Capitol in an hour. She's wearing a dress that curves out and around her as if she's actually wearing a giant sphere, and I have to bite back a giggle. It's so ridiculous that I find myself actually loving it.

I brush my teeth and stare at my reflection in the mirror for a few moments before heading out for breakfast. I think this is the first time I have looked in a mirror since the morning of the Reaping. My skin seems paler than normal, and there are shadows underneath my eyes, but you can't tell I've been crying and I still look like myself. I run a brush all the way through my hair and leave it down. It hangs comfortingly down my back, and the lavender of my shirt makes my eyes seem greener than normal.

Finnick and Annora are in the dining room when I enter. Finnick is telling an animated story about what sounds like one of Annora's Capitol friends. They both look up when I walk in and Finnick pats the chair beside him.

"Good morning, Annie!" he greets when I slide into the chair.

"Morning, Finnick!" I reply.

He slides a cup of warm, black liquid in front of me. I tentatively wrap my hands around it and pull it closer to me, hanging my head over it and peering into its depths. The steam from it fans up and into my face. It's relaxing in an odd sort of way, and odd sort of ways are my favorite.

It takes me a moment to realize Annora and Finnick are laughing at me and not at the left over humor from his story.

"It's coffee," Finnick explains. "They don't drink it in District 4. It's made with…actually, what is this made out of?" He directs the last question to Annora, now glancing at his own cup of coffee like it shifted forms on him.

Annora elegantly takes a sip out of her coffee cup, something I didn't even know what possible until now.

"Coffee is made from coffee beans which grow on coffee trees," Annora answers loftily, as if she personally planted the coffee trees which provided the coffee beans for this morning's cups.

I can't help but smile. "Hmm, I was expecting something a bit more complicated, if it stumped Finnick Odair."

Finnick seems to be fighting back a grin of his own, unsure of whether to laugh at my teasing or feign insult. He finally settles on the latter.

"It's not my fault I have so much grand knowledge inside of my brain that there is no room for trivial stuff such as the basic forms of coffee," he sniffs. He lifts his cup and takes a sip.

Encouraged by his example, I grab my cup and lift it to my own lips. I take a tiny sip and soon find myself taking a large mouthful.

Finnick is watching me with an amused expression.

"Good, right? Only don't drink it plain. I went ahead and doctored yours up for you. I figured you were a five sugar cube kind of girl." He gestures at the bowl in the middle of the table holding a diminishing mount of sugar cubes. "Watch out for those though. They're quite addictive."

I rotate my cup and watch the dark liquid rotate around. "You're just full of advice today, Mr. Odair!"

He leans his chair back on two legs and shrugs cockily. "Well, I do have a tribute to protect now after all."

I take another sip of the coffee. "If a tribute holds a blade to my neck and demands how many sugar cubes I like in my coffee, I'll be sure to tell them five."

Finnick lets his chair fall back to the floor. "That's my girl!" 

For whatever reason, Finnick's exclamation leaves me feeling warm and tingly inside. I decide it's the coffee.

Mags makes herself known by entering the dining hall stomping loudly.

"Mags? Everything okay?" Finnick asks. He seems blatantly concerned about her, and I am certain that if anyone were to threaten her, he would kill them in an instant.

Mags sits down on Finnick's other side and reaches out blindly for a cup of coffee. Finnick quickly fills another cup and dumps three sugar cubes in. He passes it to her.

She takes and sip and then it's like her anger (or whatever it was) melts away.

I decide to let it go, and everyone else seems to too, because nothing else is said about it.

A silence lulls over the table for the first time since I sat down. I push my chair out and stand up, intending to head over to the tables that line the wall that have breakfast. I'm halfway there when Chiron enters the room, the first words he's spoken since I've met him flying past his lips.

"I want to talk to Annie," he demands. His voice is startling to me, perhaps because I always imagined it would be soft or gentle. It's the opposite. It's deep and booming and leaves me feeling a bit shaken.

I think it must shake the others as well, because when Finnick speaks, his voice has an edge to it. "So speak to her. Glad you found your voice, by the way."

Finnick's tone is so different when talking to Chiron than it was talking to me that I'm momentarily confused. This confusion is overshadowed by a small feeling of panic as Chiron moves quickly toward me. Finnick must be on the same wave length, because I hear his chair scraping against the floor, and I hear Mags whispering "Finnick, it's fine".

Chiron stops in front of me.

"Can we talk?" he asks me. He nods his head towards the hallway that's outside the dining room. "In there?"

My head turns behind me to my own accord, glancing at Finnick to see his expression. He looks tense, but Mags seems relaxed. She nods gently.

I turn back to Chiron and offer him a smile. Maybe he's just a loud person. "Sure."

He holds out his hand to me, a surprisingly gentle gesture, and I place my own on his. He leads me slowly out of the dining hall and into the hallway outside of it.

Once the door to the dining room shuts, he lets my hand drop and takes a deep breath.

"Mags and I were talking this morning, and she wants me to join the Career pack. I don't want to. I want to team up with you from the start, and I want us to stay that way until one of us is dead."

I have no idea why Mags and Chiron were already talking strategy when Finnick and I hadn't even begun to. I figure it must be because Chiron is not very talkative, and perhaps Mags just wanted to get that out of the way. Finnick and I are both not very good at staying serious, from what I'm slowly learning.

Chiron's urgency shocks me and I'm not sure what to say for a moment. I haven't even begun to think about what I'm going to do in the arena, and my dad's only advice was to join the Careers. 4 is a Career district, so to not join in would be strange at the least. I don't even know if I want to team up with anyone.

Chiron must sense my reluctance, because he backpedals a bit.

"Sorry, I know I'm kind of jumping the gun here. I just wanted to tell you that before I lost the nerve," he mutters. "Just let me know before the interview what you want to do, okay? You can talk to Finnick Odair about it or whatever. I just wanted to talk to you before you began strategizing so you know where I stand."

I offer him a smile again, hoping it will put him a bit more at ease. He seems a little relieved. "Thank you, Chiron," I say carefully. "I will let you know, I promise."

He smiles a genuine smile for the first time I have ever seen, and nods once quickly. He awkwardly hesitates in the doorway, as if waiting for me to go through, unsure whether he should go first or not.

I slip through the door quickly, hoping to spare him anymore embarrassment. He follows right after me.

I finally sit back down at the table a few minutes later with breakfast.

Annora diffuses the tension at the table by going through the upcoming schedule. Once the train arrives at the station in the next half hour we're all to head to the Training Center. There each district has their own floor with living and sleeping quarters. We'll get to take a look around and relax for a few minutes, and then it's off to the Remake Center. There we will be prepped by three people that are referred to exclusively as our "prep team" and then we are dressed by our stylists and have to walk down for the Opening Ceremonies. After that, we are free for the night.

I'm not sure what I'm most nervous about: being naked in front of three people I don't know, or riding around in a chariot in front of millions of people.

Finnick catches onto my discomfort quickly, even though I haven't said anything at all. I have been fiddling nervously with the linen napkin, though.

"Don't worry about the prep. It's not the most comfortable thing, but it doesn't hurt. The Capitol and District 4 have very different ideas of fashion and aesthetics, but you will look wonderful." He says. His green eyes don't leave mine as I nod, trying to accept his words as the truth. It's hard though, because all I can remember are all the ridiculous costumes tributes end up in. I am not afraid to look stupid, but I am afraid to be up there naked in front of everyone.

Somehow I feel that Finnick won't let this happen though. I worry that my confidence in this man is getting a bit out of hand. I never wanted to trust him at all, and here he is probably the person I trust the most (that's in the Capitol, anyway).

"From what I've seen, the Capitol and District 4 have very different ideas on everything!" Annora chimes in. She chews thoughtfully at a piece of bacon. "Even the dancing style is different! I saw a wedding in District 4 a couple of years ago, and I was shocked at the ridiculously old fashioned dancing I saw!"

I laugh at the same time Finnick does. I am starting to feel what must be the after-effects of the coffee. It can't be normal to have this much energy inside of me this early in the morning. The music playing in the background in the dining cart starts to seem much more up-tempo than before.

"Oh, you probably saw the celebratory dance the wedding party does at weddings. I hate it," Finnick explains.

I feel laughter bubbling up inside me. I know exactly what dance he's talking about. It's odd and ridiculous, but I can't help but feel like it's the best one because of it. I slide my chair back and stand up.

Finnick doesn't miss a beat. He shakes his head.

"No! Annie, don't do it!" he begs. "It's awful!" His cries are so melodramatic. He's a much better actor than I would have thought.

I grin.

"You mean…this dance?" I ask innocently.

"Annie Cresta!" he says warningly.

I jokingly start spinning and kicking, replicating the popular wedding dance. Finnick groans, but suddenly he's beside me as well. He grabs my hands and we're both spinning in quick circles and high kicking like we are on stage somewhere. I can hear Annora's scandalized gasps and Mags laughter and Chiron's bewildered chuckles every now and then, but the dining room is a blur of bright, overbearing colors. I catch Finnick's gaze and he's laughing louder than I have ever seen him, and I think to myself that he actually looks really happy for once. I probably look happy too, which is so absurd given where I am, but what about this isn't absurd? I'm a few days away from my inevitable death, and I'm doing a wedding dance with Finnick Odair on a train that's heading towards the Capitol. I would not believe my life if I weren't living it.

I get a stitch in my side and slowly stop spinning. I double over laughing, gripping my stomach and resisting the urge to vomit all over the carpet. Finnick collapses right there on the floor and I follow in suit, resting my head down on my knees until it stops spinning.

"I thought you hated that dance?" I say between gasps.

Finnick's voice is humored as it drifts towards me. "I do. It's still fun, though! Especially with such a pretty lady."

I don't have to look up to know he winked.

"You're such a flirt," I mumble in exasperation. I'm smiling, though.

"That's why all the ladies love me."

"Crazy," Mags says. She sounds like she's smiling, though. "Both crazy."

At that moment, crazy seems like a fine thing to be.

I finally get a chance to ask Mags what I've wanted to since yesterday when we're at the Training Center, waiting to ride to the Remake Center.

Chiron is in his room (like he always is, although he has definitely warmed up a bit), and Annora is in the other room trying to make sure the car will be arriving on time. Mags and I are sitting in a comfortable silence in the living room. Finnick left almost as soon as he walked in, after getting a call that made him purse his lips tightly. I wonder if he's somehow in trouble. As he was walking out, he told us goodbye, but he seemed so forlorn and scared that I wanted to ask him what was wrong. I glanced at the others, but other than Mags, no one seemed to think anything of his behavior. It was in that moment, watching them watching Finnick, that I decided no one sees him in quite the same way that I do. Whether that's good or bad, I haven't yet determined. For all I know I'm seeing something that isn't there.

Mags is watching the television in the room, but I get the feeling she isn't really.

"Mags?" I ask hesitantly. She turns to me and offers a gummy smile.

"Yes?" She asks.

I fiddle with the bottom of the silk, lavender shirt I put on what already feels like forever ago. I remember her less than accommodating response to Annora asking this same question, and I desperately don't want her to dislike me. There is something about Mags that just makes me want to make her like me.

"Why did you want to be Chiron's mentor instead of mine?" I finally push the question past my lips.

She leans forward and pats my hand that's resting on my knees.

"Nothing personal, child. I think you're lovely," she says. Her words warm me until I remember she didn't really answer my question.

"Did Chiron not want Finnick?" I press carefully.

Mags leans her head back on the back of the chair and lets her eyes drift shut. For a second I think she's going to sleep. Then she smiles a bit.

"Same," she finally whispers.

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Same? What's the same?"

She opens her eyes again and looks at me, as if I suddenly stopped speaking her language.

"Finnick and you. You and Finnick," she clarifies.

If I don't think too much about what she's just said, it makes me happy. It's insane, but I think maybe Finnick and I could be friends. I think maybe we kind of already are. I hope we are.

I continue thinking about it though, and I get more and more confused as I do. Finnick Odair and I are almost polar opposites. He's strong, confident, likable and capable, and I'm weak, skittish, shy and uncertain. And sometimes a bit strange.

"Finnick and I are alike? In what ways?" I question.

She settles a wrinkled and liver-spotted hand over her heart. She opens her eyes again, and I feel like she is peering deep inside of me.

"In all the ways that matter," she finally answers.

It would be all too easy to write Mags off as senile, but despite her age and her difficulties getting around, she seems wiser than anyone I've ever known. Which confuses me even more.

"Mags, we only just met each other yesterday," I remind her.

She keeps smiling that same smile.

"And you don't even act like it at all," she says, as if that was a complete and perfect rebuttal to my objection. She stands shakily and makes her way down the hall to Chiron's room, and the more I think about what she said, the more I realize it was.

My skin is stinging as the prep team works on my body, and as soon as they ask about my family, my heart is as well.

It is easy enough to accept that I am going to die, but it is hard to accept that I'm never going to see my family ever again. I already miss them. I find myself wondering more and more about the afterlife and what will happen when I actually do die. I wish I had Cora here to talk to about it. Loneliness cripples me, and I would give anything in the entire world to have just one conversation with my sister again.

"I have an older sister and a younger brother. And a dad," I reply.

The woman who posed the question smiles kindly. Her skin is bright pink and her eyebrows and eyelashes are metallic silver and gold. I think it's charming in its own way. I think she's charming in her own way, as well. The other two make almost snide comments at her and seem to pass judging looks frequently, but they have been kind enough to me. One of them even complimented my hair.

Finnick was right about it not being as bad as I thought. Stripping down in front of them made a blush creep all the way from my shoulders to my hairline, but they simply smiled and said I was adorable. It made me feel better, until I remembered where I was headed. I don't think adorable is what I want to be seen as when I enter the arena. I wish there was a way to control blushing.

"Splendid! I have a brother as well. He's a Gamemaker this year, in fact!" Elloise replies. Her fellow prep team members did not even offer their names to me, and I was too intimidated to ask.

Her words make me nervous. Gamemakers frighten me. Who would willingly put themselves in a position to be in charge of murdering so many children? I guess it's not really seen as murder here though, so perhaps her brother isn't that bad. The culture here is so different from the culture in the districts. They don't even know they are doing anything wrong, because to them it's right.

It'd be so much nicer if the world were black and white.

After the first hour, I get used to being naked in front of them, and I start to feel more at ease. Elloise and I small talk a bit, but the room is mostly silent. I wish there was something to keep my mind busy, because I'm starting to miss my family so much again I want to cry, and breaking down again is not something I want to do outside of the shower.

After I'm waxed and conditioned and polished to their hearts' desire, they leave the room. Elloise wishes me luck as she goes, and I think one of the others offers me a small smile. It means a lot to me, and I tuck it away inside of me to remember.

I pull the paper robe back over me as I wait for the stylist, desperately hoping it's a woman. I know I need to get over my fear of being naked in front of people, but I have enough fears to overcome right now.

I don't even want to start to think about what cleaning off or using the bathroom is going to be like in the arena, with all of Panem watching.

My stylist is a woman, much to my relief.

Her name is Mauve, but she's not mauve herself. Her skin is covered in multicolored triangle tattoos that all join together. It's quite an interesting effect. She's quiet too; quiet enough for me to pick it up in the few minutes we've been in the room together.

She taps her diamond encrusted fingernails against the table as we both eat lunch. I don't have much of an appetite. I'm starting to get nervous again, thinking about the chariot ride.

"What is your favorite part of the sea?" Mauve asks me. She has a mousy voice, but she seems very trustworthy.

It takes me a while to come up with an answer, as the sea is one of my favorite things. She doesn't seem the mind the quiet lapse. In fact, she almost looks relieved. I think too rapid of a conversation would tire her. I wonder how she manages in the Capitol, where people seem to talk all the time about pointless things.

"The waves," I finally say. "It's nice that the water is never still. It makes it seem like it has a purpose, almost."

Mauve nods, swallowing another spoonful of soup. "I've never seen the ocean, but I've always wanted to. Maybe I'll get to one day."

If I win, would she get to? Probably. I think the stylists usually go with the victors on the Victory Tour. If I could win so she would be able to see the sea, I would, but it's just not possible.

"I hope so. It's beautiful," I say.

Another silence falls over us and we finish lunch without saying anything else.

"Well, would you like to see your outfit?" she asks me.

I nod.

She reveals it, and at least I'm not surprised. It's impossible to see its form without it being on, but I'm almost positive that I am going as the sea itself.

"Let's get you dressed, shall we?" 

It takes an hour to get the costume on completely. The costume itself is made of a silver-blue silk material that shimmers in the light like the water does when the sun hits it. It has one wide strap that goes over my right shoulder, and it's completely sleeveless on the other side. It covers my breasts, but then leaves my stomach bare. The bottom is a wrap skirt that knots over my right hipbone and goes all the way down to the floor past my bare toes. All my leftover skin is painted to look like it's covered in hundreds of ocean waves. I have to bite the inside of my cheek as she paints my stomach. The paintbrush bristles tickle terribly.

All in all, it's not awful. It's at least comfortable, and at least I'm not dressed as a fish like last year's tributes.

Mauve does my makeup last. It takes around forty five minutes. She holds a mirror in front of me when she's done, and I look so unusual. The ocean blue lipstick and white eyelashes shock me, but once I get over that, I appreciate the slight rose tinted blush she's expertly applied to my cheeks, the light blue eyeshadow that is a pigment I've never seen (it looks exactly like the sky), and the natural, soft waves my hair is making. She didn't do anything to my hair but spray something in it that makes it curl a bit more than usual. I am so thankful for this that I want to hug her.

"I was hoping you would say that waves are your favorite part of the ocean." Mauve admits. She touches the crest of a wave painted on my forearm. "Your last name inspired me. Cresta. All the pictures I've seen of the ocean have beautiful waves like this, with the white crest."

I smile. "It's great, Mauve. Thank you."

She smiles back shyly.

As we walk down to the ground floor of the Remake Center, I feel less like a freak inside my costume and more protected. It's nice to know that when I am presented in front of all these people, it won't be as myself. It will be as something much stronger than myself.

The chariots are lined up in front of the giant doors. Most of the tributes are already in the chariots with their district partners. I spot Chiron in the District 4 chariot, talking amiably to his stylists. It makes me happy that he's found someone he can talk to comfortably.

Mauve and I walk up to the chariot and she helps me climb in, making sure I don't step on my skirt. Chiron is the ocean as well, with waves painted all over his bare chest and arms and long silver-blue silk pants. He seems to be in a much better mood than he has been lately.

"Smile and wave! Don't forget to look at your audience, don't just stare forward!" Chiron's stylist reminds us. I nod.

A few moments later, and the Opening Ceremonies are beginning. Our stylists disappear as the District 1 chariot heads out into the City Circle. 2 follows, and then 3, and I almost lose my balance and topple over when the District 4 horses begin trotting rather briskly. Chiron steadies me and I try to thank him, but the roar from the Capitol citizens is so loud I know he can't hear me.

We wave and smile for what feels like hours and hours. Finally, after the last lap of the City Circle, the chariots stop in front of President Snow's mansion. He addresses us and thanks us for our bravery.

I want to say something about how it wasn't a choice, and how most of us were forced into this against our will, but it's the kind of thing I would never say to anyone out loud.

The final lap takes us back to the Training Center. I am climbing carefully out of the chariot, listening to Mauve and Chiron's stylist talk about how great we looked, when someone knocks hard into my side, sending me falling off the side of the chariot.

I only scrape my hand when I fall, but I feel awful. This is the second time Panem has seen me fall down. I'm sure I'm going to be one of the first targets in the arena, as I've got to look like such an easy kill.

Chiron and Mauve help me up, and I see Finnick pushing his way through the crowds, assisting Mags. His eyes are locked on mine and I know he saw me fall. I roll my eyes at him, trying to brush the entire thing off, but I'm scared.

He delivers Mags (it's difficult for her to maneuver through large crowds), and then immediately turns on his heel and starts over to the District 2 mentor.

I watch him arguing with him in confusion for a full minute before I realize that one of the tributes from District 2 must have been the one who knocked into me. I had originally thought it was just an accident, but his reaction is making me feel like it probably wasn't.

I think that makes me feel even worse.

I want to ask Mags why someone would knock into me, but I stop myself before I do. I realize how innocent and pathetic that question would be. It's almost as bad as asking why people are mean. I am going to have a hard time adjusting to the arena. I am going to have a hard time adjusting to accepting that people want to kill me, instead of assuming the best of them.

Finnick pushes a finger into the District 2 mentor's chest and then walks away coolly, his eyes hard. I am reminded then of just how scary Finnick Odair can be.

When he joins us back at the chariots, he grabs onto Mags again and gently helps to move her through the crowds once more. I follow Chiron and his stylist and Mauve, picking carefully at the gravel in my palm.

We're all shoved into an elevator with District 7. I'm very thankful that we only have a short ride, because the male tribute was shooting very hostile glances at Chiron, for whatever reason.

It isn't until dinner that Finnick finally says something. Annora and Mauve are talking about a new television show in the Capitol while Mags, Chiron, and his stylist discuss the other tributes' costumes from the Opening Ceremonies. Finnick turns to me, his eyes still not quite right. He has scratches too, down his neck. I stare at them dumbly for a moment before I realize there's nothing they can be but fingernail scratches. I'm sure his prep team will remove them immediately tomorrow, but I can't help but feel peculiar when I see them. Concerned for his wellbeing is the dumbest feeling I have. The second feeling is something like shock. Oh yes, this is Finnick Odair, and here is proof of his conquests he makes in the Capitol, that I so obviously forgot about. Or just didn't care about.

"District 2 is full of snakes," he says. 

I vaguely recall a moment from Finnick's Games, when his trident pierced through both District 2 tributes in one forceful movement after they turned on him. The memory unsettles me, and I force myself to shrug. "It's no big deal."

I keep my fist balled up in my lap, though.

I only have to look back up at him to know that he has noticed this too, but that he is not going to say anything about it.

I definitely think that Finnick and I might be kind of friends in the limited way we can be.

"Are you okay?" I ask before I can stop myself.

I feel like I'm not asking just about the scratches. But I'm not sure what else I could be asking about. I have this out of the water feeling that I know what is going on, but at the same time I don't. It's disorienting.

"I'm Finnick Odair. I'm more than okay," he says with his trademark confident grin.

"Of course," I laugh.

I chat with Mags the rest of dinner. She tells me all about what District 4 was like when she was growing up, and it's riveting. She was five when the Games started, so she has memories of the way people first reacted when they began. She gets very sad when she retells it.

Mags finishes eating first, and then asks Chiron, Annora, and the stylists to come to the living room. I know she is aiming to get Finnick and I alone, and I can only accept that she is doing it because she really believes what she told me this morning. I guess she just really wants us to be able to be friends. I am grateful, because having a friend with me right now would be a luxury I desperately need.

A friend is what I wished for earlier today when I missed Cora so terribly. A friend is what I need more than anything, someone to trust with how I am feeling and someone whose opinion I trust. I think Finnick fits both those qualifications, in the narrow way he can with how briefly we have been acquainted.

"Finnick, what do you think happens when someone dies?" I force myself to speak before I chicken out.

I take a moment to appreciate that this is the second time I've made Finnick look shocked.

He recovers quickly.

"Got death on the brain today, Cresta?" he asks. He's smiling, but it's sad this time. It's tragically beautiful. It makes my heart ache.

I trace the patterns of waves onto the table. I kind of miss the designs that were on my skin.

"I've been in that sort of company," I mumble, thinking about the way the District 7 tribute glared so hatefully at Chiron and the way the District 2 tribute knocked into me, just for the purpose of knocking me down.

Finnick shifts in his chair, turning to face me better. His eyes drift down to my palm again, but he still doesn't bring it up.

"What do you think happens?" he questions, real curiosity in his voice.

My eyes roam around the room as I ponder this. His gaze stays steady on me as I do this, and it is hard not to trust someone who can look you in the eye so honestly.

"I'm not sure. My brother thinks people haunt the shores as ghosts," I smile a bit, thinking about Arnav and his Maiden of the Sea. "I hope we just stop, but maybe our energy does linger around in a way."

Finnick cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows dragging down.

"Why would you hope we just stop?"

His eyes bore into mine as if he can lift the answers straight from my own head. I gaze back, and this much eye contact makes me feel strange. For the second time I feel as if he's x-raying me. It's not the same as when Mags stared at me like she was seeing inside my mind. That was more like she could understand things about me that I couldn't yet. With Finnick, I felt like he was seeing everything as it was and talking to me about it, without opening his mouth once. I guess it felt like being understood in a way.

I break the stare finally, glancing down at my lap. "I think that those who suffer in life should be able to know that there's an end somewhere. That even though they have had so much pain, they can look forward to it all ending. Like a long, perfect sleep where you are never plagued with nightmares or have to be woken up. And then you eventually turn into flowers."

I glance back up at him, and the soft smile is back. I think it's his best one.

"I think that is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard about death." His voice is honest, and a blush rises to my cheeks. I hope he doesn't notice, but the way his eyes twinkle makes me sure he does. He continues. "I have always hoped for that too. I mean, I can't think of a world where Heaven and Hell could exist, because how would you judge who is good and who is evil? What criteria would realistically work? Almost everyone is such a mixture of both."

He stops talking and I have a feeling we are both picturing his trident enter the bodies of the other tributes in his Games.

I fight with the urge to set a comforting hand over his hand.

"No one deserves to be burned for eternity anyway," I say, once he's finally looked back up at me.

"Not even Snow?" he asks.

I pause briefly.

"Not even Snow," I affirm.

He reaches forward and slowly pushes my hair back over my shoulders, and my heart begins to pound in my chest, and I know my face is red again. It's ridiculous, because he's Finnick Odair, and he is touchy with everyone. But now that I think about it, he hasn't been touchy with me. Something about this gesture sets a warm feeling off in my stomach, and it takes all I have to keep from giggling out of nervousness.

"I like the way your mind works, Annie. It's special," he says. Serious Finnick Odair is something different in itself.

"Like yours," I blurt out, thinking about what Mags told me this morning.

He grins. "Like mine. But nicer."

"That's what Mags meant when she said we are the same." I say this instead of asking, because I realize that it must be true. I am going on the assumption that Mags told Finnick the same reason, and I turn out to be correct.

"Yes, I think so, too."

A pause falls over us. The recaps for the Opening Ceremonies must be beginning soon. I'm about to suggest we move to the living room when he speaks again.

"I think I can answer your question now."

I nod and then clear my throat. "Okay."

"When someone in that arena dies, they are finally at peace. And they bring you one step closer to coming back home."

He stands and helps me to my feet. We head out to watch the Opening Ceremonies recap.

I don't think he knows, but his answer was just what I needed I handle all of this.

Chapter Text

Watching the Opening Ceremonies makes everything real in a way it hadn't been before. For the first time, I actually get a good look at my opponents, and it leaves me feeling weak and nauseous. Finnick and Mags ramble on about how once Districts 1, 2, and 7 are out it will be a piece of cake, but I am plagued by two thoughts: 1, 2, and 7, will probably be the last three districts left (judging solely on size and muscle), and I can't kill anyone.

The longer I lie awake and try to picture myself delivering the death blow, the more uncomfortable I feel. I give it up after fifteen minutes, but I toss and turn for hours after that, haunted by the eyes of tributes I only ever wronged by imagining killing them in my head.

When I finally do drift off, I'm in the arena, and I'm watching the male District 7 tribute cut the male District 2 tribute to pieces. He starts with his temples and slices down to the corners of his mouth, as if he's smiling hugely. He pulls the knife down and presses the tip to the hollow dip between the District 2 tribute's collarbones, and stabs it down hard. The tribute from 2 makes a choking noise and his eyes widen. He spots me and he begs me to help him, and blood is bubbling up and spilling over his lips, and I vomit right there in the dirt.

I jerk awake at seven, tangled up in my nightgown, physically and emotionally unwell. I fist my hands tightly around the blanket and count backwards in my mind, trying to calm myself down before I reach a level of hysteria that is impossible to turn back from. I'm gasping out between small sobs when a hand taps lightly against my door.

"Annie! Are you awake?" Annora sings.

I work the fingers on my right hand free from the blankets and press it down so hard over my mouth that it feels like I am smashing my upper lip. The weight on my chest increases and I'm gasping again, only it's worse this time because the hand makes me feel even more like I'm suffocating.

"Annie? Are you all right?" she asks, her voice concerned. She turns the doorknob and before I can think to do anything, she's standing in the doorway.

Her eyes widen and she rushes over to the side. Her hands flail uselessly around as she attempts to figure out what to do. When a loud sob finally rips its way out of me, I understand that I am officially hysterical.

"Oh, Annie! You looked fabulous last night at the parade! Really, you did! Absolutely gorgeous! Like a porcelain doll!" she exclaims quickly.

This sets me off even more. The fact that she thinks out of all the reasons I have to be upset, I would be crying over how I looked in a pointless parade, and the fact that she equates me with something fragile like a porcelain doll all adds up to make me feel even worse.

I reach back blindly and pull the blanket over my head, hoping she'll get the hint. I appreciate her trying, but there is nothing she can say to make me feel better. When I get upset like this, Cora is the only one who can talk any sense to me at all, but usually I just have to let it pass.

She gets that I'm trying to tell her something by my actions, but it's the opposite of what I was trying to convey.

"Finnick!" she yells, her voice laced with panic.

I try to rip the blanket off me to tell her to stop yelling for him, that I don't want him to see me this way, that I don't want anyone to see me this way, but I can't get myself to move at all. I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, hiding my face against my knee caps and hoping Finnick is asleep. The pressure inside of me is painful and each sob only seems to make it worse, instead of relieving it.

I can't do this. I absolutely can't do this. I am going to run straight to the Cornucopia and let someone take me out immediately. I don't want to get far into this Game with people like my fellow tributes. I don't want to see the things that I've had to see on the television screen right in front of me. I don't want to be helpless to helping anyone, or helpless to helping myself. I can't do it.

"Annie?" Finnick's voice seems to be coming from a tunnel. I see the blanket shaking around me before I realize that my entire body is quaking.

A warm hand rests firmly on my left shoulder, and I think he tells Annora to leave.

After the door shuts, the blanket is slowly pulled off of me. The cold air shocks me and I lift my head up, gasping again.

Finnick's hands are gentle as he wraps them around my upper arms. He sits directly in front of me, his mouth drawn into a tight line and his eyes worried.

"Annie, look at me. Breathe with me." He inhales deeply, and I struggle to mimic him, but I'm still gasping. He exhales and then starts the cycle over again. He does this until I am able to do it as well, and soon I feel some of the weight dispersing from my chest, and my sobs slow from hysterical gasping to actual tear producing cries. He never once breaks his eyes from mine, and he exhales in relief when he sees I've calmed down a bit.

His thumbs rub softly back and forth on my upper arms, and then I'm gasping again.

"I can't do it, Finnick!" I exclaim. He scoots forward a bit and then slides his hands down my arms, taking my hands in his. He gently pulls the blanket free from my grasp and holds my hands still.

"You can't do what, Annie?" he asks.

I taste the salt of my tears and it makes me miss home so badly that it makes me feel even more miserable.

"I can't kill anyone. I can't do it!" I answer.

His eyebrows press down and a deep frown covers his face. It's the most open display of negative emotion I've ever seen him give, and I wish it had never happened. Finnick Odair sad is something that breaks my heart completely.

He tugs gently on my hands as he slides off the bed and stands. I place my feet down on the floor of the room and he pulls me to my feet. The room is freezing with only my nightgown on.

He tears the blanket free from the bed and wraps it around my shoulders, retaking my hand.

"Come with me. Let's talk," he says.

I follow him blindly, tears blurring everything around me. I'm gripping the blanket around me with my left and Finnick has my right hand tightly, and I don't want to let go of either anchor in order to wipe the moisture away.

We're in the elevator, and then we're climbing, and then I feel a breeze on my face. Finnick leads me to a bench and we sit down. I don't let go of his hand, and he doesn't pull it away. I realize that I need him right now, and that scares me. The last person I would ever want to need would be Finnick Odair, but he is all I have right now. He's a good person.

He leans forward and uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away some of my tears, and I'm sobbing again.

He's a great person.

The sun has just begun rising over the busy streets in the Capitol, and the soft oranges and pinks are beautiful. It looks just like the sunrises back home. I watch it and feel myself calming down, my tears slowly ebbing away and my panic quieting down. If I stare directly up and don't look at the Capitol streets below, I can almost convince myself I'm back at home, walking along the shore of the ocean with Arnav and searching for starfish to throw back into the water.

"I've been to every district, but no matter where I am, the sunrise always looks the same. Even in the arena," he says.

His hand is still holding onto mine and our hands are clammy, but I am sure it's the only thing holding me together right now.

He turns to look at me instead of the sunrise, and he tightens his grip a bit.

"It's not a bad thing, you know. That you feel like you can't kill anyone. I'm haunted by those people I killed," he mutters.

I turn to look at him, and the oranges and pinks make his skin look ever tanner than usual. His eyes are downcast and his hair shines golden. I think about saying me too, but I cannot get myself to do that.

He kicks at the ground and then looks back up at me.

"You remember yesterday when we talked about what happens when we die and I said I couldn't imagine Heaven or Hell because people are both evil and goodness?" he asks.

I nod.

"Well, you're just goodness, Annie. And it's never something to be ashamed of."

I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders and keep my eyes on him. He turns to look in the opposite direction, and I can see his jaw working as if he's grinding his teeth. I wonder then if I am making him angry. I could be. I am the worst possible tribute any mentor could have gotten. But for whatever reason, I don't think that I am. He has been nothing but kind to me, and I don't think any of it has been an act.

"We'll figure out some sort of strategy. We'll find a way to keep you alive," he says, confidence back in his voice. "There has to be a way to do that."

He looks back at me as he says the last sentence.

"I don't think there is, Finnick," I finally say. "I think I would rather let myself die at the Cornucopia. I think that would be so much better for all involved. It will be a pretty painless death as it will most likely be very quick, and I won't risk staying in long enough to make someone angry. I don't want to die in the hands of someone with a grudge against me. I don't want to die slowly, and I don't want my family to have to see that. It's kill or be killed, and I don't think I can kill anyone."

Finnick's hand slowly lets go of mine for the first time since we sat down, and I feel even colder.

"Don't say that, Annie. Don't think about doing that, either. I've been working on a strategy for you. Don't tell me you've already given up? I can't promise you won't have to kill anyone. But I can promise that when you are in the arena, you are going to do things you never thought possible before. You are going to do things that you never thought you ever would without a second guess. And I am so sorry about that, but it's the way it is," he says. His hand makes its way back to mine. "The arena changes everyone. But you deserve to make it out. You deserve it more than anyone else. Because you are good."

Frustration soars within me suddenly, and I can feel my eyes burning again. It seems everyone can tell me that I deserve to make it out, or that I have to make it out, but no one can tell me how on Earth that is supposed to happen.

"But how, Finnick? I don't even know how I am going to present myself in my interview. I don't even know who I'm going to ally with. I don't know anything," I say. I sniff and reach my left hand up to wipe at the tears still spilling out over my bottom eyelashes. "I couldn't strategize my way out of a game of beach volleyball."

He smiles for the first time today and it makes me feel better.

"Well, that's what I'm here for, you crazy girl! What, do you think they just keep me here to improve the aesthetics?"

He gets a small smile out of me and seems very pleased by that fact.

"That's exactly what we were supposed to talk about today over breakfast and before you go down to training with all the other tributes. I'm not just a pretty face, you know. I've got some pretty solid strategies."

His ever growing smile is making mine widen as well. Something shifts at the sight of him beaming, and I feel better than I have all day.

"What are they?" I ask.

He rises again and pulls me to my feet.

"First, I'm taking you back down to your room so you can finish getting ready for training today. And then we're going to eat breakfast and talk all about those," he answers.

I follow beside him, our hands no longer joined, but I am feeling stronger now and less likely to float away without his hand around mine.

Hearing someone tell me they have an idea of what I'm supposed to do in that arena lifts what feels like a literal weight off my chest. Breathing is easier, and with that, everything seems easier.

"You're just postponing because you don't really have any ideas at all," I tease. The minute the sentence is out, I momentarily wonder who said it before I realize it was me.

He presses 4 on the elevator and then taps my nose playfully.

"Cresta, one day you are going to learn not to underestimate me."

I mumble "We'll see" under my breath, and his laughter fills the entire elevator.

He walks me back to my room and stops me before I go in.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks hopefully.

I nod, beginning to feel ashamed about my hysteria already.

"Thank you so much, Finnick. I'm sorry about what a mess I am. I get upset easily, and I had this horrible nightmare last night, and I'm realizing that I'm not handling any of this half as well as I had hoped I was," I admit.

He rolls his eyes.

"You should have seen how I handled getting reaped. You're doing just fine, okay? Stop being so hard on yourself. I'll be back with breakfast in fifteen minutes."

He heads towards the dining room, and I close the door. I want to un-think every negative thought about Finnick Odair I have ever had. It would scare me how much better I feel when he's around, but I don't care as of late. I just want him around.

I'm finished showering in only ten minutes, and by the time Finnick's knocking at the door, I'm sitting at the edge of the bed in the training outfit running a brush through my wet hair.

"Who is it?" I ask, because we both know I know who it is.

"Finnick Odair, District 4 victor of the 65th Hunger Games and resident heartthrob!" He answers. I can hear a smile in his voice, and I'm sure it's the cocky one. "It must be your lucky day, miss!"

I stand and place the brush on the dresser, slowly walking towards the door.

"Hmm…" I say. "Never heard of him."

He opens the door and I was mistaken. It's the soft smile, and I'm sure it matches mine.

"Very funny, Cresta. Like anyone could forget this face."

He sets a tray of food on my bed just like he did that first night on the train. He climbs up and sits cross legged in front of it, beginning to fill his plate with food from the many steaming bowls and plates on the tray. I walk over to the opposite side of the bed and climb up, settling down Indian style beside him. I put food on my plate as well.

"So, genius strategies," he starts, speaking around a mouthful of eggs. I feign a disgusted grimace and he winks at me. "Mags says Chiron is violently against joining in an alliance with Districts 1 and 2. He wants to stick it out just you and him the entire Games. Frankly, I don't trust him. But speak now if that's what you want to do, because my strategies don't include him."

I swallow a spoonful of oatmeal and let myself think about it. Chiron's nice, and it would be okay to have a familiar face beside me. But I know next to nothing about strategy, and what if it somehow came down to the two of us? I absolutely could not kill Chiron. I decide that whatever Finnick thinks is best is what I am going to do. I don't have much room to be iffy about whom I trust at this point. It's all in or all out, and I'm going all in with Finnick.

I motion for him to continue. He sets his cup of coffee back down.

"At first, I was thinking you should join in with Districts 1 and 2 at the beginning. That's standard for District 4. It's what I did. But after seeing the pieces of work in the Games this year, I'm rethinking it."

He takes another sip of his coffee. I continue working my way through my breakfast, even though I'm still not that hungry. The red jam oozing out of the fluffy croissants reminds me of the blood spilling out of the District 2 tribute's mouth in my nightmare, and it makes me sick. Images haunt me more than anything, and I wish I could escape them.

"You've got a lot more going for you than you think you do. I feel like we've gotten to know each other pretty well, as well as we could given the circumstances and the time allotted we have, and I feel like you're underestimating yourself. You're sharp and witty, and you are able to make decisions quickly it seems like, which is what we call having a good gut instinct. You're also small, so hiding will be much easier for you, and you have a graceful gait, so you won't make much noise." Finnick lifts up one of the jam filled croissants and bites into it, and I have to look away, my stomach churning. Images from my dream assault me again.

His voice pulls me back to reality.

"I don't want you in an alliance with anyone. I don't think you can trust any of them, especially not the Careers. Trust me, I was one of them. I want you to take off the minute the gong sounds and head for the nearest cover. Don't go to the Cornucopia."

He's looking seriously at me now, all jest and ease gone. His eyes seemed trained to mine in a way that's almost magnetic, and I'm sure I could not look away even if I wanted to.

"I am going to work with you to find a weapon you can use to protect yourself with, but don't even worry about that at the start. Just hide. I want you to stay close to the Cornucopia, but far enough away that you're not in the thicket of things. The initial bloodbath can go on for hours. Just please stay there until you are sure it's over. You'll know when the cannons finally stop going off. Once it seems quiet at the Cornucopia, start to make your way back carefully. The Careers will be gone. After they get their weapons, they head off to make camp and then search for those stupid enough to light fires at night. If anyone sees you at this phase of the game, run for it. Don't try to fight, just run."

I'm startled by two things: the extent to which he has actually thought about this, and the way he said please. He's thought about this infinitely more than I have. All I've done is think about what is going to happen when I die and how it's going to happen, and he's actually been formulating what to do. He's given me what I've been pleading for since the moment my name was pulled out of the bowl: a plan to follow. Something solid to wrap my mind around and recite at night when I'm so nervous I can't fall asleep. He's giving me a chance.

His green eyes are so clear. I am helpless in trusting him. I didn't have a choice. Luckily, it doesn't seem like the wrong move.

"Go back to the Cornucopia. Find whatever weapon is left. Most likely, it will be a knife or spear, so I am going to work with you mostly with those two options. Keep it with you at all times. You should make your way as far away from the Cornucopia as you can, because the Careers will make their way back there eventually. Head to the furthest corner of the arena you can find. Stay there and hide as long as you can. Keep track of how many are left. Do not seek out confrontation. If you stay hidden well enough, no one will find you until it gets down to the final three. Then they will begin actively searching for you. If they find you, use your weapon as best as you can. Hopefully they don't find you until there is only one left, and then you have a good chance of winning."

He looks uneasy as he finishes talking. I feel uneasy as well. The first part of the strategy I can probably pull off well enough, but I am sure I'm going to be very poor at any type of combat.

"What should I do today in group training?" I ask. My voice is shaking, much to my embarrassment.

"I want you to focus on survival skills both today and tomorrow. On the third day of training, after we have already worked with knives some, you can start to practice a bit with them. I don't know how you're going to be, but if you are amazing at it, do not show that to the others. You want to seem mediocre at best. You want to be competent enough that they're not going to try to kill you immediately, but poor enough that they are going to underestimate you. The most important thing for you to do is hone your survival skills. After your individual scores are given on the third day of training, we'll begin to work on how you're going to present yourself to Panem and all its potential sponsors. But don't worry about sponsors, okay?"

I am worried, though. If I were a sponsor I wouldn't bet on me.

Finnick reads this in my face.

"You're absolutely lovely, Annie. You'll have sponsors. Not to mention you lucked out with me as your mentor. I have my ways of getting all the sponsors I need. You won't starve to death out there, not as long as the Capitol still craves my attention."

The way he says the word lovely makes me feel as though it's the best compliment I have ever received. I smile despite myself, and he grins back. His latter sentence worries me though. I'm not sure what he is getting at, but I'm fairly certain he means he's going to sleep with potential sponsors to seal the deal. This bothers me for a reason I can't identify. I chalk it up to guilt. I don't want him doing so much for me, but then again he is Finnick, and he'd probably be doing it anyway.

"You don't have to do so much for me," I say honestly. I want to ask him if he always does this much for his tributes, but a nagging voice inside of me that sounds almost like Mags tells me he doesn't.

He smiles as if he knows a secret that I don't, which he probably does.

"I wish I could do more," he replies. He picks his coffee that's probably lukewarm back up and takes another sip. "I feel like I've known you all my life. I'm comfortable around you in a way that I'm not comfortable around much anyone else, except Mags."

His abrupt topic change throws me before I realize it wasn't really a topic change at all, but a clarification to his first statement. It leaves my lips jerking up into a smile and a warm feeling quite like drinking coffee inside of me.

"I know exactly what you mean," I say. I pause a moment, dragging the spoon through the oatmeal that's starting to stick together. "Do you think we could be friends, Finnick?"

It would be nice to head into the arena knowing that someone who cares about me is watching over me. It'd be a warm thought to keep with me, like the smile and well wishes of my prep team.

He smiles.

"Oh, Annie," he begins, an affectionate tone filling his voice. "I thought we already were."

I remember the way he spun around with me yesterday morning and the steady feel of his hand holding mine on the roof, and I grin.

"I think you're right."

He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back flat on his back.

"Well, of course I'm right! I'm—

"Finnick Odair!" I chorus with him.

He flings his arm out and grabs my bare foot, his expression serious.

"Am I getting that predictable?" he asks, an expression of horror taking over his face.

I squirm away from his grasp, absolutely positive that I never want Finnick Odair to know that I'm ticklish. He is definitely the kind of person who would tickle mercilessly.

"It's the price of fame," I sigh.

He sits back up.

"Unfortunately, there are a lot of prices of fame. You'll see that soon enough." He edges his foot forward, and I instinctively pull mine back. He's visibly fighting a smile, and I can tell he didn't miss my reaction to him touching my foot. "Ticklish?" he asks innocently, his eyebrows pulling up.

"No," I lie, trying to keep my voice casual. "And fortunately, I think you're the only one who is ever going to know the joys and sorrows of fame."

He shakes his head, fully at ease and confident in his decision that I'm going to be the one who comes home from these Games.

"Odair, one day you are going to learn not to overestimate me." I mock his words from the elevator, and he rolls his eyes.

"Never."

Training begins at 10. Finnick walks me down at 9:50.

"You don't want to be late, but you don't want to be too early either," he says as we come to a stop in front of a set of heavy double doors that are propped open. "It's never good to seem too eager or too bored."

I nod. I can hear deep voices resonating around the room, and I catch a few glimpses of tributes as they wander around the room. I don't want to see the District 7 or District 2 tributes.

Finnick sets a hand on my shoulder briefly. I meet his eyes.

"Well, good luck. I'll see you at dinner!" he says.

I nod and swallow nervously. He squeezes my shoulder and lets his hand drop back to his side.

"Bye, Finnick," I whisper.

He smiles. "Bye, Annie."

I listen to his footsteps as he walks back down the hallway the way we came, and I force my feet forward. I walk into the spacious room, nervously wiping my palms on my pants.

I don't have to look at the district numbers on the arms of the tributes standing around laughing together to know they are the District 1 and 2 tributes. They stop talking and watch me as I walk in, and I cross my arms instinctively over my chest.

"Hey, 4!" The girl from 2 says.

I haven't even been in Training for a full minute, and I'm already at a loss of what to do. If I talk to them, will they assume that means I'm in an alliance with them? But if I don't, that is very rude, and will probably make them angry at me. That's the last thing I need.

I walk over to them and force a smile onto my face.

"Hello," I greet.

They are all smirking. I can't look at the male District 2 tribute's face without seeing images from my nightmare. It makes my stomach churn.

"Want to hang near us during Training? Show us what you can do, and we'll consider an alliance," proposes the male from 1.

I have to clear my throat a few times before I feel confident enough to speak.

"I'm actually going to focus mostly on survival," I say. I remember Finnick's warnings to always seem mediocre, and I continue. "I feel okay about my weapon skills, but I need to learn more about shelter and such."

They exchange glances and then nod.

"Well, I'm Julius, and this is Sapphire," The boy from 1 offers, gesturing to his district partner.

"And I'm Aly," the female tribute from 2 says. She nods her head at her district partner as well. "That's Osmium."

"Annie," I reply.

"Well, Annie, you should still sit with us at lunch. We can talk alliances and such then." Aly's eyes are a deep, harsh brown.

"Unless you want to "work alone" like your district partner, Biron," Sapphire snaps, her voice laced with bitterness. I turn my head to search the gymnasium. I spot Chiron by himself near the swords.

I'm in a pretty poor situation. If I sit with them, they are going to think I want to join an alliance. If I tell them I don't want to join an alliance, they are obviously not going to take it very well. The only way I can get myself out of this is by making myself look like such a poor tribute that they won't want me to be their ally.

I glance around, trying to think of a way to convey my gentle nature quickly and efficiently so I can nip this in the bud. I wonder if they've somehow missed all my public falls since I've been reaped. They must have, or else they wouldn't even be approaching me.

I spot a cut on Julius's arm, and I decide it's the best I'm going to get. I gasp and look pointedly at it. All four heads fly down to it, confusion evident on their faces.

"Oh, that's awful!" I say. My voice shakes enough on its own from the stress of this situation. It doesn't take much to get my eyes watering. I think about Arnav's face that last time I saw him. "Are you okay?"

The four look absolutely disgusted. They look at me like I'm completely insane. It's an awful feeling to be looked at like that, but if that's what it takes, then fine.

"Forget it, 4," Sapphire says, backing up away from me.

I nod and wipe at my eyes. I turn to leave and purposely stumble, just to reinforce it.

Their laughter behind my retreating back convinces me I've done what I set out to do. I hate pretending of any kind, because it reminds me too much of lying, but it was all I could do. It wasn't even that much of a lie, anyway. I've never been one of the most stable people.

The Head Trainer, a stern woman named Atala, appears through a door in the back of the gymnasium. She explains the training schedule to us briefly and then leaves us to our own devices. The huge gymnasium is filled with different stations that we can drift to as we please.

I spend a while at the edible plants and then make my way over to the fire starting station. I spend the most time there because it's the area I'm worse off in, and I think it will be most beneficial to me in the long run in the chance the arena is somewhere cold. I'm used to the warm, humid weather of District 4 and I'm sure I wouldn't be able to handle freezing temperatures well.

Lunch is called right after I successfully light my second fire. The expert in the station congratulates me.

Lunch is quiet. I sit alone. Chiron looks like if anyone dared to talk to him he'd cut them right here and now, so I decide it's best to leave him be.

It's evident I've become some sort of joke to the Careers, which is what I wanted, but it still unnerves me. I'm starting to second guess what I've done. I wanted them to leave me alone. I wanted to sink into the shadows. But now they are plenty aware of me. I'd rather they didn't know me at all, but I guess it's better for them to know me as the "crazy girl from 4" than a girl they want in an alliance who turned them down.

They're worse to Chiron. I'm starting to understand why 1, 2, and 4 always form an alliance together. When someone tries to break the pattern, they are met with such hostility. They glare at him almost the entire training session.

I spend the rest of the session at the knot tying station. I excel here and the expert and I spend a while discussing different types of knots. Cora is the best at tying knots and weaving, but since I've been doing it my whole life, I'm pretty good. It's calming, anyway. I tie and retie fisherman's knots until the Careers are far from my mind.

Training ends and I don't speak to anyone until dinner that night.

Finnick was gone when we arrived back and didn't make an appearance until almost halfway through dinner. He smells like women's perfume when he sits down.

It doesn't make much sense to me. Finnick's behavior, that is. When I'm with him and we're just talking, he doesn't seem like that kind of guy at all.

An Avox sets a plate in front of him and Mags pats his hand lovingly. They share a look that can only be described as a look between two people that share a private grief. I hope everything is all right.

"Well, how did it go?" Finnick asks, turning to look at me.

I glance at Chiron across the table. He hasn't said anything yet, either. I'm sure Mags and Annora think something terrible went down, which I guess it kind of did.

"Have you met the female tribute from 4?" I ask him. "She's crazy."

Chiron laughs at this, and I smile at him.

"Oh no. What happened?" Finnick asks. His lips are pressing into a flat line again like they did this morning. He doesn't even pick up his fork. He keeps his eyes trained on me.

I slowly explain what happened with the Careers. Chiron chimes in every now and then, explaining their aggression towards him. He thinks I did the right thing, and even finds it hilarious. I decide that Chiron is kind. He's surly and very introverted, but under that, he's gentle.

I finish explaining, and Finnick is still looking worried.

I frown deeply. I duck my head and look at my hands in my lap. I run my finger over the scabs on my palm.

"I ruined it, didn't I? I'm sorry. I just didn't know what to do," I say.

"You're fine, Annie," Mags speaks up. "There was really nothing else you could do."

Finnick stays silent, his eyes trained at the wall past my head, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. After a few moments, he meets my eyes again.

"This is good," he decides. "We can use this for your interview."

I look at him skeptically. "We're going to make me come off as unstable?"

He smiles. "Only Careers would see a display of compassion and think that means you're unstable. No, we're going to let you be yourself: honest and kind. It obviously makes the other tributes uncomfortable, which is always good, and I can work with that to get you sponsors. Everyone loves a sweet girl."

"Not in a reality show about killing," I argue.

He finally turns to his plate and begins eating. "But it's not a show about killing. It's a show about bravery and strategy and cruelty. It's a show about human nature, and how we handle it when thrown into a situation like that. And kindness is very much a human emotion."

I'm not convinced fully, but if there's one thing I don't doubt, it's that Finnick knows what he's doing.

After dinner, Finnick and I start working with weapons. I'm all right with a knife, much to his relief, but it's my knots that have him impressed.

We had ropes out because Finnick was demonstrating how he used nets to reel his victims in. While watching him demonstrate on Annora (who found the entire thing delightful), I begin fiddling with the extra rope. I absentmindedly tie and untie knots, thinking that I can never reel in victims the way that Finnick did. He stops what he's doing and walks over to me. He kneels down on front of me and inspects the rope.

"You're good at that," he says. "That's a great knot."

I pull on the string and the knot unties.

"It's calming. Mindlessly tying and untying, I mean. It's especially nice to do when you're nervous or upset. It occupies the mind," I say.

Finnick plops down beside me on the couch and grabs a length of rope. He begins tying a fisherman's knot like I did in training earlier today. He's not too shabby himself.

A few moments pass with our hands fiddling with rope and Annora giggling as she halfheartedly tries to untangle herself from the net Finnick threw over her.

"It is calming," he says finally. He stands back up and walks over to Annora.

He sighs. "Nora, darling, I'm afraid you are dead."

She giggles again. "Oh, this is so much fun! I can't wait until the Games!"

Finnick turns and shoots me a look, and we're both laughing our heads off. Finnick pulls the net off of Annora and helps her up.

Finnick and I spend the next few hours playing a knife game that consists of telling a story of someone or something that makes us upset or angry, and then throwing the knife at a target that we picture as that person or thing. The target itself is a piece of durable foam attached to the living room wall. The first few times I miss the target completely, the knife flying dangerously far from where it should be going. I almost hit Annora once as she's walking by, and she shrieks and hits the floor. She waves off my apologies though, gushing about how exciting it was. Then Finnick tells me to picture the target as a giant button that will end the Games completely, and it's comical how much my accuracy increases.

Mags watches the game with enjoyment, drifting off to sleep every now and then, only to jerk awake at one of our sudden cries of victory. Finnick hardly ever misses the target. I have a problem with throwing it straight, but not hard enough for it to stick.

"You've got to really throw it. Hard," Finnick reminds me. I'm standing in the middle of the living room, knife in my hand, ready to throw it again.

"Okay," I say.

He's told me this at least ten times. I just can't seem to get myself to do it. I'm worrying I'm not strong enough.

"It'd probably be easier if you pulled your hair back. It's all in your face and hanging around your arms," he says.

"It's not my hair. I'm just not strong enough," I say. I fall silent when I feel him behind me. He gathers my hair in his hands and holds it behind me with his left. He reaches in front of him with his right hand.

"Hair tie?" 

"I don't have one."

"Here, child," Mags says. Finnick reaches with his right hand a grabs something from Mags. A second later, he's tying my hair back with a piece of the rope we were messing around with earlier. His fingertips brush the back of my neck and suddenly he stops.

A blush creeps all the way from where his fingers brushed to my cheeks. The back of my neck tingles. I wait for him to say something, but he simply stands there, his fingers resting against my skin.

My heart is beating rapidly and I'm so confused I don't even know what to say. I decide to turn my head and figure out what he's doing when his hand drops away.

"Yep, knots are useful. Remember that you can use rope to tie your hair back in the arena, because I have a feeling this is going to improve your knife throwing abilities," Finnick says. He moves back to the couch behind me to watch.

I swear his face looks pinker than normal, and that throws me more than anything has today. It must be from the crazy knife flinging we've been doing, because there is no way Finnick would ever be blushing, especially not from something ridiculous like him touching the back of my neck. He spends his spare time rolling around in sheets with gorgeous, exotic Capitol women. There's no way I phase him at all. Still, the touch felt strangely intimate in a way that doesn't make sense to me.

I shake my head and turn back around.

I breathe and focus on the foam. I pull my arm back and grind my teeth and then fling it forward.

The moment the knife sticks into the foam with a very satisfying sound, I'm lifted off my feet.

"Ha! Look at that!" Finnick exclaims, twirling me. I laugh with him and he sets me back on my feet. He walks over to the foam and examines the knife.

"Perfect stick! You've got fight in you after all, Cresta!" He smirks as he walks back over to me. "See, I told you it was the hair."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms. "It was not! It was just a lucky throw."

He sits beside me and tugs on my pony tail. "Nope. It was a great throw. You're a little warrior."

"You're ridiculous," I say in exasperation. If any tribute is a warrior, it's not me. His smile is completely contagious though, and I'm grinning back up at him.

The floor creaks a bit, and Finnick automatically looks up. Mags is tip toeing out of the room.

"Where are you going, Mags?" Finnick asks.

She stops and shoots him a shifty grin.

"Oh, I'm going to bed," she says.

"You don't have to leave," he says. He looks at me in confusion and I shrug.

She keeps walking.

"I'm old! I need my sleep! Good luck, Annie!" she yells over her shoulder.

"Silly woman," Finnick says affectionately.

Chapter Text

Dear Cora,

I am currently sitting in the living room of District 4's apartment in the Training Center, and Finnick Odair is asleep against my legs.

Before you freak out (I bet you already dropped the letter and called Marv into the room to read that line to him, didn't you? You did. I know you, Cor. Tell Marv I said hello), I should clarify how Finnick ended up asleep on the floor in the first place. He was sitting and telling Mags and I the rumors he's heard about this year's Games, but he fell asleep because someone might have switched his caffeinated coffee with decaf. It was Mags, but I'm not telling.

Anyway, I was on the couch and he was sitting on the floor below it, and low and behold, I've now got the victor of the 65 th Hunger Games asleep against me. I thought you would get a kick out of that. I wish you could have seen it; he was literally in the middle of a sentence when he dropped off to sleep. I've never seen anyone do that before.

It's nearing midnight here, and tomorrow I've got to go in for individual scoring. I wish terribly that you could be here for so many reasons. The Capitol is so colorful, Cora. It's this exotic place filled with neon yellows, as bright as yellow tang fish; deep blues, truer than any shade of the water; bright greens, as vivid as new grass that grows beside the house in the spring; and jarring reds, redder than blood. I wish I could explain it better, because I think it would be a great last gift to give you. A vivid mental image of the place you will never have to go (and I am thankful for that). The Capitol people dress so unusual. They dye their skin those bright colors and get tattoos and shapes tattooed onto them. My stylist has multicolored triangles that all join together tattooed across her body. It's strange, but you know me. The stranger the better.

There's also a state of mind here in the Capitol that is very uncomfortable for me. You should see the bloodlust, Cor. It's awful. It makes my skin scrawl like I've got bugs burrowing underneath my skin. They truly have no problems with the Games. In fact, they congratulate me for being "honored" by being chosen to participate in them. Our escort is completely enamored with the Games and talks about how she would handle being in them frequently, even going as far as stating she wishes she could be a tribute. I thought that Finnick was going to throw the knife he had in his hand at the time at her head.

I've been thinking of you, Arnav, and dad a lot. You're in my mind every moment, no matter what I am doing, or if I want you there or not. I guess you all have been thinking of me as well? Cora, my heart is aching as I write this. I know this is going to be the last thing I ever say to you, and it isn't even to you. There's so much I wanted to do, so much I wanted to see, so many words I wanted to say, so many sunrises and sunsets I wanted to watch. I feel each of them inside of me, and they weigh a ton. Every day I feel like I'm carting around sturdy wooden caskets. Occupied, of course.

I keep thinking about the summer Arnav turned six. The summer we all boarded Dad's boat and stayed in the sea for a month at least. I swear sometimes I can smell the scent of the ocean and taste the salt and feel the humidity of the air. At night I can hear the creaking of the boat and the whip of the sail. But most of all, I can see all four of us lying flat on our backs on the deck, watching the sky. It was the darkest blue I have ever seen, and it seemed like there wasn't even an inch that wasn't peppered with bright stars of every size. The stars aren't like that here. There aren't any stars at all. It's from all the bright lights, Mags says. I believe that.

I realized today why I kept thinking about that trip and that night. It's because that is probably the happiest I have ever been. Arnav kept telling that awful joke about the sailor and his dog, and you kept laughing hysterically each time he told it even after he'd reached a grand total of twelve retells, and dad was smiling more than he had since mom died, and Arnav laid with his head on my shoulder the entire night. His hair smelled like grass, I remember that too.

I want you to know that you and Dad and Arnav have made my life beautiful. You have always loved me unconditionally and never asked anything from me in return. And you especially, my sister who knows what to do in every situation and holds me together when I begin to feel like all my knots are coming untied. I have had so much fun sharing my childhood and my brief young adulthood with you, and I wouldn't trade the memories I have for anything, not even a pass to get out of these Games.

I want you to remember that when you're watching the Games. I don't know what you're going to see, I don't know what is going to happen. But I do know I will die in the arena. And that's okay. You are going to be okay. No matter how awful it looks, no matter how much pain I seem to be in, know that I am thinking about that night on Dad's boat, that I'm not scared, and I'm happy. I'm happy for all I've lived, and I'm happy for my family more than anything.

I have a few things I need to ask of you and the rest of the family, and I am already acknowledging your acceptance to these, so know that I hold you to them. First, I want you and Marv to have tons of babies. Love them like you loved me and they will be so happy. Next, I want you to tell Arnav that I love him more than whales love fish and the fish love plankton. Tell Dad I love him too, and I am so thankful for all he's done.

I let it slip to Finnick that you're a fan, so I'm sure he's probably going to slide a signed picture into the envelope, so that can be your birthday present from me for all the birthdays I'm going to miss. He also promised me that he would give Arnav trident lessons whenever he wants, and I already told him I hold him to that, as well. He is doing me a huge favor by mailing this—a favor that could get him in huge trouble—so no matter what you think about the way he handles mentoring me in the arena, be kind to him. I know how stubborn you can be, so consider this one of my last wishes as well.

I want you all to also know that in the days leading up to the arena, I have been happy. Dreadfully and achingly miserable in moments, but cheerfully and serenely contented in others. I don't want you thinking my last days alive were wretched. I have formed a few memories so delightful that they go onto my list of favorite moments I have ever had, regardless of the situation I'm in, and I owe most of them to Finnick. I don't have words to express how wrong I was about him. You have full "I told you so" rights. I'm going to go ahead and imagine you saying it. Yes, Cora, you're right. You were right. He's just wonderful. And I don't mean that the Finnick you see in public is wonderful; he's lovely, but he's nothing like the Finnick in private. Finnick in private is something different in itself. He thinks in ways so similar to me, and not because we have been around each other for so long we are practically two parts of one whole as with you and I, but because we are made from the same stuff, whatever that may be and however that happens. He understands me, not what I say or what I don't say or what I do or what I don't do, but me as a person. It's bizarre, but it has been such a relief. I don't know what I would have done without him. He is such a great friend, and I use that word with complete and total honesty. I care about him and I put my trust into him. It's strange how well we get on, even though we technically have only just met, but I do so love strange things, and together we are odd in hilarious and wonderful ways. Sometimes it saddens me, because I think we would become the best of friends if I weren't running out of time.

Thank him for me again next time you see him, okay? Only don't show him this letter, because he doesn't need another burst of air into his already overly inflated ego.

I really should go to sleep now. I think ending this letter is harder than getting on the train to the Capitol was. Mom always did say I had separation issues. Mom really is always right, I guess.

I love you forever.

Love,
Seashell

There's a period in time when you know something bad is going to happen. It's this feeling in the pit of your stomach and the tips of your fingers and the back of your neck. It's tense and restless, it's consuming and uncomfortable.

I feel that way now. I've felt that way in varying degrees since I began that walk to the Reaping.

I'm eating lunch by myself in the dining hall, nervously anticipating the moment when they are going to begin calling back tributes for scoring. I have a general idea of what I'm going to do, but I'm not entirely sure I'm not going to freeze up the moment I get into the room and mess it up.

They've just called the male District 1 tribute when I hear yelling.

I distinguish Chiron's voice immediately, having lived across the hall from him for a few days. He is screaming at the top of his lungs, so furious I can't make out a word of what he's saying. I rise to my feet and wring my hands, unsure of whether I should walk out into the hallway and see what has him so worked up or stay out of it completely.

Concern wins out over caution, and I make my way hesitantly to the doorway. Chiron's temper is something I've seen in only one other occasion, and I was just as terrified then as I feel now.

I peek out of the dining hall, and Chiron is standing in front of Osmium—the boy from 2—and his face is flushed a deep red. He's hollering and gesturing wildly, and Osmium has his arms tensed and his fists clenched, as if he's waiting for one slip of tongue to knock Chiron in the face.

"Chiron!" I call.

They both fall silent immediately, turning to look at me. Chiron is panting heavily and Osmium's teeth are barred.

"What's wrong?" I ask him.

Once asked, he looks fairly ashamed to be yelling at Osmium. He opens his mouth and then closes it, his eyes darting around wildly.

Osmium takes advantage of this moment and shoves at Chiron. Chiron's head snaps around to face Osmium, and he's got a very hard look in his eyes.

"Stop!" I shriek as Chiron lifts his arm. "You'll both get in trouble!"

Osmium flexes his fists and sneers. "You just wait until the arena, 4. You just wait," he tells Chiron.

He stalks off, leaving me standing alone in the hallway with an angry Chiron.

I stand still, my arms wrapped around my waist, waiting to see what Chiron is going to do. He ducks his head. We stand there for a full minute, no one moving or saying anything. He looks upset.

"Are you okay?" I ask softly.

He keeps his head ducked down.

"What does it matter? We're dead soon anyway," he snaps.

I take a few steps forward, keeping a cautious distance between us.

"So? We're still alive right now," I say.

He shrugs.

"I just got so sick of the taunting," he explains. Districts 1 and 2 haven't stopped their assault on Chiron.

I hear them call for the female District 1 tribute. My heart begins to beat quicker, my stomach clenching uncomfortably. Only a few more tributes left before 4.

"If you don't mind me asking, why didn't you want to be part of the Careers?" I finally ask.

He grimaces.

"Do you remember last year's tribute?" he asks. "Sophia Belham?"

It takes me a second to place the name to a face, but I remember well enough. Sophia volunteered at the age of fourteen, most likely hoping to follow Finnick's footsteps. She was in an alliance with the Careers for a total of thirty minutes when they turned on her and stabbed her to death. They claimed they had no real need for her. And if Chiron somehow has a connection to her, it explains why he's been so venomously against joining a Career pack, so quiet and forlorn practically every minute of every day, so distrusting of most of us.

"You knew her, didn't you?" I ask.

He nods. "She was my best friend. We've know each other since—or, no, I guess that's wrong. We knew each other since we were toddlers."

It stings. If it stings me like this, I can't imagine how painfully it must sting him.

"I'm sorry," I say honestly.

He shrugs again. "It's not your fault. That's just why I hate 1 and 2. And why I hate the Capitol and everything about this. It reminds me so much of last year, watching the parade and scoring and interviews, wondering what she was doing in between then. Now I know, and I can't even share it with her, because she's dead." He crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

"It's very heavy to be without someone to share things with," I agree.

He doesn't say anything else, and his name is called thirty minutes later. I'm so tense that I forget to wish him good luck.

When my name is called, I somehow rise to my feet, and then I'm moving so quickly over the floor it's like I'm gliding. My dread for this to begin has now morphed into a desire to get it over with as soon as possible.

I stand in front of the balcony holding tightly to the hem of my shirt. They stare expectantly at me. They're all just as flamboyantly dressed as everyone else in the Capitol. I think even the differences between our fashion helps to keep the Capitol from sympathizing with those they sentence to death. It's even hard for me to see them as people akin to myself, so I imagine they have a similar problem when faced with tributes. After all, if something is drastically different from yourself, where is the proof that they are one of you? There isn't any. This is all a mess.

I clear my throat. I can't meet their eyes when I talk.

"My name's Annie Cresta. District 4," I whisper.

The Head Gamemaker this year nods his head. "Let's see it then, Miss Cresta."

I turn and survey the room. My eyes land on the rope. I walk rapidly over there and fall to the floor beside it. It takes me only a few minutes to make a fairly large net. After that, I throw it over my shoulder and walk over to the mannequin targets. I grab one of the knives on display beside the target area and it feels a lot heavier than the one I've been practicing with. That worries me.

It isn't until I'm standing in front of the target, getting ready to throw the net, that I realize I have no place to put the knife while I do that. I freeze. If I set the knife down on the ground, I'll get points off for letting my weapon lie where it could be taken from me. If I keep it in my hand and try to throw the net with one hand, I'll most likely miss.

Ignoring all safety rules completely, I bring the knife up to my mouth and bite down on the blunt end of the blade. The sharp metallic smell reminds me of blood.

I bite down so tightly on the blade to keep it from falling that it physically pains me. All I know is that I don't want the weight of the handle to pull it down and out of my mouth, because it will most likely injure me on the way to the floor. I should have tried to bite it by the handle, but it's too late now.

I lock eyes on the mannequin and fling the net away from my body. It lands on top of the mannequin just as Finnick and I practiced. I then quickly reach up to pull the knife from my mouth. Normally I stand very still for a few extended seconds, listening to Finnick's repetitive last minute advice, but I know I can't hesitate too long right now.

I find myself hesitating anyway though, because it's much different to throw the knife at something that looks remarkably like a human opposed to a piece of foam. I repeat to myself over and over again that it's not alive, and then throw it forward. It sticks solidly into the belly of the mannequin—not exactly where I was aiming for, but enough of a critical blow for the difference not to matter a substantial amount.

I back away from the scene of the staged murder, and then turn to face the balcony.

The Gamemaker nods.

"Thank you, Miss Cresta."

I nod. The words slip out before I think about what I'm saying.

"Thank you for watching," I say.

A few look thrown aback by that, and I'm mentally berating myself. Thank you for watching? Yes, thank you for watching me demonstrate how I'm going to kill the other tributes that will be trying to murder me in the Games where only one can survive. I am very grateful for you taking the time. Thanks so much.

I'm walking out when the Head Gamemaker replies.

"Trust us, the pleasure is all ours," he says.

That is something I can definitely trust them on.

The minute I walk into the apartment, Annora grabs my arm and pulls me into the living room.

"How did it go?" she questions. She leads me to the couch and sits me down. She then sits down in a chair next to the chair Mags is currently occupying.

I glance around the living room, expecting to see Finnick lurking somewhere, but he's no where to be found. This confuses me, as he promised me last night when I was nervous that he'd be upstairs the entire time, ready to hear how it went the minute I got out.

"Where's Finnick?" I ask them. I look back at their faces and Mags is grimacing. Annora, on the other hand, doesn't look fazed at all. She blows the question off with a wave of her absurdly manicured hand.

"Oh, he had some business to get to in the Capitol. He'll be back before dinner." She says.

I try my hardest not to look disappointed. Annora buys it with the same enthusiasm she probably bought the light-up dress she's wearing. Mags, on the other hand, just looks at me sadly.

I sit there silently until Annora gives me a look so pointed that I remember she asked me a question.

"Oh, it went okay," I say. I have no desire to retell it in great detail. Annora, on the other hand, has a great desire to hear everything about it, right down to the shoes the Head Gamemaker was wearing.

After suffering through her questions for at least an hour, she feels satisfied that her mental picture is complete.

"I'm guessing you'll probably get somewhere between a five and seven. You could have gotten higher, had you not hesitated. Why did you do that?" She asks.

I'd explained my hesitation to throw, but hadn't clarified why. It seems just as foolish now as it did then.

"I'm just used to taking a second to collect myself before throwing. Helps with the aim," I lie. I feel guilty almost immediately after, and I avert my eyes and take to staring at the carpet. I don't have the words to explain to Annora—an avid lover of the Games and all the violence it ensues—that I cannot stand violence. That it makes my heart ache and my head throb and my limbs shake. That the first time I saw the Peacekeepers whip someone publicly, I cried for two hours. So I say nothing of it.

After my detailed recount of the session, Annora leaves to go to Chiron's room to try and get him to tell her more about it. Mags and I sit in silence until she asks me a question. I miss it the first time, but she repeats herself.

"He wanted to be here, not there," she says.

She doesn't have to clarify who or what she's talking about, and I don't pretend she has to. She knows that as much as I try to pretend that I don't, I do care that he wasn't here.

"It's fine. I'm a bit disappointed, but I'm sure Annora will love to have the job of retelling it to him once he gets back," I say. I smile, thinking of how enthusiastic Annora will get, and how it will probably turn into one of the overdramatic Capitol soap operas on television before she's done. Which is precisely why I'm sure Finnick will cut her off as politely and kindly as he can halfway through and ask me to tell it.

Mags shakes her head.

"He's going to want to hear it from you."

"I was thinking that might be the case," I say.

I tug uneasily at my hair. I wonder what score I'm going to get. If it's anything better than awful, I worry the Careers are going to know I was exaggerating my sensitive side when I talked to them. Something tells me they won't get too thrilled over being tricked. I almost hope it's atrocious.

"So what's the real reason you waited to throw the knife?" Mags asks casually. I shoot her a look of disbelief, and she starts laughing. "You sweet child, no one but Annora could have fallen for that. You are horrible at lying."

I smile sheepishly. "Yeah, I've always been rather poor at lying."

She stares at me, waiting, until I retell that part of the story honestly.

"I'm afraid that that's the way it's going to be in the arena. That when it comes down to it, I'll freeze, and then I'll be dead," I say.

She looks at me thoughtfully. The wrinkles around her eyes scrunch up as she thinks. "I think that had the mannequin been charging at you to hurt you, you'd be able to do it. It's one thing to think you're killing an innocent, unarmed person, and another to use a weapon to keep off someone who wants to hurt you."

I hadn't thought of that before.

"I guess there's no way of knowing how I'll act in that kind of situation until I'm actually in it," I mumble.

She nods, her face stretching into a wise smile. "You've got that right."

I look down at my lap. It makes me feel both better and worse that there's no way to guess how I'm going to behave.

"Anything else eating at you?" Mags asks.

I look up at her, knowing she can still read it on my face that I wish Finnick were here. It's really not that big of a deal though. Sure, I wish he were here, but he'll be back soon and I can't expect him to be here all day every day, even if it is his job to mentor me. It's safe to say he's gone above and beyond his mentoring responsibilities, so if he wants to take a few hours off, that's fine by me.

"I'm fine," I reply.

"I know you're fine. I just worry you think the boy wanted to leave and go where he did, and he didn't. There is a difference between leaving someplace because you want to and leaving because you absolutely have to," she explains.

I wonder in what situation he would absolutely have to leave anywhere. He's Finnick Odair, he pretty much writes his own laws here in the Capitol (and back at home, now that I think of it).

She answers my unasked question. "There are certain errands Snow makes him run. It's not pleasant for him, and he would rather be here. He's told me as much and I know that kid like the back of my hand."

I feel ashamed then, like she thinks I think badly of him and she has to defend him.

"I don't think badly of him for not being here. I wouldn't even if he had left because he wanted to," I quickly say.

She smiles kindly. "I know, Annie. I just wanted you to know that."

I nod, feeling better that she knows I wasn't angry with Finnick. I know the two are close, so if she says he did something for a certain reason, I'm going to believe her. I wonder if they got close before his Games or after. In fact, I don't know for certain that she was even his mentor then.

"Were you Finnick's mentor?" I ask.

She laughs. "I still am!"

I grin, thinking about all the instances that I've seen that truth demonstrated.

"Good point."

She stretches her legs out, her knees popping. She massages them for a moment and then looks back at me.

"I love him dearly. I've never had a family of my own, but that boy's my son in all the ways that matter," she says.

I can't help but smile at the sudden thought of a tiny Finnick grasping Mags hand as they walk across the streets in District 4.

"I can tell he loves you just as much."

She smiles. "We were very fortunate the day they paired us up as mentor and tribute."

She falls silent for a few long moments and then looks back at me, catching my eye.

"It's funny how serendipitous mentor and tribute pairings can be."

I'm trying to dissect her statement when our conversation is interrupted.

"Aw, Mags, do you really think this is the time and place for matchmaking?"

Finnick walks into the room, dressed in a white suit with buttons so gold I'm almost positive they're the real deal.

Mags looks away from Finnick, turning her nose up to the air.

"Sorry, Finnick, I didn't hear a word you just said. My hearing aid's turned off," she says.

Finnick rolls his eyes and then shoots me a smile.

"Well then, my dear friend!" he says. He sits down on the couch beside me. "How did it go?"

Mags sneaks out of the room the same way she did the other night and I retell the full and honest story to Finnick.

"Don't even worry about pausing. It sounds like you did so well! Good job, Annie," he grins.

I beam back. A comfortable silence falls over us.

"Oh, and Finnick?" I ask.

"Hmm?"

"I did it with my hair down."

The scoring takes place after dinner.

We all sit around the television. Chiron looks completely at ease. I, on the other hand, am a lot more nervous than I thought I would be. After ten minutes of nervously bouncing my right leg up and down, Finnick firmly sets his hand on my knee, stilling it. I look up at him.

"Everything is going to be fine," he murmurs. I stare into his eyes, searching to make sure he's not lying to me. Nothing seems to even hint as dishonesty, so I nod.

They have a brief introduction where they explain the scoring again, and then they start reading out the scores. Julius gets a nine and Sapphire a ten. Aly scores an eight, and Osmium follows after Julius with a score of nine.

The two tributes from three get two sevens, and then it's onto Chiron and me. I feel a brief sensation of jealousy for District 12, who gets the longest amount of time to prepare for everything.

"Chiron Siot, with a score of...10!"

Chiron looks fairly shocked, but that quickly melts into an expression of relief. In order to not get killed by the Careers immediately out of revenge he needed a high enough score to be seen as intimidating. I think a ten will do him nicely.

"That's wonderful, Chiron!" I congratulate him.

A few more congratulations and a pat on the back later, and they're saying my name.

"Annie Cresta, with a score of…6!"

Finnick wraps an arm around my shoulders and gives me a friendly squeeze. He smells off again, like someone else and not himself. I don't think I like it.

"That's great, Annie! You did well enough to seem competent but you won't be made into an immediate target," he says.

Mags pats my arm. Annora says something along the lines of, well, it could be worse!

Finnick pulls back and taps my nose playfully.

"Who knew our little Annie Cresta had it in her!" He coos.

I try and shoot him a fake glare, but I know it comes off poorly. I eventually give up and smile at him, which is a much more natural display of emotions.

Annora leads a conversation all about how excited she is for the interviews and only stops talking every now and then to hear brief input from everyone else. She seems to finally run out of things to talk about after a while, and then she takes to contently humming. I let my mind wander as I stare out the window into the busy Capitol streets.

"Annora?" I ask.

She looks up excitedly. Finnick turns to look at me.

"Yes? Do you want me to tell your stylist about that new shade of neon pink?" She asks. It takes me a moment to realize that must have been what she just finished talking about. I admit I zoned out somewhere around her explanations of why orange is a summer color, and not a fall.

"I was just thinking…I see a good amount of children around the Capitol, but I've never once seen a pregnant woman," I say.

She laughs once quickly, and it has the high pitched frequency of a nervous, embarrassed laugh.

"Oh, Annie! Why on earth would you?" she asks.

I don't know how to answer that.

Finnick steps in.

"Annora, in District 4 they do things differently. Women usually go out freely the entire time they're pregnant," he says.

Both Annora and I seem to have been unaware that it was different anywhere else.

"The mothers don't mind?" Annora asks, completely scandalized.

Her question confuses me greatly.

"Mothers?" I ask. "They're the mothers."

Finnick's body shifts a bit to the right. His side is warm against mine, and for a minute I feel as though he's protecting me from something, but I don't understand what.

"Once the baby is born, yes!" Annora agrees.

Her wording has me befuddled.

"Annie, women in the Capitol employ other women to carry and then give birth to their children. These women stay in the house of the expecting mother until after the delivery," Mags explains.

I'm so shocked I don't remember to hide the emotion.

"You mean women carry their own babies in District 4? And go out in public during it?" Annora asks.

I nod numbly.

It seems the differences between the Capitol and the districts are greater than I thought. The Capitol is truly and completely detached from human empathy and connection. It goes further than them not recognizing us as people; they truly don't care about anything that puts them out in the slightest. They like the Games because it's entertainment, so it doesn't matter what is happening to anyone else. Sure, they can be kind in their own small ways, and they are all kind in the way of politeness, but I feel they have no idea of what it's like to be self-sacrificing. They refuse to give life of their own because it is a sacrifice, and instead pay someone else to do it. The arrogance of the Capitol has extended so far as to shame pregnancy and make it something that's locked away behind closed doors. An inconvenience only those being paid in material goods would ever consider taking part in. They've cheapened one of the noblest acts a human can do, and for some reason this shocks me more than the Games, more than the fashion, more than the architecture. Or maybe it's just that this, combined with everything else, makes me see the Capitol as something far less misunderstood as I did before.

"How dreadful!" Annora says.

I want to explain to her that what they do is dreadful. That I am upset by their culture and the way they live. But I know I could never get her to understand.

It isn't until later that night that I talk about how it makes me feel.

"The Capitol is a very corrupt place," Finnick says.

We're sitting on the roof again. We were playing some Capitol card game inside with Annora and Chiron, but it quickly ended when Annora began retelling her favorite kills in Hunger Games history with detail to rival her description of summer and fall colors. I must have looked bothered, because Finnick offered to take me up to the roof for some fresh air. I desperately needed it.

"You know, I didn't really think that until today. I mean I knew that they were wrong, but I just chalked it up to culture differences. The…disgust of their lifestyles didn't really hit until today," I say.

Finnick reaches over and fiddles with my hair. It's such an affectionate and comfortable gesture that I'm instantly calmed. He slides his fingers through it and braids it and then undoes it and starts the cycle over again.

"My mother always said that the most amazing part of being a parent was learning to love something more than you love yourself," he says. "I don't think anyone here knows anything about that."

I wrap my arms around myself and agree with him.

"The sooner you're out of the Capitol, the better," Finnick says, almost more to himself than me. "It's an awful place. District 4 has its faults, but it's better than this." He pauses. "Anywhere is better than here."

Sitting here, watching the lights from the giant screens reflect down on the streets below, with Finnick running his hands through my hair, I can't help but think that it's really not as bad as he makes it out to me. At least not right here, and not in this moment. I have nothing to say for anywhere else here.

Chapter Text

Last night's scores are still the topic of conversation at breakfast the next morning.

Annora and Finnick hold a light conversation the entire meal, chatting on and on about some Capitol citizen or another, until they make a full circle and end up back at the numbers that will determine a multitude of things for us.

They're congratulating us again, but I'm busy wondering what Chiron did in his session to get a ten. He scored better than a lot of the Careers. He's younger than them, and not remarkably built, so I'm not sure what he could have done.

I eat quietly for a few minutes, and then the question bubbles up out of me.

"Chiron, what did you do for the Gamemakers?" I ask.

He looks across the table at me and his eyes look so tired. I'm sure he got hardly any sleep last night. I realize from everyone else's uninterested expressions that I'm the only one at the table that doesn't know what he did.

"What did you do?" he finally asks.

I'm thrown aback by his suspicion. I feel upset for a moment, sure that I have never done anything to deserve his doubt. However, what did any of us do to deserve any of the situations we've been put in recently?

"I made a net and threw a knife," I say easily. I stare him dead in the eye, showing him I have no problem trusting him with this, as if that will help him to know he can trust me too.

He nods and lowers his eyes to his plate. He talks to the plate and not to me.

"I started out using a sword and a spear," he says. "I was pretty good with those. But then I just talked to them."

My eyes search his downturned face. Talked to them? What is that supposed to mean?

He quickly begins to clarify.

"I talked to them as if they were a tribute trying to kill me. I talked to them as if I was trying to persuade them not to kill me. I listed all the reasons why they shouldn't. And then I told the Gamemakers: 'If I could convince you for even a second that I don't deserve to die, imagine what I could convince a scared fellow tribute of.'"

I'm impressed by both his bravery and his creativeness, just as I'm sure the Gamemakers were. I never could have pulled something like that off. It's a miracle he did. It ended up being the best thing because it gave him the score he needed.

"Very risky, but good job," Mags praises him again.

He smiles. "Thanks, Mags."

Finnick finishes eating and then walks around the table. I think he's going to leave the dining room, but then I feel him tug on my hair. I turn my head around and he's standing behind my chair.

"Guess what, Miss Six? You get me all to yourself for four entire hours today while we work on the content for the interviews," he says. "Your luck just keeps getting better and better."

I grasp the edge of the table. "Hold on, give me a minute. I think I'm going to faint out of excitement."

He laughs loudly and sets his hands on the back of my chair.

"Meet me in my room when you're done with breakfast," he says, a purposely seductive tone to his voice.

My face immediately flushes, which I know was his intention to begin with, judging by his laughter. I shoot a look at the other people at the table, suddenly worried they aren't familiar with the way Finnick jokes and will think he actually means that in a way he doesn't. The only person who looks even a little bit uncomfortable is Chiron. His mouth is drawn into a straight line. But then again, he always looks a bit uncomfortable.

I turn around to look at him and fake a scandalized gasp. "Shouldn't you at least take me to dinner first?"

He smirks. "I just had breakfast with you, didn't I? That's more than most girls get."

He winks at me on his way out of the room. I roll my eyes back at him.

The first two hours of interview coaching are uneventful. Finnick pretends to be Caesar Flickerman and asks me a series of questions, but since he's told me to just be myself, it's rather easy. The only time I mess up is when "Caesar" asks me what's the most startling difference between District 4 and the Capitol, and I start to discuss the differences in child bearing.

"You don't want to talk about that on TV. It's kind of a taboo topic in the Capitol," Finnick explains.

I nod slowly, worry eating away at the pit of my stomach. "Finnick, what if he asks me a question and I don't know how to answer? What if I freeze?"

He smiles kindly. He has light circles under his eyes and his bronze hair looks a little more tousled than usual. I wonder if he was up all night. He must have been.

"Just follow your gut instincts. You'll know what to do," he answers easily.

We're seated in two plush armchairs in the sitting area of his room, and I'm already feeling exhausted, even after only two hours. I didn't sleep well last night and the chairs are so comfortable. Finnick's voice is smooth and soothing as he continues talking, and I find myself nodding off.

Finnick sets a gentle hand on my forearm. I quickly snap my eyes back open, feeling guilty. He doesn't look angry though, only concerned.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I nod and give my head a quick shake to try and wake myself back up. "I'm fine. I'm just tired. I'm so sorry, Finnick. That was really rude of me."

He gives my hand a squeeze. "You're too sweet for your own good. It's no problem, it happens."

He says this affectionately, but I know it's not as good as he makes it sound. We're going to see the full extent of that statement in the arena, I'm sure.

Mauve makes an appearance an hour later, after Finnick and I have given up interview practice and instead are having a discussion about his childhood. He grew up with just his mother. She passed away two years ago due to an allergic reaction they didn't even know she had. He seems almost angry retelling that, and I wonder if he blames himself for it. He couldn't have known she was allergic if she didn't even know, though.

It's awful and I feel terribly for him. He asks me about my mother and we talk about her for a while before deciding that my mother and his mother would have probably been friends. Somehow that makes me feel better. Talking about my mother is still difficult, so I can't imagine how difficult it must be for Finnick.

Our discussion makes me more certain of something I already knew to be true: seeing Finnick sad is awful. It makes my heart ache and my stomach drop to my toes. I grasped his hand while he was talking about his mother's funeral, and I like to think that maybe it made him feel a bit better. I surely hope so.

Once Mauve arrives, we switch gears back to preparing for the interview. The rest of the four hour session consists mostly of me standing in front of them while they circle around me and make comments about what my wardrobe and makeup should be.

"I still think we should do sexy," Mauve says. "Sexy sells better than kind."

Her words put me into a panic. I grab at Finnick as he circles back around to stand in front of me.

"No!" I exclaim. "There's no way I can pull that off!"

My mind is whirling with images of awful dresses that only cover thirty percent of my body. I'm immediately imaging what it would be like to be that exposed on stage, with the bright stage lights burning into my bare skin and every eye in Panem on me like I'm some sort of dinner dish.

He gives me a reassuring smile. "We aren't doing that." He turns to Mauve now. "She won't be comfortable doing that, and we want her to be as comfortable as possible on stage. The interviews are an extremely stressful experience and there's no reason to make them any more stressful." He turns back to the table that's between the two armchairs we were previously sitting in and glances over the color swatches Mauve brought with her. "Besides," He says, in that same voice he used on the roof that makes me feel as if he's talking to himself and not us, "Victors are known by however they present themselves in these interviews. I don't want her being known by that. Take it from someone who was."

His voice holds a light tone of regret, so light I'm sure Mauve didn't pick up on it. I did, though, and it leaves me thinking. At first I think he's referring to the toll on one's dignity being known as a sex symbol would take, but I have a gut feeling it's worse than that. I wonder then if perhaps he takes on his lovers in the Capitol not for fun or for material possession, but because it's somehow expected of him as a victor. I have no idea what it's like to be a victor. For all I know, there are certain rules of etiquette and conduct that require them to do whatever the elite of the Capitol want in order to get to take part in the victor parties and such. I'm sure that can't be the case, as victors are supposed to be the freest of us all, but something in Finnick's face when he turns back around to look at me keeps me from asking him to clarify.

I search his eyes as he walks back towards me, holding a light pink color swatch. He holds it up beside my face and stares back at me. His eyes don't hold the answers I'm looking for, but it holds enough regret for me to know that as much as Finnick Odair likes to pretend otherwise around other people, he's not having the time of his life here in the Capitol. In fact, he may hate it even more than I do.

I feel like our eyes don't leave each other's for at least three minutes. That same magnetized feeling comes over to me and I'm helpless to look away. The green of his eyes shakes me up but holds me to the floor all at once. I feel almost as if he can see that I'm screaming in my head: I know you aren't who you pretend to be. Not even a little bit. And he's yelling back: I know you do.

It's as I told my sister. It's as Mags said. However it happened, Finnick and I are the same. It's wonderful. I have never had a friend whom I could say that about. I've never met anyone I could say that about. It's a lucky occurrence that I was able to in the last few days I'll be alive.

"Definitely the dress in this shade," he finally says to Mauve, his eyes still on me.

My stomach is in knots tighter than any I have ever tied as I wait backstage.

District 1 has just finished their interviews. I feel like vomiting up every bit of food Mauve forced into me today. After eight hours total of interview practice yesterday (the four with Annora being the most draining), a night of restless sleep, and an entire morning of prep, I'm not feeling very lively.

I feel uncomfortable next to the male tribute from 3. He smells strongly like some sort of cologne and it's not helping to settle my stomach. Chiron is quiet as usual, staring forward at the wall intently. I figure he's probably running through what he's going to say if certain questions are asked over and over again. I try to do the same, but I'm so restless that all I really want to do is go for a really long walk somewhere without massive crowds of neon people, or bright fluorescent lights, or the glow of television screens.

Finnick appears with Mauve. The mentors and stylists have been drifting between the backstage area and the audience. He kneels in front of me and takes my hands after the boy from 3 is called onto the stage. His hands are warm and steady and I grip them a lot tighter than I mean to. I can feel the stares of my fellow tributes, but I don't care. I lock my eyes onto his and he gives me a smile so cathartic that I smile back.

"You're going to be enchanting. I'll be watching the entire time, okay? It's just like practicing," he murmurs. I nod. He keeps a hold of my hands until my name is called. He gives them a squeeze and then slides his hands off mine, helping me to my feet. He leads me gently to the side of the stage where I have to enter, and my heart is pounding so hard it's all I can hear.

"Good luck," he whispers, and then I'm walking forward onto the stage.

The screams of the crowd are deafening. I try to tell myself not to look at the audience, but it's like when you're at a tall height and someone tells you not to look down—you can't help but do it. I look out towards them, but luckily for me, the insanely bright stage lights lining the stage block them out. I jerk my head back around, bright white orbs floating in front of my eyes now.

I carefully take a seat in the chair beside Caesar Flickerman. He's grinning up at me, and he looks just as charismatic in person as he is on television. He waits until the crowd stops cheering.

"Hello, Annie! How are you doing?" he asks.

I nervously pull at the bottom of my dress.

"I'm nervous. And I can't see anything now because I stared at the stage lights," I say. My voice is projected so loudly around me that I can't help but cringe. My cheeks immediately redden and I duck my face. I know then that I am doomed to making a fool of myself.

He laughs and the audience laughs along with him. I fold my arms around myself, probably subconsciously attempting to make myself as small as possible.

"Those lights are a menace!" Caesar says. "Why, I stare into them every day, and it hurts just as much every time. You'd think after all the years I've been doing this I'd be used to them!"

I highly doubt he does stare into them, but I smile anyway.

The laughter dies down once more and Ceasar shifts in his chair, angling closer towards me.

"So, Annie, how have you liked the Capitol so far?" he asks.

I look up at his face—so much younger than it should be for his age—and give him an honest answer.

"It's more extraordinary than anything I expected. The colors are my favorite part. Nothing is as bright in District 4, not even the ocean or the sunsets."

Caesar smiles kindly. "Yes, we're rather flamboyant here. Just the way we like it!" The crowd obviously agrees with him. "How are you feeling about your chances in this year's Games?"

My eyes turn again towards the audience for the first time since I sat down. I stare above the lights this time, and I can make out a few dark faces in the audience. I can't spot Finnick or Mauve, though. I look back at Caesar.

"It's going to be very difficult to see people getting injured. It's going to be very difficult to injure someone else," I say softly.

Caesar's face takes on a very serious expression.

"Yes, that could probably be difficult. Still, they are necessary sacrifices to ensure we never have another Rebellion!"

I can feel the tension emitting off Caesar now. He's walking on a very thin line as he tries not to cut down my concerns but also tries not to refute the Games' necessity.

He presses on. "And they are very entertaining, am I right?"

The crowds cheer loudly, oblivious to the brief unease that just overtook us on stage.

Caesar quickly decides that questioning me about the Games will no longer do. He moves on to another topic.

"So, your mentor is Finnick Odair. How has he been as a mentor?" he asks, his eyes twinkling and his lips jerking up into an almost knowing smile.

The crowd shrieks louder than I have ever heard at the mention of Finnick's name. I'm panicking. I have no idea how to answer this question.

I decide to do what Finnick told me from the start, and just be honest.

I smooth the bottom of my dress out and search the crowd again for Finnick's face. I finally catch a glimpse of bronze, and he's smiling up at me. The cameras are on him so I'm sure I'm not the only one who sees it. I smile back without even meaning to.

I look back at Caesar. I feel that I can tell him now, because I know Finnick will hear it, and I'm just going to imagine I'm telling Finnick this myself.

"He's an amazing mentor. I wouldn't have been able to handle any of this without him." I resist the urge to look back at Finnick. "He's a great man. He's good down to his core."

I can tell this wasn't at all what Caesar was expecting or looking for, nor was it what the audience wanted to hear. They wanted to hear something suggestive, something that fits with the portrait they hold in their heads of Finnick Odair, but I won't give them that. Because I don't want Finnick to go home tonight holding in his mind the idea that I see him the same way the Capitol does. Because I don't want to give him another reason to think that the only thing he's worth is what the Capitol says he is. Because I want him to know that he is a good man, even if he doesn't think so. I don't think he does. If I can only do one good thing before I die, let it be this. Let it be me painting a new facet onto Finnick's public identity. Let it be me reminding him and everyone else that he's not just the sex symbol of the Capitol; he's also a good person.

Caesar presses forward. "It seems like you know him pretty well," He says, his tone and suggestion trying to lead me where he wants me to go.

"I do," I answer, and of course my face decides to flush bright red at that moment. Caesar decides that's the best he's going to get, and he takes it and runs with it. He shoots the audience a knowing smile.

"Well, can I just say I love what you're wearing tonight? Stand up again so everyone can see."

I shakily rise to my feet, my knees quaking embarrassingly.

"Mauve Gerald did a fabulous job, didn't she?" he asks. The crowd cheers. I'm fond of the dress as well, but mostly because I'm comfortable in it and it reminds me of home. It's a pale pink silk frock with a reef-like ivory overlay. The longer length and cap sleeves keep me from feeling too exposed in front of these thousands of people.

I sit back down.

"Before our time is up, I have one more question. What do you think your best asset will be in the Games?"

I had thought he was done asking me about the Games. I swallow nervously and look back out at the crowd, my eyes landing on Finnick once more. He must be able to see I'm lost, but he can't mouth anything to me, because all of Panem will see it. I turn back to Caesar.

"My instincts," I finally say.

He smiles. "Those are very important. Thank you for talking with us, Annie. You're absolutely delightful and I hope to see you back here soon. I wish you the best of luck."

Mauve and Finnick are waiting backstage by the time I'm there. Finnick gathers me into his arms and hugs me tightly. It warms me from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. I relax and hug him back, breathing in the now-familiar scent of his shampoo that seems to emit from him. I haven't hugged anyone since I hugged my family goodbye.

He keeps me there for a few long moments. I'm gripping him tightly and I feel so safe that I don't want him to let go. We break apart though, and his eyes tell me that he understands exactly what I was trying to tell him when I called him a good man on stage, and I know it wasn't for naught.

Mauve, quiet as always, tells me I was lovely. I thank her and we all watch Chiron's interview. He's obviously going for a brutal image. Caesar asks him his best asset just like he asked me, and Chiron answers with "my ruthlessness". He can play off brutality quite well, especially with the score he was given. He doesn't slip from this image until Caesar brings up his best friend, the girl from last year's Games who died at the hands of her supposed ally. He reminds the crowd of how she died, and asks Chiron what it's like to be in the place she was last year.

I look at Finnick.

"How could they know that they were best friends?" I ask.

His mouth is pulled in a tight line, and I know he is angry at Caesar for bringing that up when Chiron had been doing so well up until then.

"I think Sophia mentioned him briefly in her interview. Someone must have remembered and pointed it out to Caesar beforehand."

I cross my arms over my chest, my heart aching for Chiron.

"It's cruel to bring that up," I whisper.

Finnick nods. "I agree. But anything for the audience, right?" he says bitterly.

I sigh. "Right."

Chiron seems to lose his viciousness immediately. He stares above the audience at the ceiling.

"It's awful," he says finally. He seems to gather strength from whatever he's looking at, because he looks back at Caesar, suddenly seeming just as aggressive as before. "But it's given me an agenda that I'm determined to fulfill."

Caesar looks uneasy once again. "Oh? And what's that?"

Chiron looks at the audience. "Revenge, for Sophia."

The crowd eats that up with two hands. They scream and stomp and clap.

Caesar gently redirects the conversation again. "Revenge on the Districts who turned their backs on her?"

Chiron nods once, firmly, and I'm scared of him, too.

After Chiron's interview is done, Finnick and Mauve go back out into the audience to join Mags and Chiron's stylist. The rest of the interview passes in a blur. A few tributes stand out to me, like Twine from District 7 who was the one who glowered at Chiron in the elevator after the parade, and seems to be going for an equally brutal image. The girl tribute from 6 also stands out, just because she's so young. A girl named Magnolia from 11 is obviously going for sex appeal, and she wears a dress so revealing that I can't even stand to look at her.

As the last tribute is being interviewed, Caesar brings up the fact that the Games start tomorrow in the question, and the full impact of that punches me in the stomach. I spend the trip back to the Training Center in a panicked daze, trying to figure out where the days went, desperately wishing for a way to turn back time.

I'm just as worried at dinner that night. I think everyone else is too, because no one says much except for Annora. She rambles on about how excited she is. Mags speaks up every now and then to remind us of short tidbits of advice. I know I should eat, because I'll regret not eating tomorrow, but I can't choke anything down but the cherry lemonade on the table and the rolls. The Avox seems to notice this, and she makes sure to keep a steady flow of rolls and cherry lemonade coming. I want to thank her, but I can't even look at her without wanting to cry. Suddenly everything is devastating, especially what they've done to these people.

I can't focus on the replay of the interviews at all. I turn my head when mine airs, certain I don't want to see it. I'd rather believe what Mauve said and let it go. If I watch it and I did horribly, all I can do is beat myself up over it, which won't help anything.

Finnick's beside me on the couch and he lightly touches my hair.

"It really was lovely," he says.

I thank him quietly, my voice muffled by the couch cushion I'm burying my face into.

If I thought anything I've done so far was awful, I was horribly mistaken. The real pain comes when it's time to say our final goodbyes. The only person I will see tomorrow will be Mauve. The sponsors and escorts are leaving for the Games Headquarters sometime after the tributes leave. We're taken away very early in the morning.

I stand in front of Mags, Annora, and Finnick. Chiron doesn't have much of a problem saying his goodbyes. He seems to portray genuine displeasure when he says goodbye to Mags, but the rest doesn't phase him. He walks off to bed after that, leaving me standing in front of the three of them.

My eyes are burning and I try to swallow my tears, but I can feel them welling behind my eyes.

Mags and Annora watch me sadly, but it's Finnick's face that breaks me.

He looks sadder than I've ever seen him. "Oh, don't cry, Annie. Please don't cry!" he says.

I sniff and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying not to. Mags pulls me to her then and hugs me tightly. She presses a kiss into my hair and gives me a look that can only be described as motherly.

"I believe in you, Annie," is all she says. It's all she has to. She smiles at me and steps back.

Annora is smiling, her eyes teary.

"It's going to be great, Annie! Don't worry! I just want you to know that I am going to hope that you win. I'm rooting for you! Even if my friends cheer on someone else, I'm going to be cheering on you and Chiron. I promise," she says.

I nod. "Thank you, Annora."

I'm thankful for her promise, even if it probably wasn't the best thing she could have said. I care about her, even if I probably shouldn't. I'll miss her wonderfully odd dresses and her laughter.

She embraces me tightly and then pats my hair.

"You're such a sweet girl," she says, sniffing and wiping her eyes.

Mags pulls her away after that and they both leave the room. I almost wish they wouldn't have. It makes saying goodbye to Finnick even harder.

He stares at me, his eyes sad and his arms tense at his side. I stare back until my eyes are blurring with tears.

"Finnick, I will never be able to thank you enough for all you've done for me," I whisper.

He steps forward, his jaw working again like it did that night on the roof. I realize now that he wasn't angry then. He must have been upset.

"You don't need to," he replies. "Or, actually, you can thank me by promising to try your hardest in the arena. Don't give up."

I wipe at my eyes and nod.

"Okay. I promise," I say.

I don't want him to say the word goodbye. I don't plan on saying it.

"And I promise to do my best to get you out of there alive," he says.

I smile. "That's something I don't doubt, Finnick."

He steps closer again and pulls me into a hug for the second time today. It's just as healing as the first. I lean my head against his chest and let my eyes close.

"You're my favorite tribute," he mumbles into my hair.

I can't help but laugh. "And you're my favorite mentor."

He laughs along with me. I can hear it reverberating in his chest.

"I'm not saying goodbye, so you don't say it either," he says. "We'll see each other again. Then we can go to the beach like District 4 friends do."

His words make my attempt at not crying break. I cry into his suit jacket and he tightens his arm around me. I can't help it; all of this is breaking my heart. What I want so much it aches is to be able to be friends with Finnick in District 4, to be able to do the things normal friends get to do. But I'm going to die, and I'll never see him or my family ever again.

After a few minutes I begin to feel so exhausted I just can't cry anymore. Finnick doesn't let go of me, and I have never been more grateful for anything in my entire life. If his hand or his arms kept me together before, it's nothing compared to how I feel in this moment. I feel like I'm broken into thousands of tiny pieces and he's holding them tightly in his arms. I know the moment he lets go, I'm going to go crashing to the floor.

"I'm not saying goodbye either," I whisper finally.

He laughs sadly. "Good."

He pulls back and takes my hand. He pulls me down the hallway and to my room. I let him baby me, because this is the last chance I will probably ever get for someone to care for me in any way at all. I go into the bathroom and pull my nightgown on and he pulls the blankets and sheets back for me when I enter the room. I slide into the bed and he tucks me in like my father used to when I was a child.

His eyes search mine intently. I am terrified, and I know he can see that.

"Do you need me to stay?" He asks.

I close my eyes briefly. "I don't know. I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep anyway."

The pressure on my chest is intense once more and I know I'm close to panicking.

He wordlessly sits down on top of the blankets. He slides over until he's right beside me and sits with his back propped against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him. It's so much warmer against his side. He reaches over and begins stroking my hair. My eyelids become heavy and my eyes drift shut, the panic inside of me ebbing away bit by bit.

"Do you do this for all the girls? Is this part of the Finnick Odair package?" I tease. My voice is thick with exhaustion.

I expect some cocky remark of some sort and a laugh. Instead, his fingers find my chin, and he gently raises my face so I'm looking directly at him. His expression is serious.

"Never. Not even a little bit," he mutters. His eyes stay trained on mine. "Do you believe me?"

It seems that he is desperate to know that I do believe him. It would be so easy for someone to think he's only saying this in order to do something kind by making me think I'm special in the maybe last few hours I have alive. But I do believe him. I believe him for the same reasons I always believe him: I can read it in his eyes that he's honest and good.

"I do," I whisper.

He leans down, his face right above mine, and I'm completely frozen, trying to figure out what he's doing. He presses his lips to my forehead, kissing me softly. The gesture makes my stomach flutter and a smile form on my face. Whether from the kiss itself or the affection I can feel lurking right below it, I'm not sure. He keeps his face pressed against my forehead for a moment and then sits back up. He resumes stroking my hair.

I can feel my eyelids growing heavier and heavier and right before I'm about to fall asleep, I push out one more sentence, probably the most important one I will ever say again.

"Thank you for being my friend, Finnick," I murmur.

The last thing I hear is his response.

"No, Annie. Thank you."

Chapter Text

I dream that everything was just an enormous nightmare.

A girl named Dawn was Reaped, and I stay home with my family just like every year. I make bracelets and wash the dishes and sit on the couch with Arnav when the Games finally started. He hides his face into my arm just like he always does at certain parts, and I push his light brown hair back from his face and wish harder than I've ever wished for anything that he never has to be in that position. I sign him and myself up for Training that night after the moon is full and the tide is high, knowing in my heart that it's probably extremely overdue. I walk back to our house, listening to the crunch of broken seashells and the shift of sand on the stones beneath me. We will never volunteer like the other children who participate in Training, but at least if one of us is reaped, we'll have a shot in hell.

I sit beside Arnav's bed the entire night, listening to him mumble restlessly in his sleep, so grateful that neither of us have fallen prey to the Capitol yet.

It takes me almost a full minute after I jerk awake in a panic to realize that it was just a dream, and that I'm living in a completely separate reality. What will happen to Arnav? He is free from ever being reaped now, right?

I know that's not a guarantee, and that thought is worse than the knowledge that I'll be in the arena in just a few short hours. I hope Cora has the sense to sign him up for Training. I hope a lot of things, things I won't be around to make sure happen, things that are extremely important to me. It's almost a relief to know that soon I won't have to worry about anything anymore at all.

Mauve knocks on the door lightly, and my heart clenches once more. I consider a vast array of ridiculous things: hiding under the bed, jumping out the window, escaping to the streets to try and blend in as a Capitol citizen for the rest of my life. But I know there is nothing on earth I can do but face this terror. I have to walk to my own hanging, head high, feet planted firmly on the ground. And I have to do it alone.

Some part of me keeps her bearings, because I'm telling Mauve to come in before I realize it. I don't sit up, though. I feel like the longer I lay in this bed, the longer I have before I have to go into the arena. The blankets are still rumpled and smell like Finnick. It makes me miss him terribly, even though I only just saw him what feels like a few minutes ago. I can't help but wonder what time he left the room, and where he is now, and how he's handling all of this.

Mauve lays a robe on the bed and tells me to change into that. I'm to get on a hovercraft that's landing on the Training Center roof soon. It will take me to the arena, and from there I'll finish getting ready with her in the Launch Rooms. Then I'm to go into the tube that will transport me into the arena itself, where I won't ever be leaving.

She leaves me alone after that. I lay still for a few more moments, my entire body tense and my stomach so nauseous I'm sure I'm going to vomit sometime soon. I want to run and find Finnick and beg him to tell me how he did this in his Games. I didn't ask him enough about those. I tried not to, because it seemed like it was something he didn't want to revisit. But I would give anything now to know how he did this. How he sat up and pulled on a robe and walked willingly to the hovercraft. How he kept from passing out and vomiting. I suppose the answer lies in the fact that he's a lot stronger than I am.

I'm feeling sicker than I ever have as I stand up from the bed and shakily pull my clothes off. The robe is a course material that makes me feel even more agitated. I'm so weak in the knees that I fall back down onto the bed, sitting with my head between my knees and taking shallow breaths. I can't fill my lungs all the way and I can feel the panic running its fingernails up my spine as if to say you are mine.

My eyes snag a flash of white on the nightstand. I lift my head and pick it up with a quivering hand. It's a thin slip of white paper with my name written neatly on the top part that's folded over. I open it up, already knowing from the handwriting on the front the only person it could be from.

I still meant what I said that day. You are stronger than you think you are.
Stay strong, stay safe.

I grip the slip of paper so tightly in my hand it crumples up. I leave it fisted in my hand and take a deep breath before rising to my feet. I have to trust Finnick on this. I decided a long time ago to trust him, and I'm not backing out now. I have to believe that he's right, or else I don't think I'm ever going to be able to do this.

Mauve is waiting outside my door. She gifts me with a reassuring smile that I grab onto almost as tightly as I hold onto Finnick's last words. She gently takes my arm and we walk silently together up to the hovercraft. I am thankful for her. For her multicolored triangle skin, for her quiet companionship, for the gentle pressure of her hand around my forearm. For the understanding way she tightens the sash of the robe and her helping hand when getting me onto the hovercraft.

I do vomit on the hovercraft. I make it to the bathroom and lie with my face pressed into the fragile tiles that can't be encrusted with anything but real gems. I lie there, exhausted and shaking, wondering who picks out the tiles for the tribute hovercrafts. I wonder if this person thinks that a tribute entering the arena will even care about the tiles of the bathroom they may or may not use. I wonder how many other tributes have lain as I do now, weak and terrified to the point of physical illness, on the floor of this fancy bathroom. I don't have to wonder how many of them are dead currently.

Mauve holds my hand when the tracker is placed into my arm. I hate the way it feels under my skin, and I spend the rest of the hovercraft ride wishing desperately I could dig it out of my arm. It feels final in a way, like the way a storm's conclusion feels final when the rain finally dwindles and a few foggy rays of sun peak out from behind the clouds. I can't help but see the tracker as a grave marker.

There's a meal on the hovercraft for me, but I want nothing to do with it. I force down a few pieces of bread, but I'm still feeling so sick I can't eat anything else. I sit and drink as much water as I can instead. That's something I can get myself to do.

I haven't been looking out the hovercraft windows, but when we finally come to a stop, I realize the windows are blacked out. This brings on an entirely new round of hysteria and it takes every ounce of the supposed strength Finnick says I have to not begin heaving. I'm lost in a world that consists of rapid heartbeats that echo around my head, sweaty palms, and churning stomachs as I'm led down to the Launch Room.

It isn't until Mauve gently works the now damp slip of paper from my clenched up fist that I come back to the awful reality of this situation. She glances at the slip, and I think she knows who it's from too, because she looks at me with such sadness that I can feel myself tearing up.

She takes my hands.

"Annie, don't cry. If you start now, it will be so hard to stop, and we don't have time for that," she reminds me gently. I know she's right. I take shallow breaths and nod, my chest so tight I feel certain I will suffocate.

She leads me by the hand to the bathroom and tells me to shower. I stand under the spray and close my eyes, trying to pretend I'm somewhere else. Maybe in the rain in District 4. However, I'm so petrified that I can't even do that. Nothing can pull my mind out of the reality of this situation.

I consider trying to drown myself while I'm in here and I have the brief opportunity, but I have a feeling it wouldn't be successful and I'd end up feeling even sicker. I already am certain there's no way I'll be able to run when that gong sounds. My legs are jelly and I keep having to fight off a wave of nausea so intense I almost black out.

Still, I promised Finnick I wouldn't give up.

Mauve dries my body because I can't even stand for very much longer when I exit the shower. She helps me into the outfit all the tributes have to wear. I look down at myself, trying to figure out what the arena will be based on the outfit. It consists of pants with a material almost like a swim suit, a tank top of a similar material, and a thick cotton zip up jacket.

I look Mauve in the eye for the first time today.

"Do you think the arena will have water?" I ask. I trap the tiny feelings of hope this stirs up inside of me and hold them tightly, the way Cora clutches the quilt our mother made her to her chest every night.

"I don't know," she says. She examines it closer. "This fabric does look a lot like the fabric of swimming suits. The jacket looks very absorbent, too."

I press a palm over my quick heartbeat and breathe deeply. Please, let it be a giant swimming pool. Let there be boats and waves and salt water.

I know it won't be that simple, though. It never is. If it's a giant sea, there will be man-eating sea creatures in the water. There will be wave pools that drown tributes. Anything to make it a living nightmare for us, and an entertaining show for the viewers.

"Annie, look at me for a moment," Mauve whispers.

I look back up at her. I'm going to miss her colorful skin. I'm going to miss her.

"Before you go into the arena, I need you to know something. And I want you to promise me right now you are going to believe me, because you need to. Now is not the time to doubt what people on your side tell you," she says.

I nod quickly. I want to tell her I have no energy left to do anything but panic, no strength left to give to anything but staying vertical. I definitely don't have the energy it takes to feel distrustful of the people closest to friends I have here.

She takes my hands in hers. Hers are small and cool. She grasps mine tightly.

"So many people are rooting for you. You have affected us all in a way that can only be described as rooting yourself into our hearts. You are never alone in that arena, no matter how much you feel you are. We are all watching every second of it and doing all we can to help you, because we honestly want you to come home. Your boy is going to do whatever he can to get you out of there, and I believe that man can do whatever he sets his mind to, and he's set his mind to you coming out of this alive."

It's the most I have ever heard Mauve say at once, but the surprise of that is overshadowed by a small shock that runs through me when she refers to Finnick as "my boy". Finnick isn't mine, but I'm not correcting her, because maybe he could have been one day if I wasn't about to die. Maybe we could have fallen in love. Perhaps he would have settled for me in the end and left his beautiful lovers. I care about him, and he cares about me, so who is to say what that care would have grown into? Maybe nothing, but maybe something. Maybe something achingly beautiful. And so I'm going to let her describe his as mine, because I need something that's mine to hold onto right now, and Finnick is something wonderful.

I didn't allow myself to cry, but the next thing I know, my vision is blurry. I star at Mauve's hazy outline and squeeze her hands back.

"Thank you, Mauve. Thank you for everything," I whisper. I blink away the tears and watch them roll down my face, landing on my legs. They don't even sink into the fabric. Instead, they roll right off my leg. It's definitely water proof.

"It has been my pleasure," she whispers. "I don't think I've ever told you, but you're a beautiful young lady. I hope you get the chance to grow into an even more beautiful woman."

It's just like the Capitol to remind me of something as unimportant as looks before going to face my death, as if it means something huge, but I appreciate it anyway. Beautiful won't help me win these Games, but knowing that Mauve thinks so nicely of me might.

My thank you is drowned out by a shrill beeping sound. I have a feeling I know what it means, and my suspicion is verified when Mauve helps me off the chair and gives my shoulders a tiny squeeze.

"Good luck," she says.

I don't have time to say anything back before the glass cylinder lowers around me a traps me like a bug underneath a glass.

It's deadly quiet inside the glass, and I am helpless to do anything but stare in panic at Mauve's face. All too soon, I feel the cylinder begin to rise. The air is so thin inside here and I begin gasping. It's pitch dark all around me, and it takes everything I have not to curl up in fetal position.

It's the longest minute of my life. I'm certain I'm going to be stuck inside the cylinder forever. When it finally begins to breach the surface, I wish I were.

The sudden change in light shocks me. For a moment I'm back on the stage with Caesar, peering directly into the bright stage lights. I close my eyes as the cylinder rises fully. I open my eyes slowly, blinking rapidly until my eyes begin to adjust to the lighting change.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," a voice booms out all around us, "Let the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games begin!"

A countdown begins, starting at sixty seconds. I can't breathe. That's not long enough.

As my eyes roam around my surroundings, the first thing I feel is a panic. My eyes widen and my mouth opens slightly. I look around at my fellow tributes, and most of them haven't yet realized what's so awful about this year's arena.

All twenty-four of the tributes are spread out on a piece of land that juts out from a steep and extremely tall hill. The land we're standing on could pass as a ledge, if it wasn't so obvious that it's manmade. The hill is formed normally halfway up, but then it suddenly bows out a bit—just wide enough for us to stand on—and then progresses from there to the very top. This ledge wraps around the circumference of the hill. I can't see the tributes or what's on the other side of the hill from where I'm at.

The Cornucopia is at the very top of the hill.

There is at least a mile of flat land surrounding the mound. Further off in the distance there are mountains, but it's too far away. I can see a bit of water if I peer to the right, and I'm sure there must be a body of water hidden from my view by the hill.

My hands tear at my hair as I try to figure out what to do.

49, 48, 47, 46—

This layout practically forces you to head towards the Cornucopia. If you don't, those from the top of the hill with their newly acquired long-range weapons can easily target you and shoot you down as you run away in plain sight. There is no where to hide for at least a twenty minute run, especially with nothing to protect yourself. Running towards the Cornucopia won't do either, because it's always a bloodbath.

The only option is to get to cover before the other tributes can make it to the Cornucopia and grab a weapon.

How do you get to cover when there's no cover to be seen?

35, 34, 33, 32—

Finnick's plan of hiding near the Cornucopia won't do. There is absolutely no where to hide. The Cornucopia is in the most blatant area in the entire arena.

20, 19, 18, 17—

I'm panting and horrified at this already atrocious turn of events. The odds are not in my favor. But they never have been.

Tears of frustration are blurring my vision when I catch a gleam of the water to the right, and all at once, I instinctively know what I've got to do. If I can make it to the body of water before the other tributes make it to the Cornucopia, I might have a chance. I can disappear under the water and stay out of site. I can swim pretty far without needing to come up for air, but even when I have, and I can do it inconspicuously. Perhaps the lake stretches out to the mountains in the distance? Those provide the best cover. I have to give up any chance of snagging a weapon.

There are plenty of flaws to this plan, but the countdown has reached five, and I don't have time to actively consider them. My muscles are taunt with nervousness and I immediately position my feet to spring forward. I lock my eyes on the patch of water I see to my right.

The gong goes off and it startles me so much I freeze. I stand there for an agonizing five seconds, unable to move, my breath coming in shallow gasps, before I push myself forward. The tributes all around me are charging up the hill, probably having already realized what I did. I push my legs forward and urge myself to run faster. I jump off the ledge, immediately crashing to the ground. I'm up before I even have time to register the pain. When I hear the first scream, I change tactics and run underneath the ledge, that way I can't be hit from above.

When the body of water comes into full view, I'm astounded. It goes towards the mountains, all right. It's huge.

I close my eyes as I leave the cover of the ledge. I'm certain any moment an arrow is going to penetrate my flesh. I can feel the muscles in my legs burning and my side feels like it's being stabbed. I push myself even more, certain that I have never run this fast in my life. I feel like I'm gliding over the air.

Each shriek of my fellow tributes pushes me to run quicker and quicker until the edge of the lake is in clear view. There's a five foot drop from the land to the lake, but I don't have time to climb down slowly. I jump off it, landing hard on my feet, my arches expanding painfully. I crouch underneath the ledge and huddle there for a few moments. I don't think I can be seen from the top of the hill from this position, and I know I can't swim long distances until I catch my breath. I don't want to make a big splash when I enter the water, either. I don't want anyone to know I'm here.

I sink to my bottom and pull my knees up to my chest. I skinned my left shin pretty badly when I fell off the first ledge. There are three deep gashes oozing out bright red blood. I press the sleeve of the cotton jacket to it and apply as much pressure as I can stand, gritting my teeth. I don't know what is in that water. I don't want any creature with a thirst for blood sensing mine.

It's useless, though. This I know. There's no way I can completely stop the bleeding before I need to enter the water. I'm safe under the ledge now, but for how long? How long until another tribute makes their way here?

The first cannon boom makes me give a small yelp. I slap my hand over my mouth and breathe deeply through my nose. I can't help but remember the screams I heard. Those people have been lying in agony until now. Many of them still are.

As if sensing my thoughts, two more cannons go off. That's three. I can't think of who they were. I tell myself that, but I'm already picturing the faces of all the tributes at the interviews, rosy cheeked and full of life. An image of them with pale skin caked with dried blood enters my mind and I shudder.

I pull the sleeve back from my injury and glance at it. It's still bleeding, but not profusely. I try to wait a bit longer, but I'm so anxious I feel like I might explode. I can't sit here any longer.

I crawl on my hands and knees to the edge of the water. I expect it to be shallow like the sea is at the shore, but when I glance down, it seems to be so deep there can't possibly be a bottom. I immediately know that someone who can't swim can't go into this lake. Does that mean no one is supposed to go into it, since the majority of the tributes can't?

If that's the case, I feel better about using it. If it was filled with man eating terrors, they'd want to draw as many people to it as they could.

I sit on the edge and slowly lower myself in, conscious of the noise I'm making. The brief, excruciating pain I experience tips me off to the fact that it's salt water, not fresh water. There must be rivers or other lakes in the mountains, then. Some source of fresh water. I feel confident that the other tributes will try to stay near those, as they will get no benefit from this lake. As far as I can see it ends right before the mountains too, so it doesn't connect to any other bodies of water. An isolated structure.

I slowly tread water for about a minute, letting my body adjust to the water. It's painfully cold. My teeth are chattering after only thirty seconds submerged. The cold is beneficial though because it numbs my now throbbing leg.

I feel better in the water. I feel like I can breathe easier, see clearer. I know what I need to do now. I need to make it across the lake and to the mountains, where I can hide. I don't know what I'm going to do about weapons. Maybe Finnick can send a knife? If not, perhaps I'll run across a dead tribute and—

I stop there, the nausea returning. I watch myself prying a weapon from the hands of a dead tribute and feel disgusting. But I know that if it comes down to that, it comes down to that.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sound I can't place. At first I think it's a bird swooping down near my ear.

The arrow that lands in the water beside me tips me off that that assumption was incorrect.

I don't turn around to see who it is or where they are. I inhale as deeply as I can in my panic and dunk my head under. The temperature of the water makes my head ache. I keep my eyes closed tightly and propel myself further and further down in the water. It's murky enough that I'm sure they can't see me. I swim towards the middle of the lake, holding that if I can make it just far enough out of their range, they'll give up.

It's like nothing is real this far under the water. I can't hear anything, I can't see anything, I can't smell anything. The water surrounds me completely and I feel something akin to safety. After around four minutes of swimming rigorously, I can feel my lungs burning and my chest tightening. I know I need air, but I have no idea how far I am away from the attacker.

After I start to feel weaker and keeping my mouth shut starts to become almost impossible, I make my way towards the surface of the water. There's an extended period of panic in which I think I'm not going to find it or make it in time.

I force my eyes open when I'm sure I've got to be close to air. The water is just as murky underneath it. I can see a few fish not far from my view. The surface is just a bit further.

I spin around so when I break the surface I can push just the very surface of my face out of the water. My nose breaks the surface and I push my mouth up out of the water too. I move my arms and legs in small circles staying afloat as I try to inhale as quietly as possible.

I stay like that for a few tense moments before I decide my attacker must have thought me not worth the time it took to track me down. I duck back under the water and reemerge, this time just letting up to my eyes leave the water.

They burn meeting contact with the air, but I'm used to it after living in District 4 my entire life. I got out further than I expected. The ledge where I dropped off into the lake is just a line in the distance. The Cornucopia is so far off all I can make out is the gold of it.

There is no way to know if any cannons were shot while I was under the water.

I can't see anyone as far as I look. I turn so the Cornucopia is at my back, and straight forward are the mountains. It's still very far off. It will probably take the entire day to swim to. All that's to my right is more water, and then a distant edge where it looks almost like a grassland. To my left it's just an open field, the one I saw first when I was examining my surroundings.

I swim forward, taking on a very leisurely pace. If I'm going to swim this much, I can't exert myself more than I already have.

I swim for about thirty more minutes, making moderate progress, when I can feel something isn't right. My arms begin to weigh what feels like fifty pounds a piece, and moving my legs even two or three times has me panting with exertion.

I realize I'm probably extremely dehydrated. When's the last time I drank anything? I can't even remember clearly. I think this morning on the hovercraft.

I chalk it up to dehydration, but I have a feeling something else is wrong too. I've been swimming for a while, but half of the time you can hardly call it swimming as I've been letting myself practically float along. My body is used to swimming for hours and hours at a time.

For the first time in my life, I'm honestly afraid I'm going to drown. I have to turn and float on my back because even keeping myself afloat is taking too much out of me. I breathe deeply and let myself float along, paddling every now and then to keep myself in the right direction.

It isn't until the skin above the water starts to dry off that I realize what the problem is.

I can feel something tickling my nose and ears. I thought water was still sliding off of me, but the water on the rest of my face dried a few minutes ago. I reach a hand up and touch my nose, and when I bring it up to eye level, I'm staring at my own blood.

I immediately sink back down into the water, resuming treading. I lift my hand again and touch my ears. I pull back a hand covered in even more blood.

I have no idea what's happening. I have no idea why I would be bleeding out of my nose and ears. A nosebleed, sure. That could be from the temperature change. But there is no reason I should be bleeding out of my ears.

I let myself float back on my back and I grab the back of my left calf, pulling it up into eye view, my bottom sinking a little into the water. I'm able to keep myself afloat long enough to see that it's losing blood so rapidly it appears to be pulsating.

I'm not weak because I'm exhausted or even dehydrated. I'm weak because something—probably this water—is causing me to bleed out.

I have no idea how much blood I've lost already. All I know is that I can hardly propel myself forward, but I have to get out of the water.

I consider giving up then. I'm warm in the water now, and I feel free just as the water has always made me feel. This wouldn't be such a bad way to die. It'd be preferable, even. Eventually I'd lose consciousness from the blood loss, and it'd be like falling asleep. There would be no pain at all. My family wouldn't have to see me die in a horrific way. I'd die alone, safe from harm. Only in the Hunger Games does that make sense.

I can't do it though. The promises I made to Cora, to Arnav, and to Finnick are like the tracker embedded into my skin. I can't get rid of them. I can't forget they are there. I can't just float here and let myself bleed out as they watch.

I return to floating flat on my back and move my hands as quickly as I can, pushing myself towards the shore. The mountains come closer and closer into view. I have to stop after what must be at least fifteen minutes. I'm dizzy and I can't tell which way is the shore. My head feels like it's being pressed between heavy layers of down. My ears are ringing and nothing is in focus. I think this is what losing consciousness slowly must feel like.

Something lands on my shoulder. I float there for a few moments, too tired or maybe too disoriented to grab for it. I forget it's there for a few minutes. I'm frightened when I remember, scared that I am actually about to die here, floating on my back, only maybe ten minutes from the shore.

When I open my eyes, the entire arena is spinning. It takes me a few times to grab at the parachute. There's a small metal tube attached to it, and there's a fairly large square of paper attached to the tube. It's damp from resting against me. I pull it free first, because unless there's a boat inside that tube, it can't help me.

I unfold it, a memory tugging at the back of my mind. Didn't I do this same thing recently? Have I already done this?

I hold the paper in front of me and blink a few times. It takes me so long to make out the words on the paper. I forget what I'm doing after almost each sentence and start to drift off. I have to shake my head to go back to reading it. But when I do finally finish, I understand.

You have to get out of the water. Something in it works like blood thinners. It will bleed you to death. The medicine to help is in the tube, but it won't work unless you are out of the water. You're so close, Ann. If you need me to send a raft, just say "yes" out loud and I will. But if there's any way you can make it to shore on your own, that would be best. You don't want to know how draining of resources a raft is. But I swear on my life if you need it, I will find a way for you to get it without it hurting anything. Please don't give up. Trust me like I trust you.

I don't know if it's Finnick's handwriting, or maybe the fact that he called me "Ann" instead of "Annie" like he's known me my entire life, or maybe just the knowledge that I can be cured if only I make it to land, but I'm moving my arms again. I put the square of paper into the parachute and bring the parachute up to my mouth, biting down on it so I know it won't go falling into the water. I start paddling myself forward again. It's agonizing. I have to close my eyes and put forth all of my available energy into pushing myself forward. Even breathing takes a toll on me that leaves me shaking so hard I can hear it in my head.

By the time my bottom scrapes the floor of the lake, I'm crying. There's a black tide in my head that keeps trying to pull me under, and it's becoming painful to fight it. I'm terrified of the fact that I no longer have control over my own body. I'm choking on the blood that keeps filling my mouth no matter how often I spit it out. I dig my fingernails deep into the mud of the bank and drag myself forward. I can feel sharp pieces of broken shell and rock cutting at my hands, but I can't worry about anything now. All I can think about is how close I am to shore, and how I promised Cora, and the shade of Arnav's eyes when he's blowing out the candles on his birthday cakes.

When my fingers sink into dry sand, I give one final tug, and fall back into the sand. I let my stiff jaw release, and I grab the tube. It takes me longer than I'd like to open it. A bright green syrupy liquid fills it to the very top. I close my lips around it and tip it back, swallowing the medicine that tastes minty.

If a tribute were to appear now, I'd have no chance of even raising my hand to block my face. I lay in the dirty sand, drifting in and out of consciousness, until slowly things begin to get much clearer.

First I become aware of how terribly cold I am. Then I am conscious of a dull throbbing in my leg. Next, I recognize the gritty and course texture of the "sand" of the beach-like area I'm on.

When I am finally able to sit up without the world spinning around like a spintop, I am able to feel horror at the lake I just pulled myself out of. No doubt it is there in order to prey on the one bit of universal knowledge most people have about cleaning wounds: salt water makes it heal faster. An injured tribute limps to the side of the lake, intending to submerge the wound and cleanse it in order to prevent infection, and then they find themselves bleeding out every ounce of blood they possess. It's a trap that aims to get someone at their lowest, and it's vile, and I'm surprised that I can even feel shock at the things the Gamemakers pull after all this time.

I picture the faces of the Gamemakers I saw when getting my score, and I wonder which one of them was responsible for this invention. I wonder if they are picturing my face from my scoring right now too, as I'm picturing theirs. Do they hate me just as much as I hate them?

The sky is darkening at a rapid pace. I can't stay here, but I don't much desire to travel through the mountains in the dark. I make my way to my feet, still a bit unsteady, and tuck the note Finnick sent me into the pocket of my sweatshirt. The sweater's almost dry now, after lying in the sun for what must have been hours. I don't care if all of Panem sees me tucking the note away like it's a treasure. I don't care if they think it's a love note. I don't care what they think at all. I just know I need it with me.

My eyes adjust to the dimming light and I walk forward. The mountains are huge. I have never felt smaller than I do in that moment. I decide that climbing up one is not something I need to attempt at the current time, or in my current condition, so I scan the bases of them. I spy a narrow dip in between two a little ways to my right, and I begin walking towards it. The walk is strenuous. When I finally arrive, I'm surprised to see it's a much better hiding spot than I originally thought. The tiny gap between the two mountains opens up into a cavern of sorts after a few feet in. A cavern with stone walls, ceilings, and floors. The opening is just big enough for me to slide into, which is comforting in itself. No one larger than me will manage to come in here.

I crawl forward slowly and then climb out into the open space. The air is very damp in here, and it's almost pitch dark, but I don't care. It opens up into a giant circle. I start to walk to the left curve of the cavern—where I can't be seen by someone peeking into the gap—when I slam my head into something.

I gasp and reach up, half of me convinced it's another tribute. In the faint light I realize it's a stalactite, hanging from the ceiling. I duck low and continue walking, cautious now of obstacles I can hardly make out.

I sit down on the floor between two large stalagmites rising from the ground. I lean my head against the one on my right, and it's almost comfortable. It feels safe at least, even though there's no telling what creatures are lurking in the shadows beside me.

Overcome by the day's events, I let myself cry again. I don't care enough to worry about the weeping, pathetic mess I must seem like to the people watching. I stare at the bracelet Cora made me—the bracelet I kept on as my token—and stick my other hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt, tightly gripping the note Finnick sent. I'm remembering the strange black tide of unconsciousness that almost claimed me, and I'm sure I will never want to sleep again.

I keep the note clutched tightly in my hand, knowing Finnick will understand that it's me saying thank you. He already knows he is the only reason I am alive right now.

I drift off into a sleep much deeper than I planned on or wanted. A pressure in my lap wakes me. The very first periwinkle rays of morning light are penetrating the blackness of the cavern. I am so thirsty and hungry it startles me.

I look down at my lap, and I'm staggered to see another parachute sitting there innocuously. I am grateful down to my bones, because after the day I had yesterday, plus drinking and eating next to nothing, I'm not sure how far I would have made it scrounging for edible plants and a river to drink from. I don't even have a weapon.

I open the round, metal container and the first real smile I've had in what feels like years sneaks up onto my face without me even knowing it. Finnick's sent warm rolls and a thermos of cherry lemonade, the only sustenance I was able to get myself to consume the night before the Games. I know he's done it as a way to raise my spirits more than anything, but as I'm tearing apart one of the rolls, I am worrying excessively about him. About what he is doing to get whatever money he's using to give me gifts like cherry lemonade, when most mentors can't even send their tributes water.

He's stuck another note in, this one simply telling me to stay put. I guess my lack of a weapon hasn't passed his attention either.

I eat as much as I can and then set aside the rest for later. It's ridiculous that I'm worried about Finnick, when he's there, and I'm here, but there isn't exactly a lovely abode either.

"You stay safe, too," I whisper out loud, thinking of the note he left of my nightstand. I know he'll know what I mean. Whether or not he'll listen, though, is an entirely different question.

Chapter Text

There is a peculiar feeling you get after spending so many hours alone, devoid of any contact with anyone or anything else.

I can only think to describe it as doubt. You begin wondering about a lot of things that you thought were irrefutable before. You begin to feel as if every other person on the planet has perished, and you're left alone, walking around aimlessly. You begin to doubt that you are even alive, or that if you are, you're in some sort of alternate reality than everyone else.

It's very easy to feel this way in the arena. It's particularly easy to feel that everyone else in the entire world has died as each cannon boom goes off. There's no one except for the other tributes, and we're all dead anyway. We're all just biding time, gambling for the best way to go, the most beneficial for whatever memories we will leave behind with those we've held the closest.

The two days I spend inside the cavern pass slowly in the way that I can feel each minute burrowing itself underneath my skin, but quickly in the way I find it hard to focus on any certain moment. It's like when sand passes through an hourglass—they slide through to the other side rapidly, but I can never isolate just one grain and watch the entire journey.

I play a game in my head most of the time, where I try to guess where everyone I love is and what they are doing at this very moment. It starts out pretty specific—Dad is at work, Cora is on her way to pick Arnav up from school, Arnav is talking to his friend in the front of the school building—but eventually broadens out to encompass every situation and person my mind can think of. Finnick is loading sugar cubes into a golden coffee mug, Mags is napping in a padded rocking chair near a fire, Annora is turning the pages of a glossy magazine with her neon nails.

Someone out there is giving birth to their first child. Someone is painting a picture. Someone is making love to their spouse. Someone is listening to their son say his first words. Someone is learning how to use a sword.

Someone is burying someone they have loved for years, someone is burning an old letter, someone is slamming the door in someone else's face, someone is saying goodbye and it's the hardest thing they've ever done, someone is getting a sword torn out of their hands.

It's a game that goes on forever. I want desperately for it to make me feel connected to the outside world again, but it doesn't. It feels more like fantasy than reality. I know that what I am thinking must be true, but I can't imagine anything happening outside the walls of the cavern.

Two days and it's hard to remember anything but stone floors, damp air, and echoing drips. The letter Finnick sent with the first parachute helps. But the more I read it the more I feel it slips from me. As if the better I know each word and each curve of each letter, the less I truly understand it.

The food from two days ago was the last parachute I got. I've purposely been eating on the rolls very slowly, intent on making them last as long as possible. It's been a bit harder with the lemonade, but the damp air of the cavern keeps me from being extremely thirsty anyway.

I don't want anything else, except maybe to know how Finnick is. I would do anything to exchange even two words with him. I think I would do a lot of things I wouldn't ordinarily do.

On the night of the second day in the cavern, I hear someone passing by for the first time.

I can't tell who it is from the voices—the distant memories of each tribute's interviews have long faded—but I can make out pain in one of their voices. I edge along the wall, staying out of sight but trying to get close enough to make out what they are saying. I shouldn't be moving at all, but I can't help but feel like I'm not thinking straight. Hearing another person's voice is so lovely.

"Shut up! This is not the time to pity yourself," a voice hisses. "There's a lake with salt water down here, okay? We're going to clean your leg and you'll be just fine. So just stop, before I silence you for good."

Another voice bristles with anger. "You better watch your back, Twine. I'm not scared of you unlike those tributes from 3."

Twine. He was District 7. I'm guessing his female companion is his district partner. She sounds just as hostile as he looked that day in the elevator. He frightens me, but what frightens me more is the fact that they are about to head out to the lake, and I haven't made a move to do anything about it yet.

I know I would have immediately said something if I weren't where I am. The thought of letting someone walk to presumably their death used to nauseate me at once. It takes a few long moments of letting the scenario in which I sit here and listen to them make their way to the lake and then hours later endure the sound of a cannon sounding play out before I feel any ounce of horror at myself for not intervening. I have to picture the blood leaking out of tribute's mouth and ears, feel the overwhelming weakness she will feel, imagine her terror as she realizes what she's walked into. It takes all that, but the horror does come. Not quite as strongly as before, but present at least. I understand it then. What Finnick and Mags said about the arena and what it does to you. It does change you. It changes everything.

You can take so much from someone, but there will always be at least a faint outline of what you stole. And sometimes, that's enough.

It's enough now. That much I am certain of, because I can feel the desperation deep inside of my heart. I can remember the horror of the lake, and I can feel enough to know that I don't want that to happen to anyone else when I can help them. It's most likely suicide to reveal myself to another tribute when I've been so safely hidden away, but I almost don't care anymore. I don't want to live the rest of my days locked inside of this cavern, slowly thinking myself to madness. I would rather go out there and die due to naïve stupidity than sit here and survive quietly for a few more days or weeks.

I don't have to play my game to know that Finnick is watching my face right now and fully understanding what I am about to do. I don't have to play it to know he's yelling at the screen and telling me not to.

I pull my shoes back on. The voices are faint now, but I know if I run I will have no problem catching them before they enter the water. They can't be making very good progress with a severe injury.

I'm walking towards the opening when a sharp clang fills the cavern. I turn, already knowing what will be waiting for me. A parachute is resting on the floor, having fallen through the small opening at the roof of the cavern that most likely ends up coming out of the side of the mountain. I cross the floor over to it quickly and retrieve it. It's a knife, almost the same exact type as the one Finnick taught me to use. There's no note, but we both know what this means. He knows what I'm going to do, and this is the only way he can help.

I don't want to let Finnick down, but I know if I sit here and let this happen, I will fall apart over it. There's something that many people don't consider when thinking of the Games: some people just honestly are not cut out for it. Whether it's because they lack the physical strength or drive or emotional endurance or all of those, something just makes it where they can't play this game the way it's meant to be played. I know I'm one of them. I don't care so much about surviving as I do making sure these last few days aren't torment.

If someone were to ask, I would tell them that. What I would leave out is that the arena feels like a sticky web I will never be able to escape. Part of me is certain I will never be able to leave it, and because of that, I want to leave it.

I grab the knife and slide it through the opening first. I crawl out of it next, and the fresh air hits me in the face with a surprising force. I pick the knife up once more and take off for the lake. Half my brain is yelling at me to slow down and consider what I'm doing, but the majority of me feels like I have little control over what is about to happen.

I make out their silhouettes. They're walking down the sand now. The girl from 7 is limping and I can see the sheen of her blood in the moonlight. I realize then that approaching them in the dark with a knife in my hand is probably a very bad idea. I slow to a walk and inch toward them. I'm only a few feet away when Twine's head turns around quickly. He automatically lifts the sword in his hand. I quickly drop the knife to the sand and hold up my hands, showing him I'm not aiming to kill him.

"What do you want, 4?" Twine growls.

I take a hesitant step forward. They both observe me suspiciously. The girl tribute looks like she's in massive amounts of pain.

"I just wanted to warn you," I start. I have to stop and clear my throat. My voice feels so rusty from misuse. I continue. "The water in that lake is poisoned. It will make you bleed out."

Twine glares at me, but shoots a quick look at the water.

"Yeah, right, and why exactly should we believe you?" he snaps. He hasn't lowered his weapon for even a second. I guess I don't really blame him.

I push back my hair. It's amazing that even in a situation like this, I can find myself thinking about the fact that I would die for a chance to wash my hair.

The water seems so harmless under the full moon. It's calm and dark. But I can't look at it without remembering how hard it was to even stay conscious.

"Because it almost happened to me," I reply. "My mentor had to send me medicine. It will make it so much worse."

The girl speaks up for the first time.

"You're pretty fucking clever, you know that? Instead of trying to take us out yourself you try to keep us from treating a wound. It works, I guess. Slower and weak, but effective." Her voice seems to weaken and weaken with each word spoken. She grimaces and grasps at her leg. I can make out a deep gash behind her knee.

"I just wanted to warn you. I can't make you do anything, but I couldn't bear to let you go without being warned first. It's one of the most horrifying experiences. I just don't think anyone should have to go that way," I explain.

The two glance at each other. They hold a stare for a few long moments, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe me. Twine finally turns back to me.

"Show us. Go into the water."

Cold fear gripes tightly on my stomach. I expected a lot of things, but that wasn't one of them. He's pointing his weapon at me now, and the intent is clear: do it or we kill you.

I have a brief flashback to lying on the shore, so weak I couldn't spit out the blood filling my mouth, and I shake my head.

"No. Go ahead. I would rather die that way than have to go into the water again," I decide.

My voice is full of bravado I don't have. My legs are shaking and I can feel my eyes burning already. What I'm most upset about though is not the fact that they are probably going to kill me, or even anger at myself for walking into this. What I feel is terror at the fact that a human being would kill a person who only wanted to warn them of something to prevent them from suffering. I'm disgusted by it, and disgusted at myself for being disgusted. I never wanted terror and disgust to be the last emotions I felt, but I have no control over it.

The girl sets a hand on his arm.

"She's got to be telling the truth, Twine. If she was lying she would go to the water."

He keeps his distrusting eyes locked on me. "Unless she lied because she knew it would seem that way."

She scoffs. "She's like half your size. Who cares?"

I feel like that statement summarizes my participation in these Games quite well.

"We need to go back to camp, to the other water," Twine finally says. She nods in agreement. I bend down to pick up the knife and turn to walk away, thinking maybe they will let me, but a shout from Twine breaks that fantasy very quickly.

"Where you going, 4?" he leers. "Why don't you hang around for a while."

I can't decide which scenario seems more unpleasant: going back to the cavern and staying in solitary confinement until I am trapped in it forever, or being around these two people for any longer than I already have. I decide the latter is worse.

"I'm not really looking for an alliance," I say carefully.

Twine shifts the sword in his hands and the blade glints in the light.

"Then consider this a hostage situation," he says. "You know more about this part of the arena than we do, and we don't need any stupid mistakes to cause our deaths."

I am considering a handful of possible actions (making a run for the cavern, using my knife to defend myself somehow, breaking down in tears to show him I'm really not an asset) when the earth itself begins to shake.

I'm thrown off my feet and to the ground. We all let out shouts. I can hear trees snapping further away and I close my eyes and curl up with my hands over my head as the grounds moves like the sea. It can't last for more than a few minutes, but when it's finally over, everything has changed.

Twine and his district partner clumsily try to make their way to their feet. Twine helps the girl up once he's standing, but she's shaking and white and I know she's losing enough blood as it is. I push up to my feet and stand there shakily, squinting around me to see what damage the Gamemaker induced earthquake produced.

We're pretty far from the cavern, but I don't have to be close up to see that my former hiding place is now off limits. Rocks of every shape and size and fallen trees are piled high around the two mountains the cavern was in between. I think about the hole in the cavern and how it was perfect for parachutes to maneuver through, and the small opening, and decide it must have been a trap all along. Whether they were aiming to crush me inside of it or lock me out to face the tributes, I'm not sure, but in the end they would have ruined it somehow.

"Well, that's just great. As if we didn't have enough to fucking worry about, without the GROUND MOVING!" The girl from 7 screeches. She continues cursing under her breath, her hands finding their way back to her leg.

"We need to get back to camp," Twine says. He turns to me, pointing his sword once more. "Let's go, 4."

I walk slowly up beside him. He reaches over and rips the knife out of my hands, tucking it into the side flab of a backpack on his back.

"I'll be holding onto that," he says.

He walks too close to me for my comfort as he leads us back up one of the mountains. The air is cooler the higher we climb, but all I can feel is the sticky heat radiating off Twine's body. I think this is probably one of the most bizarre situations I've ever seen happen on the Games. I've let my weapon get taken away and I've become a hostage to another alliance. Back in District 4, Cora is having a fit right now.

I'm cautious to not anger them in any way, so I don't try to contest his decision at all. I follow quietly and put up with it. I gave up trying to play this the way they wanted a long time ago.

Their camp is quite nicer than I expected. They've somehow gotten a tent—there can't have been that many in the Cornucopia—and they're camped in the woods right next to a river. I help Twine ease the girl into the tent, mostly just because when he was doing it by himself he was being so rough about it that she kept letting out small yelps of pain. Once she's lying down, Twine points my own knife at me. He hands me a canteen.

"Go fill this. Come back," he orders.

I take it from his hands.

"Sure," I say easily.

He looks taken aback and a bit uncomfortable. He shoots me a glare in response.

I cross the small distance between their camp and the river, gripping the canteen so tightly my hands ache. I crouch down beside the river and fill it, certain I can feel his eyes on me. I wonder how long before he kills me. I wonder a lot of things. I don't feel like myself.

I walk back with the full canteen. Twine takes it without a word and orders me inside the tent.

It's cramped and muggy inside. Twine's district partner is spread out on her back on top of a sleeping bag, her lips drawn into a tight line and her forehead creased. She's sweating, and I have a feeling she's probably burning up with a fever.

Twine enters the tent and sits at her feet. He lifts up her leg roughly—I wince as she gasps aloud in pain—and examines the wound.

"Kaya, it looks worse." He sounds almost angry at her for it, as if it's somehow her fault. I have to bite my tongue to keep from defending her.

Kaya feigns surprise. "Really, Twine? It looks worse? Because I was certain it was completely healed!"

He narrows his eyes at her and drops her leg, letting it crash to the floor of the tent. She screeches and reaches back down to grasp at it.

Twine turns to me.

"You any good at fixing wounds?" 

I shrug halfheartedly. I edge carefully closer to Kaya.

"May I look at it?" I ask her.

She nods, her eyes drawn shut and her face taunt with pain.

I kneel down beside her and gently grasp her calf, lifting it enough to look at the wound behind her knee. Whatever sliced her must have been very sharp. The wound has to be fatal—it's so deep I am certain if the attacker would have pressed down just a bit harder, they would have hit the back of her knee cap. It's truly upsetting to look at. It's a mess of blood, muscle, ripped flesh, and sliced veins. It looks as if the two parts of her leg—separated by the slice—are going to completely rip apart.

I swallow and feel her eyes on my face. I meet her glance and she's staring at me so vulnerably for a moment that the fact that I can't help her makes me want to cry.

"It's so deep," I finally say. I gently set her leg back down. "If we had a way to stitch it up and sterilize it, you might be okay."

There's an unsaid but at the end of that sentence, one that doesn't even have to be spoken. They both know we're in no place where that would even be a possibility.

Kaya growls in frustration.

"I can't believe this is how I'm going to go out. I can't believe that after all I've done in this arena, I'm going to die probably in my sleep from a wound. I don't even get the glory of dying in battle. I don't even get to feel like I'm dying fighting for something."

She turns her head away, and I'm sure she's crying. Twine rolls his eyes and mumbles something akin to shut up.

She can't be more than sixteen years old, if even that. Twine's eighteen, if I remember correctly. I wonder why they ended up allying together. I can't help but feel like it was a mistake.

I sit quietly, trying to fold into myself and take up as little room as possible, while she cries softly. Listening to someone cry is horrible and it tears at something inside of me. I listen for a few minutes before I can't keep myself from saying something.

"So don't die fighting for nothing," I whisper.

Kaya's cries stifle for a moment and she turns her head around to look at me. Her eyes seem furious.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she snaps. Her voice is thick and nasally from her tears.

I fiddle with the bracelet on my wrist. I miss Finnick's note. It was buried in the ruins of the cavern. I wish deeply I would have taken it with me. I would have loved to have had it now.

"It means…fight for something. Find a goal, and figure out how to work towards it."

My goal has always been to make this experience as minimally traumatizing for my family as possible. So if I die, I don't fail, and it wasn't for nothing. As long as I achieve what I set out to do.

"My goal was to go back home, but that's not going to happen," she bites.

I can feel Twine's eyes on me, but I don't turn to look at him.

"Well, the good thing about goals is you can never have too many. Maybe you could find a new one and focus on that. It will give you something to fight for, something to hope for," I explain.

She laughs mockingly. The sweat on her face gleams in the moonlight that drifts in the tent from the open flap.

"That's easy for you to say, 4. You're not lying here about to die."

I catch her eyes again.

"I'm sorry, Kaya," I say.

She laughs again. "Yeah, well, me too."

My attention is pulled elsewhere when Twine reaches out and grasps onto my wrist. My entire body tenses to flee, to fight, but I take a deep breath and force myself to turn and look at him. His eyes are hostile—just as they were in the elevator and in his interview. He simply stares at me.

"What?" I finally ask. My voice wavers.

"What are you trying to do?" He looks at me with more hatred than anyone ever has before. I wonder why he dislikes me so much.

"I don't know what you mean," I reply. He tightens his grip and I wince. It's then that I remember just how defenseless I am right now. He could do anything and I would be helpless to stop him.

I think he can sense the fear in my eyes, and I think he likes it.

He grins in the way I'd imagine predators would grin at their prey, just to show them how much they don't fear them. "You're so good at the good little girl act, 4. So good I'm starting to think it's not really an act."

I force myself to keep eye contact. "Thank you," I say easily, because I know that will confuse him even more, and I think it would be in my best interest at this point for him to think there might be a chance an assassin is hiding somewhere inside my body.

His eyes leave mine and land on something behind him. I let my eyes lower to my lap and I exhale as he moves away from me. The tent shakes a bit as he climbs out.

A few short moments later he's speaking again.

"Guess you're going to get a chance to show us all just how much of a good girl you are, 4."

His words infuse me with cold dread. I turn around and look at him, and he's holding a small box with a thick needle and spool of shiny, black thread.

I realize what he's saying and my stomach churns.

"No," I say immediately.

He reaches behind him and grasps his left hand around the handle of the knife in the backpack, his eyes challenging.

It doesn't matter though. I'm already imaging pushing a needle through Kaya's skin and listening to her screaming out in pain beneath me. I'm already watching her blood splatter the sleeping bag and feeling the horror of knowing I'm hurting someone else.

"I don't care. Kill me. I can't do it. I don't know how," I say. I can feel hysteria descending upon me quickly. My entire body is shaking. I can't do this. He can't make me. I'd rather die.

This infuriates him. He pulls the knife free and walks toward me. I fall back and scramble to my feet, my head hitting the top of the tent. He walks forward until there is no where left for me to run, and presses the knife against my neck. The metal is freezing and I'm gasping for air. My hands automatically reach up and grasp at his, ready to push away the blade if he increases the pressure.

"You will do it, or I will hurt you until you agree to do it," he mutters.

"Twine, I don't think—" Kaya starts.

He closes his eyes briefly in annoyance. "Kaya, shut up! You have to have stitches or you have no chance at all. I can't do it at all. But I bet 4 over here has sewed something in her life before."

His eyes stay trained on me. "So what's it going to be, 4?"

I look around him and meet Kaya's eyes. She looks terrified, and rightly so. If I don't do this, she dies. But even if I do do it, she might still die, and she'll have to endure even more pain before that occurs. If I don't do it, I die a painful and probably horrifying death that my entire family has to see. If I do, I have to live with whatever happens for the rest of my life.

Knowing that the rest of my life isn't very long helps me to make the choice I do.

I look back at Twine.

"Maybe you should ask Kaya what she wants. It's her leg, not yours."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Okay, let's play pretend and pretend I don't have the final say here. Whatever." He turns to Kaya. "What do you want to do, Kaya?"

She looks at me with apology. I begin steeling myself for what I'm about to have to do.

"I need stitches," she finally says.

Twine grabs me and shoves me down on the ground beside Kaya. He tosses the metal tin after me.

"Well, it's settled then. Get busy." 

He sits right behind me, the blade resting against my spinal cord. For a moment all I can think about is that day when Finnick taught me how to throw knives. The way his fingers brushed against the top of my spine, and the way it made me smile, and the way the air felt heavy all around us as if we were in our own world.

This is similar in the way it also makes me feel as if it's the three of us alone on the planet, but I can't say they are the same in any other aspect.

My hands are shaking as I open the tin and begin to investigate the contents. There's antiseptic, and I can use that, so I start there, trying not to think about anything else.

I open the small bottle and soak one of the cotton balls in it. Kaya rolls over onto her stomach, leaving her wound open to all of us. I dab gently at it with the cotton ball. It comes away so soaked in blood that my fingers are red.

Twine wordlessly hands me a thick patch of fabric that came from his jacket. He doesn't wear it, so I guess he decided a while ago it was more useful as fabric.

I place it over the wound and press down lightly. Red immediately blossoms onto the white, expanding rapidly until the entire thing is soaked.

I feel faint.

I set the now soaked fabric to the side and grab the bottle of antiseptic again. I pour it over the wound a few times until I'm confident that it penetrated it well enough to sanitize it as best as it can. I put off touching the needle for as long as I can, but after dabbing at her wound for the fourth time after cleansing it, Twine presses the knife harder into my back.

"Get on with it," he growls.

I reach for the needle and thread, but my hands are quivering so violently I can't grasp at them.

"I can't do it," I gasp out. "My hands are shaking so badly. I can't do it."

I let out a small yelp as Twine pushes the knife harder, the tip cutting into my back. Sharp, burning pain radiates through me.

"Twine, stop being a dick! Maybe her hands would stop shaking if you would get the knife away from her!" Kaya barks, her voice thin with anxiety.

Twine pulls the knife back, and I'm grateful, but that isn't why my hands are shaking. I wish her mentor had sent some sort of anesthetic.

I take deep breaths, but my hands aren't steadying. I have no choice but to try and work through it. I have a general idea of how to sew, but it can't be the same way when sewing up a person. I have nothing else to go on, though. Surely sewing incorrectly is better than leaving it gaping?

I uncoil a length of the thread and snip it off. It takes me a few minutes to thread it correctly. The light Twine's placed in the tent is still so dim, and I'm still unsteady.

I reach out and slowly push the slice back together. She hisses in pain. I bring the needle down and I'm apologizing profusely as I push it into her skin. My vision is swimming and my stomach is rolling and I think I'm gasping aloud just as much as she is. I am revolted by the pressure I have to use to push it through her flesh. I'm revolted by the way the thread gets stuck and I have to tug on it to get it to pull all the way through. I'm revolted by the way the flesh pulls tightly against the thread, as if the thread is going to slice the skin to pieces.

Mostly I'm horror-stricken at the way I continue to sew up her leg as she yells out in pain. It seems to take such a long time, and by the time I reach the end of it, her blood is all over my hands and we're both crying. I tie it off and cut the thread and then back away from her, wrapping my arms around my legs. Her blood is everywhere and I can feel the fractures underneath my skin that each of her screams caused.

She's panting and lying there, her eyes squeezed shut, and my head is spinning.

Twine's pushing me forward again.

"You're not done. She needs it bandaged," he insists.

I crawl back over to her side and bandage it methodically, my mind a million miles above my body.

No one speaks again for at least an hour. When the anthem plays that night, I press my hands over my ears to block it out and I refuse to look. I don't want to know.

Twine orders me to do ridiculous things, such as walk back down to the river to dump out the water I got only two hours ago and refill it. He stares at me as if he doesn't understand something.

"Do you ever get angry?" he asks me.

I'm exhausted and all I want to do is sleep and wash Kaya's blood out from underneath my fingernails. I look over at him.

"If something is worth getting angry over," I finally say.

He snorts. He falls silent again and goes back to running the knife blade slowly over his palm, just lightly enough to not slice himself.

"You're just a pretty little notch in his bedpost," he murmurs.

I turn my head to look at him.

"What?" I ask.

He stabs the knife into the ground and leans back. Kaya groans restlessly in her sleep.

"Finnick Odair. I bet he got a kick out of corrupting you. I bet it was so easy but at the same time so rewarding."

His words light a fire inside of me that makes my blood boil. It's not what he's saying about me, it's what he's insinuating about Finnick's character.

"Finnick is nothing like that. You don't know him."

He laughs loudly. I wish he'd be more considerate. Kaya deserves as many hours of unconsciousness as she can get.

"Definitely not as well as you do, 4," he mutters.

I almost rise to his bait, but I can't let myself. He's obviously still digging around for what makes me tick, and I won't let him know that he's found it. He can say whatever he wants. Finnick isn't like that, and I know the truth.

"The only thing worse than a goody-goody is a goody-goody who refuses to fight back. I'll get a rise out of you, yet," he promises.

He keeps his promise.

I'm jerked out of the restless and light slip I accidentally fell into by screaming.

Twine is hovering over Kaya, screaming in her face, and she's crying and spewing off curse words I've never even heard before. I can't blink or move as Twine buries his blade into her heart.

Kaya makes a sputtering sound and I somehow launch myself at Twine. I shove him away from her and my hands flutter uselessly as I try to help, but I have no idea what is going on or what to even do in this situation, and she's crying and she's in so much pain, and why would he do that?

Twine grabs me around my waist and moves me from Kaya, flinging me outside of the tent. I land heavily on my right side and scramble back up, running back into the tent.

"STOP!" I scream. Twine turns and stares at me, his eyes wild and his chest heaving. "WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?" My eyes are blurring with tears as I watch Kaya's life slip out. "WHY WOULD YOU KILL HER?"

I can feel Kaya's eyes on me as Twine starts walking towards me. I stumble back, my chest aching and my mind recoiling from what I've just seen. Surely this is a dream, because this can't be reality. Why would he have my save her life only to kill her himself? Why is this happening?

"She was telling me what I can and can't do—and I AM the one in charge!" he yells. "I am the strongest! I am the one who is going to win!"

He looks unhinged through the blurry veil of the tears clouding my eyes.

"You didn't have to do that!" I screech. "You didn't have to kill her! What is wrong with you? What is wrong with all of you?"

I fall to the floor of the forest and all I can think about is the fact that Kaya fell asleep in pain and died the next morning. The last thing she knew of was betrayal.

"Why would you have me sew up her leg if you were just going to kill her?" I yell again.

He scowls. "I wanted her around when she was listening to me and being as asset. I don't want her around if she's going to hinder my plans."

I stay huddled on the ground, my back aching from where he pressed the knife into me last night.

"You're a horrible person," I finally say. I wipe at my eyes and look up at him finally. "You're horrifying."

This sets something off in him again. He flies at me and pushes me down flat on the ground. He sits on top of me, his weight pressing down onto my chest and making it almost impossible to breathe. His legs lock tightly around my arms, clenching them tightly to my sides, and I can't free them. He reaches forward and shoves two of his fingers into my mouth and down my throat, gagging me. I immediately go limp and stop struggling as all of my energy now goes into panicking as I try to get his hand out of my mouth. The sensation of gagging is overwhelming and my stomach lurches and I hope I vomit all over him.

"You want to cry about the world, District 4? I'll give you something to cry about," he snarls, shoving his fingers even further down my throat. I'm choking and my body is having spasms and he's got the knife in his hand again.

I can't do anything as he brings it down to my throat but try to bite down on his fingers. I bite down as hard as I can, but he only grits his teeth.

"I'm sick of you tributes who try to act like you're better than everyone else," he spits in my face. "We're all the same, 4! We're all in this Game to kill! And if you refuse to kill, then I'm going to kill you. I'll be the one going home. You're all so weak."

He moves the knife from my neck to my forearm and I can't even yell when he cuts me because his fingers are still down my throat. I try to reach up and kick him, but he's got my torso completely tethered to the ground.

I'm preparing myself to try and remove my mind from the situation when Twine falls still suddenly. He looks to his right, where a parachute has just landed. He reaches for it instinctively, removing his hand from my mouth and his other hand from my arm. He shifts slightly, and I can move my right arm a bit. I yank it free and pull my fist back, letting it fly forward into his face.

He groans and falls to the right a bit, and I worm my way out of his grip. I rise to my feet and he's cursing at me, spitting blood on the ground. Fury is coursing through my body when I kick him hard in his side. He falls over. I grab the parachute he dropped, knowing that it wasn't a result of his mentor's poor timing, but rather a result of my mentor's impeccable timing.

He's just sitting up when I turn to leave. I pause before I run.

"We're not all the same, Twine. I'm sorry that you think we are."

His shouts follow me through the woods for a while, but I must be a better runner than he is, because even his rage can't propel him quickly enough to catch up with me. I'm at a loss of where to go. I can't go back to the cavern, and I can't go back near Twine. I wanted so badly to not get on anyone's bad side. I have never felt anger like that before, though. I couldn't control it.

I'm distressed and tired when I finally decide I'm far enough away to stop running. I sit down on the ground against a rock, hoping I'm far enough out that I won't run into any other tribute. I set the parachute in my lap and open it with shaking hands.

I pull the canteen of water out first and drink almost half of it immediately. I meant to ration it, but I've never been so thirsty in my entire life. Finnick's sent more bread, too, but I have no appetite at all.

The piece of paper is what I crave more than anything else. I pull it out and unfold it, desperate for words from someone who isn't a monster, desperate to remember that there is a world outside of this arena, and it isn't made up of people like Twine.

I know what it feels like to be where you are now. I know what it feels like to suddenly not recognize yourself or the world. But I also know that you have a goodness inside of you that is stronger than any other tribute's rage or hatred. I wish I could be there with you right now. Stay strong.

I expected his words to make me stronger, but instead they make me weaker.

"I wish you were here with me, too." I say out loud, and then I'm crying into my hands. Because what would I give to have Finnick here? I would give anything. I would do almost anything. He would know exactly what to do to keep us safe and he'd be able to make me smile while doing it. He is warmth in my memory and everything is dreadfully cold here. I miss him more than I miss anyone, even my sister. He is the only one now who will understand what I am feeling. He is the only one who knows what this is like and how to live through it.

I hear someone moving behind me a few minutes later. I spin around, instinctively raising my hands; even though they are empty except for the note.

Someone comes up over the hill and I'm getting ready to run when his voice stops me.

"Annie!"

I stop and turn around, relief flooding through me.

"Chiron!" I yell back.

He approaches me slowly and warily, eyeing me as if he's unsure whether or not I'll attack. I laugh at the thought, happiness flooding through me at seeing a familiar face. It's like with him he brings my identity. I feel more like the girl I was. I feel more like myself. It's funny how the people we know and the places we go can do that. They hold imprints of memories inside of them.

"I'm not even armed," I say.

He smiles back a bit. "Yeah, I noticed."

He stops in front of me. He's got a gash above his right eye, but other than that, he seems relatively unscathed. I don't even know what I must look like in comparison.

"Rough few days?" I ask.

He eyes me for a bit longer and then looks back up to meet my eyes.

"Probably not as bad as yours have been. Are you okay?"

I don't even have the energy to begin assessing whatever wounds I've cumulated. I shrug.

"I'm still alive," I say.

He nods.

"Me too. And that's saying something. There are only ten of us left. The Cornucopia was worse this year."

My mouth opens slightly at his words. I've made it to the top ten and didn't even realize it. Both Chiron and I did. Maybe he'll actually win this year. I hope so.

My heart drops as I remember something.

"I think only nine now, if you were going by last night's report," I correct.

He looks at me questioningly.

"District 7 female," I reply shortly. I don't want to talk about what I've seen. I can't voice the betrayal. I feel certain that I want to die with the knowledge.

He nods. His eyes drop back down to my arm.

"Annie, I know you said you didn't want to team up, but maybe we could stick together just until the numbers are narrowed down a bit. I've got camp somewhere safe, and you're hurt, and I am going stir-crazy. You're the first person I've talked to since the morning the Games started."

I bend down and pick up the bread and water.

"I think we should have teamed up a long time ago," I say truthfully. "None of this was the way we planned."

He motions for me to follow and begins leading the way to where he's camping out.

"Well, that's the Games for you," he says bitterly.

I walk beside him quietly. All I can think about suddenly is Sophia, and how she was betrayed like Kaya was.

I used to think everyone was good deep down inside of them, but I don't know if I believe that anymore.

Chapter Text

A week passes before I can speak about what happened that night in the tent.

Chiron and I hide out in a deep, unmarked section of the woods at the very top of a mountain. It's the safest I've been since the Games started, but things are not okay. I have to block out the sounds of the cannons firing and the anthem because it makes me so sick I'm sure I'll pass out. I can't drift off to sleep without seeing Kaya's face the way I last saw it—pained and pale, betrayed and shocked—behind my eyelids. Every snapping branch is Twine and every scream is Kaya's and my heart is broken.

Chiron is worse off than me. He's haunted by Sophia and hunted by District 2, or what remains of it. He killed Aly the same day he found me in the woods, giving Osmium even more motivation to target him. He jumps at the slightest noises and cries for Sophia in his sleep. I grab onto his hand when he's unconscious and suffering, but it doesn't seem to help at all. He's inconsolable and I don't have the heart to wake him up, because he seems to forget the nightmares ever occurred once he regains consciousness.

There are moments when I am sure Chiron would kill himself without a moment's hesitation if an easy opportunity arose. Moments when he's staring off into space and his eyes look as empty as our futures are right now. Moments when he's walking back to where we're camped out, his eyes red and swollen, looking dejected and lost. Moments when I am sure he is screaming in his head for this all to end.

It's difficult for me, because after a week alone with him, I find him to be someone I could have formed a friendship with. Perhaps not a deep one, but a casual enough one that would probably sustain over the years. He's troubled, sensitive, and rash, but also insightful and brave. He doesn't seem to have a problem with killing anyone, but he showed remarkable gentleness when helping me fix up my sliced arm.

He's cracking open pecans when he questions me about District 7.

"The girl from 7," he starts carefully, keeping his eyes on the ground, "What happened to her?"

I'm keeping watch, a spare knife of his clutched tightly in my hands. A silence sinks in between us while I observe the sun sinking behind the mountain ahead of us. There's something undeniably lovely about the way it makes the mountain glow with a warm, orange outline, no matter where we are.

I figure he must think I killed her, as I showed up shaken, covered in her blood, and I haven't been quite stable since. Somehow I feel as though I could have lived with that easier than what I've seen. In a way it would have been simpler to accept that I am a monster rather than accept that other people are. I want so terribly to trust in people and their basic goodness, but I don't think I can ever do that again.

A burning starts behind my eyes as I locate the words and latch onto them.

"She was injured," I start. I picture her gaping wound and nausea joins the building burning behind my eyes. "She needed stitches. Twine made me do it. She didn't even have anything to numb her at all I and—" I stop abruptly, assaulted by images of the needle going through her skin and the way the blood gushed out so rapidly I had to give up stemming the flow. It was warm as it pulsed out over my hands and arms.

Chiron nudges me gently and the black mountain with the flaming sky is in focus once again. I continue.

"It was awful," I breathe. I rub at my eyes, trying to knock the tears away so my vision can clear once more. The sight of that sunset is keeping me grounded in this reality. "She kept screaming out in pain and I couldn't stop it. I know it was to help her ultimately, but—"

It wasn't though. All I did was make her last few hours on this earth agony.

I didn't know that, though. At the time I had no idea she'd be dead in the morning.

"Life would be a much nicer place if we knew what was going to happen," I whisper, a little while later.

It takes Chiron a minute to reply and I realize suddenly that my topic jump might not have made sense to him the way it did to me. The knowledge makes me feel uncomfortable, like suddenly I don't fit my own skin, or more like I as a person don't fit in this world.

"What do you mean?" he finally asks. I feel his gaze on me and I glance over to meet it. He's looking at me in concerned confusion, a glance he's given me quite frequently over the past few days. Probably a mirror of the glace I've been giving him.

What do I mean? I mean the awful cracking sound the blade made when it pierced through Kaya's sternum. I mean the wet, sputtering sound she made when it entered her heart. I mean the way her mouth dropped open automatically, as if she wanted to scream, but she found herself without a voice. I mean the cold, unaffected look in Twine's eyes and the way his fingers felt shoved down my throat. I mean the heaving that shook my entire body as I was entirely helpless to defend myself. I mean the horror that is people and their actions.

"Twine killed Kaya a few hours later," I finally say. A tear rolls down my face and enters my mouth and the taste makes me gag, immediately associating it with the lake that drained my blood. I am struck with a fear suddenly that I will never be able to swim in the ocean ever again. That even if I somehow did make it out of this arena, it would continue to take from me until nothing I love remains.

Chiron waits a few moments, I guess waiting in case I had anything to else to add, but then he speaks up.

"Why?" He questions.

I press the heels of my hands over my eyes and shake my head. "I don't know. All he said was that she was telling him what to do."

I listen to the sound of Chiron cracking pecans for a few more moments. Things feel so much easier to handle with my eyes shut and my ears covered, so I sit like that, desperate for something to make sense.

"It sounds like he has control issues," Chiron mutters. "I feel like that in here, too. Like I would do anything to feel in control of my situation because none of us are in control of anything. We're completely in the mercy of the Gamemakers. It's a hopeless feeling."

I feel a flash of anger at Chiron's words—as insightful as they are—because I feel like he's making excuses for Twine. Of course we all feel dreadful because we aren't in control of anything, but that doesn't mean it's okay to gain control by stabbing the heart of anyone who challenges your power, even if that person was your ally a few moments ago. For the first time since the first day with Chiron in this arena, I feel unsafe near him. Would he do the same to me, to hold onto control? I never would have thought that a few weeks ago, but I find it so difficult to believe in anyone or anything anymore. I can't even believe in myself. The only thing I still hold some semblance of faith in is Finnick, because he's been steady this entire time, and the small notes he sends with his parachutes keeps my mind solid in a way I can't express.

Chiron glances at me and seems to understand whatever is being broadcasted across my face, because he backtracks quickly.

"I don't mean I think what he did was right. I think it's awful. I just…you seem like you need to understand why so badly, so I thought I would try to help," he explains, his voice taking on a sheepish tone. "I'm sorry if I upset you."

His eyes seem clear of any misgivings, so I nod once and smile thinly. I turn my eyes back to the darkening trees and we sit in silence for a while longer. Chiron scoops the shelled pecans into a small container and turns his attention to the trees also.

There haven't been any deaths in two whole days.

We don't talk about it, but that fact leaves us feeling anxious and uncomfortable. We don't sleep much at night and we don't say much during the day. There's a feeling in the air, almost electric, that tips us off that something is bound to happen soon.

The numbers are down to six of us. Chiron and I, Osmium, District 1, and Twine. I guess we're all hiding deep in the woods somewhere. This arena is so large and dense that there is no way we'll all run into each other accidentally. The Gamemakers are going to have to bring us together somehow, and I have a feeling it will be very nasty when they do. I can only hope the others collide before they find us. I'd feel better if Osmium and Twine were to exit the mix.

The moon is high in the sky and mosquitos are buzzing around us when I turn to Chiron.

"Chiron?" I whisper.

He turns to look at me. I can't be sure, but I think he's crying again. I want to tell him I'm sorry. Sorry for his situation, sorry that I can't help, sorry that nothing can help. But I know that's not my place.

"What's the first thing you would do when you got back to District 4?" I ask.

I want to hear him say he could be happy again. I want to know that he's planning on coming out of this. I want to hear that life can go on after all the terror we've seen in this arena. I want to hear that he'll be okay if he comes out of this alive. Because if he'll just be miserable the rest of his life, I'll stop wishing that he'll win. I don't want him to resent me for hoping and passively trying to help him win if that's something that would make him miserable. I already feel a slight bitterness to my family for making me promise I wouldn't give up, because giving up would have been so much better. I would have liked to have been able to be just a bit selfish when it came to my actions in the arena, but I am bound to a promise I no longer want to keep.

Chiron sighs and turns his eyes back to the trees. "Oh, I don't know, Annie. I guess I'd go home and try to go back to how things always were." He falls silent and I am positive by the strangled sounds that he is crying. "But honestly, things weren't much better before."

I reach across the dark space and set a hand on his arm. I'm helpless to help anyone with anything in this arena, even Chiron with his darkness. It doesn't matter how much light I used to have, it feels faded and dispersed across this entire arena.

"Because of Sophia?" I ask.

He doesn't shake my hand off for once. He nods, turning his head to look to the right so his face is out of my line of vision.

"I wanted to die when she did," he whispers thickly. "I still do."

His grief pounds painfully into me as well, as if it's a dark shadow that's fallen over both of us.

"Did you love her?" I inquire softly. He turns quickly to look at me, and I can see a surprised expression on his face in the dim light from the moon.

He wipes absentmindedly at his face, pushing tears off his cheeks, and when he replies he sounds almost as shocked as he looks.

"Yes," he mutters, as if he can't believe it himself. He stares steadily at me, and I feel certain that this is something he's needed to talk about for a while, but has never had the opportunity to do so. I can see it in the panicked desperation in his eyes and the way the words seem to be bubbling up inside of him, teetering at the edge of his lips, ready to tumble off in rapid succession. "Everyone says I was too young to really love her, that I don't know what love is. But they have to be wrong, because I've tried to tell myself a million times I don't love her, but this ache inside of me keeps that from feeling true. I don't want to live without her. I never have had to before. I was going to—I wanted to tell her that I loved her the day before she was Reaped. But I chickened out, and I never got a chance again."

He falls silent and I reach down to grasp at his hand tightly. It's all I can offer him. A reminder that at least for right now, he's not alone in the night.

He talks quietly for an hour after that, telling me all about Sophia and the way her eyes were dark like black velvet and she could imitate anyone perfectly. He talks of the way they'd swim way out into the sea just to see who could swim the furthest without chickening out, and the way he would wake up early in the mornings just to go down to the shoreline to try and find sea glass for her collection. His voice gets quieter when he speaks of the way she would kiss his cheek anytime they parted, even if only for a few hours, and the way she hated seagulls with a passion that almost matched the love she had for peppermints. He paints a picture of this girl that couldn't have been shaded with anything but love and tenderness, a friendship that sustained him for years and then shattered his heart when it was over.

I'm enchanted by it, and selfishly it makes me a little sad to know that no one will ever feel of me that way, and I'll never feel of anyone that way either. But at the same time I know it's better this way, because I would never want to leave someone the way Sophia left Chiron. Broken and hollow, seared with agony.

"She sounds like a beautiful person, Chiron. I wish I could have known her," I tell him when his voice fades off.

He's crying openly now, all pretenses of hiding it from me vanquished along with his longest held secret.

"She was. She really was," he says. I can't do anything but keep a grip on his hand as he cries.

I think about the small parts of us that people keep with them, the things they whisper about in the dead of night, tears clogging their words. Like Sophia's eyes and her love for sea glass and peppermints and her habit of kissing those she loved goodbye. I wonder which parts of me my family or maybe even Finnick, Mags, and Annora will speak of. I wonder which parts made an impression, or if any did. What could they even say about Annie Cresta? She wasn't a fighter, maybe. She was strange, even. Sad laughter waits under the surface when I imagine Finnick's voice saying She needed five sugarcubes in a cup of coffee.

I know what I would say about Chiron. I'd talk about his love for Sophia first and foremost, and the way when he cried I could almost see the dark spaces inside of him that she left. I'd talk about how he seemed incomplete after I knew about her, as if they were meant to be a unit and he was only half present with her gone. I'd talk about his grey eyes and the steady balance of his hands when he was cleaning out the slice on my arm. I'd talk about how he could see a lot of things other people couldn't, but no one really knew that because he kept it all quiet inside of him.

We take turns sleeping that night, the unspoken knowledge that things are going to change very soon hovering over us. He thanks me for listening right before he falls asleep, and that makes me cry. I think one of the things I'm struggling with the most is the knowledge that people die after such misery. The thought that Kaya experienced so much pain and betrayal right before she died injures me, and the knowledge that Chiron has been living in such pain, and then was Reaped on top of it, makes me cry until my eyes ache.

It's because I foolishly want people to die thinking the best of the world and everyone else in it. I want them to die happy and with hope. It kills me to know that that isn't the case.

Chiron wakes a few hours later and I lay down to take my turn sleeping, but I'm on edge and upset and I end up lying awake staring up at the stars for the remainder of the night. Chiron and I go about our normal day—slight hike to the stream for water, washing up, breakfast—when the day takes the inevitable turn for the worst.

We're tipped off that someone is coming by the sound of snapping branches rapidly approaching. I freeze in my tracks and my heart rate speeds up. I turn to look at Chiron, and he looks just as frightened.

Run, he mouths.

But he doesn't look like he's moving anywhere. He's standing in front of the trees with a sword in his hands and I know then he plans to stay and face whoever it is. He turns to look at me a few moments later, and repeats his last command.

I'm thinking of the way he cried last night when I shake my head. I grab the other knife off the ground and wipe the blade on my jacket. When I take my place beside Chiron, all I can think about is how stupid it was to wipe the dirt off. It won't hurt the victim any less when the blade enters their body if it's clean, no matter how much I think that it will.

Chiron's got a grip on my arms. He stares dead in my face.

"Annie, don't do this. You have a chance. Just run, okay? It's fine. I don't want to make it out of here," he whispers urgently. The person is approaching quickly and we don't have time for this.

"I'll throw the knife at them if you can take them down after that," I whisper back.

He stares at me, and then laughs abruptly. It's sudden and odd from his lips and it startles me almost more than the threat approaching.

"It's been nice to get to know you, Annie," he says finally. His raised voice and the tone tip me off that this is his goodbye. Whether to himself or to me, I'm not sure.

"You too, Chiron," I mutter.

That's when Osmium breaks through the trees.

He's alone, but that doesn't make it much better. I raise my arm and lock eyes on his torso. This isn't the time to freeze up, Annie, I keep telling myself, but my arm is locked in place as Osmium barrels toward Chiron, a spear held in front of him. By the time I can move my arm, my aim has changed. The knife flies forward and hits him in the shoulder. He cries out and drops the spear and I scream out as well as the blood leaks out from around the blade.

Mags was wrong. It isn't any easier when the person is attacking. It's not better.

He turns his attention to me, his eyes full of rage. He reaches up and pulls the knife out, cursing under his breath and gritting his teeth at the pain.

"You should have stayed out of this, Annie!" he finally yells.

But Chiron's taken advantage of the moment, and he's running towards Osmium, sword in hand. Osmium turns his attention to Chiron and manages to dodge the blade as Chiron swings it wildly at his head. The force of Osmium's dodge causes him to lose balance, and he falls to the floor of the forest. Chiron is hovering over him, and I'm sure he's about to kill him. My eyes shut automatically.

And then arms are locked around my body from behind and a sharp pain starts in my lower back and rapidly spreads throughout me. I jerk my lower body away from whatever weapon just made contact with my skin and try to turn around to see who is behind me, but the grip is too tight. A hand grasps tightly at my chin, holding it in place, and I can't do anything but look in front of me.

A quick glance downwards at the fingers on my chin tip me off to what I knew must be true. Twine's back, and that's his fingers, the same ones on the hand that drove that knife into Kaya.

My focus is pulled from my own predicament to Chiron and Osmium. Osmium's back on his feet and they're screaming at each other and wildly brandishing their weapons. I want to close my eyes, but they are frozen open in fear.

It all seems to go at a much slower pace than possible. Osmium turns his spear to the side and uses the staff to smack Chiron in the stomach. He grunts and doubles over, and Osmium shoves him to the ground. He slams into the ground hard and Osmium falls on top of him, straddling him the same way Twine did to me. I wonder in the back of my mind what Twine is waiting for, and why he hasn't just killed me while I'm so defenseless, but I understand when Osmium pulls a knife from a small bag around his waist and brings it down to Chiron's neck.

The first bead of blood rolls down the side of his neck and splats onto the ground, and I watch it slowly sink into the earth. Chiron yells out in pain and Osmium presses down even harder, pulling the knife across his throat. I realize I'm pulling against Twine's grasp and kicking back at his legs a few moments later. I'm screaming at the top of my lungs and all I can see is the deep gash in Chiron's throat. He can't breathe and his gray eyes are wide and blood is leaking out all around him. He's going to die right here, in front of my eyes, and I can't do anything to help him.

I'm already screaming and crying and certain this can't get worse, but I'm wrong. Osmium doubles back and places the blade inside the deep gash he's already cut and presses down harder, pulling the blade all the way through once more.

Chiron stops making any noise at all. His mouth drops open his eyes are wide and he's twitching a bit, his hands rising every few seconds to try and defend himself. Blood is bubbling up inside his mouth and then Osmium is doing it again. The slice is so deep now that most of the blade disappears inside of the slice. I can hear the sound of knife dragging against bone and I vomit right into the dirt. This makes Twine jerk away from me momentarily, and I am no longer in control of myself. I turn around and hit any part of Twine I can reach, and then I grab the blade from his hands. I stick it deep into his chest, just as he did to Kaya.

The horror of what I've done is suspended above me, but it can't reach me yet because all I can feel is each of Chiron's screams. I turn and run for Osmium, desperate to stop this torture, desperate to make all of this end.

I am right beside them when he starts stabbing the blade down into the slice and jabbing at it violently, trying to sever Chiron's spinal cord. Muscle and blood and skin are in a mush around the bone and I'm on my knees, heaving into the grass once more. I come to my senses when I hear the blade stab into the ground.

I look up, and there is nothing that could have prepared me for the sight I see. Chiron's head, severed from his body, skin and bone and blood strewn everywhere, and his severed neck leaking blood. His spinal cord is so white against the red, and I'm in an uncontrollable state again. I push Osmium away from his body and I'm screaming things at him, things about Sophia and Chiron and how disgusting of a person he is. I turn and see Chiron's blank eyes, his face splattered with his own blood, the grimace of pain frozen on his face, and then I'm running so quickly I keep falling over.

I stop running every few minutes, falling into a heap on the ground, heaving into the dirt as my body tries to rid itself of what it's just seen, but it's impossible, it never will, it never can, I am what I have just seen and I will never unsee it and I can never escape the feeling of the cruelty crawling underneath my skin and I will never be clean from this and I will never see anything but that sight ever again.

I crawl into a large hollow inside a tree, but a few seconds later I've caught sight of Chiron's blood all over me, and I'm ripping violently at my skin, trying to tear off his blood. I only succeed in scratching myself but I can't stop I want it gone I want all of this to stop I don't even know what I am doing here or why this is happening and oh, Arnav had to see that, and there is nothing that is real anymore.

I cry until I'm heaving again and then I'm beating my head against the trunk of the tree because I can't stop seeing what I've just seen and I want to die. I want to die. I don't want to live anymore. I don't want to see that anymore. And why was the bone so white if there was blood everywhere? What must it have been like to have your hands so deep inside someone else's neck? What must that have felt like for Chiron?

Through my tears I start asking all these questions aloud, and I don't care who can hear, because I need them answered. I need to know. Why is this happening? Why would someone do that? What am I doing here? Did that really happen? Will someone kill me? Can I kill myself? Why isn't this Game over? Why did Chiron have to die? Why did I have to stay here? Why am I alive at all?

I cry until the muscles in my back ache from my sobs. A few hours later I realize my back isn't aching from the sobs, but rather because Twine cut me when he held me back. The blood is gooey and sticky when my fingers make contact with it, and it's not going to scab. Maybe I will bleed to death right here. Why couldn't I have just bled to death in the lake? Why couldn't I have just gone then, before I saw what I did, back when I could still see the colors? I am going to die here just as everyone else has, sick with horror and sadness at the world, and I understand then that that is always the way it happens. No one dies happy. No one lives happy. All there is is darkness and those who are too innocent or naïve or blind or ignorant to see that and they think the darkness is light, but it's not. I'm an idiot and I always have been and I want to die an idiot but I can't now.

And then as I'm looking at my blood on my fingers I'm thinking of Twine and the way I buried my knife in him the same exact way as he did Kaya, and I'm searching hysterically around me for a way to kill myself, because I'm a monster too.

I curl up on my side on the ground, my arms wound tightly around my legs, and I stay there. I cry and I keep yelling that I'm sorry, but I know Twine can never hear me, because he's dead. I still keep yelling it though, until my voice becomes hoarse, and then I'm whispering it until I don't feel or see or hear anything anymore at all.

When I wake up it's bright outside and ants are crawling all over my curled up body. I stare at them idly for a while. Where are they going? What must life be like for the ants in the arena? They don't belong here either, just like I don't, just like no one does except for maybe Osmium and Twine. But that's not true, I belong here too, because I killed someone just as they did.

The ants have a home inside this tree also, and I've laid down right beside it, and I'm sorry for that, too. I crawl out from inside the tree and a parachute is waiting just outside of it, but I can't look at it and I can't touch. I don't deserve anything he's sent. I don't deserve any words he's written.

My body aches from the slice, from the heaving, from the ant bites, from everything, but it can't reach me. My head is floating above my body and when I walk it's almost like my feet glide right over the air. I walk until I find a stream and then I lay down in it. The rocks are slippery and cool underneath my skin and I lay quietly until I'm assaulted once more by images of yesterday, and then I'm desperately pulling off my jacket and pants and trying to wash the blood off of them. It comes off the pants and my skin easily, but it stains the white jacket in a way it has stained me. I throw the jacket down the stream and let the gentle current take it further and further away. I watch it until I can't see it anymore.

I lay in the stream and cry. With just the tanktop and my underwear on, and the cool water over me, if I close my eyes just tightly enough I can almost make myself believe I'm swimming in District 4. But I can only do that for a few seconds at a time, and then I'm gasping again because this isn't District 4. There was an ocean once, but not anymore. There was a girl who once who danced with Henry Schwartz for three hours, but not anymore. There was a girl who won the spelling bee in seventh year, but she's gone too. I don't know what or who is here now but she's not Annie Cresta. Annie Cresta broke just like the crest of a wave breaks and falls shattered into the sea.

After a few hours when I'm sure there is no blood left on me, I pull myself out of the stream and redress. I'm shaking and it's so cold but I don't understand why because I thought it was warm outside. I've no where left to go, so I walk towards the setting sun. I curl up on the ground under a large tree and stay there.

The sun rises and sets and rises and sets and rises and sets and no one else dies. No one comes for me either, even though sometimes at night I cry and beg the Gamemakers to send someone. I don't want to live this way. I don't want to live in a world like this.

I build up a better world inside my head and I hide in there to pass the time. Finnick keeps sending things even when I break down and beg him to stop. He starts sending the notes on the outside so I can't ignore them, and they all plead with me to eat or drink something, but I can't consume anything. All I want to do is vomit up everything inside of me, every memory, every feeling, every thought.

The world I've made helps to keep me from screaming at the top of my lungs. I live out a life in which I was never Reaped and right now I'm at home with Cora and Arnav and we're playing card games and drinking white tea and eating tangerines and then Finnick is at the door and he comes in and joins us because he's my friend and we all play together until the sun is gone and the moon is out, and then I go up to my room and curl under my covers where I'm warm for the first time in such a long time.

I wake on what must be the fifth day to another parachute. I stare at it for a while, the words on the note on the outside just a blur. By the time they finally start to make sense, it's too late to look away, and they are burrowed inside of me. Finnick's words never leave me, and this is not the exception. I try to hide away from this reality but his words keep pulling me back out. Don't go away. Don't go where I can't follow.

It takes me the better part of the day to make any sense of his words because I have to fight with my mind to even agree to figure out what he's saying. Part of me wants to ignore it as I have been, but something about it sticks onto my skin and won't let go. It replays in a loop over and over again in my mind.

Don't go away, don't go where I can't follow, don't go away, don't go where I can't follow, don't go away

Don't

Go

Where

I

Can't

Follow.

It's dark when I acknowledge his note.

"I don't want you to follow. You don't want to be here," I finally whisper.

And he doesn't, and he can't, because here is crazy, here is dark, here is a web that I am stuck in forevermore. Here is not where I want my mentor. I want my mentor happy on the shores of District 4.

I'm back inside my safe world when another parachute falls down beside me. It's too late to try and ignore the notes. Once one got inside of me, I can't stop the others.

I want to be wherever you are so I can help you. Let me. Please, Annie.

His words make me cry and it's another day before I can deal with what he's asking of me.

"You can't help me," I finally murmur. But I drink some of the water he sent anyway, because I have always been helpless to doing what Finnick Odair wants me to do, even when I'm not even a ghost of the girl he met.

I'm battered by memories of all I've seen the rest of the night. A few more earthquakes shake the ground, but I can't care about that at all.

I'm imagining the way the waves sound through my open bedroom window that morning when I realize they've gotten louder than usual. I'm panicked for a moment—what if really I am home, and this arena is the made up world? What is real and what isn't? Which world did I fabricate and which is home?

The roaring of the water increases rapidly until I open my eyes and realize that this world is the right one after all, just as I've suspected. There is too much raw horror for it to be fake. I don't think my mind could create any of this on its own. I don't think it's capable of it.

A wall of water is surging over a mountain right beside the one I'm currently hiding at the top of. I stare at it, unwilling to panic and not concerned with whatever is about to happen. The entire arena is going underwater, but what has happened still happened. This doesn't wash away the things I've seen or the things that have come to pass.

The water slams into my body with a force that knocks my breath out and I'm kicking furiously automatically, trying to break the surface. It's practically impossible because the water is quick and roaring and I'm being dragged along with it. I slam into trees a few times, and the fourth time it happens I'm certain I snapped something in my leg. The water keeps grabbing onto me and pushing me back under and my lungs are burning and my head is swimming with oxygen deprivation. I am certain I'm going to drown. I kick my good leg and propel my arms until I've made it above the water long enough to gasp in a few gulps of air, and then I'm pulled back under. This pattern repeats for a while until I slam into another tree. I latch my arms around the trunk of the tree and pull myself higher, so my head can break the surface of the water.

I look out all around me as I inhale as much air as I can, and all I can see are a few tops of trees. The sun shines down on the surface of the water and it looks like it's covered in a thousand diamonds. It rocks back and forth for a while longer, and then it falls completely still, and an unearthly quiet takes over the entire arena.

And then the cannons start, loudly and with an air of finality.

One.

Two.

Three.

And just like that, I'm the victor of the 70th Annual Hunger Games.

Chapter Text

The sight of the hovercraft materializing above me startles me, and my grip on the tree loosens for a moment. I slide down into the water and I kick my good leg a few times to stay afloat while a ladder slowly lowers and what if I didn't grab it?

I'm staring at the metal rungs—gleaming bright underneath the sun—when a voice rings out from above me, below me, around me, everywhere. He's telling me that I have to grab onto the rungs, but doesn't he get it? I don't have to do anything. I'm in this arena that is now a giant sea and I can drown if I want to. It is my body and it's surprisingly breakable. I don't have to listen to anyone anymore. The Games will never be over, so just let me end them myself.

The moment I cease keeping myself afloat, the hovercraft veers closer to me, and I enter the force field of the ladder. It feels like a warm, tight hand around me and I can't swim away from it or move. The voice is back, telling me to grab onto the ladder and they'll pull me up, but I just stare at the shine of the metal. He continues, talking to me slowly and loudly as if I'm hearing deficient, explaining that I won the Games, I'm the victor.

In my head I'm screaming because I don't want to be the victor. I didn't choose this. I didn't want any of this. I didn't want the stupid costume I wore at the tribute parade and I didn't want to learn how to use a knife and I didn't want to swim in a lake that drained me of my blood and I didn't want to stitch up a girl's leg and I didn't want to see anyone murdered and I didn't want to murder anyone myself and I especially didn't want to win. Maybe in the beginning that would have been okay, but not now, not now, not now, not now.

Not.

Now.

Never after, only before. Before the darkness came and before the bad things happened and before I felt my heart and mind break and before I ended up like this, a few bloody pieces resting on the ground. Before when I was still Annie and when thinking of home made me smile, instead of cry until my entire body aches. Before when the world was beautiful and people were kind and my father still held my hand when we walked down the stone streets to the market.

I hear someone screaming my name, and my head swivels up. The sun is bright but I can make out Mags standing in the opening of the hovercraft. I suppose seeing her would have made me ordinarily very happy, but all I can feel now is a deep sorrow. I'm sorry, Mags. I'm sorry.

She motions for me to grab onto the ladder, and it isn't until I'm rising that I realize I've done it. Two doctors in white latch onto my arms the minute I'm in, and they don't even give me a chance to react to anything, or say anything, or do anything, or think anything, before they jab a needle into my arm and inject something cold that immediately makes my head swim.

They lift me up and I'm moving somewhere and I have no say in anything at all.

So this is what the rest of my life will be like.

I can't tell how long it has been or where I am or even who I am.

I regain consciousness on and off only to lose it the moment I gain enough mental clarity to take stock of my surroundings.

The only thing I can ever register is how cold it is. It's cold everywhere around me. The air, the bed or cot I must be lying in, my hands, my feet, my nose, everywhere. There are always voices around me when I wake, but either I show no signs of being awake, or they just don't care because no one addresses me at all.

It's quite fine, though. Unconsciousness is heavy and soft and warm and nothing. Nothing is quickly becoming my most beloved friend, my most steadfast ally. Nothing doesn't hurt and nothing doesn't force me to remember things I never wanted to see in the first place. Nothing is safe and nothing is real.

I don't trust it when suddenly nothing is gone. I don't even try to move or open my eyes, waiting for the moment when the black wave takes me under once more, but it never comes. Instead the steady beeps of what must be medical equipment and deep voices of strangers fill my mind. The sudden noise assaults me and my hands try to jerk up to cover my ears, but my arms are chained down to the bed.

This starts an entirely new round of hysteria. My eyes open and then immediately close, burning from the bright lights. I am certain I have never seen a room so bright. The blankets are rough against my body and I'm naked and so cold and why am I here why am I chained down where is Finnick where is Mags where are my clothes where is Annora where is Chiron where—

No I know where Chiron is, remember? Chiron's corpse is far under water back in the arena and his head is floating separately from his body and the entire water is red and there's Twine and he's bleeding out into the water too and blood is spurting rapidly from a hole in his chest that I caused and—

No I'm in District 4, remember? I'm sitting in front of the fire with Arnav and we're drawing pictures. I can see the flickering, orange light reflecting on his pale skin and the shine of his light brown hair. I can see the way the colored wax crayon colors the paper in his hands. But I can't feel anything but freezing cold, even though we're in front of the fire, and that's what tips me off that as much as I wish this was the right world, it can't be.

Strange, strangled sounds that terrify me fill the room. Who is being hurt? Who is crying like that? What are they doing to them? Are they going to do it to me?

It's me, though. It has to be because that's my voice and I can feel my throat aching from screaming and crying. I'm pulling against the restraints too, and it's tearing the skin on my wrists.

A sharp needle pricks me again.

I fall still.

Nothing again.

The next time I awake, I can't be certain of how much time has elapsed, but it feels almost exactly the same. I'm still naked under a coarse, thin blanket, and I'm still freezing, and I'm still chained to the bed. But when my eyes flicker open the lights are dimmer, and no one is talking, and I'm not pulling at the restraints.

Two doctors in white are standing on the other side of a large, empty room, both reading some sort of screen. I glance down at my body. I'm resting in a large bed and I've got tubes running in and out of me. I look down at my arm where Twine cut me, but I don't see anything at all. What are they doing to me? Why are they doing it to me?

The doctors turn around and seem surprised to meet my open eyes. I'm shaking violently due to the freezing temperature of the room and I try to ask them why it's so cold, but I can't open my mouth to say anything at all. I am crying again, though. I can taste the salt from my tears. That only makes me feel worse.

A doctor walks over and peers critically at me. He reaches forward and lifts my eyelid up more, shining a flashlight into my eye. The sudden movement and the sudden contact make me panic and all my muscles convulse as I try to jerk away from him. The other doctor steadies my face and I cry out and all I can think about is Twine's hand on my chin as he held my face forward and forced me to watch Chiron and are they doing that too? Is this just another part of the arena?

I'm in the middle of a panic attack and they are talking amongst themselves, checking my eyes and nose and ears and typing things into some small handheld computer. I can't breathe and why can't I just go home and if they are going to keep me here can't they just kill me why do they even need me I am not important I am nothing I am just a broken girl I don't even know what's real anymore—

And where is Finnick?

They set the tablet down and take their hands off me and I want to curl up into myself but I can't move. I'm still chained down.

The doctor on my right looks down at the tubes in my arms as he speaks.

"Do you know your name?" he asks me.

I stare at him. His hair is so red, red as blood, red as muscle. My name? Yes. I know my name.

He looks at me strangely and it takes me a moment to realize I haven't said anything out loud yet. I just stare at him, suddenly sure I can't say anything at all. My name is Annie Cresta but that is a lie. Officially I am her, I live in her body and her mind, but she is gone, and I miss her so much. I miss her hope and her light and I hate what I am now. I hate the broken fragments of myself with a passion so overwhelming I almost scream.

"Can you say anything at all?" The other doctor asks.

Maybe. I don't know.

Just go away.

I don't want to be here anymore.

I don't want to be her anymore.

I close my eyes and I'm back in my own world, the one painted with colors so bright they are blatantly fake, but I don't care. I live here. I walk on the shore and pick seashells out of the wet sand and make nets with Cora. I dance with Finnick on a dock and we do the wedding dance again but we aren't married but still the dance is right. The moon pulls the tide and it pulls me too and I swim all the way out into the middle of the sea, and Chiron and Sophia are there, and they're taking bets on who can swim out the furthest. I chicken out first and my dad picks me up in his boat and we go on a trip around the sea, just me and him. We spend our days and nights doing puzzles and fishing and drinking raspberry iced tea. Mags joins us when we dock and she gives me a blanket she knitted and it's so warm but I'm still cold.

White bleeds through this world and a few words too and then suddenly the entire thing has been shattered and my eyes are opening and Mags is right in front of me.

"Sweet girl," she whispers gently, and that is all she says, but it's enough. She slowly extends her hand and repeats that she isn't going to hurt me and then she slowly strokes my hair back. I'm dazed and confused, lying flat on my back, still cold under just the thin blanket and tethered to the bed. My mind is exhausted from the shifts in reality. When I'm in District 4 I know deep down it isn't real, but it doesn't matter. When I'm here I know it's real, and it tears me apart.

Mags doesn't say anything or ask me to say anything either, and I am glad, because I am certain I won't. I can't explain it but it's almost as if I speak, I'm solidifying this reality. Like if I speak or become an active participant in it, I'm accepting that it's the true reality and that it's the one I have to live in. If I only live in the one I created and I just lie here in this one, doesn't that mean mine is real? If I make myself unreal in this reality, I can be real in the false one.

Mags notices my shivering and demands the doctors place more blankets on me. They add two, but I am still cold, and then I am scared that I will never be warm again.

At least three days pass. I'm sure of it, because I drift in between my reality and this one frequently enough to catch the rotation of doctors. There must be a night shift and a day shift, because after what must be half a day, a different doctor comes and replaces the previous. I try to stay in my fake reality as long as I possibly can, but it gets harder and harder as people start to interact with me. The doctors pry at me and work on my body and ask me questions and tell me things. It is impossible to block them out.

One of the worst parts is the food I'm forced to eat. There are three small trays brought to me three times a day, and a Peacekeeper stands there until I eat at least half of it. He has a gun and a knife in his belt, and I can't take my eyes off it the entire time. It makes eating even more challenging, because the sight of the knife makes me so nauseated I throw up at least once a day during one of the meals. After the second time vomiting all over the floor, Mags orders a bucket in the room, and she stands beside my bed with it like a mother does for her sick child, just waiting to see if I'm going to vomit. And when I do, she holds my hair back just like my mother used to, and hums a song from District 4 children sing in the schoolyards.

All I want to know is where Finnick is. I try to ask Mags a few times, but I can't get the words out of my throat. They cling, terrified, and I'm too weak to try any harder than I already am.

Mags is there the morning they suddenly start pulling all the tubes and wires out of my body. I lie still and stare at the lit up ceiling, half of me convinced I am going to finally be killed and the other worried I'm going someplace even worse. My fears are not lessened as they help me into a sitting position and then into a wheelchair.

Mags keeps asking them what they are doing. I've got the room fully in focus now, and I'm blinking against the bright lights. I'm still freezing, but it's worse now, because I'm completely naked in this wheelchair as they wheel me out of the room I've been in for what must be at least a week. The wind smacks against me and it's awful and cold and I am so tired of being cold. Mags is following after us. I can hear her voice and I turn my head around to look at her truly for the first time. She looks even older than I last saw her, even though it can't have been that long since I did last. She looks furious.

"You can't do that!" she's screaming at the doctor pushing me.

He ignores her blatantly, and Mags words alarm me. What are they trying to do? Haven't they done enough? Isn't this all enough? Will they ever be satisfied? How much blood do they need puddled in their palms?

I'm pushed into another bright white room. This one has a giant bathtub in the middle. It's filled already with water that seems to have been overrun with pink bubbles. Mags is screaming at the top of her lungs as they pick me up again.

"You have no right to treat her this way!" she shrieks. "You know what this will do to her! You may have been able to keep him away this long, but once I tell him about this he'll be here before the week is over! And you can deal with him then!"

Finnick.

I know she is talking about him and I am hit suddenly with a crippling desire to see him. I miss him. I miss him almost as much as I miss myself. The shock of feeling an actual emotion in this reality causes me to shut down and start to retreat back to the other one. It's not too late. I'm not too far into this one. I can still crawl back, I can still feel the cobbled streets against my bare feet, I can still watch the sun setting over the ocean, I can still—

My entire body stops as I'm placed into the tub.

Violent flashbacks overtake me almost immediately. I'm back in the blood-thining lake, weakly trying to push my way to the shore while my own blood slides down my throat. I'm lying in the sand, too sick to move my arm. I'm desperately trying to break the surface of the rolling body of water that used to be the arena, certain I'm going to drown. But more than anything, in every one of these situations, I'm watching Osmium hack at Chiron's spinal column with his blade, and his blood is splattering all over me, and I'm bathing in it. This isn't water—it's blood. It's Chiron's. They got it from the arena, they held his body over the tub and let all the blood leak out from the stump that used to be his neck. I will never wash myself of it. And now I'm being washed in it.

I'm screaming so loudly I have to stop to catch my breath. The doctors stick another needle into me, and I'm thankful, but then I realize this isn't the same Nothing Needle that they have been sticking into my arm. My entire body falls still and I am paralyzed, unable to move anything. My mind is still here but my body is completely out of my control. It's just like being in the lake, so weak I couldn't even stay afloat, only much worse because I'm completely and totally paralyzed.

Horror and anxiety are weaving throughout my entire body like long serpents. They wind their way tightly around my stomach and my heart and my lungs and my limbs and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. I can't even move my eyes. I am stuck staring forward at the wall, my body stuck under all this water that may or may not be blood, I have not decided yet. I can't look down at it anymore either, so I will never know.

"We are doing this to show you there is nothing to fear, Miss Cresta," one of the doctors says. "We are going to target your triggers and expose you to them until you are desensitized. We believe you are unable to function normally because you keep recalling traumatic visions as most things trigger the memories. In order to fix this, we are going to slowly dissociate the things that trigger you and the violent images."

His words mean nothing to me because he has no idea what he is talking about because I'm in a pool of Chiron's blood right now. How is that going to help me? How does this help me? How can it? They can't do anything to help me. They can't do anything at all. No one can. I am stuck paralyzed in my own mind forever, watching Chiron die and Twine lie and Mags sigh and myself cry. Die, lie, sigh, cry. Die, lie, sigh, cry. Die, lie, sigh, cry. The words replay over and over in my mind, blocking out the memories for a few moments, but it doesn't work for long.

The hour they leave me in the water is the most agonizing hour of my entire life.

I can't move or do anything and they keep talking to me, so I can't pull my mind completely out of this reality. I am stuck lying in the water, replaying every single thing I want to forget over and over again until the memories take on a life of their own and start playing out differently, having different outcomes. Osmium chases after me in the woods, Chiron's blood flying off him as he runs, his hands itching to bury the knife in my throat as well. Twine rises back from the dead and finds me inside the hollow of the tree and he holds me down and I can't do anything as he hurts me in every way he can imagine to do so.

Mags takes my hand the minute I'm back in the wheelchair. She shoves them away when they approach me with towels and dries me herself, looking worriedly at me. Whatever they entered into my bloodstream begins to wear off as she's drying my hair, but I make no move to move or say anything at all. I don't even cry, even though the weight and fear and horror inside of me is pressing down so hard on my chest that I am sure I am being crushed to death.

They put me back in the bed. They restrain my hands once more, but they don't need to. I don't fight or scream anymore. I don't do anything at all.

Mags keeps a grip on my hand.

"They won't do it again. We won't let them. You're a victor now, and we all protect each other."

I don't know who the "we" is in her statement, but I don't see anyone here with me besides her. This "we" isn't here and they haven't been here and I don't think they exist.

Mags leaves around the time the nighttime doctor arrives.

I'm back in District 4, but it never stops raining. The waters rise and rise and rise and houses are going to flood.

When Mags calls me back to the hospital room, I panic once again, because both my realities are turning into terrors. I don't stop shaking for at least an hour this time, and after Mags yells at them for a few minutes, the doctors sit me up and put a fluffy robe around me to try and keep me warm. It doesn't help much.

Another day, and then the next is here, but Mags isn't there. I've gotten used to her voice waking me gently every day. I've gotten used to her hand in mine as she helps me walk to the small bathroom and her soft voice as she talks to me about innocuous things. So when I'm woken by a shout instead, I'm momentarily petrified with fear.

My eyes adjust once more to the bright light of the room, and I scan my surroundings in panicked confusion. Someone is coming for me again, but why? What could I have done to deserve it this time?

The door to the room is opened for the first time. I can see two Peacekeepers standing in front of the open door, their backs tense and hands on their guns. I'm frantically trying to understand why two Peacekeepers are needed to keep me in my room when the screaming starts again.

"She's not well! I'm her mentor—don't you dare try to tell me what the fuck I can and cannot do when it concerns her! I want to see her right now!"

Finnick's voice shoots through me like a warm shock. I rise into a sitting position without even realizing it.

"We have orders from Snow, Mr. Odair. You know that. You're to stay away from her for your own protection. She's mentally unstable."

The words have my mouth hanging open in confusion. Protection? I would never hurt Finnick. I could never hurt any—

No, that's not true either, is it? I killed Twine. I am revolted then, sure that they are keeping him from me because they understand what I know, that he's precious, and that he can't be risked by being around someone as malicious as me.

"Keep your fake excuses! We both know that isn't why and I no longer care about the real reason! You can tell Snow to stick our most recent "agreement"; he has nothing left to hold over me now. If he wanted me to keep my side of it, he should have kept his." Finnick snaps.

I catch a glimpse of bronze as he moves to walk in the doorway, but he's blocked again.

"Judging by your insistent need to get into this room, I would beg to differ," the other Peacekeeper says darkly.

Finnick stops then. I'm sitting up straighter than I have since I have been in this room. My hands are in tight fists and I want to yell at them to let Finnick in, but I can't talk, I haven't yet, and maybe I never will again. I'll be just like Chiron: mouth wide open, pain ringing throughout my entire body, my voice stolen from me forever.

"She's protected just as I am. Let me tell you something right now, and I am only going to say it once, so listen very carefully: there is a side to me that only twenty-three other people have seen. Consequently, they're dead. If you or Snow lay a harmful finger on that girl, I swear on my life I will make you regret it. Got it? Now get out of my way."

Finnick's voice is so harsh and furious that it terrifies me and brings me back to the arena. But the minute his eyes lock on mine and he's walking towards me, I'm rooted more securely in this reality than I ever have been before.

He's moving quickly to my bedside.

"Mr. Odair—" a doctor starts, edging towards him.

"Shut up."

He stands beside the bed, his eyes still locked on mine, and I have never seen a color so beautiful in my entire life. I am crying almost immediately, because that green is the first real color I have seen since the arena. Everything has been dark and dirty and tinged and I was certain I would never see anything beautiful ever again and I was so certain that nothing beautiful existed anymore and that the entire world was dark and blood stained and terrifying cold, but then here's Finnick and he is beautiful and he is smiling and his eyes are so warm and his lips are pink and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are so green and his hair is bright and shining and he's the most vivid thing I have seen yet.

I see one of the doctors stand on the other side of the bed from the corner of my eye, but I don't care.

"This is the most reaction we've gotten out of her the entire time she's been here," he says, his voice a bit startled.

Finnick's eyes are wide and clear and so pained that I start to cry even more. He slowly extends his hand and lets me watch it make its way over to me, so I know what's coming. He sets it on top of my head and it's the warmest thing I've felt. His hand slides down and his hand cups my cheek and his thumb strokes back and forth softly.

"I'm so cold, Finnick," I say suddenly. My voice sounds odd to me. It's high and rough and cracked and tight, like it's been left out in the sun too long. I'm just relieved I have a voice still. That relief fades to a panic a few moments later, as I realize I have probably sealed myself out of my alternate reality forever. But maybe that isn't too bad. That reality was flooding, and this one has Finnick, and there are colors now, and my face is warm.

Finnick smiles sadly. "Well, that won't do, will it?" He turns around and looks at the other doctor standing near the door. "Get Annie more blankets, she's cold."

I'm startled to hear my name. I'm stunned because it still feels wrong, but for the first time I feel like maybe I am Annie after all. Damaged and deranged, but still Annie Cresta deep down inside of me. Something about Finnick's voice and the way his voice held my name brings back that sense of belonging, and I am drowned with a feeling of gratitude for that. If he can look at me and still say I'm Annie, I must be. He knows what he's talking about. He always does.

The doctor shakes his head. "She has plenty. Her body temperature is fine. She's just mad."

Mad.

Mad?

Is that what I am?

Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad.

It tastes so very sad.

I am mad.

Something inside of Finnick visibly comes apart. His head snaps around and he stares evenly at the doctor, his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched. Fury is radiating off him in waves, and I'm leaning back away from him, because it is all too much. Too much anger, too much emotion, too much thereness. I want to put my hands over my ears to block it all out, but I'm still restrained.

"I don't care what her body temperature is! She's cold, so you need to be doing everything in your power to make her warm! I won't have her here where you write off all her concerns as her being "mad". She's not insane. She's suffering. And you're not doing a damn thing to help."

The doctor scoffs. "If you think you're so much more qualified, then have at it."

He leaves the room without another word, slamming the door behind him. The second follows, shooting an angry look at Finnick.

Finnick turns back around and he softens again. I fall back into a feeling of ease. He searches the room for extra blankets, but he can't find any, and I try to stop shivering because I can tell it upsets him that he can't help, but I am so cold. I am always so cold.

He finally walks back to the bed and carefully unlatches the restraints. I immediately raise my arms, the muscles crying out in protest from being moved from their almost static position.

"Thank you," I whisper. Talking still feels strange. Everything feels strange. The world isn't the right colors or the right textures or the right light. Nothing is the same.

Finnick lifts the blankets and slides underneath them, right beside me. He stays a modest distance away and asks if it's okay to move closer, and I nod, and then he has his arms tightly around my body and I am warm for once. I press my face against his chest and his button down shirt smells just like him and it hasn't changed even though everything else has. His arms hold me so tightly and securely that I feel certain that no one is going to come grab me and no one is going to make me watch anything like what I've seen ever again.

He rests his face on top of my head and presses a kiss there. Warmth spreads throughout me again and for the first time I not only feel like I am Annie Cresta, but that there is a point to living again. There is a point because people care about me. That is the point, that has always been the point. It was easy to lose sight of that when I was alone, drifting in and out of realities, reliving each trauma over and over again in my mind.

A sudden memory of Kaya's panicked expression overwhelms me and it's then that I remember the doctor's words. Mad. Maybe there isn't a point after all. Who would ever love a mad girl?

"Warmer?" Finnick asks me.

I nod against his chest, my arms moving of their own accord and winding around him as well. It feels good to have something to hold onto, something other than a false reality that is quickly falling to shit just as quickly as the real one did. It feels good to hold someone who is holding me too.

We stay this way for a while. I doze off for a few minutes, but each time I wake up, he's still there and I'm still warm and I'm not shaking and I can still see colors and the pain inside my heart isn't so bad.

The flashbacks still come, though. They're less frequent when I'm with Finnick, but they still arrive, sometimes out of nowhere, and sometimes from triggers I didn't even know existed. They make my entire body ache and I find myself crying again.

Finnick tightens his arms around me, holding me as tightly to him as he can, as if he knows that right now I feel like I have something heavy and dark inside of me that needs to be pressed out.

"I can't forget it," I whisper to him.

"You never will completely, but I promise it will fade in time. Even the worst memories lose their details eventually," he replies.

But I'm not the same, I'm mad, my brain is a sticky web that has trapped every single bad thing and it keeps replaying it over and over again like a tape. My entire mind is a black hole that I can't seem to escape. I fall prey to both the flashbacks in this reality and the appeal of the reality I made up in my head. I can't clear the muck in front of my mind. Nothing is clear. The clearest it has been has been with Finnick here, but what happens when he goes? I go back to living in a hazy, mad world, rocking back and forth between worlds like a boat stuck in turbulent waves.

It's like another world in itself to be here, my eyes closed and my face against Finnick's chest and his arms tightly around me. But it's not like any of the other worlds, because this one is real, and this one is warm, and this one makes sense. It's safe and it's okay to be glad I'm in it.

"I killed him," I murmur.

He reaches a hand up and runs it through my hair soothingly.

"You were defending yourself and trying to save someone. It is not your fault at all, not even in the slightest. Don't let your mind trick yourself into thinking that it was."

I can't stop crying, though. I wonder if I ever have stopped crying. Maybe I have been crying for weeks nonstop. I don't think it would surprise me.

"Am I mad, Finn?" I gasp out, my voice strained and laced with the fright and distress I wish I could hide, but I know I can't. Every broken fragment inside of me all joins together in an effort to ask this one question, to get this one answer: am I ruined beyond repair? Have I been damaged so far I will never return? It is something I have to know, and I don't trust anyone but Finnick to give me the answer.

Finnick gently pulls back so he can meet my eyes. He stares seriously at me, his jaw working again like it did that day we said our goodbyes.

"Promise me you'll listen to me and believe what I'm about to say, Annie, because it is very important."

I nod, my eyes still locked on his.

His eyes search mine and he plays with the tips of my hair behind my back as he tries to find the words.

"People are going to say things. They are going to say that you are mad, that you're out of your mind. They're going to treat you just like those doctors do. But it doesn't matter, okay? Because you aren't crazy, and you aren't mad. You are Annie and you have been pushed to the furthest limits of what people should have to handle, and you are still here. That makes you strong. Not mad, not crazy, but strong." His voice is steady and sure and I could fall into it I am sure. I could fall into it as easily as I fell into the lake or got swept underneath the current of the flood.

"I feel mad, though," I finally answer, my throat aching and my eyes burning and more tears searing their way down my cheeks. He reaches up and brushes them away.

"You have a beautiful and extraordinary mind, and it is doing whatever it has to do to handle what it has had to endure and see. You're still you. You're just unwell right now. Maybe you will feel more like you did before the arena later, and maybe you won't. Either way, it's fine. The arena changes us all. Just because you are different than everyone else doesn't mean you're mad. Frankly, I believe everyone else is mad." He pushes my hair that's sticking to my wet cheeks back. "You don't want to be like them, Ann. I wouldn't want you to be like them either."

In the end, it's his acceptance that makes me feel better. Maybe I am insane, maybe I have lost it, but if Finnick still cares about me, I have to hope that everyone else I care about still does too.

I slip easily into my made up reality, warm and feeling almost not scared for the first time since I entered the arena, and things are better there. Finnick's holding me there too, but instead of being in the Capitol, we're having a picnic on the beach.

He pulls me back with just a brief touch of his hand and I'm looking up into his eyes.

"They're still going to make you have the final interview with Caesar. I tried my hardest to get it cancelled, but it has never happened before and, in Snow's words, it never will. Do you think you can do it?"

Final interview. What's that again? My mind struggles to grasp memories from last year's Games, and when I remember, I'm feeling sick once more.

"The Replay," I say. I'm gasping again for air. "Finnick, I can't—I don't know if I can handle—"

I fall silent, my mind overcome with previews of all the things I am going to have to see again. I already have to relive them every day in my mind, why do I have to see it all again for real?

I come back to it and finish my statement a few minutes later.

"Handle it. I don't think I can," I finish.

He presses his face in my hair and stays silent for a moment. I feel myself slowly start to relax, the thoughts of the final interview slowly starting to leave my mind. Maybe that isn't real. Maybe this world isn't real. Maybe the only world that is really real is the one I'm in right this moment with Finnick. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I'm not sure of anything anymore.

"It will be awful, and difficult, but I know you can do it. They're going to make you do it very soon now, because they've already postponed it for two weeks, and the Capitol is getting antsy." His breath is warm against the crown of my head and I try not to focus on anything but that. Warmth. "I'll be there just like I was at the last one, though. And you can shut your eyes if you need to. I'm going to talk to Caesar Flickerman tomorrow and we'll work out a way to make it as easy as possible. Okay?"

I feel my head nodding, agreeing to something I didn't even want to agree to at all. I don't want to do a lot of things I have to do, though. I never get to choose. Like I don't get to choose what they do to me here.

"It's so warm. Don't let them give me that shot again," I plead. A few seconds after the words leave me, I'm concerned that he won't get what I'm saying, that I've done that thing again that I did that week with Chiron where I jumped topics in my own head and world and forgot to remember that I have to bridge the gaps between the two for everyone else. But Finnick doesn't seem to need the gaps bridged. He does it on his own.

"I'm glad. We'll get you out of here soon, so hopefully you can be warm all the time. And I won't, I promise. Mags told me about what they did. It won't happen again."

A sudden thought invades my mind quickly and solidly.

"But it will. The prep team will make me," I realize. Panic takes over once more as I imagine being put back into a tub like the one they put me in before. My heart is racing so quickly I am sure Finnick can feel it. He must, because he rubs my back and quickly starts to refute this belief.

"They won't. I have an idea," he says. He sits up and it's cold again without him. I watch him climb out of the bed, trying to understand why just that sight breaks my heart and makes my eyes burn because why would it? Why, after all I've seen, would Finnick Odair leaving my side make me want to break down and cry. Perhaps it's just that I have seen too much—I can't handle anything anymore, not even something as small as this. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But then he's on the other side of the bed and he's grabbing my hands and helping me up and onto the floor. He walks patiently with me even though I still walk a lot slower than normal from all those days lying in the bed. I stop walking when I realize he's leading me to the bathroom, and the feelings of betrayal and fear that take over me are blinding.

"No!" I immediately shriek.

It doesn't work. It doesn't matter how many times I'm forced into the water, it's never going to get any better, I'm just going to die and burn and ache and break and I can't do it again I can't I can't I can't and I won't he can't make me no one can make me and why would he do this he is my friend why would he why would he be the one to do this I thought he understood I—

Finnick's hands are cupping my face once more, and he's looking in my eyes.

"Annie, I will never treat you the way they are treating you. I just want to show you something. Trust me again."

The green sea of his eyes pulls me back under the current again and I can do nothing but ride under it, nodding my head.

He walks me into the small bathroom and then lets go of my hand as he walks over to the shower. He presses a few buttons and turns a few dials and then a soft burst of water comes through the spout. He turns around and holds out his hand. I shakily walk over to him, grabbing his hand but keeping my body away from the shower. He sets a hand on my back and then takes my hand in his hand and moves it under the spray.

My body jerks away from it immediately, but he gently guides my hand back, and the warmth of his hand on my back and his hand around mine keeps the panic building in the pit of my stomach from boiling over.

"What does it feel like?" he asks me.

I close my eyes and try to forget the arena, the Capitol, the bathtub and the paralyzing shot. Rain. It feels like rain, like walking down the wet cobbled streets barefoot, the rain sliding down the back of my shirt and soaking my hair.

"Rain," I say.

He lets go of my hand slowly, and I keep it in the spray, because rain is okay, rain is safe, rain is District 4, rain is home.

"It never rained in the arena, remember? Not once," he continues carefully.

I nod, moving my hand around under the spray and letting the soft, warm pressure caress my skin.

"It didn't," I agree.

He moves my hair out of my face and I can feel his eyes on me. I can't look away from the spray of the water, because it's so strange to see rain here, inside a bathroom in the Capitol, when it's supposed to be back in 4. Just like Finnick and I, it should be back in 4, not here.

"It's just like the rain back home," he finally says.

And then I must be crying again, because my back is shaking and my face is wet but I haven't put it under the spray at all. He turns the water off and dries my arm with one of the thick, Capitol towels and hugs me tightly.

"I want to go home," I choke out.

He keeps a steady grip on me, and it's all keeping me from dissolving into thousands of tiny pieces.

"You will. I promise."

I'm inclined to believe him, because everything he has promised has come true. He promised he'd be there for me in the arena, and he always was. He promised I'd come home, and I did. So there is no reason that this promise would be anything but the truth. There is no reason to believe that there is any reason to not trust Finnick. There are plenty of reasons to believe that I can't trust anyone but him, though.

He helps me back into the bed and I'm thinking that I might ask him to stay when he climbs in before I even have to ask. I stop crying when his arms are back around me, and it's warm, and my head feels like it's in order for once.

I'm half asleep when I hear someone enter the room.

"Be quiet. She's asleep," Finnick hisses. He's got hatred laced in his voice, and it makes me sure I want whoever is here to leave.

The door shuts, heavy footfalls near us, I smell something strong—like metal and some sort of flora. It's upsetting and makes my head swim even more than it already is.

"I was most surprised when my Peacekeepers told me you were here."

I stiffen a bit in Finnick's arms, suddenly completely awake, because President Snow is in my room and I don't know why and I don't want him near me. Something in the way Finnick very slowly and carefully unwinds his arms from around me and pushes my hair back tells me that I should keep pretending to be asleep. He sits up and I feel so exposed now, without him beside me and Snow somewhere very near me.

"Well, I was surprised when I heard what your Captiol doctors did to her, too," Finnick says.

He talks to President Snow in a way I have never heard anyone talk to him before, or imagined anyone would. It's not even like they're enemies—it's more like they are two people who used to be friends, but one of them betrayed the other and now there's a palpable sense of dislike and disrespect between the two, but one still holds something over the others head.

"I promised she wouldn't be harmed, and she wasn't. They were trying a very common procedure for curing insanity," Snow replies calmly and slowly.

I want to scream for him to leave, because I don't like the way he talks to Finnick, like Finnick's a nuisance, like he's something to be controlled and used, like he's not a real person. He talks to Finnick almost like the doctors talk to me.

"She's not insane, and it was traumatizing," Finnick replies shortly. He climbs out of my bed and I can hear his footsteps walking slowly away from the bed.

There's the sound of a chair being pulled out, and Snow exhales in relief when he presumably sits. I can hear Finnick stop walking. I know he wants Snow out of here, and I know because of that, Snow isn't going anywhere.

Finnick walks again, and I'm guessing he's walking towards where Snow is sitting now.

"So you're done with our most recent agreement?" Snow asks. His voice is light but holds so many dark implications that I am terrified even though I don't know what I'm scared of. I don't even understand this conversation at all. I wish I were asleep, because all it's doing is confusing me even more. I don't need this when half the time I'm not even sure of which reality is completely real and which is fake.

"Yes," Finnick answers.

Snow sighs and I hear the chair slide and his knees crack as stands back up.

"There will be consequences, you know," Snow warns him.

Finnick's voice is tight and furious when he replies. "I'm not giving up on our longest agreement, Snow. I'm just not agreeing to your most recent demands. This refusal won't affect our first agreement anymore."

He has so many agreements with a man so horrible and so evil. Why do you make deals with the Devil? Why? Why would you?

"Oh, but won't it?" Snow asks. He doesn't give Finnick a chance to reply. "We'll see what happens in due time, I suppose. Just remember your duties and remember what happens if you neglect them again."

Snow's footsteps are sharp and heavy as he walks away from me and towards the door. I don't hear Finnick move, so I think maybe he might stay after all, and that makes me feel less frightened.

Snow's footsteps pause near the door.

"But you know, maybe you're right. Maybe she's not insane. And in that case, there are some agreements I could make with Miss Cresta as well, don't you think? She quite beautiful in her own way."

I don't know what he's saying but he should stop because I'm not making agreements with anyone, especially not him. I don't agree to anything anymore.

The words mean something to Finnick though, because he makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds almost like a snarl.

"You stay away from her. Her and Mags are the only reason I'm keeping up our first agreement in the first place. Don't forget that," Finnick retorts. His voice is strong, but something sounds frightened underneath his anger. And that is petrifying. What does he mean? What about Mags and I? What is his agreement? I want to be asleep. Why am I not asleep?

"And you don't forget who is in control, Finnick Odair," Snow declares.

The door shuts and Finnick seems to let out a breath he's been holding

And

I

Understand.

You make a deal with the Devil because the Devil is in control of everything. You make a deal with the Devil to keep him away from you and your friends. You make a deal with the Devil when it's the last thing you can do, the only thing you can do. And it sounds like Finnick's had to make a lot of them. I remember what he said about fame and being a victor, and I remember how I used to think victors were the most free, and I remember the way I've been treated since coming out of the arena, and I remember Snow's tone of voice.

So this is what life as victor is going to be like.

Chapter Text

The most disconcerting thing about being perceived as mad is the ease and eagerness in which people will accept it, and the ways in which they treat you once they do.

I climb in and out of worlds like I'm climbing over fences, I'm faced with horrific memories that sometimes escalate so far in their torment that they get out of control and take on their own fates, I have panic attacks at least twice a day, I can't keep anything in my stomach, but I am still sound of mind enough to know what I want and what I don't want. It's one of the only things I still have that makes me feel partially sane, so I cherish the fact that I still have it, that I'm there enough to know that I don't want to be here in the Capitol, I want to be home in 4, or that I don't want the Capitol doctors flocking around me, I want Mags and Finnick at my bedside.

And so it's disappointing and demoralizing to be treated as though I don't know these things nor have the mental capacity to even understand the concept. I'm left lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling while the two Peacekeepers argue amongst themselves over what to order for my lunch the next day. They get into a row over whether or not I seemed to like the soup with the carrots or the soup with the peas more, and neither of them stops even once to just try and ask me which I prefer. I attempt to speak up a few times, to tell them that I like the carrot soup more, but my voice is unwilling to rise loudly enough to breech their shouts and my heart is too weary to try and force it to. They seem equally unwilling to listen to what I want, even when it's articulated through Mags interpretations of my actions or Finnick's retelling of my words. They meet each with the same phrase: she's mad.

Mad.

Three letters that make a very small word that holds much more power than I ever thought possible.

Any of my thoughts or actions are immediately discredited and dismissed with those three letters. My very existence and sense of self is signed away with them, too. Even the things that I carried over with me from before the Games—my habits of fidgeting when anxious, my proficiency for panic attacks—are explained by the doctor as an inhabitation of my madness.

And so I'm left with anxiety dragging my heart down like an anchor, staring blankly at the wall, trying desperately to remember myself before the Games, before the madness, to figure out if I was always this mad or if this is something new. To figure out if the madness has always been waiting underneath the surface of my soul and the recent events just cracked me open enough for it to leak out, or if the evil I have seen has wormed its way inside of me and knocked everything off its shelves, leaving me in a state of disarray and confusion, riddled with distress and sorrow.

Because I am not Annie Cresta anymore to anyone but Mags and Finnick, and sometimes myself. In the past, before all of this, when people would talk about me, or they would see me, or they would address me, they would say "That's Annie Cresta" or "That's Annie" or even "That's Ann".

Now, the only thing I hear is: "That's the mad girl."

The Mad Girl.

Like it's my name, my ranking, and my occupation all rolled into one. Like it's all I am and all I'll ever be. And sometimes, when I'm reliving a particularly devastating flashback, I'm inclined to agree. This will be my life: lying in quiet confusion until something causes me to jump back into the arena where I have to re-experience traumatizing events—sometimes with a new twist added alongside—and then I come back to reality, chest heavy and tears burning raw on my face, only to force my mind back into my own reality, where I can spend hours doing things so small but so lovely such as washing the dishes with soup that smells wonderful, like cucumber melon, like my mother's shampoo. When I am torn out of my own reality and back into the real one, I'm confused as to what is really real and what isn't, and then the cycle starts back over again.

The only time this cycle is broken and the only time I am sure that I am not The Mad Girl is when Finnick is with me. He talks easily with me, gliding effortlessly over the large gaps I sometimes leave in conversations and sentences, paving the rest of the way for me to finish a thought I forgot about halfway through articulating it due to a painful reminder of a memory I never want to remember. He can slide an arm around my waist and steal me out of my fake reality so smoothly and gently that I don't feel a toll at all. He can easily talk me down from my panic attacks with just a firm grasp on my shoulders or face or hands or arms and a string of forgiving and benevolent words in his deep, charming voice.

And I don't know how and I don't know why this is and I stay awake at night trying to figure it out before I remember how white bone is and then I'm spiraling back down a familiar path of instability. I can never get very far in my dissection of the blessing Finnick is in my life before I forget what I'm doing and my mind is on a whole different track altogether, racing towards a destination far away from anywhere I was headed before. The most I can discern is that he reminds me that I am Annie Cresta, and he understands me, and that is a miracle and a beautiful thing. Sometimes I'm sure that's enough anyway. I have decided that ignorance is bliss.

I still can't get myself to talk to anyone but him, though, and the doctors are getting antsy and angry because they've put off the interview with Caesar for almost three weeks now. They start staying in the room whenever Finnick comes by, which is at least twice every day, trying to understand why I will talk to him and no one else. When he leaves they mimic his posture and his tone and try to have conversations with me, but I just stare at them, because really The Mad Girl can't talk and they don't even know Annie Cresta still exists.

It's okay, though. It's almost astounding how quickly one can adapt to being treated the way I am treated. I start to believe what they believe, that I'm just mad and therefore nothing I think or say holds any merit, and it upsets Finnick greatly. He tells me every day that I'm not mad, and he yells at the doctors multiple times to stop treating me like I'm completely incompetent, and I believe him with all of my heart while he's there. But when he's gone it easily slips away from me, just like all the memories of the good things in the world. And the colors. He takes the colors with him, too.

Perhaps that's why it's so difficult to watch him go.

This morning was particularly rough, so by the time Finnick comes by late that afternoon, I'm already deep in the sea with Cora and Arnav. The morning is rough there, too, though. Arnav forgets how to swim and starts to drown and for whatever reason, I can't move, I'm frozen in place, watching in horror as my baby brother's head goes under the water and his struggling stops and bubbles shatter the surface of the water and I'm screaming because that's my baby, that's the only person I was ever able to protect, that's the boy who has more goodness inside of him than anyone else that has ever lived, that's the innocent child who never deserved any of the pain he's ever felt, but still it keeps coming, and I can't stop it, I'm helpless to stopping it all, I'm helpless to saving anyone, especially myself, and I will never have control over anything ever again, and Arnav is at the bottom of the sea, and he will never smile, and—

Sea green eyes, lips pursed tightly into a concerned line, bronze eyebrows pursed in worry, tousled bronze hair, hands on my hands, warmth.

"Annie."

That's me, right? Yes.

I exhale and the rest of the room comes fully into focus, in its sterile, empty, white glory. Finnick hovering over the edge of the bed, peering at me apprehensively. Doctors jotting things down and peering at screens.

I look back at Finnick.

"Another flashback?" he infers.

I shake my head numbly, and it's the other extreme. There's hysterical Mad Girl, and then there's catatonic Mad Girl. I hate them both. I probably hate hysterical Mad Girl more though, because after those spells, my entire body physically hurts from screaming and kicking and crying. At least when I'm withdrawn I lock the pain so deep inside it can't escape and can't manifest itself in any other form.

The doctors swarm immediately and start asking me question after question about what I was seeing and what I'm feeling and they're right up in my face—all colored skin and strange hair and starched white fabric and giant eyes and pens and needles—and it's causing even more anxiety to crawl up my arms and wind itself around my neck.

"Could you back off?" Finnick snaps at them irritably.

They reluctantly retreat back a few inches, propelled by the obvious detestation in Finnick's glance and tone.

Finnick sits beside me and brushes my hair back from my face. He runs his fingers through it for a while, and eventually the weight on top of my heart is reduced bit by bit, and I'm breathing normally again, and I can look back up and meet his eyes without seeing the scene of my brother drowning in front of my eyes.

"Back with me?" he asks.

I nod this time.

He smiles. "Good."

He doesn't pry, and I find my arms winding around his arm to hug it tightly because of that. He knows that I will talk about it eventually to him, because I always do, he is all that is holding me together, he's the stitches that held Kaya's leg together, but instead, they're holding me together, and instead of it tearing pain through me, he's easing it.

Finnick asks me how my day was, and it takes me a few moments to build up the strength, but then I'm slowly telling him about it. I have to stop a few times to re-gather my thoughts before they slip away, but I get it all out. The conflict this morning when the Peacekeepers forced me to finish the entire tray instead of half, and Mags wasn't there, and I vomited on the floor, and the second conflict when they tried to force me back into the tub they forced me into almost a week ago now and I had a hysterical fit until they finally relented, but it was too late to go back to the fresh slate I had that morning, I'd already been filled with panic and terror and a feeling of inadequacy and it's almost impossible to shake those once they settle down on me.

Finnick's eyes narrow more and more the further I get into the story, and after fifteen minutes of my scattered talking and long silences in between, he's looking around the room again for the doctors.

"When you're taking notes on our private conversations, does it ever occur to you that the cause of most of her distress is what you doctors force her to do?" he asks, his voice holding a forced calm that's eerie in its own way.

The doctors don't even look up from their note-taking.

"It has been noted, but rest assured that we are doing everything that you are supposed to do in these cases. It just takes a while to show results."

Finnick laughs once, bitterly.

"Well, it hasn't taken long for me to see results in her the few times I've been in here to see her, so what can you say about that? And I know it's not just my winning personality or attractive facial structure. I may be beautiful, but I'm not a type of therapy. Yet."

They still don't even grant him a glance.

"We are still trying to determine what to think about that," the second doctor answers.

Finnick turns around and rolls his eyes at me and mouths something akin to idiots, and I feel a sudden rush of something that just feels pleasant—maybe not happy, but definitely not miserable, and then I'm smiling, and it feels so strange, because I haven't smiled in a month now, and I never thought I would ever again.

He lets out an elated laugh, takes my face in his hands, and kisses both of my cheeks, his own face overwhelmed with a smile too. He pulls me into his arms and hugs me so tightly I can feel his heart beating strongly against my chest.

"I missed that," He says simply.

His comment was what had me smiling in the first place, but his grin is what keeps it in place for longer than a few moments. I don't even care that the doctors are mumbling together, or that they're taking notes, or that I'm here, I just care about the way his eyes seem greener when he smiles like that. It seems like the most important thing in this reality, and actually, it probably is.

I question Finnick about his day, but then the doctors interrupt his reply to express their astonishment that I'm having an actual, functioning conversation with someone. Finnick tells them to shut up again, because he always has conversations with me, they're just the ones who don't know how to talk to me. I decide his banter with them is humorous in a dark way. I guess everything can be funny in a dark way, if only you peer at it hard enough.

He doesn't give me many details about his day, which makes me certain he was off with one lady or another, but I can't think about that and I don't want to so I'm not going to. It's simple with him here.

"Oh!" He says a few moments later. "I brought you something."

The doctors are swarming again, reminding Finnick fervently that I'm not allowed to have anything from home or from my past because it might trigger me, but he merely huffs in annoyance and reaches over the side of the bed and pulls something out of a bag. He presses it into my hands.

"A blanket!" We say at the same time, him with an air of explanation, and me with a cry of what sounds almost like a ghost of excitement.

I'm still battling with the cold, and Finnick's been trying to get the doctors to bring me another blanket for days. They always reply with the same thing:

She's

Mad.

He turns to look at the doctors.

"Take that away from her, and you'll get to see firsthand how a trident can gleam."

They back off after that.

I unfold it carefully and settle it on top of the covers, my hands smoothing over it. It's thick and warm and soft and the best thing is that it's bright blue, so bright it almost hurts my eyes. I've been so used to the white and the black and the gray that color is always a bit shocking.

"Thank you, Finnick," I say.

He watches me stroke over the soft material for a moment, his smile still in place, but morphed into something gentle now instead of the threatening smile he gave the doctors.

"It's no problem. It's the warmest I've ever had, so I hope it help," he replies.

I run the edge of it between my fingers and look back up at him, the sudden idea that this is his blanket that he has used himself filling me with that same feeling I had earlier. I think maybe I might smile again.

"Is this yours?" I question.

He teasingly taps my nose. It's sudden and I jump a bit, my body tensing to run, but I relax a few moments later. He realizes his mistake and waits until my shoulder relax to continue his statement.

"I couldn't exactly give you a blanket that I haven't tested before, now could I? How would I know if it worked? Besides, no blanket is as grand as one that's been used by me!"

His words were meant to come out as teasingly as the tap he set on my nose, but it comes out sounding more apologetic.

I can't explain what is so lovely about it, but I am enamored with this gesture. That this is a blanket that an Avox pulled out of one of the Capitol dryers along with all his clothes, that it was folded and set with his things, that maybe it's a blanket he's had for years that's sat at his home in District 4, that he picked it up and put it into the bag to bring here for me, and I have it now, and it's with me like it was a part of him and now it's a part of me.

I decide to not voice out any of this though, because part of me still worries he's going to realize I really am mad one day, and then he won't come back anymore.

"It's lovely," I whisper.

He laughs once more and then reaches down, straightening it over my legs.

"Just like its owner."

It isn't until later that night when I'm drifting off back to District 4 that I realize maybe he meant me.

Here are the things Mad People are allowed to do:

One: Cry all day, if you wish.
Two: Scream all day, if you want.
Three: Throw things across the room in a fit of rage, if it makes you feel better.
Four: Stare off into space and ignore everyone, if it's easier.
Five: Vomit all over the floor, it's expected.
Six: Claw at your skin hysterically in your sleep, that's normal for you.
Seven: Refuse to bathe, it's understood.

Here are the things Mad People are not allowed to do:

One: Have an opinion.
Two: Have a suggestion.
Three: Have control of any kind.
Four: Be treated like a normal human being.
Five: Inconvenience the Capitol.

I think about these a lot. It's difficult, because I'm lucid and sane enough to recognize these things, and I'm coherent enough to function normally around Finnick at least, but I'm still not right in the head, and I know that. I hate that I know that. I want to be like the other mad ones, the ones who are so mad they don't know they are mad, they don't know what people say about them, they don't recognize when they are being treated like an infant.

Out of all the rules, out of all the norms of the subculture that is The Mad, the most important is to not inconvenience the Capitol. I see this in the way the doctors get antsier and antsier as each day goes by and I still haven't begun talking to anyone but Finnick. I see it in how frustrated they get when the only improvement I show is still NOT ENOUGH, as labeled in CAPS very clearly on a board on the wall. The longer time that elapses between the Games and the recap/final interview, the more agitated the citizens grow, and the more trouble I'm in.

This anger grows until they decide the morning after Finnick gives me the blanket that it is in my best interests to not see him again.

And so they double the amount of Peacekeepers outside my door, and five doctors are with me at once, and they prick me with needles and make me swallow strange liquids and prod at my body and make me sniff strange colored blocks.

And so I stop trying to fight the flashbacks, and I stop trying to fight the world I've made up, and I let it take over me completely once again like I did in those first days, because it is dark again, and there is no color anywhere, and all I have for two days to keep me warm is Finnick's blanket, but then they take that away too, and I don't understand why they are doing this because they say they want me to be better but they keep making me worse.

They talk to me in clinical voices and tell me I can see him again once I am well.

As if I am choosing to be this way, and they have to give me an incentive to stop acting like I am.

As if I want to replay the worst moments of my entire life over and over again every single day. As if I like how my mind slips. As if I like the confusion, the way I'm looked at, the way I'm talked to, the loneliness of knowing no one will ever truly understand me ever again, except perhaps Finnick, but I can't even see him anymore because if getting well is what I have to do to be able to see him again, I will die without ever seeing his face another time, because I can't just make this go away because believe me I have tried I have wished so hard I have even prayed to every single deity I have ever heard of but nothing works at all nothing nothing nothing nothing.

Nothing.

It's my mind now.

So they ask me questions, and I stare forward. They talk to me, and I cry. They yell in my face, and I cringe back and shut my eyes and lock my hands over my ears until I'm safe far, far away from them, and then I don't come out for hours and hours or days and days.

They don't even let Mags come anymore.

I am slipping away once again, unsure of time and how it passes and the ways it moves, unsure of basic things such as how much water you have to drink to stay alive or if Chiron is really standing beside my bed or not, the remains of his neck a bloody stump.

Blood drips onto me from him and I decide he must be real, because I can feel it and I can smell the blood so strongly and no matter how hard I scream I can't seem to make him go away.

"You've got a pair of lungs on you, Miss Cresta," he says.

But I don't know why he's calling me Miss Cresta, or how he's saying anything at all, because he doesn't have a head, he doesn't have a mouth, he doesn't even have vocal cords, I know this because I saw his vocal cords being hacked to very small, mushed up pieces in front of me, and I can see that once more, and so I puke and it splatters all over him.

Hands grab my arms tightly and pull me back a bit and it must be Twine again and I'm shaking because I don't want him to hurt me again like he always does and I'm yelling at him, but then it's not Twine any longer, it's three of the doctors, and they're securing my hands in the restraints once again for the first time since Finnick undid them what feels like such a long time ago.

The worlds bleed together and then bounce apart, pulling me into a separate one.

This one must be honest and real, because I don't know why I would hallucinate this.

President Snow is standing on the right side of my bed, and he's wearing my vomit, along with a very sour expression on his face.

A clear thought bursts through my confusion and hysteria like a firework: Oh, I wish Finnick were here to see this. I can imagine the way his eyes would crinkle up as he laughed easier than I can imagine any fake reality at all. Will he believe me? I think he might. No one else would, but I think he will. I'm not mad enough to make this one up.

A needle is stuck in a vein in my left arm and I'm injected with the same paralyzing agent they gave me in the bathtub. Familiar anxiety takes over, because lying absolutely and entirely helpless in front of President Snow is not something that can be classified as what the doctors call a "Safe Environment", especially since I just upchucked all over his white suit that probably costs as much as my home back in District 4 did.

I have to watch President Snow shrug off his suit jacket, which took pretty much all of the spew, and then he primly straightens his shirt and turns back towards me.

"I wanted to meet the girl who has Finnick Odair neglecting his responsibilities. I must admit I expected something a bit more charming," Snow says. He reaches out his arm and snaps his fingers. The Peacekeeper holding his soiled jacket holds it out in confusion, and Snow gingerly lifts up the folds until he locates the white rose that was on the label, and then he pulls it free and sticks it in the breast pocket of his shirt. He straightens it thoughtfully and then turns back to me. "Although I suppose there is something undeniably disarming about you, when you're not vomiting all over your guests."

He pauses, like he's waiting for me to answer, but that's absolutely ridiculous because I am paralyzed completely, I can't even move my eyes away from him, and I wouldn't talk to him even if I wasn't.

He carries on, his eyes examining the room.

"I am sure you aren't too happy about the recent declaration that patients will not be allowed visitors. If it's any consolation, your most frequent visitor isn't very happy about it either. He'd do well to watch his tongue."

I want Finn to stop talking back to Snow because I am terrified that he is going to start a fight he can't win. He doesn't know I overheard the conversation he had with Snow last time Snow was here, and I never brought it up, partially because I am too frazzled as it is to focus on that, and partially because I am too frightened to ask what kind of unpleasant situations he's being forced into. I'm almost positive he wouldn't tell me, anyway.

"It has to be this way, you see. We are all very concerned in the Capitol because you haven't made enough improvement for the interview yet. It has been a rather long time, and well, the Capitol citizens don't enjoy being made to wait."

It's agonizing to not be able to move my eyes, because he seems determined to stare right into mine relentlessly. My skin feels just as it did when those ants were crawling all over me. I'm suddenly overly concerned about what happens if I need to vomit, but I'm paralyzed? Will I choke to death? Or will it just not happen at all? Please let it be the first.

I can hear seagulls, and I can feel my mind taking my hand and saying: This is too much. It's time to take a walk. Let's go somewhere better. But I can't let it, because Snow wouldn't be here unless he had something very important to say, and I can't afford to space out and miss it.

Even so, I know it's only a matter of time before I can no longer fight the hand and I'll be pulled far away. I hope he hurries.

"It's difficult for me to say Miss Cresta, but the truth is, the Capitol only forms attachments with those victors who are readily there to stand up and accept the role as victor. You, so far, have seemed very unwilling. It's most unfortunate, because we spend a lot of time and money on you victors—taking care of you, fixing you up, making sure you have a luxurious lifestyle—but it wouldn't really be fair for us to extend those things to a victor not preforming their duties, would it?"

His eyes are dead. Dead and cold. Dead and cold and ice. Dead and awful. Dead like Twine and dead like Osmium and dead like Chiron and dead like Kaya and dead like me.

"It's all cause and effect. The victor stops doing what they have to do for the Capitol, so the Capitol is forced to stop doing for them what it does, and then without the Capitol sustaining the victor, the victor more often than not disappears, or watches as those they love disappear."

I wish more than anything he would not talk in riddles, because it is torturous for my mind. I cannot tell what he is really saying because I'm inclined half of the time to take anything vague as a threat. I'm sure though that he must mean that maliciously. I am sure this is a threat. And I am also sure that, had I not been paralyzed right now, I would be talking to someone for the first time in a very long time. Because I need to scream I can't more than I have ever needed to say anything before. I am wound up tight with frustration and anguish. He is giving me an ultimatum I have no chance at all of fulfilling. It's just not possible. I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't.

I

Can't.

President Snow sighs heavily, as if he hates that what he's saying is the truth, as if he'd change it if he could.

"I am very worried that your relationship with Mr. Odair is unhealthy, which is part of the reason he's being kept from this room."

I zone out from what he's saying for a while, because the word unhealthy keeps bouncing around the walls of my mind and it's upsetting me more than anything. Everything in my life is unhealthy. I am unhealthy. But it's not because of Finnick, it's not his fault, he didn't make it this way or at all contribute to the darkness. He has contributed solely to the light. He has been the only thing making me feel like I can pull through this, but they keep pulling him away and telling me he's not helping, but I know he is. I know it, I know it, I know it. But it's just like how I knew that I preferred carrot soup, or that I knew that I was cold, no one cares what I know. No one cares what I think. No one cares at all. They are making all these decisions and telling me that they know me better than I do now, because I am The Mad Girl. Mad with mistrust, sick with sorrow, hysterical with horror, dying from disorientation.

"—allowed back in, as long as you cooperate with your doctors long enough to be deemed sane enough for the interview. It is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. You will be allowed to go home to District 4 once you have completed your duties."

He stands up and motions for the Peacekeeper with his jacket to follow him. He stops at the door.

"Oh, I almost forgot."

His eyes narrow just slightly as he peers back at me.

"Congratulations on becoming a victor, Miss Cresta."

In the end, it's resignation that helps to unstick the words in my throat.

Resignation to my fate, resignation to my insanity, resignation to my new place in the world.

"How are you feeling today?" a doctor asks the morning after Snow's visit.

He never once meets my eyes. Most people don't, I've realized. Finnick does, and he does it because he cares. Mags does, and she does it because she cares too. Snow does it, and he does it because he is cruel. Everyone else avoids it, because it makes them uncomfortable, I'm sure.

There is something boiling inside of me that is unfamiliar, something I feel very rarely, something that I know is called anger. It's slow moving and festering and I don't know how to handle it at all. I don't do anger very well.

I stare at the doctor until his eyes slowly turn up to meet mine.

"Insane," I say.

He looks even more uncomfortable. That makes me feel almost glad for a moment, but then slowly I remember I am Annie, and the anger sizzles out, and I'm almost sorry for making his job harder again.

"Why do you feel insane?" he asks me. He says it so carefully, as if he's trying to talk a person down from a ledge. Maybe he is.

"Because I—"

Because you have me here, because you keep injecting me with strange drugs that don't do anything but make me feel worse, because you're keeping my only friend away from me, because you took that blanket away, because everything is dark, because I am haunted by everything, because I want to die.

"I want Finnick," I finish sometime later.

He jots something down. "You feel mad because you want Finnick Odair here?"

I'm frustrated again.

"No," I say. "I just want Finnick here."

He sets the pen down. "Then why do you feel insane?"

"Because. Because, there are two worlds inside my mind and one is good and I went there on purpose the first time, because the world was awful—"

Awful like nothing I had ever seen, awful like nothing I ever knew of, awful like something I couldn't have ever imagined. Awful like things I never could tell Arnav, awful like things that hide under your bed or under your skin or in your closet or in your head. Awful like dark shadowy corners and silhouetted strangers following you down the road at night. Awful like screams of pain and blood and knives and pain, pain, pain, and the people who enjoy, enjoy, enjoy giving that pain.

"It was awful and so I went away but that world is sticky and traps me sometimes. I see those who died all the time—they can rise from the dead and do whatever they want, and you know what?"

He stares at me, urging me to continue with his bewildered expression.

"I can't do a thing about it ever or anything else because I'm mad, insane, crazy."

I think of something else to add.

"And I don't like the pea soup the best, I like the carrot."

He doesn't move to write down anything, he just stares at me, his expression mimicking the way Arnav looked one day three summers ago when he begged us relentlessly to let him get a cone of this new flavor of ice cream, only to find out once he finally got it that he hated the way it tasted.

I don't know if he was looking for some statement or testament to my sanity or just the knowledge that I actually can speak, but he stands up after that.

And he crosses the room.

And he erases NOT ENOUGH.

And writes in READY.

It's funny, the way the Capitol thinks of things.

The only qualification they ever had for me was that I am able to speak.

They don't care what I say, or how it makes me feel, or how I feel, or how I am progressing.

They care only about the surface of me: the removal of my scars, the smoothing of my hair, the colors tinting my lips, the ability to answer questions in some way or form, the potential to provide entertainment.

I'm not a person, I'm a television program.

It can't be more than ten minutes before Finnick is there after I'm declared "good enough".

He walks in, the blanket in his arms, his face holding a peculiar emotion, like he's furious but happy at the same time.

Everything about him emits hatred when he looks at the doctors, and he seems to get a particular pleasure out of telling them: "Snow says you can leave while I'm here now."

The doctors exchange dubious glances and then shuffle out of the room, obviously uncomfortable to be the object of Finnick Odair's dislike, and when it's just us I can't help but ask him.

"Did he really? Snow?"

Finnick sits down on the edge of the bed. "Nope. But the real question, my dear Annie, is whether or not it's true that you threw up all over President Snow."

I am basking in the gravity Finnick brings to everything. His lips are twitching up like he wants terribly to burst out laughing, but he's not sure if he should. And I'm breathing deeply and pushing District 4 far away into the recesses of my mind, and I'm trying to fight off a vision of vomiting in the dirt in front of Chiron's bloody body, and I'm trying to be stable with everything in me, just like I'm supposed to be, but it's so hard.

But then Finnick's tucking the blanket in his arms around me, and it's easier.

I look up at him and his green eyes have the final say in the matter.

"Where did you hear that from?" I ask. I slide my hands over the soft blanket again, and something clicks in my mind. "I mean, who did you hear that from?"

He has that expression on his face again, like he can't decide whether he wants to smile or cry, and I think I understand exactly how he feels. It's strange to share an emotion with someone.

"Oh, I hear things," he says mysteriously. "So, is it true?"

I think about that morning, Chiron's bloody, managed corpse, the horror running through me when he started talking, the disgust before my body forced up whatever was inside of it, the way Snow's face looked afterwards. It's not funny at all, but suddenly it is.

He looks almost hopeful, like knowing that Snow was puked on makes everything better or somehow evens the score a bit, and something odd is happening inside of me, and there's a pressure bubbling up that starts in my stomach and then works its way up my throat, and then I'm laughing suddenly.

Once it starts, it's difficult to stop, and I'm hunched over gripping my stomach because it actually physically hurts. Something akin to what I vaguely remember happiness feeling like is inside of me for a brief moment, and I can feel tears building again, because since when does life go on? Since when can someone lose their mind but still be here?

I try to stop laughing a few moments later, because it feels strange, because it hurts, because it sounds weird, because it's turning around the corner to hysteria.

I keep laughing though, until suddenly I'm not laughing anymore, and I'm weeping loudly.

Even odder, Finnick looks like he might be teary too.

It's all so awful suddenly. Everything. The ceiling and the walls and the sky and the ground and the earth and the people on it and Snow and his agreements and their threats and the way the doctors screamed in my face to try and force me to talk to them and the way they forced Finnick away from me and the way they keep saying our relationship is unhealthy and the way that it probably is and the way that I feel about him—strong and powerful and so completely reliant—and the way he is the only light and the way I can't even imagine having a conversation with my family anymore because it seems like a fairy tale, a silly dream, something that can never be a reality and the way I have no idea what is real and I'm mad, floating around, at the mercy of people who don't care at all and the way they took away this blue blanket and the way it feel so much better to have it back and the way Snow's smell of blood lingers and the way Chiron's eyes as he died will never leave me and the way Snow is forcing Finnick to do mysterious things he doesn't want to do and how he's forcing me too and how I will never be free and how Finnick will never be free and even worse we will never be free together and immediately I am sure that that is all I want because no one will ever be so akin to me like him and who else will treat me like I'm still me when I'm completely unstable and everything is dark and cold.

I have no idea what to do.

I guess that's the good thing about being insane, though. It doesn't matter if you do or not. People are going to tell you what to do anyway.

I'm pressing my hands hard against my ears and Finnick's rubbing my back and I'm repeating that it's all too much.

I retreat into my other world and I stay there for a few hours and by the time I'm crawling out of it, I'm certain Finnick would have left, but he's still there beside me.

"Here to stay for a while?" he asks, once I look up at his eyes.

My eyes and face are sore from all the crying.

"If you are," I find myself replying.

He questions me gently about my meeting with Snow. I'm feeling tired though, and I'm finding it harder to answer his questions than normal. He seems to get the gist of what Snow was saying. I'm almost afraid to tell him that I didn't.

"Finnick?"

"Hmm?"

"What does Snow mean?" I inquire, trepidation painting each syllable.

He intertwines his fingers with mine and looks down at our hands.

"It doesn't matter, because it will never happen," he finally answers, and I don't like the way his eyes avoid mine, I don't like it at all.

I know Finnick holds back the information because he cares, but it still stings me, because I count on him to be the one person who doesn't treat me like I can't understand anything. I twitch my nose to try and fight off the way it's burning and I try to swallow the tears.

"Hey," Finnick whispers.

I look up at him.

"It's not that I don't trust you, or that I think you can't handle it. It's just that this isn't the time to talk about it, nor the place. We'll talk about it though, okay? Back in 4." He smiles sadly and lets go of my hands. "We can take a walk outside and everything."

I nod.

But the truth is, the more I picture myself going back home, the more I am certain it will never happen, can never happen, should never happen. I can't picture myself on the sand, I can't picture myself in my bedroom, I can't picture myself with my family. The only place it feels normal to be home with them is in the world where there were no Games. I can't compute pre-Games Annie and her life with post-Games Annie. I try, I do. I try so hard I think I might die and sometimes hope that I do.

Finnick helps me lie down and he realizes I'm about to have an anxiety attack before I even do.

He holds my hands and he's whispering things to me but I can't hear him over my racing heart and racing thoughts.

Why do you stay, Finnick?

I want to ask him this.

What is the point?

I can't though, because as selfish as it is, I'm terrified if I bring it up, he'll realize what a waste of his time I am, and he'll leave and never come back again. I'm just waiting for it to happen. Because there are so many beautiful girls who can laugh without crying. They wear diamonds in their ears and life is simple and they are so innocent. They can give Finnick so much more than I can, surely. What friendship can I give him? Why would he want it? Why spend so much time with a girl who finds something as simple as staying present difficult?

His words start to break through to me, bit by bit, slowly.

"You will be okay, Annie. I promise. I knew the minute I met you that you were wonderful, and you still are, and you always will be. You're the best friend I have, you're the purest soul I know, and you give me hope."

I almost laugh again, because, oh Finnick, if you knew how much I think those same things of you, if you knew the extent to which you keep me hanging on, if you knew how much I rely on you, you would probably be frightened like I am.

Mauve is scared of me now.

She walks in as if she talked herself up for an hour to be able to do that, and then she tries to talk to me, but it's awful. I still take a while to reply to questions or statements, and it makes her so uncomfortable she keeps chattering on nervously, and then she just falls silent all together.

She did order the prep team to let me take a shower instead of being put in a tub, though, and I am grateful for that at least.

She dresses me in undergarments, and then she pulls a red dress out, and I'm breaking down.

She's bewildered and doesn't understand because she wasn't there and she doesn't get why a bright red dress with white circles reminds me so much of the severed neck of Chiron. She doesn't understand why I refuse to put it on and curl up on the floor, gasping for air.

She definitely doesn't understand when one of the doctors calls Finnick after failing to help me and he is angry with her. I can hear him talking to her and he's trying to stay polite but he's got a strain in his voice that I recognize very well. I hear the sound of hangers knocking against each other and then the wardrobe door shutting, and I know he's put it back in there.

He talks with Mauve about different dresses, and I'm remembering the texture of the outfit for the arena, and I'm wondering for the first time whether or not the flood was an accident or not. This question consumes my thoughts entirely until I feel Finnick's hand on my bare shoulder.

"We've got a different dress," he assures me.

He sits down beside me on the floor, and I bury my face in his neck.

"I'm sorry," I sob out. I'm not sure at this point who I'm apologizing to; Finnick, Mauve, Twine, Chiron, Kaya, everyone maybe.

He helps me stand up and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

"You aren't the one who should be sorry, Annie," he mutters. I think he's talking about Snow, or maybe Mauve, but one look in his eyes and I realize he blames himself for this, for me having to take part in the replay and the interview. I shake my head once, and that's all I have to do, because the way his eyes lighten a bit tells me he understands what I'm saying to him.

Mauve is looking at him like she can't believe he's here with me, holding the mad girl's hand while she cries, and I can't believe it either, Mauve. I don't understand either. I just know I'm grateful.

I'm put in a white dress instead. It's safe because all it reminds me of is the awful room I live in now. It's sparkly though, and it's captivating when I step into the light. I find it difficult to look away from the shine. It's amazing how it's just a white spec of glitter, but the minute light hits it, it emits soft lavenders and gentle blues and baby pinks and golden yellows.

Mauve pulls my hair up in a secure bun. I still feel uncomfortable with my hair up, that hasn't changed. But Finnick tells me I look beautiful, so I decide maybe it's not that bad after all.

They allow Finnick to sit in the very front row, directly in front of where I'm sitting on the stage, because they know if I do breakdown, he's the only one who is going to be able to fix it.

The stage lights are just as bright as I remember, if not brighter, and it's strange because I remember the Capitol citizens being colorful, but everything looks dull.

They're condensing the replay and final interview into one night instead of separating it as they normally do, because in the words of one of the doctors, it would be easier for me to get it all over with at once. I'm not sure if that's true or not, but I don't have a say in it anyway. I'm excused from the party at President Snow's mansion as well, something that Finnick and Mags had to fight to get done for weeks.

The interview is being done before replay too, because everyone seems to understand that after the replay they won't be getting much out of me at all. I agree with that suspicion.

I'm terrified for the replay, but the interview doesn't phase me this time. Everyone in this room has already decided how they are going to see me and it doesn't matter what I say or do. I open my mouth and all they hear is crazy.

Caesar is careful. He compliments me on my dress first, but unfortunately that makes me picture the first dress, and then I'm picturing Chiron, and then I've let a very long, unforgettable silence elapse.

I can feel Finnick's eyes on me. I look up at Caesar.

"Thank you," I say finally.

He smiles. "It's no problem at all, Annie. Are you feeling better?"

Am I feeling better?

I didn't even know that was a question someone would consider asking me. I didn't think I would ever have to find a way to answer this one. I'm sure I'm going to be honest though, because it doesn't matter what I say.

"I don't know," I reply.

He nods quickly. "Well, that's okay."

A silence falls over us. As professional as he is, he also seems unsure of how to treat me. Me too, Caesar.

"How do you feel about being the victor?" he questions.

He's not even directly asking me about the arena, and still I feel like I've already had too much. I have to clasp my hands tightly together to keep from covering my ears and blocking him out.

"It feels…" I start, trying to push through my discomfort, but I have no idea what I'm going to say, because the tide is rising in District 4 and Cora is making us ice cream and Kaya is crying and I'm on the stage in front of Panem.

I sit in that giant chair, drowning in the sparkly dress, only vaguely aware of the silence that's dragging out. How does it feel? Awful, like most everything else. Awful to know that twenty-three people are dead and I'm alive. Awful to know I was responsible for one of their deaths. Awful to know that I am the way I am, that I am scared all the time, that nothing makes sense.

"I'm being punished for something. Like I am," I finally answer.

And then I'm pondering all the things I could be being punished for, and Caesar gives up asking me questions, and I think Snow is going to be angry with me, because I don't think this is how he wanted this to go at all.

I'm already shaking the first few minutes the Games are on. Just the site of the arena has my stomach rolling and my head spinning.

I take deep breaths and handle it by looking towards the screen for a few moments, and then looking away until I feel like my nausea is under control, and then looking back. I shut my eyes and cover my ears when Twine is telling me I have to stitch up Kaya's leg, and I sound so weak, and then I can hear myself crying and her crying and it doesn't even matter that I'm covering my eyes, because I can see it inside my head.

I don't open my eyes after that, but even through the cover of my hands, I can hear bits of what went on while I was asleep.

"I'm just going to kill her now. She's not going to be much more of a help anymore," Twine decides.

I can hear Kaya make a noise of disbelief. "Seriously? You're just going to kill her in her sleep?"

There's a pause, and then Twine's voice takes on the devious tone I know so well now.

"Or maybe I'll wait until she's awake. Could make some fun out of it."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Kaya demands. She still sounds weak and in pain. I'm sorry, Kaya.

"Are you an idiot? What do you think it means?" Twine snaps.

There's a sound of a sleeping bag sliding against the bottom of the tent, and Kaya cries out, and I'm guessing she's trying to sit up.

"I think you're a dick. After all she's done, you're just going to do that to her and then kill her?"

"What's it matter to you? What, she's stitches up your leg and suddenly you're best friends?"

"No! I just think it's a really shitty thing to do, and I'm not going to let you!"

"And how exactly are you going to stop me? You're a bitch. I don't know why I even teamed up with you in the first place."

"You'd be dead already if you hadn't, don't forget that. You owe me, and this is how you're going to repay me."

Then the screaming begins and once it starts to sound familiar, I'm curling up in the chair so my face is buried against my knees and I'm pressing my hands so hard against my ears that it's painful.

All I can think about is telling Kaya that she didn't have to die fighting for nothing, that she could find something and work towards it and if she achieved that she would still die winning. Kaya died for something after all. I despise with everything in me that it was protecting me. I didn't deserve that, I don't deserve any of this; I don't deserve anything at all. I'm a murderer just like him.

I bite my lip so hard it starts bleeding by the time Chiron and I have teamed up.

Listening to us talking and getting to know each other is nothing short of agony.

The minute I hear Osmium start to fight with Chiron, I can't take it anymore, because surely they can't expect me to listen to his, surely they can't think I can live through it again, I already endured it once and look what it has done to me, and I can hear it, him stabbing at bone, and then I'm falling out of the chair and stumbling off the stage and everything is a blur of stage lights and white Peacekeeper uniforms as they try to force me back on stage, but then there's bronze and Finn's yelling and then I'm being carried but it's not towards the stage because the sounds of me screaming at Osmium are getting further away, instead of closer.

And apples are in season now, did you know? I see them growing on the trees alongside the road in front of my house. I'm going to pick some, because they are Arnav's favorite, and he'll like to have one—

The sheets in the bed are soft but not as soft as the blue blanket that's tucked around me or the way he pulls my hair down from its bun and gently runs a brush through it.

I have a friend and his name is Finnick Odair. Everyone knows him for being the Casanova of Panem, and they marvel in his physical beauty, but I know him for being kind and good, and I marvel in the way his soul lights up and shines out of him. He tucks me in tonight, and when I cry, he cries with me. I beg him not to leave, because he is the glue, and I am a thousand pieces blowing away in the wind, and he's grasping at each scrap of me right before it blows off too far to salvage and he's pasting it back down where it used to belong. He always makes promises that he keeps, and he whispers that he's not going to leave me ever and that I'm not crazy, and I believe him because he's wrong. I am crazy.

Chapter Text

The two most important things to remember when making clam chowder are as follows: don't forget the red wine vinegar, and don't buy the clams from Brimlad.

I've told Cora these time and time again, but each time she forgets one or sometimes both.

This time, she's forgotten both.

Luckily, she was only making the meal for us ahead of time as practice for the real occasion. Marv's parents are coming over tomorrow and she wants to cook them an outstanding meal. It's her and Marv's first real hosted dinner as a married couple.

"I think I know what I did wrong," she says, as I'm placing the spoon back in the pot and trying my hardest to not frown at the taste. "It was the cream, wasn't it? Too much cream."

She taps the mixing spoon on the stove, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Or maybe not enough cream?"

She's got flour on her face and what looks like butter in her dark blonde hair. It's odd to see her so out of sorts, as she's normally the one I'm running to for help. But I won an award for best clam chowder recipe, and she has trouble turning the oven on, so in this case it's backwards.

"Brimlad," I say.

She closes her eyes and grimaces.

"Ah. Yes. Brimlad. I always forget that, don't I?"

I nod, pulling the mixing spoon out of her hand and then grabbing the handle of the pot and pulling it off the stove. I walk over to the sink and pour it down the drain.

"We'll try again." I turn around and she looks so exhausted. "It wasn't bad though, Cora. You're good at it, honest. You just keep forgetting small things. You'll get it next time."

I smile at her and she laughs, sticking her hands into the pockets of the apron.

"Right, Seashell. Whatever you say."

I set the dishes into the sink. Cora grabs my hand, pulling me behind her. Her hands are sticky with some ingredient or another. She yanks me out the front door to assist her with buying more clams.

An hour later we're giving the clam chowder another try. I've got the windows open and the sunlight is warm and bright as it spills through into the kitchen. Marv sits at the table watching us, talking about his day on and off.

"Annie," Cora says suddenly.

I turn around, and she's got both her hands gripping the counter, her shoulders tense and her head bowed. I drop the whisk into the bowl, concern overriding everything else.

I hear Marv stand and we both take a few small steps towards her in concern.

"Yeah?" I ask hesitantly.

She lets go of the counter and turns around, her eyes full of confusion.

"You were in the Games."

Marv and I both stare at her, and I can't explain why I feel like I just got caught telling a lie or doing something I'm not supposed to do. I stare at her, bemused.

"The Games? I wasn't ever in the Games," I reply slowly. The words are the truth but they sound like lies when I say them.

"What are you talking about, honey?" Marv asks, his eyebrows drawn together and a small frown on his lips.

My head aches suddenly, like something is beating into it over and over again. I reach up and press the heel of my hand against my right temple, unsure what the random pain is from. My eyes are behaving oddly, too. I keep seeing flashes of red and blue and white and green.

I fall back against the counter, my legs suddenly weak.

"Annie! What's wrong?" Marv asks.

"She's just remembering the Games," Cora whispers. Her face is sad and pale.

Marv turns to her, his face incredulous.

"What Games? Annie has never been a tribute!"

I shut my eyes and press the heel of my other hand against my other temple, squeezing my head between my hands tightly. I feel like it's going to burst.

"I think I need a doctor," I choke out.

I'm sick to my stomach as well, and I keep seeing strange things in front of my eyes.

I hear only silence.

I open my eyes, and no one is in the room at all anymore.

Then the room starts to break down too, until I can hear a deep voice talking that doesn't belong to Marv, and then it's blackness and oh.

Oh.

I'm unsure whether it frightens me that this is the first time I've not been even a little aware that my false reality isn't the real one, or if it calms me. For the small part of me that doesn't want to be insane, it scares me. But for the remaining parts of me, the parts that just want all of this to end, it's not enough. Those parts crave a complete takeover by my fake reality, one where I don't know consciously that the Games ever happened, one where my subconscious can't even make my sister remind me.

The voice that pulled me out of my other world is speaking again, and I know it's Finnick by the way my body relaxes immediately once more. I'm lying down on what must be a couch, judging by the leather the left side of my face is pressed against, and it's strangely warm, and whatever I'm dressed in is soft. I'm not in that room anymore, because I can't hear the doctors, and the beeping of the machines is strangely absent.

Finnick and whoever he's talking to must still think I'm drifting out to sea in my mind, because they carry on their conversation.

"We're in trouble, you know. I can't tell for sure right now, but I think we're in a lot of it."

Finnick's voice comes from somewhere close to me. His words make panic rise up inside of me in a matter akin to how the waters rose so rapidly in the arena. Trouble. I don't like the way it sounds and if I were to say it out loud I am sure I would not like the way it tastes. What did I do to upset someone?

It comes back to me gradually, bit by bit: Snow and the interview and the replay and his "agreements".

I wish it wouldn't have returned.

"We're always in trouble," Mags replies. Her voice is so forlorn and dejected, like she's given up; only I know she hasn't because she's Mags. She is old but has more fight in her than almost anyone else I've ever met. She held my hand in that white room. She tried to protect me. What was it she said that day? Victors protect each other? I want to protect her, too. I want to protect everyone I love, but I can't even protect myself. I believe this is what true imprisonment feels like.

"Yeah, well, what I did last night didn't make it any better. I'm surprised he even let us on this train," Finnick replies. He sounds terrified, panicked, but still his voice is to me as the moon is to the tide. It pulls me up and out of my own world and back to where he is, rooting me in place, keeping my mind from slipping off again. He's the strongest thing I know, and so his panic makes mine multiply. I don't care anymore what they do to me, because I have a feeling if I endure even a little more and I'll be pushed off the deep end entirely, but I do care what they do to Finnick. Finnick with his bright eyes and warm hands and patience deserves nothing but happiness and comfort and it physically hurts to think of Snow harming him.

Mags grunts in agreement.

Finnick's voice sounds so small when he speaks next.

"Why did you do it, Mags? Why were you so insistent that Annie and I become friends? You had to have known that it would only result in pain for the both of us. How could you do that to me? To her?"

And then I'm shaking because the only thing more terrifying than being out of control of my own mind is thinking that Finnick finally understands how unfortunate it was for him to have met me. Or how much of a burden I am. Or how I can never live up to anyone else because they are all whole and beautiful and steady. His regret is sharper than any knife I have ever encountered and oh, my mind is spinning and my stomach turning, because I have encountered a lot of knives.

There's a loud sound, like Mags set something down angrily.

"Everything results in pain, Finn," she says, her voice deadly serious and strong. "For everyone on this planet who ever lived or ever will. And especially for victors. Anything good you have will eventually be ripped away from you. Anything that gives you joy will eventually disappear. But that does not mean we refuse good things or we refuse joy just because we know it won't last. It means we cherish it more when we have it, we clutch it tightly for as long as we can, we smile wider and laugh louder and love harder. Haven't I taught you that yet, boy?"

Finnick's voice is irritated and flat when he replies.

"Maybe it's a hard lesson to learn," he says.

Mags sighs. "Well, at least I know I'm not dying any time soon. I've got a lot left to teach you."

"That's my master plan, Mags. I'm going to refuse to learn anything you try to teach me for the purpose of keeping you here with me for as long as possible," Finnick says. I know it's a joke but I also know that maybe it isn't at the same time. The thickness of his voice tips me off to that fact.

"She looks cold." 

The couch shifts for a moment and then something is placed on top of me. It adds even more warmth, but I'm not cold, I'm scared, because someone wants to hurt Finnick, and Mags is right, and I can't learn that lesson either, and I miss Finnick when I'm not in this reality, and why do I? And do things just stop in the other reality when I'm here, or is Cora frantically trying to throw together the clam chowder without me? It has to, because it doesn't exist on its own, does it? It just exists because I make it. Right?

Mags continues.

"You can't have me forever, Finnick." Her voice shakes, and I think about the way she sometimes looks like she's in pain when she's walking, and I am scared for her too.

"I'm Finnick Odair. I can have anything I want," Finnick replies stubbornly, sounding remarkably like a scared and spoiled child.

A hand is adjusting the blankets on me and from the scent of lavender I know it's Mags.

"We both know that's not true," she says, and her tone almost sounds apologetic as she does.

I think maybe she's talking about me from the pointed way she said it, but I know deep down it's the mad part of me making myself think that, because Finnick would never want me to keep. He will realize soon that I'm worthless and good for him. I won't be wrong about this but I really wish I would. Will Cora forgive me if the world keeps turning where she is and I'm not there to help her with dinner?

"Please, don't say it. At least not today," Finnick pleads.

"I wasn't going to, Finn," Mags reassures.

A silence sets in, only to be broken once more by Mags.

"I did know it would hurt you. But you wanna know what else I knew, what else I still know?" she asks, jumping back to Finnick's first question.

"What?" Finnick asks curiously, his voice sounding hopeful as if Mags is about to wisely spout out the key to the universe.

"That it will be worth it."

I wait and wait and wait for Finnick to say that it wasn't, that it isn't, that it never will be, that Mags screwed him over by getting me attached to him, that now he's stuck taking care of me when he could be out with girls, that she shouldn't have done it, but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything at all, but the feeling in the room is so sad I am sure I am going to cry.

Mags must leave, because I don't hear her say anything again, and my face is sticking to the leather because I'm crying, and I can't find the energy to sit up and participate in living in this world, and I can't say anything because I am scared, always scared, forever scared, even of things it makes no sense to be scared of.

A while later Annora enters. I can tell it is her because who else would have shoes that click so loudly? I miss her but I know she must not miss me because I have not seen her at all. It's a tough thing, missing someone who doesn't miss you. You almost feel guilty for feeling something they don't.

She's uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, and then she speaks up.

"You should go on to your room. Just carry her to her bed. You don't have to sit out here all night."

Where exactly am I? I wish I cared. Mags and Finnick are here though, so I can't get myself to be too worried over it.

"No, it's fine. She got upset when we helped her onto the train and I know her room will only upset her more. It has stronger memories attached to it."

The train. Bit by bit, like snowflakes falling gradually from the sky and slowly building on the ground, I remember. Finnick's hand in mine as he walked me out of the building and into the sunlight for the first time, the way I couldn't even keep my eyes open it was so bright, the sound of the train approaching, the panic and flashbacks that hit me when I walked on it, the way my mind immediately bent and sent me in my own reality, where I have been up until coming back a while ago.

When Annora replies, she speaks as though she's giving Finnick an answer to a question so easy he would have been stupid to have asked it.

"So leave her here and go on to your room. It's not like someone is going to hurt her."

"Thanks for your concern, Annora, but it would be cruel to leave her here to wake up alone. I think she might not remember where she is when she finally does and I don't want her by herself."

His kindness warms me better than any blanket. I think I would do anything for him. Does he know that? Does he know that I would do anything for him? Would it even matter if he did? Because my anything isn't much.

"You District 4 mentors really take your jobs seriously. It's sweet, but you aren't obligated. You have fulfilled all your job requirements."

Poor Annora. She spends every year trying to worm her way into the tunnel-vision of Finnick's affections, and he's putting more care into a crazy girl than he's ever given her. I'm sorry, Annora. I don't understand, either. You deserve it much more than I do.

"I'm her friend before her mentor," Finnick replies shortly.

"How loyal of you," Annora says politely.

Silence, then the clicking of her shoes, then the sound of a door shutting.

Rain splatters the windows of the train, and I am tired. I want to sleep, because it's the only time I'm surrounded by absolutely nothing, but I'm too anxious to, and I haven't stopped shaking yet. The wind shakes the trees and leaves fall to the ground; fear shakes me and nothing falls, nothing happens, nothing occurs. There is no great change, no shift in nature, nothing at all. Just me locked away inside of myself, worrying worrying worrying, wondering always whether what I'm worrying about is even real or if it's a figment of my imagination. It's unnerving to spend hours intensely fretting over something and to not even know if it's something that's even tangible in the first place.

What did I used to do when I was upset? I think I went to Cora. I think I would talk to her about it. Now I feel like talking about something would only make it worse. I would get my words wrong and I would confuse the other person and then I would feel horrible and crazy and it would just give me something else to feel badly about. Nowadays I need to do something different, something more akin to pulling out my thoughts and laying them out side by side on a table and letting someone examine them, fix them, and place them back into my head. But how would they get into my head once I pulled them out?

A sudden image harasses me. I know how they could get back into my head. Unattach it, stick it in, reattach it with a needle and thread. Could I have done that for Chiron? Stitched him back together like I did Kaya? I can't remember where the line is drawn between severe injuries and fatal. Can bone grow back together? It doesn't matter though, because even if I had fixed him, even if I could have picked up his head and pushed it back up against his neck and stuck a needle into the skin, even it was something that could be fixed, he'd just be killed later on like Kaya was. Maybe I'd even be the one to do it.

No, that's not what would happen, remember? I only killed Twine because I had to. I wouldn't kill Chiron just to kill him. I'm not like that.

Of course, the blood underneath my fingernails that I never can seem to dig out argues with me.

Once the violent images and intense repulsion overwrite the exhausted fear inside of me, I'm opening my eyes and pulling myself up into a sitting position. My cheek makes an odd noise as I yank it off the leather and my head spins from the sudden change in gravity. I grip my head in my hands and close my eyes, the blankets pooled at my stomach and my feet resting on the floor.

When my dizziness recedes, I open my eyes and peer around. I'm in the sitting room of the train. Finnick's in the chair beside the couch I'm now sitting on, and he's got a piece of rope in his hands and a concerned look on his face. He's wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans, and it startles me so much that I just stare for a moment. I've never seen him in anything but suits and unbuttoned button downs with freshly pressed slacks. It's almost as if the Capitol's clothes were thin curtains over his soul and he's ripped them back. I am struggling with a thought that keeps getting stuck as I look at him. The t-shirt is worn like he's had it forever and he's got on a pair of thick socks that look knitted, maybe even knitted by Mags. I love the thought of that, Mags knitting socks for Finnick, Finnick wearing them. I finally put shaky words to what I am feeling. He looks like how I imagine the essence of a home would look if it were a person, but I can't think of a way to think of that in sane terms. Comfortable and nice and safe and beautiful and like you never want to leave him. Like you just want to curl up beside him and burrow yourself as close as you can possibly get and stay that way until the sun has risen and set a thousand times. Like it would break you if he were to burn or fall to the ground, like you would have no where on earth to go that would ever compare to the shelter he provided.

"Hey," he says carefully.

I have to wait a few minutes to make sure I'm not going to blurt out what is going through my head. I push those thoughts to the back and find an appropriate response and shove it up and forward and out.

"Finnick. Hi."

He rises and sets the rope down in the chair. He sits down beside me and he smells more like himself than ever. The reek of the Capitol and its women seems completely absent, and there is no way to describe how lovely that is. He smells like the windows thrown wide open on a sunny Sunday morning and sliding across the hardwood floors in socks and curling up under the covers after a warm bath. Clean and comforting and alluring all at once. Finnick being Finnick is the loveliest thing of all.

And so I'm not all that surprised when I suddenly lean into him and wrap my arms around him tightly, clutching him to me as if someone is going to take him away, because I feel they might. He will leave, but he is here now, and he is the only thing that reminds me of what it feels like to have a home, and he's the brightest thing to ever have been seen.

He seems to relax when I do this, as if he was waiting on pins and needles to see if I was even still inside of myself at all. He laughs lightly and wraps one arm around my waist and cradles the back of my head with his other. I close my eyes and breathe in because everything is in order for once and his shirt is just as soft as it looks and the Capitol has no idea how massively they are being conned because the real Finnick is the actual treasure. The real Finnick is a person so precious and so wonderful you would do anything to say you had his attention even for a brief moment in time; the Capitol Finnick is a man so lush and beautiful you would do anything to say you had his body for even a brief moment in time. I feel the Capitol has no idea the difference between the two, and it's sad and shameful.

"I miss you when I go away," I choke out. The words fly out of my mouth with the same intense spontaneity as my thoughts, but unlike my thoughts that never leave the confines of my head, I have to hear how crazy it sounds in the night air. I feel my face burn and I wish it were possible to reach out into the air and close my hands around them before they reach his ears, but it's not, and it's the truth, and I should just be glad I can speak anything at all.

Finnick presses his face into the crown of my head and his breath sends a wave of warmth throughout me.

"I miss you too, Annie. I wish I could go with you."

I can feel and hear Finnick's heart beating around me and I remember an awful truth of life: the steady beating that I'm hearing is the only thing that keeps Finnick with me right now. Everything that he is, every word he will ever speak, every thought he will ever have, every action he will ever perform depends on this one organ, this one piece of him that beats steadily. I wonder if his heart knows just how much depends on it, because I am certain in that moment that Finnick isn't the only one that depends on that heart doing what it is supposed to do. I want to reach inside of him and tell it that I am putting so much into its hands, but I can't, because as best as I can remember hearts don't think or feel or live on their own, but why do I feel suddenly like mine can? It feels huge and powerful and consuming like it has a life of its own, and that it might swell and leave my chest and walk away, but that can't happen, can it? There is too much inside of me, too many emotions, and I'm drowning drowning drowning and I want to cry because I don't understand why I feel the way I do. I can't put a word to what it is, I just know I like so much the way Finnick's eyes turn green when he smiles and the way his hands look when he tucks that blue blanket around me and his laugh and the way it sounds and his posture and the way he walks and his voice and the way he talks and his mind and the way he thinks and the way he can make me smile and the way he loves sugar cubes and how kind he is and how good he is and the way he sees things, everything, nothing, me.

And then I'm crying because I realize with a rush of too much that I love Finnick Odair. I love everything about him and maybe I always have. I'm crazy and destroyed and hysterical and I love Finnick. My name is Annie Cresta and I used to pick apples with my siblings and I won the 70th Hunger Games and I love Finnick Odair. My name is Annie and I can't make sense of anything and I love Finnick and he doesn't love me and I don't care. I love him like I don't love anyone else; I love him in a way that makes it almost hard to recognize it as love, because I feel of him the same way I feel about air or water or my own heart: I don't ever think to myself that I love it because I don't need to because of course I love it, of course, because it's necessary to me, it's what keeps me going on, it's the one thing that if it were to disappear life would never go on again, I couldn't function. It's so much more than that though, because I don't love air or water or my own heart for what it is, only for what it provides to me. I love Finnick for what he provides but more than anything I love him for who he is. I love him for the things he says to me when no one is listening and who he is when no one is watching. I love him for everything I know about him and everything I have yet to discover. I don't know how I love him, nor do I care to determine it. I just know that I do, and it's enough clarity for right now.

I feel like I'm being broken apart when Finnick pulls away from me. He peers at my face and pulls the strands of my hair that are stuck to my face off and tucks them away behind my ear. He dries my face with the pads of his thumbs and he is putting me back together again, piece by piece, bit by bit.

"Where do you go when you leave?" he asks me. His eyes stay trained on mine, and I should lie to him, I shouldn't tell him how crazy I am, because then he will lose all hope that I'm fixable, but I don't care. It won't ever change the way I feel about him, and I can't feel any worse than I already do.

I'm shaking and my voice is quaking when I reply and he has no idea why. He has no idea that I'm bursting with emotion because I realized that I love him, that I probably always will, that it's stupid and reckless but unstoppable. And I'm not going to tell him.

"There's another world in my head, kind of," I start slowly. I'm shaking and shaking and shaking so hard and I can't stop it. Too much, too much. "When Chiron—"

Chiron is red and white and screaming and dying and when will I ever escape him?

Finnick's comforting squeeze to my hand pulls me back.

"When he was hurt, I didn't want to be alive anymore. Don't. And I couldn't kill myself but I tried but I couldn't and so I told myself that none of it was real and I made it where it wasn't. I made a world where I was never reaped and that's where I go when this world is too much. Life is normal there, you're there too, and Cora is there, and Arnav, and my dad, but not my mom, and it's summer there and it rains and the apples are in season."

I'm tired after speaking that much. I bravely keep my eyes on Finnick's, because looking away would be easier, but I trust him suddenly, trust that he won't think I'm a freak because of this, trust that he will understand.

I mistrust a lot, but I don't this time.

Finnick's thoughtful as he mulls over what I've said.

"What am I like there?" he finally asks me.

I have to stop for a while and think about that. What is he like there? I remember dancing with him on the dock and drinking tea with him and watching him laugh with Cora and observing the way his eyes looked in the sunrise on the beach that morning.

"Happy. Free. Safe," I answer.

He nods, his eyes leaving mine and glancing over at the chair where they stay. I look at it, trying to see what he's looking at, but nothing looks out of place.

He doesn't look back when he asks his next question.

"And do I take care of you?"

I'm thrown by this question. I'm thrown by the way he asks it, like he's forced it to come out casual, but it's important deep down. My heart is thudding loudly and I wouldn't have too much of a problem with it if my heart were to suddenly give out. Not like I would if Finnick's were to. Maybe mine will. Or maybe this isn't even the real reality. Maybe I've had them mixed up the entire time.

I finally answer his question, my mind forming a cohesive answer.

"You don't need to. I'm not mad there, you know. I'm like I used to be." I'm nostalgic then, for the girl I used to be, for the girl I am when I'm gone.

He meets my eyes again, his dismal.

"You're not mad. And that's not really me, then, because I have wanted to take care of you since I met you."

At first his words burden me, because the Finnick I have in my made up world is the only Finnick there is, and I need a Finnick there, and I don't want it to be true that it's not really him. But of course it isn't really him, because it isn't really me either, because the real me is mad and unsettled, no matter how much I wish it weren't true.

"It's not really me, either, because I don't need to be taken care of there," I finally answer. I'm fidgeting as one of my strongest fears bursts out of me. "How do I know, Finnick? How do I know which is real and which isn't? How do I know for sure that the Finnick in the other world isn't the real Finnick and you aren't the one I've made up inside my head?"

I'm trying to catch my breath and heat is crawling up my arms and neck as I fret. I don't want this reality to be the fake one, which is so wrong because this has always been the one I wanted to be fake, it's the one I hated so much I made a new one. But my world doesn't have the same Finnick, and I have to believe that this person in front of me really exists if I am going to believe in goodness ever again.

Finnick grabs my hand and I take deep breaths and I start to calm a bit.

"You ask me, Annie. I won't lie to you there and I won't lie to you here. I'm real and I'm sorry, but this world is real, too. Everything that has happened really happened, but that doesn't mean this world isn't worth living. It's okay to disappear to handle things when they are hard, but don't disappear forever. Don't let the other world consume you, okay?"

I nod but I can't guarantee I won't do that. I can't even guarantee I won't wake up one morning and have no idea what my own name is. I can't guarantee I won't take a knife to myself in a fit of sorrow and hysteria. I can't really guarantee anything.

"Now, on a scale from "Why is this happening, now I have less time to spend with Finnick!" to "I will never be sad ever again!", how excited are you that you're going to see your family soon?" he asks.

His words bring out a smile, and his responding smile brings out a wider one. We both know the latter score on his scale is ridiculous, and maybe that's why I'm smiling in the first place, because I don't feel happy about seeing my family, I feel terrified. I miss them, but I will miss them even more if I come home and I find I can't talk to them at all. It's so much worse to miss someone who isn't even gone.

"Where does "terrified" fall on that scale?" I question.

He gives my hand, still clutched in his, a squeeze.

"It doesn't. Because everything will be perfectly fine." 

He's wrong, though.

I know this the moment I get off the train and my family isn't out there.

Finnick takes my hand and then Mags takes my other one, and I feel abandoned, lost, hurt, worthless. Why wouldn't my family be there waiting for me? Did they not miss me at all? I know that can't be true, because I know my sister loves me, and I know Arnav loves me, and I know my dad loves me. I know it like I know the sun will set tonight and then the moon will take its place.

"Where are they?" I finally ask Mags and Finnick, my voice strangled and injured. "Don't they love me anymore?"

I know deep down there is no point in asking these two people that, because they have no idea, their guess is as good as mine. And what if Finnick was wrong and this isn't real. What if nothing is real at all? What if nothing has ever been real?

And what if my family doesn't care?

People are smiling kindly at me and cheering but I can't look at them, I can't look at anyone, and I can't walk, and Mags and Finnick are all but gently dragging me down the road towards Victor's Shore, where a row of mansions sit on a private area of the beach. Finnick and Mags take turns explaining this to me, how I own one of them now, and how we're all neighbors, and how my family already moved a while ago when I was crowned victor, and how I'll have a fancy shower again.

We're almost to the house when Finnick stops walking suddenly. My hand is yanked from Mags when she continues to walk. She stops and turns around, and I pull myself out of my deep worry long enough to try and figure out what is going on. The sky is blue, not as bright as I remember, but blue all the same, and the sun is shining, and I can hear the waves crashing against the shore, and I can smell the salty breeze, and Finnick's barefoot, and the houses are beautiful sea glass colors, and there are two Peacekeepers in front of the house that is mine now.

I try to walk forward, because they have my family inside! That's why they weren't there to see me. The Peacekeepers must think they aren't good for me either, like they did in the hospital, but it's just as ridiculous as when they said Finnick isn't good for me, because they are the best. I am hit with memories so strongly and vividly for once that I forget I'm scared and I am filled with a desire to see my family that burns me. My sister, especially. To hear what she will say, to her about her and Marv. I want to see Arnav's dimples when he smiles and hug my father and I want to be part of their family again, I want to be their Annie.

I'm trying to move forward, but Finnick won't let go of my hand, and he won't let me, and the sun is making his hair shine bright bright bright, but his eyes looks so haunted I immediately stop pulling on his arm.

"Finnick, I need to see my family. Why are they holding them inside?" A sudden thought overcomes me and I articulate it a moment later. "It's because it's so crowded at the train station, isn't it? They never would have gotten to see me, not really."

I start to move forward again, but he reaches up and clasps his other hand around my wrist tightly, holding me in place.

"Stay here, Annie," he says. His voice is shaking like my body does and like the earth did in the arena. Mags looks devastated, her face crumpled like she spent hours and hours working on something only to have it destroyed in front of her very eyes.

I stop completely, and I am sure my heart stops for a moment too.

"What's wrong?" I ask them, my voice high and hysteria beginning to take over.

Finnick passes me to Mags and she locks her arms around me, holding me tightly to her, and I'm shaking like Finnick's voice.

"It's okay, Annie," he lies and I know it's a lie and I know he knows I know it's a lie because I know him I know the way he talks and I know how it sounds when he tells the truth because he always tells this truth and this sounds different than that and why is he lying to me when he knows I know he is and when he promised me he never would?

"Finnick!" I shriek after him, because he can't lie to me, and what is going on, and why is my family arrested, and is it my fault?

Mags shushes me and tries to stroke a hand down my hair, but I don't want to be touched, I don't want to be comforted or subdued, I want to know what is going on. I look up at her.

"Why did he lie to me?" I beg.

She's looking over my shoulder though, her eyes on Finnick, and I look too. He's talking to the Peacekeepers, and they're telling him something, and they must be saying such mean things to him because his shoulders drop and he stumbles back a bit, in horror or maybe anger, and I'm furious because why are they being so mean to Finnick when all he did was try to talk to them? He doesn't deserve that.

I am going to tell them not to, because he is a treasure, they just don't know that, but I will tell them. I try to walk over, but Mags grabs onto my hand again.

"Annie, please stay here, okay? Please," she pleads, her eyes wide and face pale and wrinkles drawn and I think I'm going to be sick because I don't think this is about Finnick anymore.

The Peacekeepers look at me and they start to walk forward, but then Finnick is screaming, screaming so loud, louder than I ever heard, and he's telling them to leave, that they have done enough, that they can't talk to me, that they aren't allowed to be the ones to say it, and I'm spinning around because what are they going to say, what could they say, why are they saying anything?

And where is my sister?

The Peacekeepers are walking away, and Finnick isn't moving. He's got his back to us and his hands are buried in his hair and his head is bowed and why are they hurting him and who is hurting him and who thought it was okay to do that and I will hurt them because why do they have to hurt him why do they have to hurt anyone?

Mags takes my hand and starts to pull me away, towards the house I know is hers, but I won't move and she isn't strong enough to make me.

"Let's go talk in here, Annie," she says.

I can't see straight and I am so dizzy I wouldn't be able to put a foot in front of the other and I was right, this isn't about Finnick, this is about my family and something awful has happened and I am sure of it.

"No!" I screech. "I want to know what happened! Where's Cora? Where's my dad? Where's my little brother? FINNICK! FINNICK!"

I snatch my hand from Mags and I'm careening over the sand and it's flying up and hitting me in the back of the legs and Finnick won't look at me and where are they?

Finnick looks broken, like the pieces aren't where they should be, and his eyes are glossy and wide and his face is so pale and then he's opening his mouth and words are coming out but I don't understand.

"Your family was on their boat before the train arrived. Something happened and it began to sink," he starts. He has to stop halfway through because tears are filling his eyes and he turns away from me, taking a shaky breath and pressing his hands against his eyes and clenching his fists tightly. He looks back at me, and I know, because I can see it in his eyes. "They drowned."

Pain shoots through me as I land painfully on my bottom in the sand and my legs aren't working and that doesn't make any sense because why would my family go out on the boat when they knew I was coming home and why would they drown they can swim just as well as me and I didn't drown in the arena and we have been on the sea all our lives and

It

Doesn't

Make

Sense.

I am screaming but it doesn't help because where is my family and my baby brother hasn't even turned eight yet he was going to next month and I was going to take him to a cave off the shoreline where he's always wanted to explore and he can't die he is only seven he's a baby he's my baby and he didn't do anything at all and Cora is supposed to get married and she already has a dress and I won! I won! I won the Games, I am the victor! Why is this happening? I won! They said that if I win I get to go home but they lied to me!

I won.

Is this what I won?

Finnick's rocking me back and forth and Mags is stroking my hair but why

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

I realize I'm wailing this when Finnick answers me. He is always answering me.

"It's not your fault," is all he says.

And how can he say that to me? How how how how how?

How can he?

I didn't drown and so my family did and oh, I'm pushing Finnick away and vomiting into the sand, because where are their bodies? Are they at the very bottom of the sea like Chiron's at the bottom of the water and Kaya is and everyone else is too? I want to be at the bottom of the sea, too, then, and I'm trying to walk, but Finnick won't put me down, he won't let me go, and I want to hate him so terribly, because I want to be in the sea too. I was supposed to be back with my family, that's what they promised, and so I will be back with them and if they are in the sea I will be too. They lied, they all lied, and this all my fault, and I don't understand because I won and what is so horrible that I have done or that I am that all of these things have to keep happening? What on earth is wrong with me? I want to die, I wish I was dead, and I am not supposed to be alive, this isn't supposed to happen, none of this was supposed to happen, I didn't agree to any of this.

I'm pounding my fists into Finnick's back and trying to get away with everything inside of me but no matter how hard I try he doesn't loosen his grip for a moment.

Then I'm inside a house and I don't know whose it is and I can see my sister's bloated corpse, engorged with water, leaking blood all over the table from a slice in her neck, and there's Arnav, and he is too, and he's so small, and my dad is there, and Chiron, and Kaya, and—

No, I'm in my kitchen.

"Annie? Are you okay?" Cora asks. She looks at me in concern. "You went slack for a moment there."

She's stirring the pot slowly. She lifts up the spoon and takes a bite, smiling victoriously.

"Oh, I think I've got it this time, finally! Will you try it?"

I feel awful, and the world is ending, but I can't remember why. I want to tell her about it, but I can't tell her without knowing why, so I cross the room and stand beside her and she holds the spoon while I lean in and try it.

For the very first time, my sister has completed clam chowder without forgetting one ingredient, so why does it taste like nothing, like it's not even really there?

"It's great, Cora," I say, but I'm sobbing, and she's so confused. She pulls me into her arms.

"Seashell! What's wrong?" She asks me.

I'm gasping and covering my mouth with my hand, drawing in shallow breaths.

"I don't know! I don't know! Something is wrong!" I'm saying hysterically. I know it and it hurts so badly, it digs so deep into my heart, I can't breathe, I can't think of anything beyond the pain.

She helps me into a chair and I can see Arnav playing with his friend outside the kitchen window and I'm screaming into my hands.

"Seashell!" Cora gasps. She pulls me tightly into her arms. "Talk to me!"

I can't, though. I can't, my mouth is filling with blood, I'm biting my lip too hard, but I can't stop, because something hurts so badly, something is broken inside of me, and I think it's my heart, I think I need a doctor.

There's a knock on the door suddenly, and Finnick lets himself in. He walks over to me quickly and Cora steps aside automatically, because she is trapped and baffled, and he looks like he knows exactly what to do.

"It's okay, Annie," he tells me. He kisses my nose and rubs my back. "I'm going to take care of you."

And then the world is breaking apart and the other one is too and it's all black because I'm broken everywhere forever now.

Chapter Text

There are things that exist nowhere. This is something I never knew.

Things like my sister's smile and my brother's laughter and my father's hands.

They existed once, and somehow they still do because I can feel them inside of me, weighing down on my heart every single day, but they are nowhere to be found. How do you exist nowhere? How can something be so alive but so dead all at the same time? How can you feel so close to someone, like you could reach out your arm and your fingertips would touch theirs, only to have them completely absent from the world?

My mind spins and my thoughts jump back and forth and I did this.

A girl was born in the spring and all she ever wanted growing up was to love and love well, and she ends up being responsible for the deaths of many. A girl was born in the spring and all she ever dreamed of was growing up and living in a small house with flowers lining the outside with someone who loves her and children to care for. A girl was born in the spring and all she ever wanted was a family, her family, any family. A girl was born in the spring but she fell in the fall, and she skinned her heart and broke her mind on the way down.

"Don't you leave, Finnick."

"I can't do this to her, Mags. Look how much I've already done. I don't want to hurt her anymore."

"If you walk out of this house now, don't you ever expect her to let you walk back in."

"Mags…I don't want to leave, but look at what has happened, and all because of me!"

"This wasn't your fault. If you think abandoning her now will help her in any way or form, you're not as smart as I always thought you were."

"I'm not smart at all, Mags. Look at my life, look at hers, look at all I've done."

There are things that exist nowhere.

I know that now.

My mind is the nowhere they exist.

My sister is still planning her wedding there. My brother is getting excited for his upcoming birthday. My father is making renovation plans for the shop. We're all doing the things we've always done, but I can't stay very long anymore, not like I used to, because after only a few minutes at a time I start to feel the other world coming through. Mostly the emotions, the pain, the things I want to forget but I can't at all anymore. In the days before coming back to District 4 I would spend long periods of time locked away in my made up reality a few times a day. Now my mind is completely rocky, drifting back and forth all day all day all day, between the world that has my family but not the Games and the world that has the Games but not my family. I don't stay long at all, though. I can't stay long at all anywhere. Everywhere is too much. The only escape is sleep, but I'm starting to dream now. I see the waves all night long, just rocking back and forth, and when I wake up I've torn the skin off my arms with my fingernails.

Look at all the people and things that can be inside of my head at once. It's a wonder it doesn't burst, because I have shoved so much inside of there, so many different outcomes of different situations and so many alternate realities and so many people who were alive, who breathed, who loved me, but now they do nothing at all but live inside my brain.

I don't cry in the real world. I cry in my own world, but I'm hardly there enough anymore for it to count. The time it takes to switch to mine is longer than the time I actually manage to stay rooted there. I can't see my family here and I can't see them there. I'm hurting and I don't know what to do about it because there isn't anything I can do about it.

And I don't have a family at all.

Everyone is dead. It's been a week, and everyone is still dead, and I haven't woken up yet, because this isn't just a bad nightmare, and no matter how hard I try to disappear into my own mind, I can't, I can't, I can't can't can't can't can't. I'm stuck in a limbo between the two, hysterical in some moments and completely unmoving in others.

"I've just come to tell you. I don't think you should tell Annie, because she'll want to come, but I wanted you to know so you know to keep her away."

"I appreciate your concern, Marv. It was Marv, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"I am going to tell her though, and we will probably be there."

"Are you kidding? She's already mad, it's just going to confuse and upset her."

"With all due respect, she is stronger than you think she is, and she deserves to know about this. She would never forgive me or anyone else if we didn't tell her about her family's funeral."

With the word funeral I'm floating back away again.

My bedroom is warm and the wind is howling against the shut window. The moon is the only source of illumination and it bathes everything in a soft light.

"Annie?"

I look up to the doorway. Arnav is standing there, his eyes red and tired and his cheeks wet. He's clutching the arm to his teddy bear and wearing a pair of shark pajamas Cora made him last year. They're too small and his wrists and ankles show.

"What's wrong?" I ask, concern stitching through each letter.

"I'm scared. I had a nightmare," he whispers.

I pat my bed and he runs into the room and jumps up quickly on the bed, burrowing his way under the covers with me. He curls up against my side and presses his face against my arm. His hair is still damp from his bath.

"Do you want to talk about your nightmare?" I ask him.

He lifts his head and looks at me, tears still shining in his eyes. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

"I was on Daddy's boat. Coral was there too. We were all sailing. And then for no reason the boat started to sink, and we all fell in, and we couldn't move our limbs, and then we drowned."

Blackness flashes in front of my eyes and I feel like I have been punched in the stomach and this isn't the real world, is it? No, I remember now, the arena, the doctors, the Peacekeepers in front of the house. I don't have long before I am kicked out of this world, because I know it's fake, so I clutch Arnav to me tightly.

"Arnav, I love you so much," I cry into his already-wet hair.

He seems bewildered.

"What's wrong? It was just a dream. I promise it's okay." He reaches up and pets my head sloppily, like he's seen Cora and I do for him a thousand times, and I'm hugging him even closer.

"I love you. Please don't go. I love you," I weep.

"I'm never ever ever gonna leave you! You're my big sister and Cora always says that family never leaves each other, remember?" Arnav says. He pulls back and sets his small hands on my face. "It's gonna be okay."

But it's not because this world is starting to break down, but I don't want to go, I have my brother again and I am not giving him back this time and they can't have him.

"NO!" I shriek, and I'm clutching Arnav even closer, and he's so confused, but the bedroom in Mags house is starting to appear, and I don't want it to, I want to stay here, and what if I can pull Arnav with me back into the real world? "You can't have him!"

But they can, and they do, just as they always do, just as they always will, and I am propped up in the bed in Mags house and my arms are empty and my brother is at the bottom of the sea.

I am scared because I will never be okay ever again.

Finnick is sitting in the room. He is there always, because I hear him talking to me in the mornings, and he opens the windows for me in the afternoon, and he brushes my hair for me at night.

Sometimes he cries and I want to reach out and hold him but I can't move.

Those moments are some of the very worst.

I make him cry again when I speak for the first time in the many days I've been home.

"Finnick?" I ask.

He jumps from where he's sitting in front of the open window. He turns around to look at me, his eyes wide and surprised and hopeful and beautiful.

"Yes?" he replies, his voice quivering a bit.

"Will you kill me?"

He responds as if he's physically been punched, bending over a bit and clutching his head in his hands. And then he cries again, and I still haven't cried, and I wish I would because seeing this is devastating. I never wanted to hurt Finnick. I just want him to help me like he always promised he would. I don't want to live like this, bouncing back and forth between worlds, achingly sad to the core of myself every second of every minute of every hour of every day.

I am thinking suddenly that had my family not been killed, I might be asking him to kiss me right now instead. I imagine that his lips against mine would feel right, like that's where they were always supposed to be. I will never know now, because I am going to die, because I am dying already.

I never get my answer.

"Do you like the green or purple?" Cora asks.

She holds up two different color swatches in front of her. The green is soft and bright like new grass and the purple reminds me of the shade that sometimes stains the sky during sunset.

"I don't know. Maybe purple?" I say.

She nods, examining the color swatch.

"I like the purple." She sets the green back down on the counter and runs her fingers lovingly over the fabric. "I'm so excited, Annie. I've been waiting for this day my whole life, the day I'm going to walk down the aisle and marry someone who loves me as much as I love him."

I reach behind me and grab the various cake samples that are laid out around us and then I'm flinging them around the room and I'm screaming and then I'm flinging anything I can get my hands on: the vases full of flowers, the small container of pins, the box of thread, the heavy envelope full of wedding invitations, the spools of ribbon, the glass platters.

"IT'S NOT FAIR!"

I shove the table and it crashes to the ground and I go with it.

It's not fair.

The pull of the brush through my hair calls me back.

Finnick's hands are shaking.

My hair is knotted and he's trying to gently pull through the tangles so it doesn't hurt me. Knotted hair means I had a hysterical fit while in my own world.

He sets the brush down on the glass vanity in the room and it makes a lovely sound. It would feel so good to smash that vanity, to watch the shards fly everywhere around me.

He gently turns me around.

He lifts my chin until I'm staring at him, but I'm still not seeing him, I haven't seen anything in such a long time.

"Please come back, Annie," he whispers to me. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please come back."

His eyes drift shut and then a tear leaks out and—

Something snaps into place for a brief moment.

With a burst of clarity I can see things I haven't seen before, like the bright pink of the quilt on the bed and the blue of the blanket that is still here with me even though almost everything else is gone and the sparkle of the vanity and the purple circles under Finnick's eyes and the flowers that are everywhere in the room, on the vanity, on the nightstand, on the dresser, on the windowsill, everywhere. Finnick's clothes are wrinkled and his skin is pale and I'm watching the tear drip slowly down his face and it's slicing deeply into my skin.

I reach up and touch my finger to his face. His tear slides onto it and clings, and I'm staring at it, because Finnick should be happy, I always want him to be happy.

His eyes open quickly, a few more drops dripping down, and my eyes actually meet his for the first time since I've gotten back, and I'm gasping for air.

"I can't," I croak.

The wind smacks roughly into me, the waves rising steadily as they crash into my legs.

"Do you think one day you would think of me?"

The voice startles me. I turn my eyes away from the sun that's rising over the sea and back towards the boy on the shore with me. He's staring sheepishly at the wet sand, dragging his toe through it and making a line that he keeps tracing back over, trying to make it deeper and deeper, and I want to grab him and tell him to stop because doesn't he know when the tide comes back in it will just disappear?

His name is Henry Schwartz and he kissed me on a dock almost a year ago now. It was my first real kiss, and he is a kind and good person, but I never want to kiss him again.

"Think of you how?" I ask him.

My hair is whipping violently against my face and it's difficult to see what is going on in Henry's mind from behind it.

My feet are steadily sinking further and further into the sand as I stand here and I'm pondering over just standing here until I sink all the way under.

"Think of us together," he clarifies. He's staring forward at the sunrise now, as if he can't meet my eyes, and suddenly I can't meet his either, because this feels so wrong.

I pull my feet out of the suction of the sand and back up a little, resisting the urge to take off running.

"Oh. I don't think that's what you really want, Henry," I finally say. I awkwardly push my hair back from my face and fiddle with it.

He turns around and retreats a few steps also so he's level with me once more. His eyes are dark, dark like Sophia's eyes. I stop completely for a moment, because who exactly is Sophia, and how do I know her eyes are dark?

"I know what I want, Annie," he replies.

So do I. And his name is Finnick.

Mags is pulling my hair back.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Annie?" she asks me.

I turn to look at her, accidentally pulling my hair from her grasps, and I think she can see in the lost expression that must be showing on my face that I have no idea what she's asking me.

She looks sad. She offers me a small, reassuring smile. It's nice. I haven't seen a smile in a long time.

"The funerals," she reminds me gently.

Funerals.

I don't think there is a word uglier than that in the entire English language, except perhaps leave.

I find myself nodding.

Maybe seeing it will make it real. Maybe seeing it will keep my head from skating back and forth like this. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Mags lays a black dress with pearl buttons out on the bed and I pull it on slowly. I can't focus on much but the satiny feel of it and the way the buttons shine weakly when I move.

Didn't Cora have a dress that looked like this?

Yes, it was almost exactly the same, but it was purple.

"This is what happened to Finnick's mother, you know," she whispers to me. She gently turns my head back around so she can do my hair again. "She was his entire family, too."

Mags' hands drop from my hair suddenly and I'm confused and I wish I could feel the warmth from the sun that's shining outside, but I can't feel anything by deep sorrow. What does she mean? Finnick's mother died from an allergic reaction. But no, of course that isn't really what happened, because I remember him speaking of how she hadn't been allergic to anything before she died, and that's just like how my family could swim perfectly fine before they drowned. And so now I'm left wondering why. Why our families were ordered to be killed. Why any of this is happening at all. I would ask, but I am sure I don't want to know, I am sure I couldn't handle that knowledge.

"My family died naturally, but I was pregnant when I was Reaped."

My head automatically turns back around again. Mags gives me a sad smile.

"I was much too young, anyway. I wouldn't have known what to do had I actually be able to carry her to full term." She turns her gaze away from me to the glass vanity. "But I wanted her. I've always wanted children, and I've been haunted by that little girl my entire life."

I'm drifting out of this reality then, sickened by the acts of this world, sickened by all the pain and death and sorrow.

"Life does go on, Annie. Even when you think it can't. Even when you don't want it to," she says, and then I'm at the market with Cora.

We're there for maybe three minutes before I start sobbing so violently I vomit into the tomatoes.

"What's wrong, Annie?" Cora asks.

I'm getting very sick of hearing her ask me that.

Finnick's hand is tightly around mine as he helps me walk out of Mags house. He's in a dark suit, and his eyes are still shadowed by nights of little sleep. I want to reach up and touch the circles, I want to tell him to take care of himself, I want to tell him that I still love him. But he never even knew I ever did, and I can't speak, and I just want to die.

When the cemetery comes into view, I'm hit with a sudden thought: what happened to Chiron's body? Is he here, now? His head, too?

The graveyard is on a hill that overlooks the sea. A single tree stands tall in the middle of it all.

There are so many people. They are everywhere, sprawled out in chairs, lounging against the pillars someone set up, pacing back and forth like they have somewhere to be and they just want this to start.

And they all turn to look at me when Finnick and I join the group, and their gazes are horrible, and I'm hiding my face against Finnick's arm.

They know this is my fault. They blame me. I blame me, too.

Finnick sets a hand on my back and leads me to the front row. I'm in the very first seat. Because why? Because this hurts me more than anyone else? It does. It does.

Who organized this? Who planned it? Who picked out the lilies that are scattered everywhere, who picked out the coffins, who picked out what my family was going to wear? It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me, because I don't exist.

There are things that exist nowhere. I am one of them.

I am sorry. Sorry for my absence, sorry for my madness, sorry for everything.

Marv has the seat beside me, and I know somewhere inside of me that he deserves it, but I feel agitated that Finnick has to pull up a chair on the other side of me, because why wasn't he given a spot?

It takes me a moment to remember that he never knew my family. The memories I have of him and Cora joking around and him giving trident lessons to Arnav every weekend aren't real here, they aren't real anywhere, and now they never will be.

The funeral won't start for a while. In District 4, the coffins are kept open and people socialize at the site for a while.

Marv is crying beside me already.

He must think I am heartless. There is no way I could explain to him that some sorrow runs so deep you can't get yourself to do anything. You can't even get yourself to stay in reality.

"Do you want to go up there?" Finnick asks me.

I turn to look at him, and he looks like he is suffering, too.

I tell him no, but ten minutes later, I remember this is the very last time I will ever see my family at all.

I turn back to him.

"Will they be wet?" I ask.

I am trying to figure out how to ask him what I mean. I want to know if they will be purple and bloated with water and covered in seaweed from being pulled out from the bottom of the sea. I want to know if they are going to look like I've always known or if they are going to be just another sight to haunt me.

Finnick understands what I'm asking. He clenches his fists and his mouth twitches downward.

"No, they will look just as they always did," he finally says.

It sounds like the truth.

There's a line in front of the coffins, but everyone steps aside when they see Finnick and I walking forward. I can hear whispering all around me.

I forget how to walk a few steps away from the first coffin, the smallest, the one that I know has my brother. The soft pressure of Finnick's hand in mine reminds me. I set my hands on the edge of the wooden box, feeling the satin lining the inside, and I look down.

Arnav. He's in a small suit that I have never seen before, and that makes me feel as if there are bits of glass burrowed underneath my skin that are shifting, slicing me, cutting me into ribbons. Why would you bury a little boy in a suit? They hate wearing those. They hate the stiffness. Arnav especially. I should have done this. This should have been me. It was my responsibility to find something for them to wear for the rest of eternity and I didn't do it and now Arnav is going to be uncomfortable forever.

I'm choking and gasping for air and Finnick is concerned and he keeps telling me we can go home but I haven't seen my father or sister yet.

I stumble to the right, and my father is in a suit too, but at least it's his. They've put a picture of our family a long time ago, when my mother was still alive, inside his coffin. His graying hair is brushed neatly and I can't stop myself, I'm reaching in and disheveling it, because my father doesn't wear his hair like that, he hardly ever brushes it, because what is the point? The breeze from the sea always messes it up again anyway. He never looks like this, this isn't him, my father is messy hair and frown lines and flannel shirts.

A Peacekeeper that's been standing off to the side approaches me, as if he's going to tell me to not do that, but who is he to tell me what I can and can't do when it concerns my own family?

Finnick must agree, because when the Peacekeeper tells me to not touch the "corpses" and makes a move to pull me back, he punches him in the face.

There's a mumble of discord throughout the crowd at the Peacekeeper's actions and from the corner of my eye I see other people standing to help Finnick force the Peacekeeper away.

I have to hold onto the coffin to stay upright by the time I make it to the last one. My sister looks like she could be sleeping, but she isn't, and who put her in her wedding dress? Who did that? Who would do that to her, to me? I'm digging my nails so hard into the wood of the coffin that I am sure I am breaking them. And then I notice she's not wearing the necklace I made her years ago, the one she wears every day, the one that has white seashells and blue sea glass on it.

I'm turning around and asking who chose what they wear, and then Marv is walking up to me and saying he did it, and I find myself slapping him across the face.

He's stunned and he's cupping his cheek and immediately after I do it I feel awful, horrible, like I've just murdered someone. I cover my mouth with my hand, and it's odd because everything is going blurry, but I still feel like I'm in this reality, and then my face itches like something is gliding down it, and I realize I'm crying for the first time.

The broken, choking sounds are still coming out of me, but I can't see anything, and Marv is crying too, and he is asking me what's wrong, and then I'm screaming at him and asking him where her necklace is, and does he really expect her to be buried without it, and how could he do that, and why would he bury a seven year old in a suit?

He's screaming back. I hear things like "I'm sorry" and "I didn't know what to do!" and "I tried to ask you, but you just stared off into space!" and "I did my best!" and "This is hard for me, too!".

But I'm rounding off, I'm entering that level of hysteria so familiar to me now, and I fall to the ground and I'm crying so hard I literally cannot breathe.

And Marv is beside me, and he keeps saying "Cora", and that just makes it even worse, because doesn't he know that I know how this feels? Doesn't he get that I loved her more than he ever could? Don't all these people realize I love those three deceased people more than I love myself?

He tries to reach over and hug me, but I jerk away from him violently, and I can't even look at him anymore, not even through my veil of tears.

"Don't," I say.

I don't want to be touched at all, especially not by him, and especially not here, and especially not when my family is lying dead, and I have always wondered which would hurt worse: having those you love die before you tell them goodbye, or having them die before they can tell you goodbye. I will never know, but it does hurt for them to die without having heard so much as a word from them. They were supposed to be saying goodbye to me. I was the one who was supposed to die. I was the one who wrote that letter and said my goodbyes to them. They weren't supposed to have to say their goodbyes to me. They weren't supposed to die. That was my job, that was my duty, that was my calling. I avoided it and now they are taking my place and I'm broken because since when was my place such a large one to fill? Since when does it require three people who made the world a much better place than I ever could?

I feel my hysteria slowly drifting off as a familiar emptiness takes over me. I pull myself up off the ground and walk back to my seat, and Marv keeps saying he is sorry, but Cora is going under the ground today without anything to remind her of me, and he knew how much she loved that necklace, and he knew she wore it every day, so how dare he do this?

I can't think of much during the funeral, because all I can hear is everyone around me crying, and it makes the rage inside of me grow.

Who here actually knew my family? Which of them besides me knew that Cora despised the color orange, or that Arnav cried the first time he learned that sand dollars were actually living and that the ones he saw all over the shore, dried out and broken, were dead, or that my father painted over every brightly colored wall with white two weeks after my mother died?

I slip away completely when they lower the caskets into the ground.

Finnick carries me.

I come back to reality when we're walking down the road.

"I want to see my house," I tell him.

He doesn't argue, he doesn't ask if I'm sure or if I can handle it, he simply carries me there and then helps me down at the doorstep. He opens the door and my feet glide over the expensive floors.

My family is everywhere in here, in the pictures hanging on the wall, in the patterned tablecloth Cora so obviously made, in the toys strewn haphazardly over the kitchen tiles.

And I'm walking slowly over to the cabinets, opening every one, looking for our china. And then I'm holding the white china plate in my hands, turning it around and around like a wheel, and then I'm throwing it against the wall.

The shatter echoes loudly off all the walls.

I stare at the broken fragments on the floor, and I can feel the tears starting again, and my head aches as if my mind is trying so hard to push away the other reality.

I grab another dish out of the cabinet, and I throw that one, too, and then I'm weeping.

I throw anything I can get my hands on—plates and wine glasses and mugs and glasses and trays and platters and vases and clocks and chairs, all the things my family will never touch again, will never see again, will never use again—and I'm crying crying crying and screaming screaming screaming and I keep yelling THIS ISN'T FAIR, but no matter how much I rage against the fact that it's wrong, it doesn't reverse.

I'm sitting in a pile of broken glass, feeling it cutting into my skin, when Finnick makes his way towards me. The broken glass crunches underneath his feet as he walks. He sits down beside me, as if he isn't aware that the shattered fragments are cutting and ruining his suit and probably cutting him too.

"It's not fair, Finnick," I whisper. All my fight has been sucked out of me completely. I'm left like this: bloody on the floor, fighting to even keep my eyes open, my skin sore from the salt of my tears.

He takes my face into his hands and kisses my nose. He rests his forehead against mine and our noses touch and he keeps his face like that and slowly, bit by bit, inch by inch, things are coming into focus with a certainty I haven't felt in a while. The white, broken porcelain littering the floor, the yellow walls, the flowers outside the kitchen window, Finnick's green eyes.

He pulls me to his chest and I feel like mine is being ripped apart as I cry.

He grips me tightly, and when he speaks, he sounds almost as desperate as I sounded when I was begging Arnav not to leave me.

"You can overcome this. I know you can. Fight through whatever is holding you back."

"There's no point, Finnick. Don't you see?" I'm sobbing and I can't catch my breath and why doesn't he get this? "Everyone who loves me is dead. I don't have a family. Why would I fight? I don't want to live any longer."

It's as if the exhausting sadness inside of me has sliced me open and scooped everything out, stitching me back up, leaving me empty and aching.

"You have Mags and I. We don't have families either. That's why we are each other's families."

His eyes are wide and despairing and he's begging for me to understand and the awful thing is that I do. I care for them, but even if I could find it in me to let the past go and move on, my mind won't let me, I'm stuck, it's in control, I am completely mad, I can't ever live a normal life, why won't someone just put me out of my misery, I'm mad mad mad, I just want someone to cut my head off like they did to Chiron, because it hurts too much, it causes too much pain, I don't want it any longer.

"I can't, Finnick. I really can't. I can't, I can't, I can't!" I can feel hysteria rising again. "I can't get out of my head! I'm stuck, and I'm scared because I'm stuck, and I'm crazy, and I want this all to stop!"

It is never going to end.

He is pulling me back and looking at me seriously. His eyes are shining and his face pale.

"Then I'm going to go in and get you," he promises.

He picks me up out of the pile of broken glass and porcelain and carries me back to Mags' house. I take a shower and cry some more. Mags puts bandages on my cuts. Finnick brushes my hair as he does every night and sets the blue blanket on top of me.

He reaches out and grabs onto my hand. I look up and meet his eyes.

"I'm not going to let you disappear, Annie. The world needs you too much."

He walks out, and I'm insane, because I can hear words that were never said.

I need you too much.

I'm thinking that morning that I would like to completely start over my entire life.

I would do everything differently.

"This is sad, did you hear about this?" Cora asks.

I look up from where I'm sitting on my bed. She's standing in the doorway, holding today's newspaper in her hands.

"What is it?" I ask her. I set aside the bracelet I'm working on as she walks over to me. She sits down beside me and sets the newspaper in my hands. The headline reads ENTIRE FAMILY DROWNS; REMAINING DAUGHTER DISTRAUGHT.

I scan the article, feeling the horror overtake me. An entire family gone, leaving just one remaining member to pick up the pieces without them. How awful, how unfair, how cruel that is. I would want to die. Does she want to die? Surely she does. I look up at my sister and picture her gone, and I'm distraught, too.

"That's awful," I say, and my eyes are burning, and my throat is tight.

She takes the newspaper away, flinging it beside her on the bed. She swings her legs back and forth as she talks, and I'm so startled by the way the story can simply glide over her skin. It's penetrated deep down inside of me. Doesn't she feel the pain of it? Can't she feel it living inside of her, crouching in the dark corners of her mind, tearing at her heart with its teeth? Can't she?

"The worst part is the girl left over." Her tone is light, conversational, as if this is just an interesting event she saw on the news. But it is, isn't it? Why do I feel like it's more than that, why do I feel like I am drowning with that family?

"I would want to die if I were her," I whisper, my voice strangled by what I'm feeling.

Cora's head jerks to the side suddenly, her cheerful and easy attitude replaced with an urgent one.

"Oh, Annie, take that back right now," she demands.

I stare at her blue eyes, startled by her command. Wasn't that what she had been saying, too?

"What?"

She shakes her head slowly, her eyes still trained on mine.

"What's so awful about that story is the fact that the girl has given up. Doesn't that make your heart just ache? She is the only one left of that family, and she's trying to not be, instead of moving on and living life for her family members that died."

Cora's words are foreign to me. How can she say that? How could she expect that girl to want to go on? I ask her this, because I can't explain it, but I need to know so badly I am fidgeting and my hands are shaking.

"Because I would want you to go on, Seashell." She pulls me into her arms and hugs me tightly. "It would hurt me more to see you suffering and giving up than it would to die." She pulls back and stares at me almost accusingly. "There is always something to live for. A person, an idea, an unfinished book. It's not possible for there to be nothing left. Nothing does not exist."

I'm spinning away out of that world and back into the real one, leaving my sister behind.

There are things that exist nowhere.

But that's not quite true.

Because nothing doesn't exist, and so nowhere doesn't either, and so these things exist everywhere instead.

My brother is in the laughter of the kids I hear down by the beach that morning. My sister is in the bracelet I've still got with me. My father is in the sound of the boat's horn that passes by. They are in my memories and my memories are never-ending. They expand from my mind to every end of the earth, and all I have to do is tell someone about them, and then they extend even further.

Mags helps me get dressed and she is telling me I'm going somewhere but she won't tell me where.

She holds my hand like I'm her daughter, like I'm the baby she lost such a long time ago all grown up. She walks me down the street and into the market.

She leaves me by the fruit and walks away, and I'm scared because I haven't been in public since the funeral and I never was before that, and I have absolutely never been alone in public since the Games. I am lost and confused and there are so many people around and I don't want to be here.

After feeling the stares of people for a while, I decide it's time to go. I'm walking towards the exit door that's right beside the fruit stand when I run into someone.

I look up, and Finnick's there. He's smiling at me.

"Hi," he says.

I blink at him, suddenly even more lost than I was before.

"Hi," I say back.

He sets down an apple he was examining and turns, extending his hand for me to shake.

"I'm Finnick Odair."

At first I'm furious at him for doing this, for acting like he doesn't know me when he knows I have enough issues with distinguishing fact from fiction as it is, but then a memory ambushes me suddenly. Finnick and I, the first time we met. Me saying I would have rather met him in the market, him playing along as if it was something that could have happened.

I look up at him hesitantly. I reach out and weakly shake his hand.

"Annie Cresta."

And oh, yes, that's right, isn't it? I am Annie Cresta. I can make jewelry and I am great at spelling and I know how to make the best clam chowder and I can hold my breath for a long time underwater. I like seafoam green and lilac and pale blue. I hate the taste of tartar sauce. My favorite food is blueberry pancakes. I had a sister who was my very best friend in the entire world, but she's gone now. I had a little brother who had a soul made of gold, but he's gone too. I had a mother and a father who met on a dock many years ago and fell deeply in love, but they are gone also. I was in the Games and I did everything I could to stay a good person, and I lost my mind, because maybe, just maybe, I succeeded.

"Well, might I say that you're beautiful, Annie Cresta? And I think it would make me very happy if you'd be my friend," Finnick says.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I can feel the warmth spreading and spreading and spreading, and was the sky always that blue, and look at how kindly people are looking at me, as if they care, as if they don't blame me after all, and look at how awful the cuts on my arms and hands look, and look at how beautiful Finnick is. Look at all the things I have been looking at but not seeing.

"Thank you. You're much more beautiful than I am, though," I reply.

The rush of having a normal conversation, the rush of actually being present long enough to have one, the rush of actually feeling sane for once again are all overwhelming.

Finnick narrows his eyes at me, and I want terribly to touch the corners of them.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that you're not supposed to lie, Annie Cresta?" he demands.

He's smiling a moment later though, widely, as if he's happier now than he's been in weeks. I think maybe I am, too.

Is it okay to be happy, Cora? I want to ask you this so badly, because I don't know how I am supposed to handle this, I don't know how to carry on. I don't know if I am supposed to. I wish you would tell me which way to go again, like you always did. I know you said you would want me to keep living, and I believe that is true, but I just wish you would have told me how. It's like the last time I saw you all over again. You're begging me to go on, to live, but you aren't telling me how to do it.

And just like that time, when she was giving me an order to stay alive but leaving me with questions as to how, Finnick is filling in the blanks for me. He's filling them in with the quiet and gentle confidence he has in me, with the way his eyes are greener still when he smiles, with the gentle way he holds my hand and promises me he's not going to let my mind take me.

Cora's begging me to go on, and Finnick is telling me how: breathe, smile, start over.

"I've heard that somewhere before, I think," I tell Finnick.

His arm tightens around my shoulders.

"I like the way you think. Would you do me the honor of joining me for a picnic?" he asks.

"How can I be sure you don't only want me for my mind?" I joke.

The words slip out easily, like they used to do when I was still me and things were normal, but they are more ridiculous than ever, because my mind is so shattered it can't even be recognized as a mind. No one would want it. I don't even want it.

"There's only one way to find out, isn't there?" He's smiling but his eyes are watering and I can't breathe again but this time I think it's because I might smile too. "Trust me."

I can still see him clearly, even through my tears.

"That's my secret, Finnick. I never stopped trusting you, not even once."

Finnick lifts his arm off me and turns me so I'm in front of him. He holds my face carefully, as if he thinks he's going to break me, but that's crazy crazy crazy because he is the only one keeping me together. I watch his eyes fill with tears and it hurts even more now that I'm fully rooted here, now that I'm not drifting in between here and there, now that I can see it for what it really is: pain because of me.

"And here's mine, Annie: I never stopped believing in you. Not even once."

Chapter Text

There is a red redder than blood, bolder than blood, richer than blood.

It lives in the flowers growing in small clumps in the field Finnick and I are sprawled out on. It is so vivid it steals my attention away from everything else: the soft, green grass, the smooth blue of the sky and the puffy white clouds, the sea out in the distance with sunlight dancing on the surface, the chirps of the birds and the squawks of the seagulls. I am mesmerized by it, and then I am watching the familiar scene of Chiron's death, but this time these flowers burst out every place he's stabbed. They are odd and wonderful, with the middle protruding straight up like a small black cone perched on top of the firm, green stem and the bright red petals surrounding the cone like a skirt. They fill the arena steadily and steadily until I am up to my neck in these flowers, but it's lovely because the petals are silky and even the middle, which looks like it would stab you, is fuzzy and sweet smelling.

Finnick's hand is soft, too, when he touches my forearm.

I glide back to the field, turning over on my back to look up at the sky and Finnick's face. He's sitting beside me, having risen from his prone position, most likely due to my sudden mental absence.

"Are you here for a visit or here to stay?" he asks.

I can see just how blue the sea is and I can smell the flowers in the air, so I am sure I'm here to stay for at least a bit. I convey this to Finnick with a decided nod. I have a strong feeling of almost breathless relief, as if I had picked up the phone at four AM expecting the worst only to be told something magnificent happened. I've never had a flashback to the arena that strayed from what actually happened by being better. I've had flashbacks that threw in different traumas, but never before have I seen something that doesn't make me shake for at least thirty minutes.

Finnick leans back on his hand and beams down at me.

"You're smiling," he says.

I'm so caught up in his eyes and the curve of his smile that it takes me quite a while to process what he's said. I start to tell him about the flowers in my flashback, but I almost feel like it's too lovely to speak out loud, like it's something I want to bury deep inside of me where no one will ever know it exists.

"I really like those flowers," I finally say.

His head turns and he scans the perimeter of the field, his eyes landing on the unique flora. He stares at them for a long moment and then looks back at me.

"My mom used to call them coneflowers. They are rather beautiful, aren't they? At least in their own way."

I avert my gaze from the red petals and turn it back to Finnick. He looks so much better here than he has in such a long time. His eyes aren't swollen, the circles under them have faded to a soft, almost translucent lavender, and there's color in his face again. Something about the soft pink undertones seems more striking than anything else here, even the bright red, redder than blood, flowers that I'm enamored with. I think it's because I know the color in his face is from all the laughing he's been doing in the two hours we've been out in this field. It makes me feel as if the blue butterfly I keep seeing flittering around has snuck inside of me and is beating around my stomach.

"They're redder than blood," I say, my eyes turning back to them once more. "I didn't know anything was redder than blood."

The longer I stare at the flowers, comparing the two shades, the more I'm feeling something slowly slipping inside of my brain. As bearable as the last flashback was, I am sure another one wouldn't be as cheery. Not to mention I am still terrified I'm going to slip back into my other world and not be able to get out.

Finnick tugs gently and playfully on a strand of my hair. The pieces click back into place. He's got a cocky smile on his mouth but I can tell he understands what I truly mean by that, and what I'm seeing in my head, by the sorrow lurking somewhere deep inside the green of his eyes.

"There's plenty redder than blood, Annie. For instance, if I were to strip down naked right here, you would blush the reddest red that was ever seen."

It's like the girl I used to be pushes her way up and out of me at moments like this, because I'm rolling my eyes for the first time in what has to be months.

"Oh, I'm sure. Is that a common reaction from your Capitol lovers?"

His smile slides away for a second, too quick for anyone else to notice, but just long enough to make me feel like I've been punched in the stomach, because I know something I've said has just upset him somehow. I immediately feel the teasing attitude that had somehow fought its way out from under my hazy thoughts sink back down again, and I hope it stays there, because I don't like it when it's doing this. I don't like Old Annie Cresta when she's saying things that hurt Finnick. The girl I am now doesn't necessarily keep from hurting him either, though. And I hate hate hate hate any part of me that hurts him. I want to reach inside of myself and tear it out and throw it outside and far away and keep as large a distance as possible between it and Finnick because he never deserves to be sad ever ever ever especially not because of me.

I think about asking him now. Asking him about what goes on in the Capitol, because just as I thought for the first time a long time ago, I'm still sure it's not at all what it seems. But I can't get myself to bring it up. Not when I've already reminded him of it.

"I'm sorry, Finn," I say immediately.

He looks at me strangely, almost in a slight panic, as if I know something I shouldn't know, and probably I do. Not the details of course, but I feel I am understanding more and more the gist of this matter.

"What for?" he asks, a carefully constructed tone of ease in his voice.

I sit up.

"I don't know yet exactly. For saying what I said. For bringing that up."

He won't meet my eyes, and I want to hold him so terribly it's almost a physical pain. I turn away too, because I can't trust myself anymore. I've grown up around the term "loose cannon" and never quite understood what it meant or how a person could be one, and now here I am, the walking epitome of it.

I can feel Finnick's eyes on me. I turn around and he looks like he's got the words perched right inside of his mouth, ready to take flight, but at the last moment he changes his mind and shuts all the windows.

"I'll be right back," he tells me.

He stands up from the blanket and makes his way over to the closest clump of coneflowers and my face aches as he carries over a few. When he places them into my hands I realize it aches because I'm smiling again.

I caress the petals and the stigma and the stem. They don't feel exactly as how I experienced them feeling in the flashback, but somehow that's even better, because now I can think of them in a sort of separate way.

I clutch them tightly in my hands, sure I am never going to let go. Do all flowers die? I'm sure of it, but it's difficult to remember for a moment, because these feel so alive in my hands. I remember it a few moments later, the truth that sometimes I don't want to remember, but I always will in the shape of Chiron and my family: everything dies.

I realize I've been quiet for a lot longer than intended.

"Thank you," I tell him finally, and he must sense how sincerely I mean that.

He sits back down beside me.

"No, thank you," he says, and this time when his eyes meet mine, I can see the words he wouldn't say a few minutes ago hiding there. He knows how I feel and I know how he feels and he knows that I know this. And I also know that he will talk about it with me when he's ready, but not a moment before, and I wouldn't dare try to make him. It occurs to me then that Finnick and I communicate nonverbally more frequently than we do verbally, and I wonder if that's part of the reason I can talk to him in a way I can't talk to anyone else. I don't talk very well anymore, so it's freeing to know that I am going to be understood even if I can't articulate exactly what I'm saying.

I lie back down and close my eyes against the bright sun. I feel almost drunk on all the bright colors and the warmth and the scents. I was able to eat more in one sitting today than I've eaten total since I've been back in District 4, and that's helping to make it harder and harder to fight against the drowsiness that's taking over me. I can't help but think about the doctors back in the Capitol, and how they would sometimes literally force the food down my throat. All Finnick did today was make me smile when I was here and hold my hand when I was gone, and somehow I found myself eating, and I didn't even feel like I was going to vomit it up.

And still my family is secured in the fringes of my mind. Every moment they are there and I don't forget for a second what I am missing. The blue of the sky still reminds me of my sister's eyes and the yellow tulips still remind me of my brother and how he'd pick those from Mrs. Bennard's garden every mother's day to bring to our mother's grave. I never forget them and I never forget that they're gone. But for the first time I feel okay about remembering what's still here.

"Do you ever stop missing your mother?" I ask Finnick suddenly.

The missing is the worst part. The dull, pounding ache in my chest of wanting to be with people that I will never be able to see ever again. Knowing that I will never hear my brother's laughter again or see my sister's face or ever ask my dad his opinion on something. Knowing that all the things I've held so close, all the things that feel like home, are lost to me pains me in a way I didn't know existed until now.

Finnick lies back down too, and his arm is pressed against mine.

I turn my head and look at him. His eyes are observing the sky.

"No, not entirely. I'll always miss her," he says. "But I guess I've gotten used to not having her around." He stops and turns his head so his eyes are on mine again. "It sounds awful, I know. Like it's cruel to get used to something like that, like it's wrong to not be sick with disappointment every morning you wake up and she isn't downstairs. But it's the truth. Everything fades; remember when I told you that? It's true."

His eyes are examining my face and something he sees makes him smile softly, the emotion spreading all the way into his eyes. I've always loved that, being able to see someone's smile in their eyes. That's how you know it's a real one.

"The pain of missing your family will fade, just as you will slowly get used to living without them. Right now it feels like you'll be lost forever, like you won't be able to move on at all, because there were so many things those people were to you that you feel you can't be without. And you're right, you can't go on without those parts. But the amazing thing about life is that slowly you'll find other things or other people to help fill the hole your family left. You won't want to. I know because I didn't. But before I really knew what had happened, I was coming to Mags and asking for her advice, something that I only ever really did with my mother. Mags doesn't replace my mother at all, but she was there for me when no one else was. She is part of me now because of that, just as my mother was. She's my family."

I'm gripping onto every word he speaks as if it's going to save my life, because I think that maybe it is. He's right, he's always right, because I don't want to let anyone else fill the places my family takes up in my heart. I want to cling onto the pain because I feel like as long as I do that, they won't slip away from me. There is something worse than missing someone who is gone. It's worrying that you're going to forget the things you miss. Like where on their face their dimples are, or what their favorite song was, or how they always washed their hands twice. The little things that you carry with you forever, the little things that you use when you speak of them. The little things I wondered about when I was talking to Chiron about Sophia. I am still unsure what things people would remember of me, but now I know which ones I remember of my family, and I never wanted to have to know that.

My mouth is ahead of my mind once again and I'm speaking something that I've only just begun to feel creeping up on me.

"Are you going to stay?" I whisper.

Finnick's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"Of course I'm going to stay, Annie."

But my mind is tiring and this is the longest I've stayed present and coherent for a long time and I can feel it slipping slipping slipping and I'm starting to smell the salt of the ocean but I'm not close enough to the ocean to smell it.

"I mean really stay. Really. Never leave me stay. Stay no matter what. Stay like that," I push out.

I'm fighting to get the words out and hear his answer before I'm gone because I need to know this. I know that if he can't promise me this I can't let him make me feel happiness anymore, because it would hurt too terribly to feel it once again when I thought I never would only to have it stop almost as soon as it started. I'm not sure I could handle his abandonment. I thought I could, but I'm not sure now, and I'm rocking like I'm on a boat, but I'm still on the blanket with Finnick, so why is that?

"Really stay. Never leave you stay. Stay no matter what." He promises, and I almost laugh thinking about how insane this conversation would sound to someone walking by, and oh I'm mad, remember?

"Good," I say.

But I'm puzzled as to why I said that, and Cora is, too.

"Good what?" she asks.

We're on my father's boat and the stars are glittering in the sky. I feel like I was just doing something very important, but I can't remember what.

"I don't know why I said that," I admit.

She laughs. "You're crazy, Seashell."

I stare at her oddly, her words feeling brash for whatever reason. They make me uncomfortable.

"I am," I agree.

She laughs again.

"Well, at least you've accepted it! Now help me with these drinks."

I follow after her, the boat lurching under my feet, trying to comprehend why the word crazy almost sounds as personal and familiar as my own name.

When I'm back with Finnick, my good mood has all but vanished. I'm disheartened and frustrated with myself. I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that this is the way I am now, but I hate it so much. As soon as I get to the point where I can recognize that maybe there are still things worth living for, I remember that I can't really live anyway.

Finnick's holding my hand.

"You look so intent when you go away. I wish I could see what you see," he says.

The breeze is the first thing to break through to me and then my senses are coming alive once more.

"I don't. Wish you could, I mean. Sometimes it's terrible," I say back. I feel like I might cry, but I'm refusing the tears because I don't want to ruin this day for Finnick or myself. It's been the best one we've had in such a long time.

Still, I can't control both the words spinning around dizzily in my brain and the tears at once, so something has to slip out. I decide to let the words go, keeping a grip on my tears.

"I wish I were really mad. All the way mad. I wish I were so mad I wasn't aware that I am at all."

Finnick frowns.

"I don't. You should see the way you look when you finally come back to yourself. Your eyes get greener and it's almost like I can see you crawling back inside your own head."

I have to fight the urge to tell him about how his eyes get greener when he smiles. But then I'm just confused, because his words don't make sense to me.

"What is so good about that?" I question him, because it doesn't sound nice at all. It sounds awful and terrifying.

He blinks at me in surprise, as if it's obvious.

"Well, if you were all the way mad you would never come back to yourself. You'd be empty all the time, your eyes dim, looking out at things no one will ever be able to see." His frown deepens. "Doesn't that sound awful? I think it sounds awful. It's nice to see you come back to yourself. It's nice when you're here."

It's nice for me, too. But then I am gone, and that's not so nice, and then the entire day is not so nice.

"It's just hard. Hard to find a point when I'm drifting in and out all the time, like some messed up TV that can't keep reception on one channel for more than a few minutes at a time. Never long enough to see enough of one program to get what's going on, you know?" I try to explain.

He pulls a flower free from the bouquet I've still got clenched in my sweaty palm and reaches up, tucking it behind my ear. He smiles then, like he's admiring something he created that he's particularly fond of. That thought startles me. Fond. Is Finnick fond of me? I know he very obviously cares, but for some reason wording it that way makes it seem as though I'm asking myself a completely different question. The question plays over and over in my mind. Is Finnick fond of me?

I want to hold his face in my hands, because I am very fond of him. I can tell this by the strong rushes of affection I get when I see him, when he smiles, when he laughs, when he does almost anything at all. I can't imagine him feeling that way about me, though.

"Then I'll just have to give you recaps on what you miss when you're away."

He won't, though. He will give me recaps on the good things that happen, sure. I know that without a doubt. But he hides the bad things from me. I know it because I still don't know why my family was killed. I still don't know why his mother was. I still don't know what he does in the Capitol, or why he does it when he obviously doesn't want to.

I wonder when he's going to let me take care of him the way he tries so hard to take care of me, or if he ever will.

Mags grasps my hands tightly when we walk in the door.

"Good day?" she asks me, her voice hopeful.

I nod, and she grins widely.

I'm walking into the living room, actually looking around Mags house for the first time, when I spot an envelope on the table with my name on it.

Finnick and Mags spot it when I'm pulling it into my hands.

"Annie—"

I've already got the flap open, though. I'm pulling a square of thick, white cardstock from the envelope. I'm reading the words ("So sorry for your losses. My condolences. It always pains me to see my victors going through such agony."). I'm eyeing President Snow's signature at the bottom. And then I'm just tired.

I set it back down carefully on the table and turn.

"I'm tired."

I climb the stairs steadily and slip into the room with the glass vanity and pink quilt. I close the door behind me and curl up on the bed.

I can't tell which emotion is stronger: my sorrow over the deaths of my innocent family, or my anger towards the man that could murder a seven year old child, a young woman about to be married, and their only parent and then send a card bragging about it.

I'm back in the arena watching the needle go through Kaya's skin.

No, I'm with my brother.

I go ice skating with him and his best friend.

I fall down a lot, and when I'm coming back to reality, I find my knees actually do ache as if they're bruised.

Finnick's brushing my hair. My flowers are in a vase on the vanity. They make me feel better, somehow. How crazy is that? I guess almost as crazy as I am.

He sets the brush down and sits beside me on the bed. I look up at him. He looks tired, too. I think we're all tired.

"Let's play a game," he says.

I don't even remember any games at all. I know I used to play when I was a child, and I know I used to play games with Arnav, but I can't recall them for the life of me.

"Like what?" I finally ask. My throat is sore, and I'm sure I was screaming at some point.

"List five things you want for the future."

And then I'm staring at him for what feels like the most painful three minutes of my entire life.

My eyes burn when I finally say something.

"I can't," I admit.

The two things I want the most are things I can never have. My family will never come back and I will never get my sanity back, either. Both are gone forever, and both are all I crave.

He takes my hands.

"Try." 

I can't, though. I'm tired and I can't feel much of anything at all.

He stares at me and as I'm staring back little things start to work their way into my mind. But the main one is one I can't tell him, one I can't say out loud.

"I want to live somewhere with those flowers out front," I start.

He smiles, almost encouragingly, and I can see it clearly all at once: a small house near the sea, with window boxes full of those flowers and a little fence in the front. It would be pleasant, and maybe even make me a little bit happier than I am now.

Another long silence elapses as I think and think and think because what do I want that I can actually have?

"Answers, one day," I say next, slowly and carefully, because I want him to understand that I know I'm not ready to hear some of them and he's not ready to tell me the other.

He nods understandingly, but he looks burdened.

The next consumes me and I am burning quietly.

"Snow punished for all he's done."

He gives my hands a squeeze.

"That's on my list, too," he tells me.

I ponder, but in the end I can only manage one other thing.

"A family."

I wipe at my eyes and Finnick pulls me into a hug.

"You've already got one of those whether you like it or not. I caught Mags knitting you a pair of socks today. You're stuck with us officially."

There's nothing I can do but smile at that, because I am touched every day by the actions of these two people, and I would be dead without them.

"Mags reminds me of my mother," I tell Finnick.

He chuckles. "Me too."

I'm thinking about our little dynamic and this life we've all sort of built together, and something slips out before I even take the time to consider what I'm saying. "So it's Mags as the mother and us as…what? Brother and sister?"

I know there's no way he misses the disturbed way I ask that. I know I didn't miss it. I haven't stopped to think yet about which way I love Finnick, but I know without a doubt that it's not a love I'd have for a brother.

Finnick's expression mimics mine.

"No, definitely not like that," he says immediately. Then he looks a little confused, and he's quiet for a while. I'm confused also, because I had thought that maybe that was how Finnick cared for me. As a friend, a sister, someone he cares about but that's the end of that.

"We're like…" he trails off again, struggling blatantly to find the words. "You know."

I don't, though. And he knows I don't. And I know he doesn't either.

So I say, "Yeah, of course."

I lift my eyes from the blanket and glance at him, and I feel bubbly inside like I've just drank a glass of champagne, because his face is flushed.

"Are you blushing?" I demand.

He feigns an insulted expression, as if the idea of something making Finnick Odair blush is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. "Of course not!"

He turns away from me, though.

And there's a strange sound, but then I know it's me, and I'm giggling like a child, and then Finnick is laughing too.

He looks back at me and I can't stop because all I can think about is the absurdity of this, his disgusted face, his flushed cheeks, his half-attempted denial, and it's hilarious.

I almost cry when I realize I've just laughed without crying. Even more, I've giggled, something I don't think I've done in such a long time I couldn't even estimate how long it's been.

Finnick stands up from the bed and tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear, and it doesn't help anything that my skin tingles where his fingertips brush.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Annie."

I slide down in the bed and watch him make his way out of the room.

"Don't worry, Finnick," I say as he's halfway out the door. "I won't tell anyone you think I'm pretty."

He stops and turns around.

"That isn't news for anyone but you."

I'm left pondering over his words for the rest of the night, and then I'm taking Arnav shoe shopping.

"Annie, do you have a boyfriend like Cora does?" Arnav asks me.

He's kicking off the fifth pair of shoes. The land in a pile at his feet. He's the pickiest child in the world when it comes to shoes. They're either too loose or too tight, too narrow or too wide, too long or too short, too firm or too soft. It takes hours for him to settle on a pair he'll actually wear. Cora and I flip a coin every year to see who's going to have to take him. Obviously the odds were not in my favor this year.

I grab the pair he's discarded and stick them in their box.

"Arnav, do I look like I've got time for a boyfriend? I'm too busy trying to find you a glass slipper," I tease. I close the box and grab the second discarded pair, beginning the daunting task of fixing the shoelaces Arnav tangled up.

"What?" he frowns. "I don't want a glass slipper. That sounds like a girl shoe."

I shake my head. "Nevermind."

He kicks his feet back and forth, his eyes scanning the rows of shoes. He turns back to me, shifting a bit in his chair, and he accidentally kicks the box I'm holding in my hands. It goes flying out of them, crashing into the ground, the shoes tumbling out. I sigh heavily.

"Oopsie," Arnav frowns. "I'm sorry!" He exclaims, his eyes sad and regretful.

I go and pick up the box and return to where I was sitting. I smile at him.

"It's fine, Arnav. It was an accident."

He goes back to kicking his feet.

"Is Finnick your boyfriend?" he inquires.

This time it's my fault when the box falls to the floor and the shoes drop out. I ignore them, scanning the store to see if anyone heard that. I can't explain it, but I know it would be bad if someone did.

"Why would you ask that?" I question quietly.

"'Cause you love him," he sings matter-of-factly. "And you know what? I think he loves you too!"

I reach up and put a hand over Arnav's mouth quickly, because I can tell he's only a few words away from singing to the entire store that Finnick and I are in love. Which isn't true. Right?

I could easily be in love with him, and I'm sure if I let myself think about it, I would understand that I am. But he would never be in love with me, and Arnav is seven, what does he know about love?

Arnav sticks his tongue out and I immediately drop my hand. I always forget he's learned that trick. I grimace and wipe my hand on my pants and he's laughing gleefully.

"Will there be tridents when you get married like Marv and Cora are?" he practically yells.

"Shhh!" I hiss. "We're not getting married!"

Arnav just shakes his head though, as if he knows my entire life with a certainty that cannot be shaken.

"You will," he says solemnly, his green eyes wide. "I can see the future now."

I feign a gasp.

"Really? The future? Who knew I had a brother of such noble skill!"

Arnav grins widely, resuming kicking his legs back and forth.

"Ask me anything! Ask me, ask me, ask me!" he yells excitedly.

I heave a sigh.

"Okay…what are we having for dinner tonight?" I ask, because I know he must have seen Cora making it before we left.

Arnav closes his eyes and squeezes them tightly, concentrating so hard it's almost giving me a headache.

His eyes pop open and he springs up from the chair, extending his finger into the air.

"I'VE GOT IT!" he screams. "Carrot salad!"

I clap a hand over my mouth.

"No way! You can tell the future!"

He's giggling and jumping up and down.

"You and Finnick are going to have a baby, too," he proclaims.

I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes. He doesn't look discouraged at all, though. He's still grinning widely.

"Oh really? And what do we name this baby?" I ask him in exasperation, although I have to admit a part of me is curious, and another part wishes he really could tell the future.

"Arnav, after me, of course!" he beams.

And I don't know why, but that makes me cry.

And then it's just waves and waves in my dreams. Waves and tearing flesh and breaking fingernails and screaming.

The next month passes by quicker than I would have expected.

We fall into a routine and it becomes almost as comforting as that blue blanket on my bed or the flowers Finnick keeps replenishing.

Breakfast usually occurs with only one or two slips of the mind. The worst flashback is usually during this time, though. After the first week Mags somehow knows to stop putting red jam on the table. That jam smeared on knives can induce flashbacks, or vomiting, or sometimes both.

Mags is teaching me to garden. She enjoys having the company so much that I tell myself I'm going to continue doing it even if I hate it, but I find that I love it almost as much as she does. We till the earth and plant seeds and water the sprouts that have come up. It's nice to see something grow. It's nice to know there are beautiful things because of something that I've done. Finnick somehow comes up with seeds for the coneflowers I love so much, and he helps us plant them, although for three days of the week he's gone during this time. I don't know for sure what he does between breakfast and lunch on those days. Mags says he's talking on the phone with other victors, but that's all she says.

Finnick takes me to the same place we had a picnic at the very first time for lunch every day. We stay there for hours, eating and talking in between my spells of both flashbacks and mental absences. Finnick has gotten so good at knowing when I am about to slip away. He can usually wrap up the conversation before I'm completely gone, and then we just start another topic when I'm back, as if it never happened. Sometimes we talk about what I've seen. The only things that we both are unsure of how to deal with are the flashbacks. They are sudden and can be anywhere from quietly disturbing to hysteria inducing. He's had to carry me home twice because of the latter kind. I couldn't leave the bed for a full day, because any time I saw water, it appeared to be blood gushing hot and warm out of the faucet.

Finnick and I play the List Game in the time remaining before dinner, if I'm stable enough. A lot of our routine depends on my stability. We can almost never stick exactly to the plan every day, because without fail I'll freak out or become catatonic at least once.

The List Game is one of those games that makes you think you've beaten it, only to trip you while you're walking away. By the end of that first week I had five things I could list, but then the next week it was suddenly "list ten things you want". I still haven't come up with anything past six.

Dinner's never good because I'm almost never present. That's when I miss my family the most. It's also when my mental defenses are the lowest, after a day of trying my hardest to be normal (and most likely failing).

I usually come to in the shower, Mags sitting on top of the closed toilet seat, listening to make sure I don't drown myself or start knocking my head into the spout.

Sometimes I have scratches she has to bandage. Sometimes I have so many Finnick has to help. But sometimes I have none at all.

Finnick always comes to say goodnight, and then I drift between realities for a while until I'm dreaming of the ocean again and kicking and screaming.

On Sundays I visit my family's graves. The first two times I am drifting away almost the minute I set foot in the cemetery, but last week I managed to sit semi-peacefully in front of them for a few minutes.

I miss my family so much I could die a lot of the time.

But just as Finnick and Mags said, life does go on. No matter how terribly I am hurting, no matter how many times I wake up crying, the sun rises and the sun sets and Finnick and Mags are there and they don't hate me no matter how much I put them through.

Finnick's helping us garden the morning I realize I'm in love with him.

"Right here, Finn!" Mags exclaims, wiping the back of her gloved hand over her sweaty forehead.

Finnick salutes her and then stabs the shovel into the dirt, beginning the task of digging a hole large enough for Mags to plant the new shrub she ordered that she's been excited about all week.

About five minutes in, Mags stops him.

"Actually, that's a little too far from the door. How about…here?" she moves and points at a different spot.

Finnick's face is red and he's breathing rapidly (the ground is especially hard in the area Mags wants the bush planted, which is why she enlisted Finnick's help in the first place), and he's already got sweat shining on his face and bare chest, but he just smiles at her and nods, moving over to the other spot.

He starts over, jabbing the blade into the dry earth and pulling more dirt out. I'm trying not to stare at him, but he is truly gorgeous. And it's not his body per se that makes him so beautiful. It's the way he just smiles and patiently restarts the task, no matter how many times Mags changes the place she wants the hole dug.

I'm halfheartedly sticking bulbs into the ground, my heart too swollen for my chest, when the sun is blocked in front of me.

I look up, already knowing it's Finnick. He's smiling coyly at me.

"Hey pretty lady," he says. "After we're done gardening, maybe we could sit together and talk about our childhoods."

I burst out laughing, and he smiles along with me. The sun frames him in a white glow.

"You're great at wooing the ladies," I tell him.

He reaches down and plucks the sunhat off my head, twirling it around.

"That's what I'm told." He winks.

I'm tucking another bulb into a hole when all I can see suddenly is the tree I hid inside after Chiron was beheaded. My skin begins to crawl and I can feel every single ant crawling on me, and Twine and Chiron's blood is all over me, caked underneath my fingernails, dried onto my skin. I can hear Osmium calling for me, and he's getting closer, and I'm scared because there is nothing left of me, there is nothing for him to take.

But then I'm looking straight into Finnick's eyes. He's kneeling on the ground in front of me and cradling my face, and his eyes are showing so much concern that it immediately makes me feel better.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod, and the air is thick somehow, and his face is so close to mine, and what if he were to kiss me? I am sure I would be okay with it at the very least.

We seem frozen for a long moment, and I am trying not to look at his lips, but it's like when you're up somewhere high and you keep telling yourself not to look down. Of course you're going to do it. And then we both look up as something metal crashes down against the house.

Mags curses under her breath, her attempt at sneaking into the house foiled by the shovel.

"Carry on!" she says, sneaking into the side door.

Finnick and I roll our eyes at the same time, and then we're laughing again, and I can't remember exactly what it was I was remembering a few moments ago that had me so upset.

He helps me finish planting the bulbs and then we put the shovel and soil back in the small shed. I'm out the door when I hear something crash and Finnick's sharp inhalation of breath.

I turn around immediately, my stomach somewhere near my toes. My eyes are scanning frantically for Finnick, because I'm sure he's hurt, and what if someone is here to harm him, what if this entire world is really just one huge arena, and I couldn't bear it, I couldn't stand it, I couldn't live.

He's walking towards the door, almost angry. He's cradling his hand against his chest.

"The man who wins the Hunger Games slices his hand on a saw. I'm glad I'm so competent," he jokes.

He's laughing but it's not funny because I can see blood leaking out from between his fingers. My mind is expanding and aching and I'm trying to hold on because Finnick is hurt and he might not think it's a big deal, but it is to me.

I clench my eyes shut and breathe deeply until I feel like I'm okay. Then the grimace of pain I catch on Finnick's face has me completely grounded. I hurry over to him and gently pry his other hand off his injured one. He's sliced his palm pretty deeply.

I frown, gently unfolding it completely so I can see how deep it is. He makes a sort of strangled sound, and I'm certain I'm going to be sick, because I'm imagining what it would be like to have to stitch Finnick's hand up. I couldn't bear it at all.

Trigger after trigger after trigger, but Finnick is hurt, and there's blood, and so I'm not letting myself slip.

"Come on," I tell him.

I expect him to fight me on this, but he simply lets me take his uninjured hand in mine and lead him back to Mags' kitchen. She's no where to be seen when we enter, and I help Finnick sit down at the table. He's watching me, a peculiar expression on his face. I fetch a dish cloth and wet it with warm water and make my way back to him, kneeling in front of him and taking his hand in mine. I unfurl his fingers and dab at the slice with the cloth, cleaning away the blood until I can actually see it.

"Well, will it stay? I don't think I would be as good with a trident if I lost it," Finnick asks me. His voice is loud above my head. I look up at him, and what I say next makes both of us stop for a moment in shock, because as a rule, I don't talk about my Games, and he doesn't either.

"I've mended worse."

He smiles at me, and I smile back.

I clean the cut and then bandage it, feeling remarkably calm about all of this, because I'm helping Finnick and somehow seeing him in pain overshadows anything I might be feeling.

"Thank you," he whispers, eyeing his bandaged hand.

I stand back up and grab the bloody dishtowel, my hands beginning to shake now that I've accomplished my task and it's no longer distracting me from all the things to trigger me.

"Thank you for letting me take care of you," I say.

When his eyes soften, my heart does too, because I know then that I not only love him, but that I'm in love with him, and I want him forever, and I want him to be mine, and that if I were to lose him I would lose myself, and I'm crazy, and that we will never be more than friends.

"You always take care of me," he replies. "Don't you know that by now?"

When I was in grade school, we learned about a fish that lives at the very bottom of the sea named the deep sea anglerfish.

Most people in District 4 know enough about it, not because we've ever seen one first hand, but because it's in most of the books on fish that we're assigned. They recognize it from the long pole-like structure that extends from its head with a tiny light on the end, made for the purpose of drawing in smaller fish to devour.

But what most people don't know is that when an anglerfish chooses a mate, they attach themselves together, and then their skin joins to make them a literal unit. They are never parted after that. Where one goes, the other goes, and that's that.

It used to make my skin crawl when I was a child. I'd think about those two fish, joined together, and feel queasy.

But now, thinking about blood and seeing Chiron's head on the ground again and again and then seeing it morph into Finnick's, I can appreciate it a bit more. As odd as it is, you can bet those fish never worry about the one they love. They never have to worry that they'll leave and something will happen and they'll never come back. They never have to worry that they'll be harmed and the other won't be able to be there to help. They're together, always.

I'm with Cora then, and we're sitting on the pier watching the fishermen wait and wait and wait for the fish to bite.

"You just kind of know," Cora's saying. She's got her wedding invitations in her lap and she's addressing each of them slowly and meticulously. "It's like when you meet them, something just kind of clicks. You never want to be without them."

She hands me the completed envelopes and I rest them on my lap.

There's a shout from down the pier. We stand up and set the envelopes in our chairs, racing down to the end where the cry originated from.

The fisherman is bewildered, because hanging from his fishing line is a deep see anglerfish.

"What the hell is that?" his fishing partner demands.

The fisherman scratches his head.

"I think it's an anglerfish. That's not possible, though, is it? What is going on?"

His partner cringes away from it.

"Throw it back in! They're useless and dangerous."

The fisherman sighs heavily and cuts the line, throwing the fish back into the water with the hook still in its mouth. And I'm confused and heartbroken because aren't they rare? Why would you throw something so rare back into the ocean?

I ask the fisherman this.

He stares at me like I'm stupid.

"It doesn't matter how rare something is if it's only going to harm you in the end."

I know I should believe him, but I don't.

Chapter Text

In the end, it's Mags that gives me the final push to pull myself out from underneath the wreckage Snow has lain.

A loud crash jerks me awake. It sends me into a panic for a few moments, unsure of where I am or who made that sound or who is coming for me or what they are going to do or how I am supposed to get away when I can't move. Small things slowly start to register in my mind, like the smell of the flowers on the vanity and the ticking of the clock on the wall, and I'm catching my breath and fighting my way out of the tangle of blankets.

The first thing that concerns me is that it's eight thirty in the morning, and every single light in the house is still off. Mags rises with the sun and I usually wake up around seven due to the sound of breakfast being made. I've even been helping her the past few days, as I've gotten better at taking care of whatever damage my dreams have caused to my body and mind during the night.

But there are no lights on, and I can't smell anything cooking, and I don't hear Finnick's voice echoing up the stairs as he talks with her. They sometimes let me sleep in if I'm particularly unreachable, but as far as I know, I'm fine this morning. I spare a second to glance down at my arms, confirming what I already know. There are no new claw marks, no sign that I've been hysterical while unconscious.

And so that leaves a multitude of possibilities as to why the day is starting off so oddly. I can't let my mind explore them all, because I know it will upset me, and somewhere inside of me I know that I can't afford to be gone right now. Something is wrong, and Finnick doesn't wake up before ten until Mags or I call his house, so it could be a while before anyone else is here. I think about my brother, stuffed inside of a suit and underneath the damp ground, and my sister, buried in that stupid dress without even a stitch of home, and I know I can't bear to have someone I love hurt because of my absence again. I can't bear it.

I'm repeating that phrase over and over again in my mind as I climb out of bed. The house is cold, and there's a piece of myself living inside my mind that tells me I should pull a dressing gown and slippers on, but that piece is too small, too insignificant. It hasn't been able to tell me anything since the Games at all.

I'm flying down the stairs, my heart drumming fast in my chest. I head towards the kitchen instinctively, and when I do, I let out an audible yelp.

Mags is lying on the floor on her back, her limbs spread out in an unnatural position and her mouth agape. I fall down beside her, barely registering the pain that shoots up my legs from landing so hard on my knees. I reach out and my hands are useless, just as useless as they were when Kaya had the knife buried hilt-deep into her chest, because I don't know what to do. All these miles and all these tears and all that blood and I still have no idea what to do.

I move my hand over her mouth, relieved to see she's breathing, but the right side of her face looks strange, like it's lower than the left, and no matter how many times I call her name or gently shake her she doesn't wake.

I rise shakily to my knees, throwing myself at the phone that's on the wall across from the stove. I drop it and then I'm on the ground again, snatching it back up into my hands. I am attempting with all my might to dial Finnick's number, but I'm with Kaya again suddenly, my hands too shaky to do the things I need to.

I drop the phone and then I'm running out of the door, my hair flying out behind me. The ground is wet with dew and little bits of moisture fly up as I run run run towards Finnick's front door. I collide with it painfully, unable to stop myself in time, and then I'm trying to force it open, but of course Finnick doesn't leave his door unlocked. You'd be hard pressed to find any victor who did.

I can't breathe and I'm slamming my fists into the door. The bones in my wrists screams out in protest, but then I'm yelling at them in my head to shut up, because I don't care if it hurts, I'm not going to stop banging until Finnick opens.

"FINNICK!" I shout. I turn to kicking the door this time, choking out sobs because I made a mistake. I shouldn't have run over here, this wasn't quicker, I misjudged myself and I misjudged the situation. I should have sat there long enough to calm myself down and then dialed the number. I can't be trusted to take care of anyone, and now Mags might die, and I can't handle that, I can't, I can't.

The door is yanked open, and I tumble forward, falling into Finnick. He stumbles back a bit, surprised, and then grabs my arms urgently, steading me.

His eyes are panicked and he's in pajama pants.

"What happened?" he asks, but I think he already knows, because his face is losing color rapidly.

"Mags," I gasp, and then he's running full speed towards her house. I'm dizzy and the world is spinning and I try to run after him, but the world tilts dangerously to the right and I fall down on the ground. It's surprisingly soft and I can hear my blood rushing in my ears and my pulse is so quick it almost hurts and then I'm puking. The force it's taking to stay conscious is draining me. I have no idea how to fight the flashbacks, I have no idea how to fight the switching of realities. All I know to do is to repeat to myself I can't bear it like a mantra until I'm setting my hands on my knees and forcing my way back up.

I run towards Mags house, stumbling a few times on the way. I'm gripping the doorway, my vision a strange blur of KayaMagsKayaMagsKayaMags. I lock my hands over my ears and shut my eyes tightly and take deep breaths until I can't see the girl from 7 any longer.

Finnick's desperately trying to wake Mags, but I know it's no use.

"Finnick, we need to take her to the hospital!" I cry. But he's not making a move to do it. He's just sitting beside her, calling her name like he's lost. I rush over to them and collapse beside him, my world tilting to the left this time. Everything sounds like I'm deep inside of a tunnel, listening to people outside of it speaking.

"I think she's had a stroke, we can't help her!" I try again, urgently.

Finnick's shaking his head rapidly, his eyes red and his face stricken.

"No, I don't trust those doctors, Annie! They're just more of the Capitol's trash! They won't save her! They won't even try, because I love her!"

But I can't believe that, I can't believe that there's not even one doctor who will help her. There's no way every person is that bad, every person is that cruel, every person is that corrupt. I can't believe that. I can't I can't I can't. And then I'm pushing on Finnick, trying to get him to stand up. I rise to my feet and clasp my hands around his forearm, pulling and pulling and pulling and pulling until I'm certain I'm going to be sick again or pass out.

"Finnick!" I shriek. "They can do more than we can! This is Mags!"

He seems to pull himself out of whatever dark place he was in, because he rises suddenly. I'm thrown off balance. His hand clenches mine that's on his arm, steadying me again.

"Go call for a car. I'll get her up."

I can't walk in a straight line as I rush over to the phone, and then I'm back where I started before, staring at the blur of the keypad and trying to get my fingers to find the right keys. And then my eyes are blurring from tears on top of my dizziness because I don't even know who I'm supposed to call. The hospital has a method for picking up injured people, but it takes so long most die before the car even makes it to the house.

My fingers are pressing numbers, because I do know someone with a car, and my heart is lighter and my head is clearing and this will be okay because my dad can take care of this, he drives well and quickly and he knows how to get to the hospital and he will take Mags he will not let her die he will fix this for me. I'm dialing the house number, but then I'm confused as to why I'm not in my house, and then I'm screaming every curse word I know, even the ones I heard Osmium and Kaya using in the arena, because my dad is dead and he will never answer that phone ever again and I need him terribly and so does Mags and so does Finnick.

I'm sobbing when someone answers the phone, because this was not the time to drift away to my world, and I've just left Mags and Finnick helpless, and how could I screw up that one simple task? How could I let myself drift off to sea when Mags is gravely injured and Finnick is so upset?

"Hello?" It's Marv's voice, and I don't understand why I'm still in Mags' kitchen, or why I can still hear Finnick carrying Mags out of the house, or why I can feel the pain in my knees. I must not be in my own world after all.

"Help, Marv!" I finally scream out. I don't know why he's there, but I don't care, I don't even care that he will hate me for asking for his help after how poorly I treated him at the funeral. I don't care because he can drive and surely he knows where the key to my dad's car is! But then I'm remembering that I've called my old house, and I'm sure the key to the car would have been in the new house.

"What's wrong, Annie?" he asks. He sounds almost weary.

"Mags had a stroke, I think. I don't know. Don't know. I don't know. I need some way to get her to the hospital, I can't help her, I don't know how to help her!" I press my fist into my stomach, because it hurts so badly all of the sudden it's blinding.

"Are you at her house?" he questions, suddenly sounding just like the Marv I used to know.

"Yes," I force out, and then I'm heaving, because all I can see is Mags' blood everywhere in the kitchen, and I don't want her to die, I don't want her to go away, I don't want to be without her.

The phone is sticky in my hands when I finally pry it out. I grab onto the wall and pull myself up, walking towards the front door.

I catch sight of a vehicle speeding down the road Victors Shore is on, and then Marv's jumping out of the driver's seat. He rushes over and helps Finnick place Mags on the front seat.

Marv speeds back to the driver's seat, and I race over to the car, jumping into the backseat before Finnick can tell me I shouldn't come.

He doesn't try to say that, though. He doesn't really say anything. Marv speeds the entire way to the hospital, but Finnick is just staring at Mags, like he can't believe what he's seeing. I remember the conversation I overheard between him and Snow and how he said he's keeping the first agreement to protect Mags and I. I can only imagine what it must feel like to try so hard to keep someone safe only to have them dying right before you from something you have no control over at all.

I'm in a strange place between realities the rest of the drive. The TV is illuminating the wall one moment, and the next we're pulling up to the doors of the hospital, but then my sister's laughing about something someone in the Capitol is wearing in the program, and then I'm grabbing onto Finnick's hand because he looks so lost, but then I'm standing in my living room trying to figure out where my family has gone, and then I'm helping Finnick sit down in a chair in a waiting room—

I'm staring at the empty couch in our family's living room, trying to remember where Cora said she was going, or if she said anything at all. I need desperately to talk to her, because I love a boy who probably doesn't love me, and something horrible has happened. I can't remember what it is, but it has me clawing at my arms, pain radiating throughout me.

"Cora?" I yell.

I can hear the television, but other than the Capitol accent bouncing off the walls and my own shout, I don't hear anything at all.

I bound up the stairs and search every single room, feeling my panic growing more and more as each room comes up empty.

I'm flinging open drawers and throwing clothes everywhere and shoving furniture away from the wall but I can't find anyone.

"WHERE ARE YOU?" I screech, my hands tearing at my hair.

I run back and forth back and forth back and forth through the entire house but I can't find anyone, not a soul. I'm completely alone.

I sink to the carpet and pull my knees to my chest and I don't understand.

"Why did you leave me?" I ask, because they always promised that they wouldn't.

"She's stable."

The doctor's eyes are flint gray.

"What do you mean "stable"? Is she okay?" Finnick demands, his voice weak.

The doctor is looking down at his fingernails, and I have to bite down so hard on my lip it breaks to keep from kicking him. How dare you act like you're so disinterested, I want to spit at him. This is Mags.

"She's had a pretty severe stroke. It's too early to know what lasting neurological damage she's acquired. But she will live."

I hope it's not like how they said that I will live. There is a difference between having a beating heart and expanding lungs and actually being alive.

The taste of my blood makes the world go hazy again, but I can't bear it. I can't. I can't bear it at all. Any of it. And so I must bear this, even if only for a little bit longer. Because Finnick is scared, and he needs me, and he has never said that much, but I know it must be true, because the doctor just told us where to go to see her, and he isn't moving.

"It's okay, Finn," I tell him, and my voice sounds like it comes from somewhere twenty feet above me.

His hand is warm in mine as we walk together to her room.

There's one chair beside her bed, and Finnick motions for me to take it, but his legs look like they are shaking and I'm used to being dizzy and unstable. I stand stubbornly until he miraculously sits in it. A few seconds later though and he's got his hands on my waist and he's pulling me down into his lap.

I would protest ordinarily, and maybe even have something witty to say if I was having an exceptionally good day, but I'm so tired and his hands help lead my mind back into gravity.

The room comes sharply into focus. It's remarkably like the room I was in for such a long time in the Capitol, but the bed looks much less comfortable. It has the same blank walls and lit up ceiling and hopeless feeling, and the same beeping machines and strange, sterilized smell and arm restraints. Mags is pale and small underneath the blanket, tubes running into her body, her face untroubled. I draw in a shaky breath and try to tell myself that she's okay, that she'll live, but if she's going to come out of this anyway like I've felt since that arena I'd rather her be dead. Let there be mercy for the ones who are alive only because of a stubborn body.

Finnick's hands never leave my waist, as if he's drawing as much strength from it as my mind is. And maybe he is. I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything. And did Marv really drive us here? Was he really at my old home? Is there still a phone there to answer?

Finnick's breath is warm as it skates past my left ear, blowing strands of my hair into my face. I don't care though, because I am sure he is trying so hard not to cry right now, and I'm not going to move an inch. I know what it feels like to be teetering on the edge between composure and a breakdown, and I know that the slightest thing can send a person hurdling over that edge easily.

It isn't until another doctor walks in, shooting us a strange glance, that I become aware of our states of dress. Finnick, in just his pajamas pants with sleep tousled hair, and me in my nightgown with my own hair similarly disarrayed, and both of us barefoot.

Finnick still seems unaware of this fact, and it's not important enough to bring to his attention.

The doctor fiddles with a few buttons, ignoring Finnick's questions as to what he's doing, and then he's gone.

Minutes pass, and then hours. We don't move. I lean back again Finnick and his arms wrap around me, his hands resting on my stomach, but nothing is said and we do nothing and it's fine because we are here together and it's us three just like it always should be, has to be, must be. Please let it be. My head is comfortable against his shoulder and I examine his neck for a very long time, because I can't bear to look at Mags, and the hair at the nape of his neck is fine and golden and beautiful, just like everything else about him.

I drift off to sleep sometime after the sky grows dark. I don't dream at all, and then I awake to Finnick talking to someone, and at first I'm confused and I think I've fallen asleep during lunch, but then I register his hands, warm and comforting and heavy on my stomach, and his arms around me, and my face pressed into his neck, and it all comes rushing back.

I bolt up, peering around the room in a panic.

My eyes fall on Mags, and she's smiling at me.

I slide off Finnick's lap and walk to the edge of the bed.

"Mags, I'm so sorry," I burst out. I sniff and take a moment to reorder my thoughts so I can get out exactly what I'm trying to say. She waits patiently, her smile still in place. "Are you okay?"

A doctor speaks up from the doorway. I turn as he walks in.

"She's going to live. Unfortunately, the stroke did some damage to the part of her brain that controls speech. She's impossible to understand."

But when Mags replies, "No, I'm not" it only takes me a few moments to decipher what she's said.

I want to give Finnick a chance to talk to Mags without me there, because it was the two of them first and nothing will ever change that, so I ask Mags if she wants me to get her anything. I'm not sure how I'm going to get it if she says yes, because I have no money—I don't even have shoes—and I don't know if there's even anywhere here to purchase anything. But it seems an innocuous way to make my way out.

Mags mumbles something that couldn't be anything but "no".

I think she's referring to my offer to get her something, so I nod and then make my way towards the door, but she repeats herself again, louder this time.

I stop immediately and turn around. She's shaking her head and motioning for me to walk back over. I step over to the side of the bed where Finnick's now standing, and she reaches up and across her body with her left hand and holds it out, palm up, until I carefully place mine in it. Her hands are cold and soft and she grips my hand tightly. Her eyes are shining as she grabs Finnick's left hand with her right and then stares at us pointedly. I am at a loss to what she's asking, but then I feel Finnick's fingers intertwine with mine, and Mags smiles, and I understand.

When she presses a kiss to each of our hands, I allow my eyes to fill with the tears they've been pushing back all day long, because I understand what she's saying, and it might be the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

"This," she says, her words terribly garbled. She continues talking, and I let the words replay in my head until I am able to fish out the rest of the sentence. "This is what matters."

And she's right. This is what matters, the three of us together. Finnick's exploits in the Capitol don't matter, and my insanity doesn't matter, and her brain damage doesn't matter. Deep down we are all the same people we always were, and I know we can see that in each other.

Finnick raises their joined hands and presses the back of her hand to his cheek, and he's doing it again, he's saying words without opening his mouth once. We're all doing it, because I can feel them spinning in the air, landing on my skin, sinking down inside of me. They're warm and comforting, and even the salt water on my lips can't pull me away right now.

The doctor tells us we'll have to leave for the night and come back tomorrow, but he must see something in our faces, because he retreats out of the room and doesn't say anything about it again.

Mags keeps gesturing for us to leave, but Finnick isn't going anywhere, and I'm not either. I don't care that we're still in our pajamas and I don't care that it's cold and I don't care about anything but the fact that Mags needs us. Or maybe it's that we both need her.

And then I'm with Cora, and she's trying to show me how to mend a hem.

She's getting progressively more frustrated with me as the minutes pass, because I'm sobbing so hard I can't get the thread through the needle.

"Honestly, Seashell! You'd think I was murdering you!" she exclaims. She yanks the needle and thread out of my hands, threading it quickly herself. She hands it back to me, but I don't want it, it makes my stomach hurt and my head spin and I am not sure why.

"I don't want to," I choke out from between sobs. I keep seeing awful, terrible things. Flashes of blood and ripped skin and tears and blood. A lot of blood. "It scares me."

She slams the lid of the sewing kit shut angrily.

"Yeah, well, it scared me, too, but I had to learn to do it when Mom died. I'm not always going to be around to take care of you, you know. You can't always rely on me. You've got to learn how to rely on yourself, too. Who would mend Arnav's clothes if I were to die? You have responsibilities when you have a family, Annie. That's just how it works."

She turns away from me, pushing the sewing kit down the table. She's fuming, and I'm crying, because she's right, she's always right.

I wipe away my tears and finally find my voice.

"I'm not as strong as you, Cora."

She tugs angrily at the thread dangling off a pair of pants in her lap.

"I always tried to be, though," I whisper.

She turns around and then looks down at my lap, and I follow her gaze. I'm holding a skirt with a mended hem in my hands, and I don't remember sewing it, but I must have, because the needle is in my hands.

"You're as strong as I am, Seashell. You're just strong in a different way."

I try to ask her what she means, but she's gone, and I'm back in Finnick's arms with my face against his neck.

He's sleeping remarkably well for his position, so I stay quiet and close my eyes, trying not to jostle him. I can't help but realize that if I even puckered my lips a bit I would be kissing him, and then I'm overwhelmed with an urge to do just that, to press a soft kiss under his ear. He probably wouldn't even know it ever happened, but some part of me fears shaking the foundation of our friendship, because I need it so much.

Mags whispers something.

I force my neck still, refusing to let it turn towards Mags like it so desperately wants to. I can't make out what she's said, because it's harder to decipher when she's whispering.

I fall asleep before I can question her further.

Cora's on my mind the week after Mags has come back home and recuperated surprisingly well.

"I'm moving back into my house," I tell Finnick and Mags over breakfast.

Neither of them looked surprised, but they both frown. I know what they are seeing then. They're seeing the blank look in my eyes when I'm gone and the skin I tear off during my flashbacks and my catatonic state that can sometimes last days. I can see those, too. But I can see Mags, unconscious on this kitchen floor, with a sharper clarity. She's taken care of me for long enough. I won't be the reason she is injured again.

Mags mumbles something that sounds like a protest. My eyes find Finnick's. He looks concerned, but I don't see doubt anywhere.

"Do you think that's best for you?" he pushes.

When I nod, he simply tells me okay.

Mags seems sad to see me go, and I doubt that what I'm doing is best for her for a few minutes, but then I remember all she has to do for me while I'm living here, all the ways in which I'm putting her out. It can't be pleasant for her to hear me screaming almost every night. It can't be fun to have to bandage my arms almost nightly. It can't be that nice to have to sit in the bathroom while I shower, just in case I have some sort of fit. No, she can do without those things.

I don't have much of anything that needs to be taken with me. The blanket Finnick gave me, the vase with the flowers that are always there now, a few clothes Mags pulled from my closet at my house when we first got back in District 4.

Finnick heads over ahead of me and searches through the house, securely closing the doors of the bedrooms my family members slept in. I know one day I'm going to have to deal with those rooms, but in Finnick's words, one step at a time.

Mags looks slightly irritated when I meet her at the door.

"Don't go," she says. "No need."

I hug her tightly.

"I'm still coming to help you make breakfast every morning and I'll stay until bedtime. I'll be fine. I just think you could do without the screaming."

She starts to argue that, but then just sighs. She reaches behind her on the counter and picks up a pair of green socks. She presses them into my hands.

"Love you," she says easily.

I hold them tightly, as if someone's going to snatch them away from me, and this is the first time someone has told me they loved me since I said goodbye to my family, and I'm gripping tightly onto that, too.

"Love you too," I say softly, almost bewildered. Always have, I want to add. Always will.

I'm blinking rapidly against the sun as I walk past Finnick's house and then to mine. I feel eyes on me and I turn around, paranoia coursing through me. I see the curtains to the house across from Finnick's drift shut. I have no idea what previous victor lives there, but there must be a reason he's not part of our little family, and so I'm not going to worry about it.

Finnick's got the windows in the kitchen open when I hesitantly walk through the doorway. I'm second guessing my decision so much I want to run back to Mags house right his instant. I'll only be a house from Finnick and two from Mags, but the distance suddenly feels overwhelming.

"There's a room with your stuff in it at the end of the second hallway, but I closed it for right now. I think that's another door to open another day," Finnick tells me carefully. "There's a guest room right down the hallway off the living room, first door on the right. Bed's comfy."

He's got his hands in his pockets and he looks so uncomfortable about all of this. I'm uncomfortable, too, but if I don't at least try to function on my own, what's the point? Either I'm mad mad mad and I can't live on my own and I'm not really living, or I'm troubled and I can manage a few hours alone and I'm surviving. I'm entering a point where I can handle the flashbacks, I can handle slipping away, I can handle my sudden fits of panic, but I can't handle feeling like I'm hurting the only people I love that are still alive. Cora's words haven't left my head for one minute. You have responsibilities when you have a family, Annie. That's just how it works.

Maybe being strong isn't overcoming a madness that won't let me go. Maybe being strong is accepting that it's part of who I am now, and finding the strength to live with it no matter how much it hurts me.

Finnick crosses the room and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He reaches for my hand and then sets a silver key in my palm. It's cool and shiny, as if it's never been used before.

"I'm just next door," he promises. He reaches up and taps my nose. "But no spying!"

I grin, closing my fist around the key. "I'll try my hardest to resist, but no promises."

He smiles back. "I'm sure you'll give it a valiant effort."

"I wonder how much Caesar Flickerman would pay for a picture of Finnick Odair in the shower?" I joke.

"He's already got one." Finnick winks.

He's closer to me now, and I can't help but think how wonderful his shirt is. Green like the socks Mags knitted me, green like his eyes. I lift my eyes to his.

"Can never have too many," I finally reply.

His hand lifts and my heart stutters and I can feel a heat rising up from my collarbones to my hairline. He touches my lips lightly, his fingertips soft and gentle and almost curious, his eyes dropping from mine to where his fingers are.

"Touché," he mutters.

I'm using every ounce of strength in me to resist kissing his fingers on my mouth, and I catch a break when he suddenly drops his hand, as if he didn't even realize what he was doing.

"Do you need any help carrying anything?" he asks, as if nothing just happened at all. Which, maybe it didn't to him.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. There's no telling what will come out of my mouth.

"Then my lady, I will arrive promptly at five to escort you to dinner," he says, faking an accent that would make Annora Bellamy cry in sheer happiness.

"I'll be on pins and needles," I say, and I mean it to come out jestingly, but I'm embarrassed by the fact that it doesn't really succeed.

He gives me a soft smile.

"Always."

After he leaves, it takes me a while to remember what I'm supposed to be doing. I keep the key clenched in my fist and walk to find the room Finnick was talking about, the socks and blanket still in my arms and the vase in my other hand. I'm trying to not look around me, but it's impossible. My heart aches so violently I almost set the stuff down on the floor and take off after Finnick, intending on asking him to come back, because I don't know if I can do this alone, I don't know if I can handle this at all, because there's Arnav's pajamas lying in the corner of the hallway, just out of sight from where Finnick must have been looking, crumpled up like he just stepped out of them, like they'll still be warm with sleep, like he's hiding somewhere in the house, waiting for us to yell ARNAV, COME GET IN THIS BATHTUB RIGHT NOW.

I stoop down and sit in the middle of the hallway, setting the things in my arms to the side. I stick the key into my pocket though. And then I'm reaching across the floor and closing my hands around his pajamas.

They're cool, of course they're cool, because Arnav's dead, remember? He's been dead for almost two months now, and he's never coming back.

I bring the clothing to my face and hold it there. I'm gasping for air when it hits me that I have no idea if they smell like him anymore or not. I don't remember what he smelled like.

I curl up into a ball and clutch the pajamas to my chest, because I miss him more than I could ever believe I could miss anything.

And then I'm with him.

His hand is sweaty in mine as we walk towards the school.

"I hate spending all day in school," he complains.

I look down at him. He's got a pout on his face and his little button down shirt is already wrinkled somehow. Cora and I both ironed it this morning, so there's no reason it should be. That's Arnav for you.

"I know," I say. "But you have to. It's good to learn."

He kicks at a rock in his path.

"Yeah, I know. Only it just feels so dumb. I'm spending all this time I could be playing outside inside."

I start to tell him he'll have plenty of time to play outside once he's done with school, but the words stick in the back of my throat and it's painful to try and dislodge them. So painful the back of my throat aches and my eyes burn.

"When I'm a grown up, kids are gonna be able to pick if they wanna go to school or not," he declares.

I'm blinking back tears and sucking in deep breaths to fight against the pain that feels so much like a giant hole in my chest. I tighten my grip on his hand.

"Really now?" I ask.

He nods excitedly. "Yes! And you know what else?"

I lift my right hand and press it hard over my eye, as if that will keep the tears from spilling over. It doesn't.

"What?" I ask.

He jumps gleefully, letting go of my hand.

"I'm going to play outside all day long!" he sings.

Vertical to horizontal, pavement to carpet.

I'm numb again.

I leave everything on the floor and then shed my clothes as I walk, leaving a path behind me, because I could get lost in a haunted place like this.

I enter the bathroom and turn the water on, letting the bathtub fill. I don't think it could ever be as hot as I want to make it.

I'm shaking shaking shaking as I step into it, the water rising halfway up my calves. I gasp out loud, first from the wave of blackness that takes over my mind, but then from the heat of the water. It's so painful I'm wincing and biting down hard on my lip, but it pulls my mind away from the flashbacks quite well.

My mouth is open and I'm inhaling sharply in pain as I lower myself all the way down into the water. I grit my teeth and try to fight against the memories and hysteria and flashbacks, but I can't take it, and I jump up out of the water and fall to the floor of the bathroom.

I sit there, panting and nauseous and overheated as the water slowly dries on my body. When I look again, the bathtub is red. But it isn't blood, it can't be blood, because Arnav wouldn't ever bathe in blood, and Cora would never let him, and she certainly wouldn't bathe in it either, and this is the house my family has been using, this is the water they've used. But then I'm in the arena, and I'm bleeding out into the water, and my family is there, too, and they're drowning, and blood is pouring out of Arnav's ears and nose and eyes, and I've got his pajamas in my hand and I'm trying to staunch the flow, but they come away soaked completely through like the piece of fabric I held to Kaya's leg.

The steady drip of the faucet pulls me back to reality, and I've torn at my arms again. And I don't know what I'm trying to do, or why I'm doing it. I don't know if I'm punishing myself or trying to kill myself. I don't know why I'm rising to my feet and stepping back into the tub. I don't know why.

I sit down, extending my legs in front of me, staring at how strange they look underwater. I repeat that over and over again in my head, quicker and quicker, as if I can block out the thoughts coming by making it so there's no room for them to arrive. I grow tired and stop repeating myself for one second, and it's one second too long, because then Twine's cutting out Kaya's heart and dropping it into the water with me and it's warm and the water is beating just like the heart.

I'm out of the water again, hunched over on the floor, my heart beating just as quickly as Kaya's was. I keep telling myself to stop, but there's something inside of me that tells me I have to do this, that it's important, somehow not only to me, but to my family.

I fall over trying to stand up this time, but then I'm vertical again, and I'm easing myself back into the lukewarm water. I begin trying to keep my mind busy. I start by thinking randomly and quickly about anything I can (this water is not warm anymore I wonder how warm it was before I bet it was so warm it was almost lava but that can't be true because then it would burn my skin off but for all I know it did burn my skin off I wonder what they would feel like I am glad I never saw anyone burned to death in the arena that would be an awful way to go), but it's not enough because I feel my mind tiring.

Then I'm spelling words out loud, like I'm in a spelling bee again.

Bathtub. B-A-T-H-T-U-B.

Blood. B-L-O-O-D.

DIFFICULTY. D-I-F-F-I-C-U-L-T-Y.

Victor. V-I-C-T-O-R.

Funeral. F-U-N-E-R-A-L.

Inoculate. I-N-O-C-U-L-A-T-E.

Soon I'm just firing off letters rapid fire, but it's working, because I can feel the horror in the very back of my mind, but I can't see the blood because my eyes are shut and I can't stop long enough to let the thoughts waiting in the corridors to take over.

I'm sick and shaking and exhausted when I finally pull myself out of the bathtub. I sit on the floor again and cry, because Cora was wrong, I'm not as strong as her, and my little brother will never grow up.

My dad's arms are draped with groceries bags.

I get up from the table and walk over to him, taking as many as I can. We transfer them to the counter, and he pulls back the curtains so I can see outside. It's been raining for two weeks nonstop, but there, in the corner of the window, is the sun.

"Well, would you look at that!" he exclaims. He admires it for a long while. "Just when you think it's gone for good."

He shakes his head, as if he's humored by the sun, and then goes about putting the groceries away.

"Annie?"

Finnick's voice is panicked and I can hear his footsteps quickening as he moves through the house.

I lift my head up from the floor and pull myself back into a sitting position. I work my way up from there.

"In here!" I yell. I'm surprised at how level my voice sounds.

His footsteps are getting nearer when I remember I'm naked.

"But I'm not dressed!" I add quickly.

"Well then. You really know how to treat your guests," he calls. I can almost see his wink. And I'm going to smile, but why would someone smile when no one else is in the room? Almost feels ridiculous.

His footsteps stop a respectable distance from the door.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

My palm is resting against the granite countertop and it's so cold. Arnav sits on the edge of the sink when he brushes his teeth. This would freeze his legs.

"I don't know," I admit.

My hands reach for the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and I pull it on, tying the sash tightly. I know my sister must have hung it here before she left to go boating, so she could have it when she took a bath after coming back home. It's warm and smells like the detergent that I recognize as being the smell of home.

"You can come in," I whisper.

The doorknob turns a few moments later and he sticks his head in.

He steps fully into the bathroom when he sees I'm clothed. His face is fearful as he takes in the scene, as if he's expecting me to drop dead any moment.

When his eyes land on the bathtub, still full of water, he looks back at me.

"Annie," he starts, his voice careful. "Did you take a bath?"

I nod.

His eyes scan over me, as if he's looking for injury, which he probably is.

"Why?" he asks.

I pull at the sleeves of the bathrobe. My entire body aches.

"Because I have responsibilities," I answer. Without knowing Cora's words, that explanation is worthless, but I can't get myself to expound on it any more than that. And it's easier to leave it at that than explain that I really don't know why.

He takes a step towards me, his frown pronounced.

"Let's go talk in the living room, okay?" he says. He leads me out of the bathroom and down the hall and into the sitting room. He doesn't sit on the couch, and I don't either.

"Your only responsibility is to yourself, Annie." His expression is serious.

But doesn't he get it? I know. I am my own responsibility.

"I know," I tell him. "I stayed in there for at least fifteen minutes."

He stares at me, and then he's smiling so hugely and hugging me tightly, but my eyes are burning.

He pulls back and his smile melts away.

"What's wrong?" he asks, bewildered. And I'm bewildered, too, because this should make me happy. I accomplished something today.

I know why I'm so upset when my eyes land on my brother's picture on the wall, and I know why I did what I did, and I know why I feel so awful.

"That's why they did it, isn't it?" I breathe. I'm picturing the tub in the Capitol, and how hysterical I got, and Snow's visit sometime after that. "They killed my family because I'm mad. They killed them because I couldn't do something as simple as sitting in water."

I sniff and make an effort to reach up and wipe my eyes, but I just don't care enough to.

"I think deep down I thought that if I could really do it this time, maybe it would fix everything. And they would be here again. But they're not. I did it, and I'm fine, but they're still gone. How is that fair?"

Through my blurry vision, I see Finnick's expression shift. When a few tears rolls down my face and I can see clearer, I can see it's one of deep guilt and torment.

He pulls me into his arms and hugs me so tightly my ribs press painfully against his. He's mumbling into my hair, things I can't fully make out, but that all sound like "I'm sorry".

He holds me like that for a long while, and then he pulls back, and I think he might cry too.

"I am so sorry for what I'm about to tell you. And I'm so sorry for what it's going to do to our friendship," he begins.

I know, then. That I'm going to get the answers I've so desperately longed for. It's funny how I don't really want them anymore.

"None of this was your fault. None of it. Your family wasn't killed because of anything you did or didn't do. Your family was killed because of me."

He helps me sit down on the couch and he joins me and his words don't make sense to me. He didn't even know my family. Why would Snow have them killed to punish him? What would he need to punish him for?

The pain that's always lurking somewhere deep inside of Finnick is on full display now, and I'm crying fully because of it. I reach out and wrap my hands around his, because I hate that he's hurt, because none of this is fair, because he is about to tell me something that I know is going to sting both of us.

"When I was sixteen, Snow pulled me aside," Finnick starts. His eyes can't seem to decide where to look. He'll look into mine, and then they're drifting around the living room and he's swallowing his tears. "He told me that I had a new duty for the Capitol, a new mission, if you will, that I had to complete." I'm clutching his hands tighter now, because I suddenly don't want to know, but I have to. "He told me I was very desired in the Capitol, and that there were people willing to spend quite a lot of money to have their way with me. He went on about how it was my duty to use this opportunity to help provide wealth for the Capitol, but I was already disgusted by what he was asking of me. I told him no immediately. I told him I wasn't going to do that— he couldn't make me do that. He asked me if I was sure, if that was my final decision, and I said yes. He said there would be consequences to my refusal, and I said okay. See, I didn't know it then. I didn't know that he would kill anyone. I thought, with all my fame and newfound prestige, that he wouldn't, and couldn't, harm me. I was arrogant, stupid. Young. Untouchable. I remember thinking: there's nothing he could do that would be worse than being forced to sleep with those people in the Capitol. And then...he killed my mother."

Finnick's eyes look so far away and I wonder briefly if this is what mine look like when I'm gone. I'm sick to my stomach and I'm gripping his hands tighter and tighter and tighter and I always knew it wasn't what it seemed, but I never wanted it to be this. I'm picturing it now, sixteen year old Finnick crying alone in the bathroom, and then putting on a brave face and marching out to do God only knows what with people probably twice his age. I want to pull him in by his hands and keep him by my side always, as if I could protect him while he's there.

"I was left with no one after that, except Mags. He threatened to have her killed off, too. He doesn't ever kill victors, but he could have gotten away with killing Mags because she's so old. Panem's expecting it to happen soon anyway, he said. And Mags was all I had. The only thing in the entire world. In the Capitol I had to smile and flirt and act like I'm having the time of my life, but I wanted to die. Every single second."

He finally looks back at me, meeting my eyes.

"That's what I've been doing ever since. I go to the Capitol every year as a mentor, and while I'm there there's a list of prepaid clients I'm supposed to see. They decide what we do and how and where. I don't have a say in any of it. I go off with them during the Games."

He smiles then, but it doesn't look right, because it's sad and regretful. He pulls a hand from mine and reaches up; halfheartedly tugging on a piece of my hair in what would ordinarily be a playful manner.

"That's until you came along, of course," he says. "I met you and you were lovely, and I knew it would be very upsetting to watch you die. Upsetting, but manageable, because I didn't really know you yet. But then Mags switched tributes, and I slowly got to know you, and I knew it would be more than upsetting to watch you die: it'd be painful. So I tried to rush through the list before the Games began, trying to at least narrow it down to only one left by the time the gong sounded. I'd sneak away why you were in Training and then come back."

I'm remembering it all now. The times he'd come back reeking of Capitol perfume, the various times Mags shared a look of private grief with him. It all hits me like a punch to the stomach. He gazes down at our locked hands.

"But the problem was that I liked spending time with you, and so I didn't make as much progress on the client list as I wanted to. When your Games started, I couldn't do it." He looks back up at my eyes, and he looks tormented. "I knew that something awful would happen, but I couldn't leave you like that. I managed to go off once during the beginning of the Games, when you were still making your way across that lake, but the entire time I was terrified you would really need me while I was away. When I finally got back, you were bleeding out in that river. I kept thinking that if I had only been a few minutes later to return, you would have died."

His gaze is heavy and it chains mine down. I want to kiss him then more than I have ever wanted anything I am sure. I can feel the urge crawling under my skin, inching me forward. I want to kiss him until his eyes are happy again. I want to kiss him until he can feel just how much I truly love him. I want to make this better for him, but I can't.

He continues to suffer and I continue to listen.

"I had three people left on my list. I was going to leave to take care of it when Twine turned on Kaya. But that timed parachute made all the difference, Annie. If I hadn't been able to send it, you wouldn't be in front of me right now. And there was no leaving after that. It couldn't be done."

He rubs a hand over his face, his eyes tired. My heart feels similar.

He sighs and continues. "The problem is that these clients expect to have their transaction completed before the Games are over, and they aren't happy to be kept waiting. It makes them feel unimportant, and then they're less likely to buy me again, which isn't okay with Snow."

I have to stop him then, because I can't breathe due to the pain slowly filling my entire chest.

"You're not something to be bought or sold! You're not a transaction!" I angrily blink away my tears, fury at Snow hot in my veins once again. "You're not! You're Finnick. You're the best man I know. You're so much more than that. So much more."

Does he know that? I need him to know that. I can't live if he doesn't know that.

He reaches up and brushes the tears off my cheeks, smiling sadly again.

"I know I am to you, Annie. But not to them," he mutters.

I hate them. I hate every single one of them. I have never hated anyone, and I hate them. I hate anyone who has ever put a finger on Finnick and thought of him as a purchase. I hate anyone who has had their lips on him or their hands on him or their bodies on him I hate them hate them hate them hate them hate them. I hate them so much I would kill them. I hate them. What makes them think it's okay to treat him like that? What makes Snow think it's okay to sell him like he's not worth something? He is worth something. He's worth more than something. He's worth everything. He's remarkable and wonderful and they are hurting him and how can they do that? How can they?

"And then..." he trails off. "I don't know, Annie. I just couldn't bear it— losing you. So I used myself as leverage, and I ignored Snow's prepaid clients and I slept with the Head Gamemaker's sister, another Gamemaker who controlled the Natural Disaster sector of the Games, and I got what I needed from her. An earthquake, a burst dam. Water."

A flash of churning gray-blue, burning lungs, hard objects slamming into my body. My hands creep up towards my ears, to press and block out the roaring sound of the water, but Finnick's hands beat me to it. He sets them there briefly, and then he moves his fingers to my cheekbones, stroking lightly. My every muscle seems to exhale, and for a moment, all I feel is safe. Later, I'll have to come to terms with this, with what my mentor had to do to keep me safe and how unfair it is and how I don't really deserve it, but right now...I just feel safe. And I'm even more certain that Finnick Odair is one of the greatest gifts of my life. 

"Snow was furious with me. He told me I wasn't allowed to see you in the hospital, because he thought it would distract me from making up my tardiness to those clients. We made an agreement that I would stay away from you as long as he wouldn't touch you. Because he does this to a lot of his victors." Finnick stops then, and he seems to be pushing away a strong emotion. "He threatened to do it to you, too. He said he was going to, that even if you were mad, it would just add to the exotic appeal. I made him swear he wouldn't touch you if I didn't see you. He promised to not harm you in any way at all. Mags would tell me every day how you were, and when she told me about what they did to you with the water, I knew that they were hurting you just as much right now as they would if I hadn't have made the agreement. And so I broke that agreement, because Snow had broken his."

I'm still confused to where this is going. I'm confused about how my family ties into this and I'm consumed by a rage that eats away at me and a sorrow that makes everything inside of me ache.

"He warned me that there would be consequences," Finnick breathes. He looks to the side, his eyes glossy and his jaw working. "I tried to tell him that it wasn't going to affect the agreement we had about my body. That me visiting you wouldn't keep me from doing what I was supposed to do. I told him that as long as he stayed away from you and Mags, I'd do what I was supposed to do."

It starts to slowly make more and more sense.

"But I realize now it had nothing to do with the money he was getting. Not really. It had to do with control. And I overstepped his authority when I slept with that Gamemaker, when I kept visiting you even after he told me not to. It infuriated him." Finnick rubs at his eyes tiredly. "He decided to take you out of the equation himself. But he couldn't kill you, especially not before the Recap or the Victory Tour. So he had your entire family killed because of me. So you would hate me. So you'd never want to see me again."

I agree that Snow was looking for control, but for some reason the idea that Snow killed my family to make me angry at Finnick doesn't sit right with me, because I'm not angry with Finnick for it. It's not Finnick's fault. It's Snow's. Snow surely would have known that I wouldn't have been so angry with Finnick that I'd stopped talking to him completely.

"Snow saw me. He told me that I would be punished for not behaving. Then I didn't behave at the Recap," I mutter. I've got so many thoughts banging around in my head all at once and it's so difficult to grasp onto what I'm trying to hold.

Finnick nods. "He was just lying to you. It wasn't to punish you."

I'm thinking about Snow and the way he talked to me, and the way he talked to Finnick, and his actions. The way he had my family drowned like everyone did in the arena. And then it all becomes clearer.

"He didn't have my family killed to punish you by making me hate you, Finnick. He had my family killed to punish you by breaking me beyond repair. He made me feel like it was my fault, and had my family die in such a personal way…everything he's done has been to break me so I'm no good to you anymore," I whisper.

The only thing that hurts worse than knowing I'm broken is knowing that Snow won.

Finnick's looking at me and he's letting the tears slide down his face, and I can't help myself. I lean forward and brush his away like he always does to me, and then I have to yank myself back before I make a mistake like kiss him.

"Why did you do it?" I ask him. The way his forehead creases and his mouth turns down when he cries feels worse than submerging myself in that bathtub did. I would gladly do that again, a hundred times over, because at least that's just hurting me.

"Do what?" he asks, his voice thick.

"Why did you turn away from the agreement just to keep me safe? Why did you...buy that earthquake for me? You've never done that for any of your other tributes."

Finnick pulls at his hair, as if he's so frustrated he wants to scream.

"Because you're different. I don't know. I don't know. At first I thought it was because you were so kind and honest and good, and you needed more help than any other tribute. Then I thought it was because you had made it so far, and you might actually win, and I might actually have a tribute come home for once. And I wanted that so much: you to come home. I didn't even really know why at the time. But later I realized it was because you crept up on me."

His eyes are red-rimmed but still the most beautiful thing I've seen, the only color that can take my scrambled up mind and place it back in order again.

"What do you mean?" I question. It almost sounds bad, like I tricked him into doing something. I hope that isn't true.

His eyes are a gravitational pull in themselves as they lock on mine. He sniffs and seems to deflate a bit, as if letting go of a fight he's been waging inside of himself for a long time. He looks resigned.

"I love you, Annie," he whispers. I feel a shock overtake my system and I know my eyes must widen in surprise. A slow warmth begins in my heart and then it's spreading out, because Finnick just said he loves me, and I love him too.

He reaches out tentatively and takes my hand in his again.

"I love the way you look down when you laugh. I love your smile. I love the way you can still see so much beauty in the world after all you've seen. I love the way you always try to hide that you're crying from me because you know it upsets me. I love the way it's like we always know what the other is thinking. I love how you see straight into people. I love the shade of your eyes and the color of your skin and the shine of your hair. I love you. I love everything about you. I love you and it's eating me alive."

I'm tearing up again, but this time it's because I'm too happy to even smile. This was the first number one on my things I want for the future list. This was the one thing burning me up from the inside, the one thing I didn't even let myself say because I always thought there was no way. The idea that I love Finnick was easy to accept. The idea that he loves me is absurd. Because I'm mad, and he's beautiful, and I don't deserve him, but then again my family didn't deserve to die, so maybe it doesn't matter who deserves what. Maybe we get what we get and that's that. And maybe, just maybe, the odds were in my favor this one time.

"I've loved you for a long time, Finnick," I admit. He didn't creep up on me, though— he crashed into me. A wall of water, and my heart: a ruptured dam. The most radiant of smiles overtakes his face, and I'm squirming because I can't help it. "Can I please kiss you now, because I think I might go crazy if I don't."

I laugh at my own joke then, because everything is funny when someone you love loves you back. Especially when they love you even though you're mad and unstable and a mess. Even more so when they don't even think you're crazy at all. Finnick laughs along, his eyes startled and his smile even wider.

He nods, his eyes curious, and then I'm leaning forward and I've got his face in my hands finally finally finally and then his lips are under mine and there is no more coldness anywhere, and maybe there never was, maybe it was all in my head, because all there is is warmth and Finnick's lips and the way we both linger after the kiss, our lips still together, and I wonder if he's memorizing this moment too.

When I pull back and we meet each other's eyes, I feel like screaming screaming screaming, because my heart is way too large for my chest, and I don't know how I could care about him more than I already did, but the look in his eyes makes me certain I do. He leans forward a bit, and my eyes flutter shut automatically, and he gently kisses my upper lip, his curving up into a smile.

I'm trying not to cry again, because I'm happy in this moment and it's almost frustrating that I can't seem to escape crying, even when I'm happy, but I just don't know what else to do with the emotion welling up inside of me. It's too much, too much, too much, too much, but for once I am positive I'm not going to slip away.

He wraps his arms around me and I rest my head against him.

"I love you," I say again, because it feels so good to be able to say it, to admit it, to not have it buried somewhere deep inside of me.

He kisses the top of my head.

"Today must be my lucky day, because I love you too."

I'm beaming and it feels odd. It disappears quickly, though, when I have a sudden and terrible though.

"Finn?" I ask urgently.

He pulls back, looking down at my face.

"What's wrong?"

I'm examining every inch of his face from his jawline to his nose to his eyelashes to his eyebrows to his hairline, and then I'm looking around the room examining that too.

"Are you okay?" he inquires, his face concerned.

I look back at him, my throat tightening already, because I just know this is going to turn out to be my made up world and not the real one.

"Is this the real world?" I plead. I need to know, and he promised once that he would always tell the truth, no matter what world it is.

Finnick's eyes look pained for a brief moment, but then he's smiling a bit.

"I'm sure my eyes are puffy and red. If this were your made up reality, I'd be naked and flawless," he says cheekily. "So yes. The real world it is."

The relief I experience is insurmountable.

"Yeah right," I reply. He grins and then his eyes study my face.

"You're not going to go away, are you?" he asks, his grin dropping bit by bit and a worried look taking over.

I shake my head. "Not right now."

And that's all I can give him, and it's all I'm ever going to be able to give him, but his responding smile makes me sure that it's enough.

Chapter Text

As soon as questions are answered, more take their places. Almost as if there's a row with a certain number of slots somewhere inside my head that must always be filled. Questions about my family's death and Finnick's life and Finnick's feelings lived inside the small, dark slots for a very long time, and now that those have crawled out and scampered off, more are slinking in. Questions like: Am I allowed to kiss Finnick whenever I feel like it now? Are we something, even though technically we can never officially be anything? How will this change our friendship? And is he really certain that he cares as much as he says he does?

My mind is tripping over these questions as I snap a barrette into my hair. I am always wondering, always confused about something, but I can no longer determine whether that's something that was true when I was sane or if it's something that's due to my insanity. Perhaps both.

All I know is that it would be best if I am not allowed to kiss him whenever I feel like it, because I always feel like it. Kissing him was very different than I had always imagined in the way that instead of satisfying the urge that's been pestering me for a long time, it opened up a floodgate of emotions and now I feel I could kiss him a million times and it wouldn't be enough. If I could I would kiss him for every minute I wasn't with him, and then once I was done, I'd want to kiss him for every moment I was. It would never end, you see. Like my mind and my flashbacks and my different world. On and on and on and on and there are never any end credits, never any THE END pages. I will feel this way the rest of my life, quietly yearning for his lips on mine all the time, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

My fingers keep rising to touch my lips almost in disbelief, and I don't understand what I keep checking for. Perhaps a sign that I really did just kiss him, or the words he said to me tattooed where I can never lose them. Perhaps I'm looking to see if something about me has changed, because I feel different now. His confession left me warm and I still feel that way and things aren't as heavy currently. My mind is still a loop but when it starts curving around familiar, painful paths, my fingers are at my lips again, and then I'm smiling.

I meet Finnick in the kitchen when I'm dressed. He's gazing out the window when I enter, his posture relaxed and a smile on his face. I feel like jumping up and down in something akin to giddiness when I see him, and it's strange for me to have urges like that. I'm not used to it. I'm not used to having to control myself because for the longest time it was difficult to me to want anything at all, even to live. I'm sure it's still going to be that way, but right now the sight of him fills me with an affection so deep I am not sure what to do to free myself of it.

He turns around we stare at each other for a minute, and I'm smiling sheepishly and he almost looks shy and there are millions of insects trapped inside of my stomach, beating their wings frantically against my skin to get me to let them out. I think he has just as many questions as I do, and we're both watching the other to see if we can deduce enough answers to know what to do next.

Almost as if there's a magnet inside of me drawing me towards him, I'm walking down the now-familiar path to him. When I stop in front of him, I hold my hand out. His smile is soft as he slides his hand down into mine and grips it tightly.

"Dinner time?" I ask, because maybe it's okay to have questions.

He tugs on my hand and pulls me in, hugging me tightly.

"Dinner time," he affirms, his voice muffled against my hair. And then I feel like I'm drowning, because everything he does makes my heart swell until it's just too much. I wonder when things are going to stop being too much. I wonder if I will ever get used to feeling anything at all. I clutch him back tightly as if I can stamp out the feelings of attachment taking over me from the inside, but it only makes it worse because the tighter I hold him the more I am sure that I can never hold him as close as I want to.

"I have an idea," Finnick mumbles. He's not making a move to let go and I'm not either and I want to reach for him and tell him that he's going to have to do it or we will stay here forever. When I was locking away how I felt about him, I was sure it would be better to let it out, but now that it is, I'm overwhelmed by it. I don't know how to handle this. I've never felt like this about anyone or anything. It brings me back to a familiar question: is this due to my madness, or is it normal to feel this way? One day I'll ask Finnick.

"A good one, I hope?" I ask. I'm in a familiar position, with his neck at eye level, trying desperately not to kiss it. I still don't know if that's something I'm allowed to do, and my first instinct is still to repress the urge.

He pulls back a little, grinning down at me.

"Let's see how long it takes old Cupid two houses down to figure out anything is different."

Laughter boils up and spills from my lips and I'm giggling along with him. Oh, Mags. She's been trying for this since the day I met him. I would feel bad for teasing her, but I have a feeling it won't take her long to catch on to anything. Finnick's words have me feeling hopeful and full. I still don't know much, but he acknowledges that things are different at least somewhat. I have to believe that they are different for the best. I am terrified of scaring him off with how much I care about him, because it's so strong it scares me too, but when I meet his eyes again and I see the fond way he's gazing at me, I'm suddenly calm and content that maybe he wouldn't be that frightened at all. That maybe he feels for me a similar way. Maybe not as violent, because there's still a possibility I feel this way due to my madness, but strong.

"I'm betting she'll say something before dinner is over," I guess, and Finnick's arms are still around me, and I'm already dreading the moment I know I'm going to have to be parted from him.

Finnick doesn't let go of me, though. He simply steps to the side and wraps his arm around my shoulders, leading me with him to the door and out of the house.

"I'm betting you're right," he says, and he looks so pleased about that.

The walk to Mags' house is short. I hope she's not angry with us for being so late. I feel bad about making her wait, but it honestly wasn't even on my mind at the time.

Finnick stops me before I open the door.

He takes a deep breath and motions for me to do the same. I do and then he's nodding.

"Right. Let's give one of the most daring performances of our lives," he says in mock seriousness.

I feign a sober expression and nod my head slowly.

"I believe in you."

His fists clench and he seems to be unsure of something, but then his hands are on my shoulders and he's pressing a kiss to my cheek. It's no longer the same kiss as it used to be, because now all I want to do is turn my head until my lips meets his. He pulls back and winks.

"And I in you," he says solemnly.

He's already fighting back laughter and I'm practically jumping where I stand. I give Mags five minutes before she realizes something is off.

When we enter the kitchen, she's knitting over her clean plate. She raises her eyebrows when we enter, and she doesn't have to say a thing at all to articulate to us what she wants to say.

"Sorry, Mags!" I say quickly. Finnick's standing beside me but I still can't help but feel like everything I'm doing is screaming that I love love love him. Maybe just because my heart is screaming it so loudly inside of me I feel as if it's starting a riot. It thinks it's too much, too.

Finnick walks forward and takes a seat at the table beside Mags, where his now-cold plate of food is. It feels odd to see him walking forward and sitting, almost as if I'm outside of my body, but then I'm kicking myself because I should never feel that way. I should never feel that I am one with someone so much that seeing him without me strikes me as odd. Never ever ever ever. And certainly not now, when we have so much to lose and always will.

I force myself forward and I take my seat at the table, beside Mags and across from Finnick. Mags puts her knitting down, her eyes narrowing as she examines each of us. I make my eyes as unassuming as possible and I turn to gazing around the kitchen as if I'm seeing it for the first time and it's the most interesting thing. I hear Finnick laugh and he presses his foot to my calf under the table. I squirm away and then try to make it look like my suddenly movement was me trying to scratch my arm. I have to bite down on my lip to keep the laughter from exploding out of me.

And I absolutely cannot look at Finnick.

He stands abruptly, and Mags and I turn to look at him. He reaches across the table and grabs my plate and then his, walking over to heat them up. And just that has me squirming again because I want to kiss him again again again again, always. Somehow this touches me, him automatically thinking to heat up both our food as if we've been married for years.

It's too late when I realize I'm being way too transparent with my expressions.

I glance at Mags, and she's got a smug smile on her face. She lowers her eyes and picks her knitting back up, the smirk staying in place on her face.

Finnick sighs in defeat when he sees her. He sets my plate in front of me and then sits and puts his in front of him.

"Well, that happened a lot sooner than I thought it would," he observes.

Mags mumbles and I chip away at it in my mind until I'm left with her words:

"Speak for yourself," she grumbles.

I'm confused at first, but then I realize she's talking about Finnick and I, me and Finnick, us.

I'm smiling down at my plate, examining the meal as if it's fascinating, and I hear Finnick laugh.

"Oh, Mags. You're very bitter about missing your calling as a matchmaker, aren't you?" he teases.

She whacks him in the arm with her knitting needles, but she's smiling, too.

I'm trying to eat, but there's still a riot inside of me, and yet I feel more stable than I have ever felt post-Games. Even in my most lucid moments I've been able to feel the other world just lurking in the corner of my mind, but I can't feel or see it or sense it in any way at all. For a brief moment I allow myself to hope desperately that it's gone, but a moment is all I allow, because I know that's a pipe dream. It doesn't help me at all to keep wishing my madness anywhere.

When Finnick's legs stretch out a bit and he rests his feet beside mine, as if he hates going this long without touching me in some way, I'm tapping my fingers restlessly against the table because I am sure I'm going to yell or jump or something similarly insane. I run my fingers through my hair and meet Finnick's eyes, and he's smiling like I've never seen before. It makes me stop completely for a moment, because I want to examine this new smile and press it inside of me like you press a rare flower between the pages of a book. Have you ever seen someone smile in a way that can convey love? I have seen people's eyes convey love, I have seen people's words convey it, and I have seen people's actions convey it, but never have I seen a simple smile say so much. I am sure I am going to die, my heart is going to burst into a thousand pieces like those pieces of china I shattered at my house, and it's going to be bloody and awful but also a relief.

Mags hums in an almost boastful way, raising her eyebrows and picking her knitting back up. She mumbles something once more, and when I decipher it, I'm laughing loudly, because I love Mags so.

"Didn't I tell you so? I did. A million times."

Her words have thousands of meanings for me, but they seem to mean just one thing to Finnick. He reaches over and sets a hand on her shoulder, looking at her sincerely but also teasingly.

"I am very sorry I doubted you," he says.

She scoffs. It's almost easier to understand her when she's indignant.

"Never doubted me! You knew I was right! Just wouldn't listen." She makes another stitch. "Men."

Finnick fights back a smile, forcing a contrite expression onto his face.

"I'm truly sorry, Mags."

But then we're all laughing because we know he isn't, and really there's no reason for him to be.

We eat the rest of the meal in a comfortable ease, chatting about our days and our plans for the rest of the week, but my mind is consumed. Not by flashbacks or another world though. It's consumed by a series of thoughts that all center around this idea: there are many extremes. I have felt sorrow so deep and so aching that I wanted to scream and scream and scream, because it was strangling me. I have felt rage so deep and so aching that I wanted to scream and scream and scream, because it was suffocating me. But I have never felt happiness so deep and so aching that I want to scream and scream and scream, because it's drowning me. I never knew it was even possible. I thought emotions this strong were reserved for the terrible things, the things that assault your mind when you're just about to fall asleep at night. The things you lock away inside of yourself and try to hide from every moment of every day, but can't because they are the strongest things you feel. I never knew this. No one ever told me. Perhaps because no one else feels it the same way I do, but sometimes when Finnick's foot nudges mine, I think maybe that's not quite true.

And so I consider it breaking the surface and gasping for air when I take Finnick's hand again once we're sitting in Mags' living room. It's okay, I keep telling myself, if it's lifesaving.

Mags turns on the television and we watch some Capitol show about fashion that's absolutely ridiculous, making snarky comments every few minutes. Finnick pulls his hand out of mine halfway through, turning my hand over and unfurling my fingers and tracing the lines on my hand idly, as if he's trying halfheartedly to tell the future. And I'm lost in a daze that feels a lot like drifting between worlds but also completely different. I'm anchored steadily to this reality, but things feel hazier than normal, lovelier than normal. I love him for that. I love him for a lot of reasons.

Mags yawns loudly when the show is over, even though it's only eight and she doesn't normally go to bed until ten. She makes a show of gathering up her knitting and shoving her feet into her slippers.

"Tired!" she exclaims. "Night!"

She's grinning and humming to herself as she walks out of the living room and down the hallway. She slams her bedroom door and Finnick and I immediately burst into laughter.

"Oh man," he says, shaking his head in amusement, "Why did I just get see a snapshot of the rest of our lives?"

I laugh along with him, but the world is sideways suddenly, because I like it when Finnick says the rest of our lives. I like the idea of that, of being with him for as long as possible. I know somewhere in me I shouldn't feel like that's possible, because in all honestly it's probably not, but I do, I do, I do. I am irrational and foolish suddenly, smiling with my hand in his, like he's never going to let go. He is though, and I'm going to have to let him, but I'm not thinking about that now, I'm not not not not not.

"I get this feeling she's trying to tell us something."

Finnick knocks his shoulder into mine playfully.

"Really? I thought she was just tired."

"Ha, ha," I say sarcastically, but I'm still grinning, and he is too.

I feel trapped inside my skin as we walk the path back to my house. Finnick's telling me about the time he woke up to five starfish in his bed (thanks to a friend from school) and the way he laughs while he's telling it, as if it still cracks him up so much he has trouble telling the tale, has me beaming so hugely my face actually hurts.

We stop outside my door and my happiness is punctured by a certainty that I don't want to be alone. Finnick's looking at me, and the white light from the moon casts lovely shadows on his face. His eyes are studying mine, looking for something that I'm not sure I would even know how to express if he were to ask me. I'm not in control of myself anymore, there's something inside of me that's taken over, and I don't care, I'm going to let it, because oh, it's so much nicer than what's normally in control of my mind. It's much more natural, much gentler in nature, even though I feel like it's eating me alive. And I understand then, what he told me before, about how he loves me so much it's eating him alive. In that moment I'm certain that even if I do feel this way because I'm mad, he's mad too. And when someone else shares your madness, it's not really madness at all.

"Don't go," I find myself saying softly. His answering smile is one of contentment. He places his fingers on my chin and gazes down at me.

"I'm not. I already told you that."

Don't kiss him, don't kiss him, don't kiss him

Don't

Kiss

Him.

I smile back and clasp my hands behind my back because I don't trust them, I don't trust myself, I don't trust my mouth.

I do trust Finnick, though, so I believe him when he says that.

He stays and we stay up late drinking tea and talking. I quickly decide my favorite thing is listening to Finnick tell stories from when he was a little boy, because he was such an adorable child. One of my favorite stories is one that goes like this: The summer Finnick turned seven, he felt something needed to be done about all the stray cats and kittens roaming around District 4, so he decided to start an animal shelter under his bed. He'd swipe a fish here and there while him and his mother were fishing and smuggle it back for the cats. He named every single one of them, he said, but of course they were all hilarious names like Poseidon and Moon and Starfish. He'd let them out of the window every morning, but they'd always come back at night. Until his mother found out, that is.

I'm trying my hardest not to laugh at the mental image of a tiny Finnick hiding cats under his shirt and nudging them under his bed, where five more are waiting, their eyes lit up in the dark, but it's useless. I'm hunched over laughing and Finnick's hand is warm on my back. He's laughing, too.

"Hey, it broke my heart when my mom made me let those cats go! She nailed my window shut!" he says defensively.

I bury my face in my hands and take a deep breath, gaining control over the laughter and sitting back up, turning to Finnick. It's easy to get sadness back in my eyes.

"I'm truly sorry, Finn," I say.

But then his lips are twitching and I'm laughing again.

"You should start an animal shelter here. You can call it Finn's Felines," I say, and then I'm hunched over again.

He pokes at my stomach, and I jerk away from his hand, because the last thing I need right now is for Finnick to recall that I'm ticklish. I'm having enough time controlling the urge to laugh as it is.

"Don't act like you don't have a soft spot for animals! I bet you hid cats yourself. We could call the shelter Finn's Feline and Annie's Animals." He jabs at my side again.

I'm remembering a memory then, though. Two actually. The first when I was five and I passed that injured cat by the bakery and I held onto it and cried. The second when Cora told me about that moment, and how it broke her heart, the day of the Reaping. I wonder then if maybe Finnick took that cat in a few weeks later. Maybe it was the one he named Poseidon. I love the idea of that, that Finnick rescued the broken animal I saw and fed it stolen fish until it was well again. And I can cling to that idea until the sorrow those memories washed over me swirls down the drain.

"Are you still here?" he questions. I can feel his worried gaze on me, and I realize I've been quiet longer than I thought, locked inside my mind, wondering what happened to that cat I held in my lap and let bleed on my white dress.

I look back up at him and shake my head, trying to clear it fully again. That doesn't work, but his eyes do.

"Finn's Felines and Annie's Animals it is," I affirm, and he's grinning again.

It's midnight before I can feel the tiredness sweeping over me. I'm mentally exhausted more than anything, certain I've held on longer than I ever thought I could, and positive my mind will be going under soon.

I drift off against Finnick's shoulder, unsure whether I'm hovering some place between consciousness and sleep or if I'm hovering somewhere between one reality and the next. They feel extraordinarily alike, sometimes.

"Bedtime, I think," Finnick says. I pull myself slowly from the clutches of sleep or my mind, and I take his hand as he helps me stand up. I think he's going to leave, but he walks up with me like he always did at Mags house.

He helps me carry my things to the guest room, and then I disappear into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I'm thinking about the toothpaste in the bathroom as I walk back to the room. It's bubble gum flavored. Was it Arnav who liked that so much, or Cora? I can't remember, but I like it, too, because they did.

Finnick's examining a framed photo on the wall when I enter the room. I walk over and join him, peering up at it. It's the family photo the put in my dad's casket, the last one we took before my mother died.

Finnick pulls my hair behind my shoulders. His hand is warm.

"You look like her," he tells me.

My eyes examine her face, because he's wrong, she's much more beautiful than I am. My mother was gorgeous inside and out. She would have loved Finnick. I'm sure of that then. They would have gotten on so well. My heart aches for the things I will never have, the memories I'll never share with her.

He takes my hand and gently pulls me away from the picture, and the minute I'm not looking at it, I'm inhaling deeply like I had stopped breathing. Maybe I had.

He tucks me in like he did at Mags. I'm glad that hasn't changed. A thought hits me, and it leaves me scared. I need him here, to take care of me. I need him in general, more than I've ever needed anyone. He keeps me in this world.

"Will you be all right here alone?" he asks.

His eyelashes frame his eyes so beautifully. I wish he could see himself the way I see him.

I smooth my hands over the covers and nod, but I don't meet his eyes, because I don't want to lie to him. I have no idea if I will or not. I have no idea what is going to happen to my mind once he's gone. I never do.

He sits down on the edge of the bed.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to, you know," he tells me. "No one expects you to do this alone."

I have my hands clenched so tightly my fingernails are digging into my palms, but it's still not enough, and I'm reaching up and brushing his cheek with my fingers. Our gaze is concrete then, like it was earlier today.

"I do," I say honestly.

He gently takes my hand and brings it to his mouth and kisses it, his eyes deep and never-ending with emotion that I feel too.

"You're too hard on yourself," he complains.

I smile.

"And you're too easy on me." 

He takes my hand into his hand and holds it.

"Not true," he argues.

I roll my eyes. "So true."

He squeezes my fingers gently and then lets my hand drop back to the bed. He stands up.

"I'm just next door. I'll be there if you need anything." He turns and adjusts the flowers in the vase, swallowing. He turns back to look at me. "I love you."

And I'm spinning and full again, trying to figure out how to handle this. I have a feeling that no matter how many times he says those words to me, I'm going to have a brief feeling of disbelief. I somehow hope that is the case, because the happiness I feel after the shock is so nice.

"I love you, too," I answer. It's the truest thing I've ever said.

I can't think of another word for the expression on his face but delight.

He's walking out the room when I stop him again.

"Actually, there's one thing," I say.

He spins back around, his eyes patient and true and good, and I'm extending my hand. He complies, walking back over to the edge of the bed. He takes my hand back in his.

"Can I kiss you goodnight?" I ask him, suddenly feeling the shyness I didn't have the energy or time to allow myself to feel the last time I asked.

He smiles, his eyes lighting up with it, and reaches forward to grasp my face in his hands.

"That's one thing you never have to ask or doubt, Annie. For you, the answer is always yes."

I have a feeling I'm always going to want to ask, though, because he hasn't had a say in matters like these before and I don't ever want it to be like that for him.

He's lowering his face, but I lift myself up by my hands to meet him halfway, because I can't get myself to wait long enough for his face to meet mine. A tingling spreads from my lips all the way to my toes the minute his lips touch mine, and both of our mouths curve up in a smile. He kisses me once, slowly and gently, and then two more times, and I'm certain he's never going to stop, and that's completely okay by me.

He rests his forehead against mine when he pulls away, and I lean forward again and kiss him myself.

"Goodnight, Finnick," I tell him when I pull back. "Thank you for the kiss."

He laughs loudly, pulling me into a tight and sudden hug.

"You're ridiculous," he tells me between laughter, and I giggle along with him, because suddenly the word "ridiculous" is the highest compliment he could ever give me. It sounds as such when it comes off his lips.

He lets me fall back on the bed and I sigh.

"Don't I know," I reply.

I'm in the park in District 4 very quickly after he leaves.

My mom's holding my hand and chattering about the roses in bloom.

"Mom, I'm in love, and I don't know what to do about it," I'm telling her.

She stops walking and turns to me, her face sunny and alive.

"You always were my sweetest baby," she tells me, tucking my hair behind my ear. "There's only one thing you can do: hold on for as long as you can, and be thankful that you are, because a lot of people do awful things for the chance to feel in love."

She pulls us toward a bush of red roses, and she snaps one off. She admires it and then hands it to me, and it's pretty, but the thorns pierce my skin painfully. I watch a bead of blood roll off and splatter onto the sidewalk.

"But be careful," she says. "Because no matter how beautiful it is, it can hurt you worse than you've ever been hurt."

My mother always was practical.

The days keep passing, and they are much nicer than they ever were. I still slip away, and it's still hard every day to be without my family, and sometimes the flashbacks are so bad I'm ripping at my skin again, but smiling is easy for once. The affection always raging inside of me makes sure of that.

The Victory Tour gets closer and closer with every day I cross off the calendar, so I just rip it off the wall one morning and throw it into the fireplace.

That doesn't stop anything, though, as much as I try to convince myself it does. Just like no matter how much I tell myself my family will eventually come back, they don't. Just like no matter how hard I hold onto hope that I'll go back to the way I was before the Games one day, I won't. But I don't have to try to convince myself that Finnick and Mags love me, because I never doubt it at all. Just like I know they don't have to doubt that I love them back.

I'm sitting in Finnick's kitchen, sorting through his mail for him, when something else happens to make me dread the Tour even more.

Finnick gets hundreds of letters from admirers in the Capitol weekly, and a week ago he admitted to me that he hates seeing them. The first time I entered his house, he had a trashcan under the mail slot in the door, and it was so full of letters that they were spilling over and filling the floor. His reluctance to touch them broke my heart.

He doesn't say it, but I think seeing the names of the people he's had to do things with makes him flashback to it.

If there's one thing I can empathize with, it's being harassed by flashbacks to damaging memories, so I decide to take care of the triggers for him.

I quickly learn there are three types of letters. There are the letters he gets from the people in the Capitol who think they are in love with him, there are the letters from the people who purchase him and like to write in heavy print exactly what they want to do to him and stick that letter inside almost translucent envelopes that remind me of trashy lingerie, and then there are the actual letters, the ones from friends or officials. I almost cry the first day I sort through it, because that third stack is much smaller than it should be, and the first two are overwhelming, with the second being the largest.

I am surprised the first time I sort through it how almost jealous I feel when I see the first type of letters. I never open them, but the hearts and declarations of love penciled in on the envelopes make my blood boil. I have never been a jealous person, ever, period. And there is absolutely no reason to be jealous of those women, because Finnick despises them, and he loves me. I realize after pondering over what I'm feeling for a while that I'm not jealous, I'm territorial, which is even worse in my opinion. I am careful to never let it show, because I hate it. I never wanted to love someone so much I thought of myself as theirs and them as mine. It seems wrong, but more and more that's what I'm feeling like.

No matter how irritated the first make me, the second are the worst. I try to throw them away as quickly as possible, but some of the things I see make me nauseous. The things these people write about are not driven by love for Finnick, they're driven by things I will never understand, because I could never get how you could treat someone like an object.

I'm currently two days into sorting through the mail, and it's only two thirds gone. Finnick sits beside me, but he doesn't ever look at the letters. He simply fiddles with my hair and talks about nice things, sometimes stopping long enough to read a letter I determine was written by a friend.

I'm clutching a thick envelope in my hands, and the woman has written a post script on the outside that she's cancelled her vacation to afford him again, and I'm sick. Finnick notices it when my back goes rigid and he turns to look at what's in my hand, but I'm hiding it under the table.

"What's wrong?" he asks me.

I shake my head and I'm pushing the chair back, walking to the stove. I turn the burner on and wait until the coils are red, and then I'm pressing the edge of the letter to it. It catches fire almost immediately and I hold it in my hands, letting the flames devour it, until the heat is licking painfully at my skin. I cross to the sink and drop it in, flinging the handle up and letting the water extinguish the remains. They lie there, a nasty clump of soaked, black ash, and I feel Finnick's hand on my back. My breathing evens out and I close my mind and senses by locking my hands over my ears and shutting my eyes so I can only focus on the warmth of his palm.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he reminds me. He keeps telling me this, but doesn't he get it? I do have to, because I can't stand to think of him here, trying desperately not to look at these letters, trying not to let the memories pull at the careful knots he's made in his mind, the knots that keep him together.

I turn around and wrap my arms around his middle, clutching him against me.

"It just makes me so mad," I hiss.

He kisses the top of my head, and I can feel his frown.

"Did that make you feel better?" he asks, his arm lifting off me to gesture at the sink.

I think about the way the flames ate at the words, and I nod against him.

He pulls back and nods decidedly.

"Then meet me in the living room."

He leaves, and I fling the pile of letters into a bag. I enter the living room, and the fire is going. Winter's on our heels so it feels nice.

I sit in front of the fire and fling letter after letter into it, and it feels much better than just throwing them into a trash bag. Finnick sits behind me, his fingers running through my hair one moment and then pausing to trace down my spine the next. It keeps me calm when I'm sure I'm going to find a way to go to the Capitol and hunt down every single person who wrote these things to my Finnick.

I grimace internally immediately, because I've done it again. I've called him mine. I feel so horrible when I do that, like I'm claiming ownership over him just like Snow does.

The bubbly feeling his fingers on my skin brings slowly breaks down my rage. I'm smiling softly and he's reciting hilariously awful made up poems, his voice gentle and sweet.

"I know a girl from the sea/she fills me up with glee/her laugh is so pretty/she's cuter than a kitty."

I groan, but my smile has grown into a full out grin, and Finnick's laughing into my ear, his fingers dancing on the back of my neck.

"Better?" He questions. "If not, I have plenty more poems about you I can recite."

I tip my head back and kiss his jaw. This has become a joke between us. He recites cheesy poems to make me smile when I'm upset, and I joke like they're horrible, but we both know they make happiness soar inside of me. When I'm disappearing into my own head, sometimes these poems can pull me out almost immediately.

"No, no— no need for that, I'm better," I say quickly, pretending to be horrified by the idea of sitting through another one. He chuckles.

I'm about to fling a letter into the fire when I notice who it's from.

I turn around immediately and I'm frowning when I hand it to Finn.

He frowns, too, clutching President Snow's letter in his hand like it's deadly.

He opens it and pulls out the crisp white sheet of paper, his eyes scanning it. I keep my eyes on his face, and he's trying incredibly hard to not let anything show, but I can see it fall a tiny bit with each line he reads.

He folds it tightly and then crosses over to the fire, flinging it in himself. He stands there and watches it burn, and I'm standing and sliding my fingers over his shoulder and shoulder blades, trying to figure out how to help him with this, because I need to.

He turns around when it's burned. His eyes are sad, but he still smiles when he sees me, and it even leaks into his eyes, and I love him love him love him.

"Can I kiss—"

Then his lips are on mine, breaking off my question that I still find myself asking every now and then, especially in moments like these when the fact that he doesn't get asked that question normally is fresh on our minds.

His lips move almost reverently against mine, and I'm clutching him tightly to me, because he's never kissed me like this before. We share small kisses before he leaves my house every night, and sometimes during the day, but never like this.

My head is spinning widely as I kiss him back the way he's kissing me, and I have to hold him even closer because I'm sure I'm going to drift away and I don't want to. He pulls away after a few extended moments and then presses a small kiss to my lips, my cheek, my nose. I can feel his love gliding over my skin and mind, soft like silk but much warmer.

"You are the only one who can kiss me, Annie," he whispers into my hair. "You're the only one I want to kiss me. I am yours."

It's with those words that I know Snow's going to make him meet with clients during the Victory Tour.

The way he tells me he's mine doesn't make it sound like it's a dirty, horrid thing. He makes it sound exactly the way I always think of it: like we're a unit. And still I worry about his words.

I lock eyes with him.

"You don't belong to anyone, Finnick," I say gently. Because he doesn't. Because he is not an object to be sold and bought.

Oddly, he smiles.

"I chose to belong to you, Ann. Surely you know that? Surely you can see the difference?"

The sure look in his eyes is what helps me to make the distinction between being treated like someone bought and sold to being treated as an indispensable part of someone. He's as much me and as much mine as my heart, but somehow more vital, and I know he feels the same way about me.

"Only if you know I feel the same way," I finally reply.

He runs a finger down the length of my nose.

"Like I know the sea." 

He tells me later that night that Snow has him seeing five people in the Capitol. All in one night.

I'm drifting away before he even finishes saying it.

Cora's holding me as I cry, but I don't know why I am.

"It's okay, Shell," she coos. "I'm sure the cat will be fine."

And then I'm furious and I'm yanking myself out of her arms and hurtling a glass at the wall.

"This isn't about the damn cat!" I shriek.

She is shocked and pale, staring at me like she doesn't know me, but that's okay because I don't know myself either.

She hesitantly approaches me again, settling her hand on top of mine.

"What in the world is wrong, then?" she asks.

"Mom was right," I gasp through sobs. "Love hurts."

Every lesson I ever have to learn hurts me deeply. You'd think I'd have learned to stop learning, by now.

Finnick's apologizing when I come back to him, but I won't let him.

"I needed to know," I assure him. "Thank you for trusting me."

He starts to say something, but then stops, his air gushing out, sounding empty and sad.

"Always," he says, almost appearing startled.

I smile at him and stroke over the back of his hand that's in mine with my thumb.

"Then you better let me help you when we're on the Tour," I mutter. "I don't care how many times I drift off. I can't control that. But I can control what I say and do here, and I'm saying I want to be there for you, and I don't care what it takes."

I can never make up to him all he's done for me. I can never help him as much or make him as happy as he has made me. But that's simply because I need him more than he needs me, plain and simple. I'm not going to let him suffer alone just because he wants to protect me.

"I will," he says, but his eyes drop from mine before he finishes saying it.

This is the only time he ever lies to me.

Chapter Text

In the days leading up to the Victory Tour, President Snow calls Finnick.

I sit anxiously for what feels like an hour while they talk on the phone in the other room, worried that Snow's putting more people on Finnick's list, but when Finnick returns he simply informs me that Snow called for the purpose of expressing his displeasure should anyone find out Finnick and I are in love.

I don't have the words to express my displeasure that Snow knows about that in the first place.

We sit in front of the fire and try to joke about how hilarious it's going to be to pretend we're nothing but victor and mentor.

Finnick says it's going to be the hoax of the century, and after he laughs, he turns away and swallows like he's got something stuck in his throat.

I add that we're going to have to do a lot better than we did when trying to tease Mags, and when I laugh I can't stop because I know if I do I'll cry.

But when the time actually comes to act as if we mean nothing to each other, it's not funny at all.

We try to practice it two days before the Tour starts, but we only make it two hours because I slip up and kiss Finnick's cheek without even thinking about it. We try again, but an hour later Finnick's pulling me into the circle of his arms while we watch television. We keep attempting it over those two days, trying our best to reverse our relationship to how it was when we were on the train for the very first time, but it can't be done. That casual friendship has been painted over by consuming love and no matter how intently I try to forget that fact, it doesn't work. I find it hard to sleep at night if I haven't kissed him goodnight, and he is used to holding my hand when we walk. We do things automatically that friends just don't do, like meet eyes over dinner and keep them locked long enough to have silent conversations, or press a kiss to the other's palm randomly during breakfast, or hold each other tightly for no reason other than to simply hold each other. Friends don't do that, but lovers do, and by the time the train arrives, we decide the only way we're going to convince anyone of anything is if we limit all contact between us completely.

I'm not used to being without him. That much is painfully clear by how quickly my condition deteriorates. It's obvious how sane he keeps me once I'm without him. I try so very hard to hide it from everyone, but I'm floating away in my own world half of the day. Finnick glances at me during dinner after I've jerked back to reality, and his eyes hold agony and worry. I have to breathe deeply to keep from crying when I see him, anxious and struggling with the knowledge of how awful the Capitol is going to be, because I can't do anymore to help him than he can to help me. We more than anything want to comfort each other, but Snow has taken that from us as well.

I'm not used to talking to people outside of my small family, either. When I'm with Finnick and Mags I feel functional. I feel at least halfway sane. They know me. They know what to do when I have a flashback and start seeing things that aren't real. They know what to do when I start clawing at my arms. They know what to do when I become abruptly catatonic. They know what to do when I'm drifting away into my own world. They understand my talking patterns and when I'm too mentally exhausted to do anything at all.

No one else knows any of this, though, and so I quickly become The Mad Girl once more. When I'm with anyone else, I am a mess. I say things that result in odd looks from people, I laugh loudly at jokes that were uttered ten minutes earlier, I disappear for at least twenty minute intervals at a time and come back to angry people who think I've just stopped listening to them. No one knows how to talk to me, and I don't know how to talk to them. Everything I say is wrong, but it's also wrong when I don't say anything at all.

I'm scolded for twenty minutes after we've left District 12 by Annora Bellamy, who doesn't seem to understand exactly what being mad is or what it means.

She gives me a list of things I absolutely must not do anymore, because after the trainwreck 12 was, she says she might not be able to show her face there ever again. In her defense, it was rather awful. I made it halfway through the speech the Capitol provided for me in front of the crowd, and then I found myself dazed and I slipped away for a few long, impossible to forget moments, leaving me standing blank and silent in front of the confused crowd for at least three minutes. Finnick had to come on stage and gently grasp my shoulders. His touch brought me back, but then he was gone, and I stumbled through the rest of the speech, feeling crazy once again.

Here are the things I am absolutely not allowed to do while on the Victory Tour, as instructed by Annora Bellamy:

One: Blame the Capitol for any of my "personal issues and/or tragedies".

Two: Act ungracious about my victory.

Three: Ignore people when they are talking to me.

Four: Start crying in front of people.

Five: Refuse to dance with someone.

She doesn't get that I'm not here anymore when I go blank. She thinks I'm just refusing to talk to people, angry about the Games, angry about winning. She tells me to toughen up when I break down after receiving the plaque in 11, and gives me a speech on my poor manners when the shaking of the train as it switches tracks causes me to have a flashback that results in me curling up on the floor, sick and crying.

Finnick isn't around when she says these things, and I never tell him. Unfortunately, he finds out somehow while I'm in prep on our way to District 9.

Mauve and I ignore his raised voice as he yells at Annora. She zips up the back of my dress. She's still frightened of me, especially when I disappear, but she's benevolent enough.

She's running a tube of lipstick over my lips when she says something for the first time today.

"It's odd to hear him yelling at her like that," she observes.

I simply stare at her, unable to say anything due to the makeup being applied to my mouth, and unwilling enough even if I were able.

She continues, sticking the cap back on the lipstick and then touching it up with a pencil of the same shade.

"He defends you like you mean quite a lot to him, but you two haven't been talking at all this trip. Did something happen?"

Did something happen? Yes, as a matter of fact, it did. Something wonderful. He fell in love with me and I with him, and we made each other happy, but now we're back here where we can't even be around each other much without making people suspicious because we're apparently transparent when it comes to how we feel about each other.

I shrug noncommittally, hoping she'll think I'm indifferent to it all, because I have no idea what to say even if I had the desire to say something in the first place.

She sweeps my hair up into a complicated up-do and when she holds a mirror in front of me, I can only stare at the red on my lips. I hate them, and I hate my hair. I will always hate my hair up, and I will always hate any color that close to blood, unless it's on flowers.

I'm feeling overheated and liable to pass out any minute, seeing blood leaking down the side of my face, and then blood dripping off the silver blade of Twine's knife, and then that first drop of blood sliding down Chiron's neck, when Finnick shoves the door open and walks in. Annora's behind him, protesting loudly about how it's rude to just barge into a lady's room when she's getting ready, but Finnick has that look in his eyes that makes me sure he isn't hearing anything she's saying.

Mauve stares expectantly at him, her arms full of hair supplies.

"Yes?" she asks.

Finnick's eyes meet mine, and when I look back at the mirror, there's no blood at all. Just the red lipstick.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it a few seconds later, as if he's rethinking what he was going to say.

"I just wanted to see how things were coming along," he finally says, but he doesn't meet anyone's eyes, so that's not quite the truth at all.

I'm pressing my nails into my palms, because I want to throw my arms around his neck so badly. I miss him terribly. It's almost worse to see him every day when I can't really talk or touch him than it would be to not see him at all.

I look down at my feet, and I'm feeling myself slipping away again. I'm not even as angry about my frequent absences because there isn't much cause to stay put in this reality anyway. I let the other take me as often as it wants.

I can hear seagulls mixing with the sound of Mauve's voice, and then fingertips are on my neck. A thrill shoots through me and then the seagulls are gone and I'm turning to see Finnick standing beside me. I'm trying to read what he's doing, because this is dangerous dangerous dangerous, and I've already got a blush working its way up my cheeks, and his fingertips are sliding up to the base of my neck. He works his fingers into my hair, carefully undoing the complicated bed of braids and knots Mauve created.

"What are you doing?" she demands.

Finnick ignores her, gently pulling free the rubber bands and bobby pins and clips, sliding his fingers through my hair until it's hanging down my back like it always does.

He keeps his hand on my back underneath my hair when he replies.

"She likes her hair down, not up."

He pulls his hand from my back and leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

I start crying five minutes later, and Mauve leaves the room, unable to handle either of us as she mumbles under her breath as she departs.

I can't handle myself either.

I disappear completely in District 8.

I collapse on the stage in 7.

Finnick slips into my room in the middle of the night on the way to 6 and shakes me awake.

I'm pulled from my normal dream of tossing waves and a feeling of desperation by hands I immediately know are Finnick's. I keep my eyes shut and lie there, trying to determine which reality I'm currently in, because it's always harder when I'm tired to tell what's real and what's not.

I finally open my eyes after I admit to myself that there's honestly no way to know for sure. Finnick's hands are warm, but they are warm in every reality.

He's perched on the edge of my bed, a quiet fury burning in his eyes. This softens to something much kinder when he meets my eyes.

"Real world or fake?" I whisper immediately, because if this is the fake one, I don't want any part of it at all. I can't stand the idea of being with Finnick in the fake reality only to have to crawl back into the real one eventually and accept that it never happened.

He sets a hand on my cheek and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up automatically. He smiles back and caresses my cheek with his thumb.

"Real," he affirms quietly.

My heart is aching as I stare up at his eyes and I'm crying only a few moments later.

He scoots over beside me and lies down, pulling me against him. He strokes my hair back and cradles my head to his chest and I miss him miss him miss him miss him. I hate this. I hate having to hide that I love him. I hate having to hide that he loves me too. I hate having to pretend the thing that makes me the happiest never happened at all. I hate having to pretend that even the idea of it is ridiculous. I hate having to see that he needs someone to talk to, knowing I can't help him at all. I hate the way I'm insane insane insane without him, always leaving my body and making everyone else uncomfortable. I hate that I'm The Mad Girl again and he's the sex god of Panem. I want to be Annie and Finnick.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't be there for you tonight," he's whispering painfully into my hair.

I shake my head against his chest, because this isn't his fault and he can't blame himself, and he's here now anyway. I try to tell him that, but it comes out different than how I wanted.

"I want to be Annie and Finnick again," I plead quietly. I hug him tighter to me, because there is an emptiness inside of my chest that I feel will never be filled by anything but him, but I am certain I can never get him close enough to fill it. The train and the districts leave me feeling hopeless like that, like I will always be The Mad Girl and those few weeks of contentment never happened. I am treated the same exact way I was treated before, because really I haven't improved as much as I thought I had. Without Finnick's voice and touch, I'm the shaking girl they pulled out of the water again. I'm bordering on either a panic attack or a flashback then, because what if those months really never did happen? How can I prove they did? Or even worse, what if all the memories I do have of happy times are just memories that occurred in another fake reality? I could have two fake realities and one real one, and maybe the Tour is it. The real one might be a reality where Finnick has never really met me before and he doesn't love me and I'm as crazy as they think I am and my family is dead but it's my fault, I did it, and there is blood on my skin that never washes off no matter how much I try.

He's skimming his hands up and down my back, and slowly I'm relaxing and my mind is sorting through the panic-induced thoughts that are surging over me. No, that wouldn't make any sense; because if the life I'm living on this Tour is real, what was I doing the six months before it? I have no memories of a life filled with an indifferent Finnick, and I couldn't have been locked away in my own realities every second of every day. I know because I tried very hard when I first came out of the arena to do just that.

"We are always Annie and Finnick," he reassures me. He lightly kisses the crown of my head, his hands stilling against the middle of my back.

"It doesn't feel like it. I feel like The Mad Girl again. Because I am. Doesn't matter how much you say I'm not. I am." I try to move closer again, because I'm remembering suddenly that he's going to have to leave very soon, maybe even within the hour, and then we're going to have to go back to pretending we don't care about each other. But it's just not possible. I want again to fall into him and stay with him always.

He pulls back a bit so he can look down at me. I glance up and meet his eyes and he looks so sad and I hate it, hate it, hate it. Hate it like I hated Twine. Hate it like I hate Snow. Hate it like I hate those people in the Capitol who put their hands all over him.

"Am I just the Capitol's whore?" he demands lightly.

I'm shaking when I reply.

"No!" I say, sadness clogging up my throat and making it difficult to continue. "You never are."

He threads his fingers into my hair at the base of my neck and stares at me seriously, intently.

"And you are never the Capitol's mad girl. It doesn't matter who we pretend to be. It's just pretending. You are my Annie always, whether I'm with you or not, whether you're in this world or not. Just like I am always your Finnick, no matter whose bed I'm in."

He presses an almost urgent kiss to my forehead, and I know then he's going to have to leave very soon.

"This is harder than I thought," I tell him.

He presses his forehead against mine and his eyes shut. I stare at his closed eyelids, the tired, dark halfmoons under them, and I wish I could lock my arms around him tighter tighter tighter and take him back into my other reality with me. I wish we could both slip away and then it wouldn't matter what they want of us here, because we won't be here, we'll be gone and we can eat lunch under the tree in the park with my mother and my father and my siblings and Finnick's mother and Mags and we can get a cat and maybe one day have a baby and all the while I can run down the streets screaming at the top of my lungs that I love Finnick Odair if I want to because I am allowed to. I can run around screaming that my name is Annie Cresta because it is there. Because no one sees me and thinks I'm mad, no one treats me like I'm mentally incompetent, and no one treats Finnick like he's a slave.

"It is," he finally agrees. His breath against my lips makes me want to kiss him, and he must be thinking the same, because then he is kissing me, my lips and the corners of my mouth and my nose and my cheeks and my jaw.

He's resting his cheek back on the top of my head a few moments later.

"It's so much different kissing someone you love than someone you don't," he mutters.

I'm tracing a finger down the back of his neck, taking interest in the way his spine feels, thinking about how important these few bones right under my hand are.

"It's better?" I guess.

"Infinitely," he says. One of my favorite things will always be how warm his breath feels when he's got his face resting on my head. It warms me to my toes.

"When do you have to leave?" I ask him, the words getting quieter and quieter as the sentence leaves my mouth, because I don't want him to leave at all.

"A few minutes," he mumbles into my hair. "But before I go, I have another poem for you."

I laugh into his shirt, the pressure on my heart lessening considerably.

"A thousand miles and I still haven't escaped those," I tease.

He laughs, too, and it's lovely and wonderful and good.

"Let me tell you something right now, Cresta. You never will," he promises.

"Ooh, last name usage. How serious," I breathe.

He lifts his head and pulls back so he can look down at me once more. He's smirking and it makes my heart flutter.

"Well, my poetry is very serious business," he explains. 

I nod somberly. "Indeed."

He's tucking my hair back behind my ears and his eyes are roaming over my face, as if he's forgotten what I look like in the brief time I've been hiding against him.

"You haven't smiled in a while/ I want to die when you cry," he starts, his normally teasing voice he uses when he recites his improvisational poetry strangely lacking and morphing into something much more honest. "It's sunny when you're here, my dear/ it's always summer when you're near/ but it's winter now and I'm not sure how/ I'm not quite right when you're gone."

When I kiss him, I'm not sure whether his cheek is wet from my tears or if he's crying too.

I curl into a ball under the covers after he leaves, and then I'm slipping away, because I'm not quite right when he's gone, either.

Cora and I are walking through our father's store.

She's eying a rowdy looking group of preteens, as if she's worried they're going to steal something. I'm crying into my hands.

Cora turns around to look at me, and she frowns.

"Shell, I am so worried about you lately. These past six days all you've done is cry," she pats my back. "I wish you would talk to me about it."

I gasp for air and take my hands off my mouth, wiping at my tears.

"I'm in too deep, Cora," I sob. "I love and need someone so much I can hardly stand it sometimes. And the worst thing is that he loves and needs me, too."

She's confused and lackadaisically patting my shoulder.

"How is that a bad thing, Annie?" she questions. "Does he love and need you as much as do him?"

Sobs are wracking my spine and I'm falling down to the floor, dizzy and sick and upset for so many reasons that I can't name.

"He loves me as much, but he will never need me as much, because I've lost my mind, and this is horrible, Cora, and I don't know what to do!"

I'm crying so hard I'm not making any sound at all, and it's those awful, broken sounds that I've heard before, but I can't remember where right now, I can't remember what occasion that was, and no matter how hard I try to think of it, it's always just out of my grasps.

Cora sinks down beside me. I can see her sparkly white sandals and pink toenails from between my fingers, and I lower my hands and find myself just staring at them, my sobs slowing to gasps. I remember another time she had those sandals on, but she was wearing her wedding dress, too, and she was lying down in a coffin…but no, I don't know where I got that memory from, because my sister is right in front of me. She's always in reach when I need her.

"I repeat: how is it bad that you love someone who loves you back?" she inquires.

I'm clutching at my hair, desperate to my bones for her to understand. And then, oh—this isn't real, is it? No. My sister is dead. My sister died a while ago. My sister is never going to be alive anywhere but my mind ever again. My sister was buried in those sandals and that wedding dress and I don't even know what shade her toenails were.

I can't breathe.

"Because I loved you and Arnav and Dad, Cora, and you all loved me back. But then you went away forever, and it hurts more than anything ever could." I'm nearing hyperventilation then.

Cora is glaring at me, anger slowly filling her eyes, and I'm confused confused confused.

"Annie Cordelia Cresta, I should hit you for that," she snaps. "Since when did I raise a coward?"

Since when did you, Cora? I don't know. I don't know.

"You want to know what hurts worse than losing the thing you love and need the most?" She asks me.

I nod, because why not? There can't be anything that hurts worse.

She stares unrelentingly at me until I'm looking directly at her. Her eyes soften then, but she still seems disappointed in me.

"Not having anyone at all to lose."

And she's right, but I can hear Annora Bellamy's voice, and then I'm back celebrating a victory that isn't a victory at all.

I'm stable in 6, I can't feel anything at all in 5, my heart aches to be in 4 when we're in 3, and Finnick has to stand beside me on stage in 2 and 1, because I can hardly stay upright.

Osmium has a twin brother.

I don't have a brother at all.

Finnick can't sneak past Annora long enough to see me one on one again, because she's taken to pacing the train restlessly all night, no doubt distressed over the mess that I am.

We're all sitting around the table eating lunch on our way to the Capitol when he gets up to go to the bathroom. I wait a few minutes and then feign like I'm going to be sick, and then I am running down the hall. I smack straight into Finnick on his way back to the dining cart.

I grab his hand without a word and pull and pull and pull until he's following me quietly, and then we're hidden inside a small sitting room.

I'm pulling him in my arms then, because the anxiety in his eyes is eating away at everything inside of me: my heart, my lungs, my stomach, my mind.

"I'm fine," he tells me, reading the concerned look on my face quite well.

I don't say anything to that, because I know that's how he keeps himself together, lying over and over that everything is okay when it's really not, it can't be, because I can see it in the green that it isn't, and that shade never, ever lies to me, even when everything else does.

He starts to say something else, but I know what it is from the gentle way he touches my arm. I find it insane how he's more concerned about me right now than himself. But then again, I'm sure he finds it equally insane how I'm more concerned about him than myself. Is that what love is? I'm not sure. I always thought it was the way Finnick smiles. Perhaps it's both.

"Me too." I say.

But we're both not okay. We never will be, not fully, but we are happy together in 4. I have to cling to that, because there is nothing else to cling to.

"We're almost home now, Ann. Just one more stop."

But this is the stop I dread the most.

Finnick takes my hand tightly, and I realize suddenly that I was beginning to switch realities. It makes me feel strange when he can tell sooner than I can. He does this sometimes.

"Stay with me for one moment longer, please. I need to tell you something and this might be the only opportunity I get to before we're there," Finnick begs. He looks openly terrified for once, and that petrifies me.

I nod, fighting against the waves I can hear crashing against the rocks, because we aren't in 4, we aren't, even if I wish we were. We aren't there we aren't there we aren't there we aren't there. I repeat this in my mind until it fades to a sound similar to holding a seashell to my ear.

"Do not leave the party for any reason. I don't care who tells you to go where. I know Annora is demanding you dance with whoever asks, so if any of them tell you Snow said to go somewhere else, or even if they just say they want to talk somewhere quiet, do not go with them. Find a victor from a previous year and tell the person you have to talk to them and then walk over and force a conversation. I don't care what about. Just please, please don't go off anywhere with anyone."

I'm losing my grip on my mind quickly, because all I can see are the tattooed and dyed hands of strange people grabbing Finnick by his hair, and I'm going to puke I'm sure, and I can hear my brother calling my name.

"I promise," I tell him, because it seems like it means a lot to him, and he means a lot to me.

"Do grown ups get scared like kids do, Annie?" Arnav asks.

He's knee deep in the waves, staring apprehensively at the sand under the water. He got stung by a jellyfish a week ago and I've been trying to help him get back in the water ever since. This is as far as he's gotten. I'm standing on the shore watching him, because for whatever reason, I'm suddenly scared of the water, too.

"I think they get scared more," I reply honestly.

He takes a small, nervous step forward, glancing back quickly for reassurance. I smile and nod at him encouragingly.

"Why?" he asks. He takes another tiny step, and my stomach is rolling like the waves that keep arriving and knocking into Arnav.

I realize my answer when a particularly large wave almost knocks Arnav over, and I'm running frantically into the water, picking him up and carrying him out of the water, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my head.

Because children just fear getting stung by a jellyfish, and the grown ups watching fear the children getting sucked under by the waves.

I come back to reality to see Mauve watching me uneasily.

I blink a few times, looking around at the familiar room in the Training Center, unsure how I got where I am.

She moves towards me almost as hesitantly as Arnav moved into the water. She pulls a dress over my head, and when it's on, I'm uncomfortable. I look down at myself and it's much shorter than any dress I've ever worn, the length resting somewhere just above mid-thigh. It's too tight for comfort, and it's deep, deep red, like the lipstick Mauve made me wear before, like the lipstick she's putting on me again. But it's winter, I want to tell Mauve. But it's red. But I went for sweet, remember? I never was going for sexy, so why am I dressed like this? I am mad mad mad. I am not supposed to look like this. Put me in a hospital gown, put me in a bathrobe. Don't put me in shoes with a heel, don't put me in diamond jewelry, don't put my hair up because I don't like it up, Finnick already told you that, I know he did because I was there and that was the real world.

When Finnick walks in to see if we're almost ready, he's furious and scared and I think it must be because he's nervous about what he has to do.

"That isn't part of the wardrobe you showed me," he says to Mauve, turning away from me to look at her, his face red with anger.

"President Snow sent this over. He said he promised a new designer who's a personal friend of his that he'd have the next victor model it during the Victory Tour, and Annie's that next victor," Mauve replies calmly. "I don't like it much, either. It's out of place with her other dresses. But orders are orders. Snow knows what he's doing."

She pulls something out of a small white box and walks towards me. I'm staring at Finnick's face as she sticks the bright red rose behind my ear. She steps back and offers me a sympathetic smile.

"Well, no matter how mad they think she is, they're going to want to dance with her."

It's then that I know she's right.

Snow does know what he's doing.

Finnick's hand is shaking as he walks me to where the interview will be held.

He stops me before we enter the backstage area. His eyes are wide and his face is pale and he looks like he's going to fall to pieces any moment.

"It's going to be okay, Finn," I whisper reassuringly, reaching up to caress his cheek.

He grabs my hand before it reaches him, though, clinging to it as if I'm going to fall off the side of a building at any moment.

"Annie, do you remember what I told you in the sitting room on the train?" he asks.

I nod slowly, confused by how all-consuming the concern in his eyes is suddenly.

"Don't go off with anyone," I repeat slowly.

He sighs and relaxes a bit. He nods his head and then kisses the back of my hand.

It isn't until I'm walking on stage that I realize he wasn't scared for himself at all. He was scared for me. He thinks Snow has dressed me like this to go back on his agreement.

I know, though. I know what he doesn't know. I know that Snow isn't doing that at all. Snow just wants him to think that, so he's dying inside even more while he's off with his list.

When Caesar Flickerman asks me what I'm most looking forward to tonight, I reply that I can't wait to see President Snow's mansion.

"It's a grand place, Annie. You're going to love it. It's the best party of the year!" Caesar exclaims, shocked and happy that I've answered his question in a semi-logical way.

He doesn't know either, though. He doesn't know that I'm only lucid right now because there is a deep and burning hatred inside of me keeping my mind rooted in this reality.

"I can't wait to meet the President again, either," I add, my fake excitement sounding almost genuine. I scan the audience, my eyes finding a camera. "Why, I'm so excited I practically feel like I might be sick."

Caesar laughs, his astonishment soaring as he thinks I've just made a joke. The Mad Girl making a joke, can you believe it? Except The Mad Girl isn't making a joke at all, she's building a trap, and Caesar Flickerman is falling right into it.

"Well, just make sure you don't get sick all over the President!" he jests, laughing along with the audience that's roaring.

I smile sweetly, the hatred inside of me slowly turning into the deep sorrow I remember, the sorrow I'm familiar with, unlike this hatred that I have only ever felt post-Games, and almost only when someone is hurting Finnick.

"Oh no, we wouldn't want that to happen again," I say innocently.

I let my mind go after that, because I've done what I wanted, and I don't want to be there anymore. President Snow will know exactly what I've just said, and he'll know exactly why I said it. Everyone else will think I'm mad mad mad mad, because I am. Mad with love for Finnick, mad with hatred for Snow, mad with sorrow for all that's happening.

I'm sitting in class watching a video on a type of Angelfish.

They mate for life, you know, the teacher is saying as we watch them swim back and forth through shallow reefs. More than that, they literally spend every moment together.

She rambles on about how fascinating it is that they mate this way, but when a fisherman captures one half of the pair, she doesn't even blink. The other fish is confused and swimming towards the fishing line, trying to understand what is happening, trying to help save the fish that's getting tugged away and away and away, and no one is angry. I'm looking around the room, and everyone is just watching like it's fascinating. They didn't care much before when the fish were just swimming around happily together. Now they can't look away, and I can't look at all.

"It's awful," I choke out.

Everyone turns to look at me, as if I'm crazy. The teacher doesn't take her eyes off the screen, and when she replies, she sounds bored.

"They don't ever mate again. That fish will swim around the ocean completely alone for the rest of its life." She looks back at me, smiling at my interest. "Very interesting fish, don't you think?"

It smells like roses.

My senses are viciously overwhelmed when I open my eyes. I'm seated in a chair at a table in what must be Snow's mansion. The dress I'm in is even shorter than before. I half-stand awkwardly, tugging the hem down. I sit back down to observe the room. The ceiling is lit up like the night sky in District 4, and there's a row of tables laden with food so long I have to strain my eyes to see the end. People are floating around, chatting and dancing and drinking and eating. I'm uncomfortable and looking around for Annora, wondering who I managed to anger this time with my absence.

She appears almost as if she heard her name called. She's holding a delicate glass with a clear liquid in it.

"Are you conscious?" she asks me, her eyes narrowed intently as if she's trying to peer into my soul through my eyes. Ever since Finnick talked to her she's been very nice, but she still doesn't quite get it at all.

I nod once.

"Good. I told everyone you were feeling very sick and not to bother you. But now that you're awake again, you can join the party!" she says with eagerness. She must have bought my fake delight at the idea of seeing Snow's mansion.

I force a smile onto my face, and it feels akin to chewing glass.

She takes my arm and pulls me up, leading me around the room and introducing me to many important Capitol people. I shake their hands when they shake mine and accept their hugs, but the only thing I can think every time I meet someone new is whether or not they're one of the five people on Finnick's list.

I'm standing at one of the tables, hoping I can get out of having to meet another hundred people if I'm eating something, when I feel a hand on my arm.

I turn and look, my eyes falling on a Capitol man. He's got a leering grin and a tattoo of a bright yellow snake that winds around both of his eyes. The snake's body ends at the tip of his nose, where the jaws are wide open as if it's going to bite off the tip. It's horrible. I normally find the Capitol fashions interesting if not uniquely pretty, but this makes me certain I couldn't eat anything even if I wasn't about to have to meet someone.

"Care for a dance?" he asks. His voice almost sounds slick. When I nod and he takes my hand, even his hand is slimy and sticky.

He leads me onto the dance floor, a smile on his face. Perhaps he's not that bad. I'm mad at myself then for judging him immediately based on his tattoo and his sticky palms. That's not what Annie Cresta would do, so that must just be The Mad Girl.

He doesn't say much, just leads the dance rather well. I don't know it at all, so I'm glad he does. I start to feel uncomfortable halfway through when his hand is lower than I think it's supposed to be. I try to discretely turn my head to the right to see if any of the other dancers are getting held this way, but he spins us abruptly when I do, causing my vision to swim.

And his hand just keeps falling lower and lower and I feel like I'm trying to claw my way out of my own skin. I look around me again, and no one else is dancing like this, and so why is he?

I'm about to tell him I'm going to be sick and I need to leave when the song ends. We stand there for a long moment after the last chord rings out, his hands still on me and my knees shaking. He pulls his hands off, and then he's asking me something about the party, and then someone else is tapping him on the arm.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I've been looking for her all night. Mind if I cut in?" someone asks gruffly. He doesn't sound that sorry at all, though.

The man with the snakes around his eyes turns to look at the man who joined us. He's middle-aged, with olive skin, dark gray eyes, and almost black hair. It takes me a moment to place him, but once I see the drink in his hand and smell the alcohol on his breath, it's easier. Haymitch Abernathy, the victor from District 12.

The man with the snakes nods once. He turns back to me.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again, Annie Cresta."

He smiles once, and when he does the snake seems to almost open its mouth wider. He walks off, and Haymitch Abernathy has me by the arm and he's pulling me off the dance floor.

I don't protest because he's a previous victor, and Finnick made it sound like he at least trusted them more than the Capitol people.

He motions for me to sit down at the table he stops us in front of and I oblige. He sits down in the chair across from me.

"That was Head Peacekeeper Dougal. He's a real creep," Haymitch Abernathy says, a tone of loathing in his voice.

I try to think of reasons to explain the Peacekeeper's actions, because I am still bothered by how quickly I judged him and I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I can still feel my skin crawling. I decide maybe I wasn't judging. Maybe I was simply acting instinctively.

"He doesn't know where to put his hands, I don't think," I reply, and my voice comes out sounding weak and bewildered.

Haymitch laughs sourly, tipping back his drink and swallowing the rest of it in one gulp.

"Never seems to when a young, fragile girl wins the Games," he remarks.

I'm suddenly desperate for Finnick to never know about this. He doesn't need to be worried about me. He does that enough. He needs to be worried about himself.

"Don't tell Finnick," I beg immediately without even thinking about it. I don't even know if Haymitch and Finnick are acquaintances, much less friends that would talk about how the party went.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Don't worry, I'm not going to tell your boy. I'm just as tired of his constant worrying as you are."

I wonder then if maybe Haymitch is one of the "past victors" Finnick talks to on the phone sometimes. He's also gotten a few letters from some. Although I can't imagine what they could talk about, as I'm sure all the phone lines are tapped. I guess just normal things that normal friends talk about. It's odd to think of victors as normal people, because we aren't at all.

"Does he a lot?" I ask. When Haymitch doesn't reply after a few moments, I double back and restate what I was trying to ask. "Does Finnick worry to you a lot?"

The second wording seems to make more sense to Haymitch. He shrugs noncommittally.

"We talk, sometimes," he says. He looks at me for a long moment. "I'm sorry about your family." 

My throat tightens and I nod, whispering a thanks and then looking down at the table. His eyes turn to roam around the room. They seem to fall on something and then jump quickly back to me. I turn my eyes slowly, almost scared to see whatever he had seen, and when I do see it, I wish I hadn't.

I didn't know for sure that the people on the list would be at the party. In retrospect, I should have known that. These are the most important people in the Capitol, and therefore the richest. When I was meeting everyone and wondering if one was on the list, I was thinking they had a very late appointment, that they would go home and then Finnick would have to meet up with them. But I realize quickly what is actually going to happen. Finnick is being forced to flirt and dance with each of them here, and then what? Sneak away somewhere? Does Snow have a designated room for this?

I can only watch Finnick and some lavender woman dance together for a few seconds before I have to turn back around, because I am sure I am going to do something. Maybe cry, maybe vomit, or maybe just shut down completely.

Haymitch clears his throat awkwardly, peering down at his glass like he can make more alcohol appear by staring at it.

"I'm going to go get more to drink. It's the only thing these parties are good for, anyway," he says. He rises and walks over to the bar. I'm thinking he won't come back, but he does, bringing with him another previous victor who introduces himself as Chaff. Chaff is missing a hand, and for a few moments all I can think about is the fact that Chiron is missing his head, but once Chaff starts to talk I forget about that.

Chaff is very friendly to me and he tells jokes that make me smile and momentarily forget about what I've seen. But even though I can tell Finnick is trying to stay as far away from where I am as possible, I still see him every now and then. It's worse when I see them making their way off the dance floor and through a door, because I know what's about to happen, and I can't stand it.

Chaff and Haymitch are trying very hard to keep my attention away from what's occurring on the floor, and that's when I know Finnick most likely put them up to this.

The smell of their drinks is making me feel even sicker.

"I think I need to go to the bathroom," I tell them. I'm dizzy and unwell. I wish Mags were here. She was allowed to stay home this year, due to her stroke, even though most victors are required to come every year for this party. Finnick says I won't have to come to these ever again, because the Capitol doctors say I'm mad. I only have to suffer through my own Victory Tour and I never have to go back to the Capitol again.

Chaff and Haymitch exchange a brief look and then Chaff is yelling out across the dance floor for another victor. The woman who joins us is probably around her mid-fifties if I had to guess.

"Annie was just saying she needs to go to the bathroom, and I figured you could show her where it is, since Chaff and I can't," Haymitch says carefully, staring at the woman pointedly. She smiles immediately, giving me a reassuring nod.

"Of course! I love to show people the wash room anyway, it's extravagant. It can just be us two girls."

I rise and walk beside her. She tells me her name is Seeder. She waits outside the bathroom for me. I can't think of anything but what Mags said to me that morning after my Games. Victors take care of each other. They do. They do.

I can't even find it in me to mind that I'm obviously being babysat, because Seeder is so kind and so nice. She talks to me like she isn't scared of me or scared of saying the wrong thing, and I really like that.

Two others join us at the table, so it's me, Seeder, Chaff, Haymitch, a man named Beetee, and a woman named Wiress. Wiress and Beetee make me smile, because they finish each other's sentences and sometimes Beetee is the only one who understands what Wiress is trying to say.

When I see Finnick leave with a woman with diamonds in her skin, Beetee pulls a handheld computer-like device out of his pocket and spends thirty minute showing me a new technology he's working on.

When I see Finnick accepting a purple drink from a man with golden hair, Seeder pulls me over to the table with food from District 11 and tells me exactly how they're made.

It's Wiress who stops their distractions after a while.

She pats my hand, and then it's like my mind was waiting for permission to escape this, and I'm no longer there anymore.

I'm sobbing hysterically into my mother's shoulder.

The fabric of her shirt is soaked with my tears, and I want to die.

I tell her this.

"Mama," I say despairingly. "I want to die."

She strokes a hand through my hair and coos softly, rocking me back and forth like I am a child still. But to her I guess I always will be. She passed away before I could turn into anything else. I think that's beautiful, sometimes, and sad others.

"Shhhh," she tells me. "Things are never as bad as they seem when you're crying over them."

I'm hysterical then, bawling and weeping and sobbing. I pull away from her and fall to the floor, landing on my hands and knees, which is where I stay for a very long time, just crying and crying because nothing is right.

She pats my head, but I'm inconsolable.

"Why do such horrible things happen to good people?" I choke out. I sprawl out on the floor, my entire body aching aching aching from sobbing so hard. Tears continue to drain out of me and they take my energy with them.

"Because there are bad people," she replies matter-of-factly.

You have no idea just how true that is.

"It's time to go," Annora tells me.

I look up at her, and I can feel tears sliding down my face. The other victors are still sitting at the table, and they all look very sad. I feel very sad, too.

"One moment, Ms. Bellamy! I had hoped I would get a chance to talk to my victor," a voice cuts in.

Every victor at the table's heads jerk in the direction of the voice, and Snow smiles almost predatorily at us.

He gestures for me to follow him. I have to set my hands on the table and push myself up in order to stand, but then I'm walking shakily towards him.

He sets his arm on my shoulders when I join him, walking us a few feet away from the table and turning us so our backs are to the other victors.

"Enjoying your party?" he asks, innocence just as fake as mine was during the interview in his voice.

I'm dizzy.

"Yes," I tell him, but my voice isn't strong and sure at all. It's sad and weak.

He sighs heavily, sweeping over the party with his eyes.

"Such a shame when lovers aren't faithful," he mutters cruelly. He turns his face to observe mine. I won't turn to meet his eyes. I don't want to see him. "Does it make you jealous?"

My skin is crawling again. I am full of despair so deep I am sure I am going to die from it. You can die from a broken heart, you know. I've heard of it. I believe it.

"No," I whisper, and my voice sounds broken, and how does that happen? "It makes me sad."

He pats my shoulder. "Life is sad, Ms. Cresta."

Because of you. My life is sad because of you. Everything bad that has happened has been because of you.

It's with those thoughts that I'm staring evenly forward and taking deep breaths through my mouth, trying to steady myself.

"I'm feeling very nauseated," I say, and it comes out almost dangerously.

He immediately lifts his arm off me and takes a step back.

"I hope we never have to meet again, Miss Cresta. Best of luck with your mental health," he says. He turns and walks off after that.

I rejoin the table.

"—you know. She will just fall asleep—but with her eyes open! It's pure madness I tell you, and frankly very frightening, but she is a rather sweet girl, and she has a beautiful face, so it could be worse, don't you think so?" Annora is saying.

She notices the other victors looking at me and she turns, her eyes landing on me. She smiles.

"Oh, good! It's time for us to depart. I hope your mentor plans on joining us sometime tonight, because we still have to get to 4 by tomorrow."

All the victors are sympathetic as they tell me goodbye.

Annora grips my arm tightly and leads me out of Snow's mansion.

A woman is standing at the door, and she's got gems in her skin, but suddenly I'm seeing the girl with the diamond skin, and she's got her mouth on Finnick's, but then she's kissing his neck but as she kisses him she's ripping and tearing and blood is dripping everywhere and she's beheading him bit by bit, blood splattering the white sheets, and then his green eyes lose all color, and I'm in a heap on the ground, the snow biting into all the bare skin I've been forced to show, my vomit strangely melting said snow when it makes contact with it.

Annora's shrieking for a doctor and her shrieks are just making it worse, and it's cold, cold, cold. Cold down to my very bones.

All I can hear is Finnick's poem bouncing around the walls of my mind, sharp and painful and aching.

You haven't smiled in a while.
I want to die when you cry.
It's sunny when you're here, my dear,
it's always summer when you're near.
But it's winter now, and I'm not sure how.
I'm not quite right when you're gone.

Chapter Text

I don't want to be talked to and I don't want to be touched.

Annora seems to think I vomited because I'm ill, and since that is something she understands, she's taken to trying to comfort me. She brushes my hair back from my face in the car and tries to get me to drink a glass of milk once we're on the train.

Her kindness is warming, but I'm frozen, and I don't want to be taken care of. I'm anxious and horrorstricken and all I want is to know where Finnick is.

I mumble that I'm tired and disappear into my room, sinking to the floor once I've locked the door behind me. I accidentally jam the zipper in my haste to get the terrible red dress off my body, and that makes me cry thinking about how long someone probably spent on this dress. It's all for naught, now. I throw it into the corner of the room and fight my way out of the strange stockings and shoes, and then I'm pulling my hair down, but when it's touching my bare skin I just want it gone because I don't want to be touched, I don't want to be comforted, I don't want to feel okay. Because Finnick doesn't feel okay and everything is upsetting me. I search the entire room and bathroom for scissors, but there's none to be found, so pile my hair on the top of my head and pick a clip back up with my shaking hands, messily securing it. I wash my face in the sink until there's no more warm water coming out of the tap and then I sit on the plush carpet, my face tight and clean but my skin crawling like it's still covered in a layer of makeup and dirt and blood.

I try to pull a nightgown on, but I can't stand that touching me either, so I sit in the middle of the floor naked and shaking until I slowly feel my panic and nausea waning. Finnick isn't dead, and he's probably almost done with his list now. But as soon as I try to reassure myself with that, terrible images invade my mind without my permission and I'm dismayed once more.

Then my sister is in front of me, but I'm still in the room on the train, so maybe I really am crazy.

"What are you doing here?" I ask her, my voice stuffy and raw.

She pulls a sheet off the bed and carries it over, settling it around my shoulders, but I'm tearing it off because it irritates me. My skin is crawling too much, both from that Peacekeeper's sticky fingers and from all the hands that have been on Finnick tonight.

She calmly picks the blue blanket up off the bed instead and places it around my shoulders. That's okay, and I leave it there, because now that's she's insisting I realize it is rather cold in this room, and the texture of it doesn't make me want to claw at my skin or face like everything else has.

Cora sits down in front of me and she's crying.

"I've protected you my entire life, and I've loved that life," she starts. She reaches up and yanks the clip out of my hair, letting it fall back down once again, and I feel more like myself that way. That only makes me feel worse. "For once, you're going to get a chance to take care of someone, too. Cherish it."

She seems to be dissolving in front of my very eyes, and I'm moving forward and gripping her hands tightly, because I need her to take care of me still. I always will need that. I don't want her to go. I want her to stay here. Why would she come into this reality if she wasn't going to stay? Why would she do that to me?

She's pulling her hands from mine and I'm crying and yelling. Words are building rapidly inside of me, rising and rising and rising like the waters in the arena. When the dam bursts and they flood the room, they are just as awful and just as ugly.

"I hate you!" I screech. My voice comes out so sharply, loudly, and wildly that it reminds me of an out of tune instrument. In a way, that's exactly what it is. I sob into my hands, my own words drowning me, because maybe they are true. Maybe I really do hate her. I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, and maybe I hate everyone. Maybe this is what Snow has done to me: turned me into a girl who can no longer feel anything but hatred.

The words keep coming, no matter how hard they've already smacked both of us. "I hate you for leaving me! I hate you for going away when you knew I needed you!"

I bend over and the blanket slides off my shoulders, landing behind me on the floor, and each tear makes the light blue carpet just a little darker. I imagine I could cry and cry and cry until it's dark and full of salt water just like the sea during a storm, and then Cora would drown again, and I would drown with her this time, because always always always that's what was supposed to happen. That's what I wish would have happened.

She keeps getting harder and harder to see, though, and I miss her I miss her I miss her and I want her to stay with me because I'm her seashell and I need her to help me. I don't know what to do. They're hurting Finnick and I can't stand it, I can't, I can't.

"We both know that's not true, Shell," she says calmly. "I'm talking to you right now, aren't I? I haven't left."

I'm writhing in anger and pain, nearing the point where I'm just going to start screaming at the top of my lungs, because my sister doesn't understand me at all anymore if she thinks this counts as her being here.

"But you aren't really here! This is all in my head, it's not the same! I don't know how to take care of anyone! You keep asking too much of me. You keep telling me to do things but you won't tell me how to do them. I'm lost, Cora, and I need you but you won't help me! I need you! I need you here with me!" I slam my fists into the floor, over and over, because this isn't fair and I can't do it anymore.

She reaches out and her fingers are practically air when she sets a hand on my shoulder.

"The only thing you need right now, Annie, is to accept that I'm not here, get up, get dressed, pull yourself together, and wait for Finnick to come back. Because he is going to need you."

My crying stills almost immediately at those words, because this is Cora. This is Cora in her element, giving commands and always finding the solution. I've been yearning for my sister's instructions my entire life, because she's always known what to do, she's always had the answers to everything. When she gives me them once more, suddenly things are simple and easy.

I nod once, the tears cool on my face as the air from the fan hits them.

"Okay," I croak.

She smiles and when she hugs me, I can't feel anything at all.

"That's my girl," she says.

And then I'm seeing nothing but the floor with its dark blue circles.

I pull myself up and dress slowly. When I look into the mirror, my eyes are red and my lips are too, because even though I scrubbed and scrubbed at that lipstick, it's stained me.

I brush my hair one hundred times and then pace the floor, glancing at the clock every few minutes, trying to figure out where Finnick is now and when he's coming back and hoping with all I have left that he's okay.

I give into the freezing temperature after an hour and sit on the floor in front of the dresser, digging around in the drawers until I find a soft pair of pants and a long sleeved shirt. I pull those on and throw the nightgown in the corner with the red dress. After tonight, I think I might never want to wear a dress ever again, not even to bed.

I take the blue blanket and a small notebook from the drawer with me and tiptoe to the sitting room right off the entrance to the train. Finnick has to be here soon, because I think the train is getting ready to disembark. I'm terribly frightened then that they will leave him here, that that was part of Snow's master plan and I will never see him ever again.

I spent an hour writing down every spelling word I can remember being asked in the spelling bee, and at first I get them all right, but the longer I stare at BENIGN, the stranger it looks, until I'm ripping up the page, certain I no longer know how to spell anything at all.

I'm about to begin panicking when it sounds like the train is raising the brakes. They can't leave Finnick. He can't stay. If he's staying, I'm staying here. They can't have him anymore.

But then I hear the door to the train open and close, and slow and steady footsteps inch nearer to the door of the sitting room.

I rise and walk to the doorway. Finnick doesn't even look that surprised to see me there. He's tired and pale and I want to reach out and hold him but suddenly I'm not so sure if that's what he would want.

His eyes scan over me, as if he still isn't sure that I'm okay. I'm not okay, though. I'm dreadfully sad and smarting with pain.

"If you don't ask me, I won't ask you," I whisper.

He smiles then, small and sad and stinging.

"It's a plan," he says.

I rest my shoulder against the doorframe and discretely look him over, because he's not okay, either. He's not bleeding, so that was just a hallucination, and his eyes are still green. It's what's inside of him that's hurt, and that makes all of this so much worse.

I look back up at him, and his eyes haven't left my face.

"Will you let me take care of you?" I ask him.

He closes his eyes and seems to grimace with pain. I'm concerned then, standing straight and reaching a hand out to him. He seems to shy away from my touch, so I slowly lower my hand, feeling terrified because I really don't know what to do to help him.

"I don't deserve that, Annie," he's whispering then, a tortured tone in his voice.

A strong emotion sweeps over me, and I'm reaching forward and gripping his shirt tightly in my fist. He stares at me, his eyes widening in surprise at my sudden out of character action.

"Don't you dare let them make you think that. Don't you dare," I mutter, my eyes refusing to let his break away from my glance. He finally relents and stares back at me, and I am going to cry. I can feel it creeping up the back of my neck and up behind my eyes. I hate them so much. I don't know what to do with this emotion. I never know what to do with my emotions, but I especially don't know what to do with this one. Hate hate hate hate hate and more hate and I never knew this emotion and now it is my closest friend and I hate it. "I love you. I love you so much." I'm terrified he doesn't remember that.

It's almost as if those three words breathe life into him. His shoulders seem to relax a bit, as if he's less burdened, as if he suddenly does remember. He wordlessly reaches out and takes my hand.

When he pulls me with him down the hallway and to his room, and I know that this is how he is saying he loves me, too.

I sit at the small table while he takes a shower. I let myself cry while he's gone, because I don't want to fall to pieces when he comes back out. I can't stand how empty his eyes seemed. I can't take that they make him feel like he doesn't deserve to be loved.

He's in the shower for a while, and when he finally comes out in clean clothes, his skin is pink and raw like he's scrubbed it to the point of pain. I think his hands might be shaking, but he sits down in the other chair at the table and they're placed in his lap and hidden from my view before I can be certain.

We're staring at each other, green meeting green, and neither of us says anything for a few long moments.

When he averts his gaze, I'm rising to my feet and crossing the small distance to where he's sitting. I lean hesitantly against the table, my eyes studying his face. He looks up again and meets my eyes.

"Did they touch you?" he asks me, his voice quivering and full of an agonizing fury I understand all too well.

I shake my head.

His eyes drift shut and he breathes a heavy sigh of relief. He sets his elbow on the table and rests his forehead in the palm of his hand.

But suddenly I'm suffocating under the weight of crushing guilt. Because his concern is still me. Because he is doing this to protect me. He's letting strange people do whatever they want to him, to his body, and he's having to do whatever they want to them, with his body, and it's all because of me. He is imprisoned inside of himself and it's my fault, my fault, my fault. Suddenly the man with the yellow snakes on his face isn't even scarier than that thought, and I'm reaching forward and touching Finnick's shoulder with my fingertips.

He lifts his head and looks at me, his face still pale.

I'm swallowing tears and I will never stop looking at his eyes, because they are still green, and sometimes when I close my eyes all I can see is the green disappearing as that Capitol woman sinks her teeth into his throat, and never again never again never again. Oh, I love him, I love him, I love him so much that I'm going to die. Snow can't take this away from me; he can't take away my ability to love him, that is all mine. It can't be pulled underneath the water and sunk to the bottom of the sea.

"Let me help you," I whisper, the words leaving my mouth without me even knowing it.

I know what I'm thinking and what I'm about to ask after I say that, and it scares me, but I continue anyway.

His eyebrows furrow a bit as he tries to understand what I'm saying. I lower my hand slowly, a bit more, until it's resting fully against his shoulder.

"You're doing this to protect me, but I just want to protect you." The corners of my mouth keep jerking down and I'm trying so hard to keep from falling to pieces because I can't be pieces right now, I need to be whole, because Finnick is pieces. "Let me take half your lists. Let me help you. We can protect Mags together, we can—"

Finnick's eyes are wide and haunted and he's shaking his head back and forth back and forth back and forth as he gently reaches up and sets his hand over my mouth, as if the very words I'm saying are causing him physical pain to hear. I have a sudden flashback to the shoe store with Arnav, and how he licked the back of my hand to get me to take it off, and I am heartsick.

"I will die before that happens," Finnick says, lowly and seriously, a confidence and strength he didn't have before taking over his voice. He lowers his hand. "Never. I would rather sleep with the entire Capitol population in one night. Never." His eyes are aggrieved and I know he's seeing images now, maybe even images similar to the ones that keep wounding me so badly.

But I'm having trouble breathing because I want to die when I know this is happening to him. I don't care what I'm offering. I know what I'm saying. I know what I'm putting on the table right now. I know how deeply abysmal it would be, I know that it would probably destroy me, but this is appalling, too. This devastates me.

"I don't want you doing this to yourself for me," I finally say, my voice trembling. I am feeling unwell again.

He looks so tortured then, clenching his fists, his expression damaged.

"Annie, Annie," he starts, his voice laced with miserable incredulity. "I can't even think about how horrible it would be for me if you were forced into this. I can't even image it, I can't fathom it. In my mind I'm thinking of those cruel, dirty people touching you and I want to scream. It would absolutely destroy me. It would be so much worse than what I'm doing now. You need to believe that. This is the best case scenario. This is the choice that hurts, but keeps me alive, keeps me smiling. I could not live knowing you were being treated that way. I couldn't."

He's crazed and upset, and I am right there with him. I worry briefly about Snow overhearing this conversation, because Capitol trains are never secure, but what does it matter? Snow already knows that. He already knows that Finnick doesn't want that to happen to me so much he's willing to sell himself for it. This wouldn't be news to him.

"How am I supposed to live knowing you are?" I ask him, and then I have to turn away because I can feel tears welling up in my eyes and I don't want him to have to see it.

But he has no answer to that, and I don't, either.

A few moments pass, and then I feel his hand slowly taking mine. I turn back to him, and he's staring at my palm, tracing over the lines once more with his index finger. I don't know how he can do something as small as that so lovingly, but I can feel his heart when he does.

"You remember that you are my girl. You remember that you make my life so beautiful and bright, no matter how much ugliness Snow causes. Without you, no matter what, my life is hideously dark."

I have no choice but to believe him, because he is still tracing over the lines in my palm like they are the most precious thing he's ever touched. You can't doubt things like that. I know because I've tried. You can't. You can't.

I want to hold his head to my chest and keep him with me and protect him from all of this. I would settle for simply hugging him. But something tells me to sit and let him come to me. Maybe it's the way his fingertips quiver slightly. Maybe it's the rawness of his skin, still red from how hard he scrubbed at it. Maybe it's the wrecked look in his eyes and the way he still shies away if I move towards him too suddenly.

"You are the one I love most," I find myself telling him, and it's true. It's so true I can't stand it sometimes.

And then he's crying, and my heart is breaking breaking breaking, and it doesn't matter how many times I see it, it still hurts hurts hurts worse than almost anything else. I'd rather drown, I'd rather burn, I'd rather be stabbed, I can't grasp my mind around the sight of Finnick crying. I can't because my mind rejects it.

I automatically lean forward, wrapping my arms around him. He jerks back immediately though, and then I'm crying too, because I just want to help him. I want to look inside of his mind and take every single painful memory and pull it out. Even if I had to put it in my head, I don't care, I would, I would, I would.

I sit on the edge of the table in front of his chair, facing him, and I keep my hands in my lap and my vision is sideways and it hurts and I can hear my father talking but he has to stop, he has to be quiet, because I can't go away now. I can't go away. I can't go away. I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't. I will hate myself if I do. I will. I don't want to hate anything anymore.

My shins are pressing against his knees, but he's not jerking away. He's simply looking to the side, crying silently, looking like he hates himself for it the entire time. That's the worst kind of crying. The kind where you can tell the person feels guilty for doing it.

"I know a man named Finnick Odair, and he is the best person I have ever met," I'm saying then. My voice comes out steadier than I predicted, and I have no idea where I'm going with this, my mind is taking over completely and I can do nothing but let it because I don't know what else I would do. "He keeps me together like no one else does. He is the kindest person. His eyes are green, green, green when he smiles, and I am so deeply in love with the color that it can pull me straight out of my own reality. And it doesn't matter how many horrible things have happened to me, because when he smiles, I can't help but smile too. I love him for everything he is and I wouldn't change one thing about him. He thinks he deserves what he's going through right now, but he doesn't. And I want to kill anyone who ever makes him feel like he does."

His eyes move up to meet mine, red-rimmed and watery, and when I hold my hand out to him, he reaches forward and grasps it. I slide off the table and pull gently on his hand until he's standing from the chair, and my first instinct is to walk us over to sit on the bed, but I know suddenly that would be the wrong thing to do. I squeeze his hand and let it drop, sinking down to the floor to sit cross legged, and I gesture for him to join me. He sits down too, and he looks almost like he's in a daze, but I know he would never deny me anything, and then I am sure I hate myself too.

He's beside me, staring at the carpet, and I'm moving in front of him and reaching up and setting gentle hands on his shoulders. He doesn't flinch or move away, he simply looks at me. I reach a hand up and stroke it through his wet hair, and a tear slides down his cheek. I pat my legs, and then he's sliding down so he's lying out on the floor, his head resting on my lap.

"You are so much more than they make you feel you are, Finn," I whisper to him, trying with every part of me, even the mad mad mad part, to show him this truth.

He looks up at me like he would trust me with his life, no questions asked. I hesitantly run my hand through his hair again, and he doesn't seem to be upset by it. In fact, he seems to relax a little bit. He stares up at me as I push his hair back and the vulnerability in his eyes has my eyes watering once more.

"You are too easy on me," he tells me, and I know he's echoing my words from what feels like such a long time ago.

And so I stroke a finger down the bridge of his nose, a smile somehow creeping up on my face even though I am miserable, miserable, miserable.

"And you're too hard on yourself," I reply.

When he smiles a bit, my heart is soaring soaring soaring, bouncing around and hitting against the roof of my soul.

I trace my fingers over his forehead until the worry lines are relaxed. He never takes his eyes off me, as if he's sure I'm not really here at all. Maybe I'm not. Maybe no one is here. Maybe here doesn't exist at all.

"I want to kiss you, but I can't," he says. His eyes are forlorn. "I can't stand the thought of your lips being where theirs were."

The way he says this makes me certain he feels contaminated by the Capitol, by his faux lovers, by the deeds Snow makes him perform. And all I can think is no no no no no no no no no.

I slide my hands down and grip his face, and then I'm gently kissing his forehead, my hair spiraling out around us like some sort of curtain. I know no one else has kissed him here. This is the kiss that says I love you. This is the kiss that says I cherish you. This is the kiss that says I respect you. This is the kiss that says I cannot go on without you. This is the kiss that only someone who would die for him, without him, would give.

His tear slides down and hits my fingers, and I press my lips to his forehead again, because I am tormented suddenly by the knowledge that no one else has kissed him here like this. I'm tormented by the knowledge that he is kissed and kissed and kissed, but never for the reason he should be. I am tormented by the idea that people take his body, which is so special and beautiful simply because it is the vehicle of his soul, and force it to do things that it never would chose to do on its own. I am horrified by the way Snow has separated his soul and his body, shoving his soul down into a chest in the dark, cobwebbed corner of a shadowy basement, as if it isn't important, as if it's just something that was inherited with the house, as if it doesn't mean anything at all, but it does it does it does it does. It is a treasure, it is my treasure, and I'm kissing the corners of his eyes now, and I am seeing my fingers pry open this chest and his soul is out and he's relaxing because for once he doesn't have to do anything with this body that his soul doesn't want him to. It's his body, it's his, it's his. And I'm his, too.

I press soft kiss after soft kiss to his face, everywhere I know he has not been kissed by those despicable people, until his tears are dried against his cheek and no others are taking his place.

"I love you for who you are, Finnick," I tell him, lifting my face to peer down at him once more. "Not what you can do."

His eyes flutter open again.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between the two," he admits. He's anguished once more, the peaceful and content expression that had taken over his face when my lips were sharing exactly how I feel about him gone then, his eyes peering off at something I can't see.

When he continues talking, his words have the air of being shut away for so long they're almost unrecognizable due to an accumulation of dust. You can tell when someone says something they've kept locked inside themselves for a very long time, because their voice cradles each word like it's protecting it from the world when it's finally uttered, and because the words are always forced out in a rush, as if if they're spoken quickly the person listening might miss it and the person admitting the long-held worry won't be embarrassed for it.

"It's so hard sometimes to understand how people can have sex with someone they love. It feels so wrong, like something you would only do to someone you want to hurt."

I think those words break my heart more than anything else. Snow has taken something from Finnick. He's taken his body, but with it he's taken his entire opinion on intimacy and what it means. Snow has abused Finnick for so long he sees something that is supposed to be about love as a punishment, as something abusive and bad, as an agony to be endured. And it isn't supposed to be like that. I've never had sex before, but I know it's not supposed to be like that. It must be about that feeling you get when you're so in love that you feel you might die if you don't touch them, when you feel like you can never get as close to that person as you want to, because they are so much a part of you that you feel like their soul was pulled away from yours and locked away tight into a separate body.

I want him to know this; I want him to know that it isn't something dark and dirty. But I know it's going to take many years and many conversations to help fix the broken view he has on the matter, because he's been sold and bought for three years now, and it's a wonder he can even kiss me at all. And I don't care if it's with me or not that he finally understands that there's a difference between making love to someone and being forced into sexual acts with someone you don't even know. I don't care who it's with at all, as long as he loves them, and as long as they love him too. Because he deserves it. He deserves to make love with someone who would do anything at all for him, who realizes just how golden his soul is, who truly knows him. He deserves the world. I can't give him the world. I hardly have anything at all to give him. And yet, he's here, with his head in my lap and his heart in my hands, and why? Why?

"Do you remember how you told me it's very different to kiss someone you love opposed to someone you don't?" I inquire gently.

"Yeah," he says.

I gaze down at him, threading my fingers back into his drying hair.

"Don't you think the same would probably be true for sex?" I ask him.

Green green green green. There has never been a color as lovely as green. Green has saved my life, saved my mind, saved my heart. I would see no color at all if the green were to disappear.

He ponders over my words seriously, a small frown on his face.

"I don't know," he finally admits, but he is looking a bit less hampered down. I wonder if he's never thought of that before.

I pass my fingers lightly over his lips, as if I could lift the memories of anyone else's from them, as if I could cleanse his mind from all that's stained it. I wish I wish I wish.

"One day, you will," I promise him.

When a true smile breaks out on his face, I'm beaming back and my stomach is full of butterflies and my heart is warm, warm, warm.

"Annie Cresta, are you trying to take my future self to bed?" he teases, because he knows exactly what I'm saying, and he knows that's not it at all.

This is the sun peaking out from behind the storm clouds. This is the steadying of the boat after turbulent waves die down. This is the moment that makes me smile, the moment when we've held and talked to each other until we feel better and we can joke again, we can smile again, we can laugh again. When we remember that even though things are awful, we have each other, and was there ever a better reason to smile? I am unsure.

"My future self is already in bed with your future self, I'm sure," I joke, but when it comes out it sounds a bit more serious than I intended. But when his hand reaches up and brushes my hair back and my skin tingles where his fingertips touch, I am sure that what I've said is probably true in some reality. Not this one, and not my fake one either, but somewhere where it's warm and no one tries to hurt him and flowers grow year round. Somewhere I would like to be.

"My future self is a lucky man, then. I hope they are having a good time," Finnick laughs, and he's looking at me again like I've surprised him somehow, but it's not like how everyone else looks at me when I say something mad. They look at me uncomfortably, like they just can't figure out who or what I am. Finnick looks at me like he loves me even more than he did before.

I grin down at him. "They are. You're being loved like you've always deserve."

And then perhaps I was able to wipe the memories of the others' lips from his, because he's sitting up and turning and kissing me sweetly, and I can feel in it just how much I've helped him. Nothing compares to the feeling of knowing you've helped someone you love.

When he pulls back his gaze is serious once more.

"If anyone could make me believe that it is something beautiful, it would be you. And only you."

It takes a few weeks, but Finnick and I slowly slip back into the routine we'd established before the Victory Tour uprooted everything.

I have to make double the effort in those days right after the Tour to stay in this reality, my mind still reeling from the awful refresh of the Games and the sight of Finnick's pain, but I am able to get back to how I was before the Tour. And I don't know how, I don't know where my mind gets the strength or elasticity, but I'm no longer The Mad Girl anymore. I'm Finnick's Annie. That is my most favorite thing to be.

It takes Finnick a while, too, but eventually he stops looking guilty after he kisses me, and he stops scrubbing his skin to the point of blood in the shower, and he stops calling me in the middle of the night, distressed from a nightmare that was probably more like a flashback.

January is filled with these recoveries, the first snowfall in District 4 in six years, and our arms wound tightly around each other.

February is filled with kisses as sweet as sugarcubes, laughter bubblier and more carefree than champagne, and my second time entering the water willingly since the arena.

Finnick held my hand tightly the entire time, reciting poem after poem as we walked further and further out into the sea. I only made it mid-thigh before I had a violent flashback, but Finnick caught me before I landed in the water, and he had me in my home, dry, calmed, and happy once more in a record-breaking ten minutes. I'm not so scared of the water anymore. I still have no desire to go into it, and I probably never will, but I don't think it would hurt me to a point I could never recover.

In fact, there is only one thing left that I think could hurt me to the point of complete mental devastation. I have seen more than I ever imagined I would have to, things so awful I still find myself sick and trembling at least once every day from the memories, and I have been robbed of things that will never be replaced, people that I am lost without. And yet I'm here. I'm halfway functioning and partway sane. My mind has been pushed to the very limits and yet I'm still hanging on, and so I find myself getting less and less terrified that one day I'm going to wake up and find that I'm completely insane. I do still have those days, though, at least twice a week normally. But Finn can talk me down from them so easily, sometimes even by only saying my name.

There is one thing that I am still terrified of, though, and always will be. One thing that keeps me awake some nights, petrified to my bones and so cold I can't stop shivering. If I were to lose Finnick and Mags, I don't know what I would do. Either of them. Both of them. I don't know. I don't know. I can't know. I know Mags is old, and that day is coming soon. It hurts though, so terribly. I know I can get through it with Finnick, somehow, one day. We will pick up each other's pieces just like we always have. But if Finnick were to go—

I can't I can't I can't. I can't think of it at all, I can't let myself ponder it, I can't breathe when sometimes I have a flashback that takes on a life of its own and I have to see Finnick dying or leaving or being injured. I gasp for air on the floor for a very long time, because I feel like my heart is missing. Not like it's broken, not like it's hurting, but like it is literally gone, leaving a gaping and jagged hole where it was dug out.

I usually drift into my own world after a few minutes of hysteria, but I'm hysterical there, too. I think my sister is starting to hate me.

Finnick leaves me tonight with the familiar goodnight kiss I've come to count on as much as I count on my lungs expanding.

It's been a rough day and I'm exhausted because of it. Finnick was sad and he wouldn't tell me why, and things like that frighten me, because we always tell each other why. That's something that's changed after the Tour, or maybe because of the Tour. If I am sad because I've seen Osmium hacking away at his head, I tell him so. If he's sad because he's remembering being touched by someone in the Capitol, he tells me so. It's just how it is; it's just how we are. Like how I know I can still make really good clam chowder, but even if it was awful, Finnick would eat every bit and ask for seconds. Like how he knows that he is worth so much, but if ever he needs to be reminded, I will kiss him until he believes it once more. Like how we both know that we will understand each other always. That is a very big deal, because we aren't understood by anyone else except for Mags.

I lie awake wondering wondering wondering what is so awful Finnick can't tell me. He sugarcoats the things he tells me a lot, glossing over the most painful aspects and lessening the horror, but he will at least share the gist of it. What is worse than the things he tells me already, than the things that I tell him? What could be worse?

I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, it's the early morning and the seagulls are making a lot of noise. I sit up in the bed, staring at the space underneath my bedroom door, wondering why there's no light yet. Surely Cora is up already? If not Cora, Dad. If not Cora, and not Dad, definitely Arnav. So why is it dark and why don't I hear them moving around?

The house looks strange. Like I know it but I don't. And when my feet are walking across the cold floor and I'm staring at my reflection in the mirror, it's like I recognize myself but I don't, too.

It's like the rooms aren't shaped correctly, the furniture is out of place, and I'm like that too.

My feet ghost over the cool floors as I leave my room and walk around the house, trying to figure out where everyone has gone. There are things that don't make sense to me though, like the pair of men's boots in the kitchen, because they aren't my fathers. Or the coffee and sugarcubes in the cabinet, because we only ever have tea here and we don't put sugar in it. Or the sheets of paper that litter the kitchen table. I sit down and examine them, and they mean something but nothing. Some are small, sweet poems that I just know Marv didn't write for Cora, because he isn't like that at all, and some are littered with messily and chaotically written words over and over again, like someone was practicing for a spelling test. It's not Arnav's, though, because the words are too difficult for them to be learning, and many of them are upsetting.

I sit anxiously for what feels like two hours, and still no one is coming, and still I feel like I am the only person alive on this earth.

When I'm walking down the hallways, I can't remember whose room is where, and I panic for a few long moments, scared that I am losing my mind somehow, some way. There would be no reason for that though. Why would I lose my mind? I just woke up.

I push open a door and this is my brother's room. I know because there are his toys and his clothes and his stuffed dog. So why does it feel like I don't know it, like I've never seen it before? And why is there a thick layer of dust over almost everything? And why does it smell like no one has been in here in months?

I walk past the abandoned toys lying in the middle of the floor and cross over to the window, unlatching it and shoving it up until it gives. The breeze enters, cool and crisp, and it carries with it a scent of cinnamon rolls.

That must be what Mags is cooking for breakfast.

And then my legs are buckling underneath me and I'm falling to the floor because why is Mags, the victor from one of the very first Hunger Games, cooking breakfast near me and why do I know what it is and why do I know that I'm invited and why do I care about her and why do—

I'm scrambling up to my feet, backing up out of Arnav's room so quickly I stumble a few times. I smack my ribs into the doorframe as I lose balance and go toppling over.

My family is dead, but then they aren't. I'm the victor of the 70th Annual Hunger Games, but then I'm not. I am in love with Finnick, but then he's only my friend.

I'm scared, scared, scared because I don't have any idea which is which or what is what or who is who. There are memories that don't make sense and memories that clash and memories that feel fake and memories that feel real and all the while it's rolling around and around in my brain and I can't seem to figure out where I am or who I am.

I'm gripping my head tightly, trying to sort through all the memories and pull real from fake, but I can't I can't I can't.

I find myself standing, fully clothed, in the shower a few moments later, and I'm not really sure how I got there, but I know I thought it would help me wake up just in case I was asleep, but I'm not, I wasn't. I'm awake and confused and scared and where is my family?

I'm out of the shower and then I'm running out of the house towards the only constant thing about the two worlds that are suddenly colliding in my mind.

The winter air makes my body ache because I'm cold and wet and cold cold cold. Thick flannel pajamas are not quite so warm when they are soaked in freezing water. The cold, hard ground is painful as I race across it with my bare feet, and then I'm pressing a key I don't remember picking up into the door of a house that I know is Finnick's and I'm opening it and a voice in my head is reminding me that he will be asleep because he doesn't get up this early until I call him and I haven't called him yet because I don't know what is real and who it is exactly that I'm supposed to be missing.

I automatically wind an acquainted path down a hallway, up some stairs, and then I'm knocking against the closed door.

I'm blinking against tears, even though I think they would be so warm against my face, and I can't catch my breath.

I hear quick footsteps, and a part of me remembers that I have never used that key before, even though I don't fully remember how I got it in the first place.

The door is pulled open, and I'm shuddering, but not from the cold. From the fear, from the uncertainty, from the deep, achingly disappointed feeling lurking somewhere inside of me.

Finnick's eyes are full of worry and I know that it's true that he loves me, and judging by the way I can breathe easier with him near me, I know it's true that I love him too.

When he wraps his arms around me, uncaring to the fact I'm soaking wet—

It's

Clear.

My head is whirling and then I'm crying into Finnick's neck.

"My beautiful Annie," he whispers tenderly, his hand warm on my wet hair, and I'm gasping, because I forgot. I forgot. I forgot I was his Annie, I forgot I was the victor, I forgot to remember which reality I was in, and they were all together at once, and they can't be together, they can't join, they aren't compatible, they don't work that way at all. I can't have them both, I can't, no matter how much I want to. I can't have both my family and this close love with Finnick. I can only have one.

Finnick pulls me into his room and helps me sit down on the edge of the bed. And I'm scared. Scared because he was sad before, and he didn't tell me why, and scared because I never want that to ever happen again. Scared because I never want to have those two realities meet ever again. What was confusing then in the haze is deeply terrifying in reality. That is so much worse than drifting. I can't breathe. I can't be madder. I can't. I can't. All I have is my remaining sanity and Finnick and Mags and that is all. Haven't they taken enough from me?

Finnick leaves momentarily and returns with two towels. He wraps one around my shoulders and I clutch it to me, suddenly registering exactly how cold it is. He sits beside me and gently towel dries my hair until it's no longer dripping water all over the bed.

And he doesn't ask, but he doesn't have to, because I'm coming to him just as I always do.

"It was both," I say, my voice shivering as much as my body. "Both realities and they don't make sense together."

He sets the damp towel down beside him, turning to look fully at me.

"How many now?" he asks me, his eyes studying my face.

I hold up one finger.

He softly takes hold of that hand and kisses my finger, and I know what he means. I'm glad I'm there with him, too. I'm glad there's only one again, too.

He rises and extends his hand for me. I take it and he pulls me to my feet, leading me to the bathroom. He gives me a shirt and a pair of sweatpants to change into and waits outside the bathroom while I do. I have to fight with the wet flannel, but once my pajamas are off and my borrowed clothes are on, I feel a lot better already.

Finnick pulls me into his arms when I leave the bathroom, and I hug him back as tightly as I can, because I don't know what I would do without him.

I tell him this.

"I just wouldn't without you," is what he replies.

I don't know what he means by that.

I'm dizzy so I sit down on the edge of the bed and tug him down with me. He lets go of my hand, and I'm feeling myself slipping away again, but then he's lying down on his back and extending his arm in invitation. And it's the invitation I didn't know I needed, but I did, I did, I did. I slide over beside him and lie down so my head is resting on his chest. I turn on my left side and mold my body against the side of his, my right leg over his left leg and my arm over his stomach and this is where I stay.

"Finn?" I ask after some time, when I can feel myself beginning to fall asleep.

"Hmm?" His voice is thick with sleepiness.

"I don't want to go back to my house," I tell him. Because I don't, I can't, I won't. I've opened Arnav's door and the ghosts are moving around now I am sure of it. The dust that was heavy on all his belongings is now stirring and spinning throughout the entire house and I will inhale it when I sleep. It will choke me, like his ashes would.

Finnick slides his hand underneath the back of my shirt, his hand warm on the skin of my back and comforting, and then we both stop, because he's never done anything like that before. I look up at him and he looks down at me and he seems scared, like he's done something to upset me, but then I'm smiling because I'm fine, and I like his hand against my skin, and I was scared for him, not me, anyway.

He lies his head back down against the pillows, a small smile on his face, his hand caressing my back.

"I don't ever want you to go back to your house, Annie," he admits. "It feels wrong for you to be so far away."

It does, it does, it does. It always does.

He lifts his head up a bit again, looking down at me.

"Yesterday," he starts. He stops for a second, his eyes on me, and then continues. "Yesterday I was sad because I was thinking of all the things we can never have."

His words punch me in the stomach and I want to curl up into a ball, but I settle for pulling him in more.

He rests his head back on the pillow and looks up at the ceiling, his eyes sorrowful.

"I would love more than anything to see you in white," he admits, and his words shock and warm me all at once, because I know what he is saying, and I would have loved to see him in a tux, too.

I reach a hand up and touch his jaw.

"We can have whatever we want," I say, my voice coming out sounding surprisingly stubborn, and I sound just like I distantly remember him sounding that day on the train when he told Mags: I'm Finnick Odair. I can have whatever I want.

He removes his hand from my back and sets it over mine. I stop tracing the familiar path of his jawline and he holds my hand tightly.

"Okay," he tells me, as if he believes me. "I want you to stay here. Not just today and not just tomorrow. Forever."

I turn my head and find myself automatically pressing a kiss to his shoulder, as if we wake up like this every morning and that's the first thing I always do, the way I begin each new day. And it's easy easy easy to love him. Easy as breathing. It comes more naturally than anything I have ever done.

"I want that, too." And I do. I moved out of Mags' house to prove to myself that I'm functioning, that I can actually live a life that isn't just blank stares and Mags helping me into the shower. And I learned that I am, I can. I can live more than just a life; I can live a happy life. But only with Finn.

I know I can live alone, but I no longer want to. So why should I? Why? I can't think of a reason. I can't at all. I think it's time that I try again to accept that this is what is real. This is what happened. I went mad during my Games, and my family is dead, and they are never coming back. My sister will never marry and my brother will never grow up. I will always see them in my mind, and I will always drift away, even when I don't want to. But I have Finnick, and he has me, and he is never going to leave me. And we can't marry or have children or tell anyone that we are in love, but we can still be together in our own way, just like I can be sane in my own way and live in my own way and Finnick can function with what he has to do in his own way. A life with Finnick—even the most limited life—is all I will ever want and I am gripping it tightly with both hands and I am never, ever letting go. Because sometimes life doesn't turn out the way you planned. Sometimes it doesn't even turn out anything like what you planned. Sometimes it reaches inside of you and breaks you into tiny pieces. And sometimes it gives you a gift that you never thought you would ever receive; a gift you never thought even existed. And you have to choose in that moment to drop the broken pieces of yourself on the ground to cup this gift in your hands before it disappears.

And it's easy, easy, easy.

Suddenly and simply, we're just like those Angelfish. Together always.

Chapter Text

I don't leave Finnick's house for eight days after that.

I wear his clothes and use his shower and eat at his kitchen table with him. We say goodnight when it gets to be around midnight and I go to the spare room, but thirty minutes later he's calling my name or I'm calling his and then I'm curled up against him in the middle of his giant bed, warm underneath the blankets and safe. We give up the false pretense of the spare room by the fifth night and I just go up to bed with him.

And we're happy happy happy. Finnick sings in the shower and gazes at me like he is bursting with love the first time I find myself doing his dishes as if it's something I do all the time here. I drift off every now and then each day, but even my alternate reality is happy. Cora and I take Arnav fishing and I don't cry on the boat once. I'm living in a world where I am loved every second of every day and I love someone just as much just as frequently and there is no therapy that will ever beat that. Finnick's hands, warm on my back underneath my shirt, are the medication keeping me rooted to this reality. His laughter is responsible for the sun rising and setting each day. Somewhere deep down I know that can't be true and it can't be scientifically possible, but it feels that way.

On the morning of the ninth day, Finnick wakes me up with the words "We should go to your house". I'm sad and scared because I think he's saying he wants me to go back forever, but he told me before he wants me here forever, so how does that make sense? He's almost determined as we walk back to my house and he keeps a tight grip on my hand. I'm sick when we walk in, but then he's digging a suitcase out of the hall closet, and we're packing my things into it. Permanent permanent permanent. Finnick and I are permanent. More permanent than death.

Mags has been coming to Finnick's every day since I've been refusing to leave. That night, she sees the suitcase in the hallway. She doesn't say anything at all, but I know she's glad. She's smiling and content, watching us laugh, and I know she knew this was how it was meant to be from that very first day on the train. She knew from the first conversation she heard us have that it was Finnick and Annie and it always would be. When I tell her she was right, she knows what I'm talking about and she simply grins smugly.

People in District 4 have noticed how much time I've been spending with Finnick. They think he is even madder than I am. He is beautiful and rich and could do anything he wants with anyone he wants, and he chooses to spend all his time with an elderly woman who can't hardly speak and a mad girl.

I was at dinner, but then I'm with my sister and we're walking along the beach. The crashing of the waves sounds more like home than absolutely anything else, except for Finnick's sleepy voice in the morning when he traces his nose down my cheek and tells me he dreamed of beautiful things with me there. I always dream of beautiful things with Finnick. Finnick is a beautiful thing in himself.

"I have a family, Cora," I say.

The dry sand is heated, familiar, and soft underneath my bare feet. I stop walking and dig my toes down into it, wondering what it would feel like to be buried underneath it. Soft and warm, I would think. Although a lot of things feel soft and warm until they aren't anymore.

"Of course you do, Annie," Cora replies, moderately confused and looking at me like I have lost my mind. When I stop to ponder what I've just said, I'm befuddled too, because why would I tell my sister I have a family? Of course I have a family. She is it.

She shakes her head in bewildered humor and then grabs onto my hand.

"Come on! Let's go walk in the water," she demands.

I'm protesting as she pulls on my hand, because I don't want to get in the water. I don't know why, but the thought makes me feel sick.

I dig my heels into the ground.

"No, Cora, I don't think I want to," I say, my voice trembling.

She stops, her brief confusion evolving into full blown astonishment. I never shoot down her ideas, because as a general rule, she does always know what is best for me. Even if I'm unsure of something she says, I go with it. Because she's Cora.

But suddenly I know something is different, because I know without a doubt that going into the water isn't what's best for me at all. It's very dangerous, and I don't know why, but I just keep thinking that I can't do it without Finn and he isn't here.

"No?" Cora inquires uneasily.

I'm nodding then, certain for once.

"No."

Maybe I can take care of myself after all.

I come back to Finnick reciting one of his new poems that compares our love to a sandcastle made out of gold. I give him a skeptical look that always makes him laugh, and he knows I'm back.

"Sandcastle made out of gold, huh?" I tease.

He grins broadly, straightening the collar of his coat as if he's about to say something rather important.

"Copyright Finnick Odair."

I smile back, rising from the chair I was in so I can stand beside him. I grab his hand and bump my hip against his jokingly.

"I'll be sure no one takes it."

His arm is secure around my waist.

Mags enters the kitchen again, and I'm not sure where she went or when she left, but she's got a long, flat box covered in a layer of dust in her arms.

She mumbles something excitedly and then motions for us to follow, walking with a little trouble out of the kitchen and presumably to the living room. Finnick lowers his hand from my waist and takes my hand, swinging our arms as we walk with a large smile on his face.

Mags is sitting on the floor, lifting the top of the box off to reveal thousands upon thousands of puzzle pieces. Finnick groans a little, but I'm excited.

"Help?" Mags requests.

I nod eagerly and let go of Finnick's hand, walking across the smooth floor and sitting down beside Mags. She smiles fondly at me and pushes the top of the box behind her. She lifts the bottom and dumps out the mountain of puzzle pieces.

Puzzles are work that mad people should not flourish with, but I am and I do. I love it. I love it even more than gardening. At first I think it's just the colors. The puzzle ends up being the image of a rainbow over the water and each piece is handpainted with colors so soft but so rich all at the same time. I pick up each piece and study it for a few moments before trying to place it, because I am in love with the strokes of the paintbrush on each and the hues. The violet pieces are the best, especially the ones that are gently blended with deep blue.

After an hour of sorting and placing the pieces, though, I realize it's not so much the aesthetics I like. It's the piecing together of broken parts, the creation of a whole. It's holding thousands and thousands of shattered pieces and then slowly and painstakingly figuring out where they go and replacing them. It's a cure like I've always wanted for my mind.

In comparison Finnick is relatively unimpressed by it. He questions why we find it so fun, but he seems content enough to sit beside me and watch as Mags and I do it. He gives live commentary for the entire event—("STOP! By your left elbow! There's the red-orange piece!" "Yeah, I don't think that goes there." "Turn it to the side!")—but other than that he has nothing to do with it. He has a lot to do with his hands, though. He spends the better part of the first hour braiding and unbraiding my hair and then takes to simply stroking his fingers through it. My heart swells with each passing moment until it's very difficult to pretend he isn't doing it, because I just want to hug or kiss him or preferably both. He gets to me. I don't know how else to explain the way I feel like I might explode sometimes. How the love is just too much.

The evening is going so well that I try to ignore my exhaustion. By the time ten rolls around, I'm about to fall asleep sitting up. I think puzzles are more mentally exhausting than I had originally expected. I'm hovering between conscious and unconsciousness, dropping off to sleep for a few moments at a time, only to jerk back awake when Finnick's fingers brush my scalp.

He notices my exhaustion when I drift off for a long enough period of time for my head to drop forward.

"Are you sleeping?" he asks me in surprise.

Mags looks up too, laughing a bit to herself.

She mumbles something that sounds like: get that girl to bed.

Finnick goes to pick me up but I shake my head, drowsily muttering something that I wanted to come out as I can do it but actually comes out sounding more like gibberish.

Finnick chuckles and lifts me up and into his arms. I try to watch our progress as we move out of the room, but my eyes are heavy and I can't keep them open. I let my head fall against Finnick and my eyes close.

"I'll be back Mags, just taking her to her room!" Finnick yells.

I'm laughing weakly then, because I know he's saying that to make Mags think we don't share a bed. I highly doubt she believes that for a moment. I wouldn't believe that for a moment.

He lies me down on the cool sheets of the bed in the spare bedroom and kisses my cheek. I'm momentarily confused, because I thought he was just saying that for Mags. I don't want to sleep in here without him. I never want to sleep without him again. I can't tell him that, though, because I'm tired, and because I don't know if he would want to hear that or not. Everything is sticky when I'm tired.

"See you soon," he promises.

I'm smiling then, because oh, I'm just here until Mags leaves. Then things are normal again.

"Why are you smiling so big? You look like you've just won a boat."

My dad's tugging on a knot, trying to undo it and redo it. He's on the floor of the back room of his shop, making net after net after net. I'm sitting in a pile of them too, and I remember that's what I was supposed to be doing.

My dad's waiting for my answer, and I have no idea what to tell him, because I don't know why I was smiling either.

"Just like doing this," I finally tell him, picking up the net I must have been working on before I spaced.p>

He smiles at that, looking back down at his net.

"Dad?" I ask him suddenly.

He looks back up, an inquisitive expression on his face. My voice sounds strange to me, too.

"Yeah?" He asks after a few moments.

I fiddle with the string for a few moments, thinking about how it's the same color as the sand when it's wet, and then I look back up at my dad.

"What makes two people married?" I ask him.

He's looking at me oddly, setting his net down in his lap for the first time in what must be twenty years.

"What do you mean?" he questions.

I'm frustrated then, because I can't think of how to word it where he will understand, and I get the vague idea that this happens to me a lot, although I can't remember another circumstance currently.

"Do you think people are only married if they have the certificate, or do you think being married is more like a state of mind?" I finally clarify.

He's staring at me, his eyes drifting to my left hand like he thinks I've run off and gotten married since the last time he saw me. I have no idea why I'm asking this, but some part of me wants to know, so I don't try to take back the question.

He scratches his head, inhaling deeply and then peering off at the wall like he's thinking deeply. He exhales a few moments later and then looks back at me.

"State of mind," he finally says.

I tie a knot carefully, making sure it's evenly placed with the others so there won't be a hole in the net, and then I look back at him.

"What kind of state of mind?"

He taps his fingers on the concrete floor, thinking hard once more.

"Permanence," he finally says.

And I don't know why, or how, but that was the answer I wanted.

"You're smiling in your sleep."

I become aware of the small things first: the sound of the heater humming and the drip of the leaky faucet in the spare bathroom and the smooth and deep sound of Finnick's voice.

I open my eyes, peering up at Finnick. He's smiling down at me, and I can feel on my face that he's right, I'm smiling too. I don't have the heart to correct him and say I wasn't asleep yet, only away, so I don't. I'm freezing in this spare room though and I hope he's coming to tell me Mags is gone.

"Bedtime?" I ask hopefully.

His smile widens.

"I was just going to crawl in with you, but now that you're awake, I think a location change is best."

I have butterflies trapped in my stomach then, because he was going to climb in with me, even when I wasn't present. Even when he could have gone to his bed to sleep and I would have never known. He must not want to sleep without me ever again too.

"Please," I agree. This bed is okay, but his is the best.

We walk the short distance to his bedroom. It's colder in here, so I don't even bother to change out of the borrowed sweatpants I have on. I switch a sweater for a T-shirt, though, because it gets warm under the blankets with Finnick.

He's already in bed when I'm done in the bathroom, so I lift the covers and slide under. We used to stay on our separate sides, slowly drifting closer and closer during the night, until we were both in the middle of the bed tangled together as if both sides had risen and dumped us there. But now we slide towards the middle automatically, him on his back and me curled up against his side and everything the way it should be.

He slides his hand up under the back of my shirt once more, so it's resting on my lower back, and I smile against his shoulder. I like that we have this one sleeping position we always fall into. I like that we have anything that's ours at all. He laughs softly above me.

I'm as warm as I've been all day and feeling sleepy once more when I'm remembering with almost unsettling detail a conversation I had with my mother a few months before she died. I was telling her she couldn't leave me, because she was my mother, and she replied that yes, she was, but that didn't keep death away at all. In the end, she said, it didn't even mean anything at all.

She loved us, she did, but sometimes she was so realistic and so practical to the point it broke my heart. I have always been idealistic and I hope I still am. I loved her dearly, but I could never live with the same view of the world as she did. She seemed to believe that the more you prepared yourself for the bad, the less it would hurt if they actually happened. And so she expected the worse out of everything and everyone. She wasn't surprised at all when she fell ill, and she handled it quite well.

I didn't.

So maybe she was right after all.

Finnick is half asleep, but he seems to notice something isn't right, because his hand strokes softly and he's calling me back with his voice.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

I'm staring at the ceiling, wishing I could see the stars, when I find myself answering. I am always surprised with how easily honest I am with Finnick.

"My mother used to say that change is the only thing guaranteed in life. Life changes. People leave and people die. Everything changes. Even the things you think never can. They are the things that change the most," I whisper.

Finnick's hand is drifting up my spine, and I like to imagine that he can slide his hand up and up and up until he's gently reaching into my mind, untying the poorly tied knots and correcting them until my mind is working again and there are no gaping holes, no opportunities for catches to swim loose.

"Your mom lied to you," he says simply, his voice certain.

I'm idly tracing circles into the skin on his shoulder when I reply.

"I think she must have, too. Because I loved you six months ago, and I loved you yesterday, and I love you today, and I will love you fifty years from now."

My eyes fall shut as he presses his lips to my head.

"And I'll be loving you back all that time," he replies.

I'm drifting to sleep a few moments later, lulled by his certainty and his hand caressing my back, when he speaks up again.

"We'll never end, Annie."

I think I might smile in my sleep tonight.

Finnick is still asleep when I wake up. I somehow ended up halfway on top of him in the night, and my hair is all in his face, and he keeps reaching up and swatting at the air in his sleep as if he is aware it's there but isn't sure exactly what it is or where it is. I'm trying so hard not to laugh, but I fail miserably. I slide off him, turning over and curling up in a ball so I can press my face into my knees to keep from waking him as I giggle.

It doesn't work though. I feel the bed shift a bit.

"What?" he asks, his voice laced with sleep and confusion and, strangely, worry.

I shake my head, laughing harder still because I can't forget how silly he looked, swatting at nothing. I am feeling my affection for him soar once more, because Finnick Odair isn't normally described as cute, but I'm certain that was one of the cutest things I've ever seen.

"You're so cute!" I gasp out as an explanation.

There's a pause, and then I feel his arms wind around me and he's pulling me back against the front of his body. His skin hot from being under the covers all night. His hand drifts over my stomach, and then he's tickling me and I'm jerking my knees back up to my chest, trying to pull away from him.

"Finnick!" I yell in complaint, because I had thought he'd forgotten that I'm ticklish. He hasn't even tried to use this defense once, not even when I'm making fun of his poetry.

I'm gasping wildly for air and he stops immediately. He presses a kiss to the back of my neck and I can feel his smile.

"I'm not cute," he finally says, his voice sounding a bit more awake. He's feigning insult, because he knows too that "cute" isn't something he's normally called.

I'm panting and clutching my stomach which hurts from laughing, laughing, laughing. But I'm confused because I remember hating being tickled, but that felt very different. I think it's because I appreciate laughing more now, or maybe I just appreciate the man who likes to hear me laugh as much as he does.

"Are so," I mumble under my breath.

Finnick kisses my neck again, his lips insanely warm and gentle. The kiss is almost agonizingly slow, his lips meeting my skin leisurely and then parting bit by bit by bit until his mouth is gone and the area is strangely cold without it.

"What was that?" he asks me, a challenge in his voice. He inches his hands back towards my stomach.

"Nothing!" I say innocently.

Then we're both laughing. I turn over and smile even wider, because Finnick when he's just woken up is wonderful. His eyes are still tired and his hair is disheveled and he looks completely unburdened.

His eyes roam over my face, his affectionate smile making an appearance. He reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ear, and then I'm thinking about his swatting at it again, and I'm biting back a smile.

"Let's just stay in bed today," he suggests.

"Good idea," I say immediately.

And it is a good idea. We leave long enough to make breakfast, but then we climb back under the covers with ceramic plates piled high with blueberry pancakes and eat there. We set the plates on the floor after that and doze for a few minutes, but I don't get too far into sleep because Finnick keeps blowing into my ear and then innocently looking off in the other direction when I turn to glare at him.

I'm drifting off for the third time when a burst of cold air jerks me awake once more.

I turn around in his arms.

"Finnick!" I warn, my eyes narrowing.

He's struggling to hold back laughter. He carefully rearranges his face so he looks confused.

"What? What's wrong?" he questions frantically.

I poke his chest, and as I do I get a flashback to the Opening Ceremonies before my Games, when Finnick jabbed his finger into the chest of the District 2 mentor. I lower my finger almost immediately.

Finnick's eyes are slowly losing their merriment and becoming worried, but I'm over it quicker than I thought possible and glaring at him again.

"Don't make me get revenge!" I say, trying my very best to sound threatening, but no one has ever been scared of me and no one will.

I have to turn my head though, because I'm smiling and trying not to laugh too. He knows I find this just as hilarious as he does.

"And what exactly are you going to do to get your revenge?" he tests, his voice confident.

I'm quiet for a few moments as I try to think of something. The silence stretches on and on and then I turn back to look at him.

"I'm going to…stop sleeping in here," I caution.

He gasps, his eyes narrowing as much as mine.

"You would not!" he argues.

I reach up and tap his nose, eying him seriously.

"Would so," I swear.

We lock eyes and stare, obviously intending to do so until the other breaks away. My lips are twitching up within the first ten seconds, and Finnick's muscles keep tightening with the effort to keep from laughing.

I relent finally because I can't stand to look at him that long and not kiss him, and somehow breaking the eye contact by kissing is even more of a defeat than simply looking up at the ceiling.

"Fine. I wouldn't," I agree.

He makes a sound of triumph.

"But only because it'd be too cold in the other room," I continue flatly. I sneak a look at his face after that though, because I'm teasing and I want to make sure he knows that. He doesn't look the least bit shaken by my words. On the contrary, he's grinning even wider.

"Of course." 

He lets me drift off to sleep after that, though.

I wake to the sound of him writing. I lie there quietly for a few minutes, content to live in this hazy world between awake and asleep because I can feel Finnick's body beside mine and I can hear the sound of his pen against the paper and it's nice nice nice nice. Nicer than anything else.

It's getting too toasty under the blankets, though. So I pull myself up into a sitting position and kick them off, blinking the sleep out of my eyes and peering around the room. It's afternoon judging by the warm sun shining in through the window. I admire the way the sun makes Finnick's hair golden for a few moments, and then I'm sitting up even straighter and moving closer to Finnick so I can see what he's doing. He's leaning back against the headboard, a notebook in his lap, and a very serious expression on his face. I lean against him, my head dropping to his shoulder.

He turns his head and then rests his cheek against the crown of my head.

"Morning!" he quips.

I'm eyeing the way the pen is running so smoothly against the paper for a while. I realize I haven't answered him a bit later, but he doesn't seem bothered at all. He's humming to himself and penning word after word to the paper.

"Afternoon!" I reply finally.

He sets the pen down, flexing his fingers, and then picks up the paper.

"How does this sound to you?" he asks.

He begins reading off a poem so lovely I feel once more like there are thousands of butterflies set loose inside of my body. The words are so pretty and wound together so naturally that it reminds me of ivy clinging to the walls of a house. When he started I was unsure as to what it was about, listening to him describe a meadow by the sea that sounds breathtakingly gorgeous, but by the end I realized it was about the realization that life goes on.

"It's beautiful," I whisper when he's done.

He lifts his head and turns to look at me. I lift my head too, meeting his gaze.

"You're my meadow by the sea," he tells me, his mouth turning up into a smile.

I grin back, and I want to kiss him more than anything, but I roll my eyes because this is our little joke, another thing we own, another thing that's just ours.

"You had such a lovely poem and you just had to make it cheesy!" I sigh.

He laughs loudly, reaching over to smooth a hand down the side of my face and cup my cheek.

"Always for you."

I settle my hand over his and then lean forward a bit, and he knows automatically what I'm doing. He leans forward too, meeting me halfway, and his lips are sweet underneath mine. Our lips move together unhurriedly, and it's so pleasant, and there's a slow warmth spreading throughout me that makes my toes curl up like I've just stepped into a warm shower after being outside in the bitter wind all day. I think maybe this is what being drunk might feel like.

I break away, my heart pounding and my face consumed by a smile.

"So does this mean you really like my poems?" he teases in mock surprise.

And I can't help it; I lean forward and kiss him again. When I break apart once more, his eyelids are heavy like he's drunk, too.

I lean back against him while he resumes poem writing. After a while I turn the radio on, and we listen to that in peaceful silence. I like the Capitol man's voice. It's heavily accented and nice to listen to.

I almost jump out of my skin when Finnick suddenly turns without warning, resulting in my head falling from his shoulder. He hovers over me a bit, and something in his eyes has me reclining until I'm lying flat on my back, looking up at him. He's smiling in an almost alluring way, his eyes heavily lidded like before and his eyes darting back and forth between my eyes and my lips.

"Spell check me, my darling," he hums seductively.

He waves a piece of paper under my nose, and then we're both laughing so hard we're rolling all over the bed.

"You're crazy!" I tell him affectionately, and then I'm laughing even harder because that's the most ridiculous thing I have ever said in my entire life.

He's opening his mouth then, and I sit up and throw myself at him, pushing him down onto the bed. I place my hand over his mouth.

"Don't you dare say 'crazy for you'!"

He looks disappointed.

"That was a good one though!" he complains when I remove my hand.

I gaze down at him, my hair spilling over my left shoulder.

"I'm crazy for you, too," I tell him.

His eyes soften and he lifts his hand, sweeping my hair back over my shoulder so it's hanging down my back.

"That's the only crazy you're allowed to call yourself," he tells me. "Because it's the only way you are crazy. And I'm crazy just that way, too."

He's wrong, but that's okay. This is the only thing he's wrong about.

We both look up in confusion when the doorbell rings. The only person we willingly associate with is Mags, and she just walks right in. She already knew we weren't coming over for breakfast. She mumbled something that sounded like wow, he finally learned how to work the stove. And then said she was going to sleep in for a while.

I sit back on the bed and Finnick sits up, shrugging his shoulders at my questioning glance.

We slide off the bed and pad down the hallway, automatically approaching the door hesitantly like there might be a Gamemaker's muttation behind it. Which there may.

I stay behind Finnick as he opens the door just enough to peer out.

"Yes?" he asks.

The responding voice shocks me, because the last time I heard it he was telling me he couldn't see me anymore because he was in love with one of our friends.

"Would you have any idea where Annie is? She's not at her house."

I want Henry to leave. I know it's not a kind way to greet a friend, but I have no desire to see him. I've tried to interact with people other than Finnick and Mags and they just treat me like I'm The Mad Girl. I don't like to be The Mad Girl. I don't like it at all.

Finnick steps back and opens the door wider. I peek out from behind him, hesitantly stepping out. I'm not scared of Henry, but I am scared of how insane he'll think I am when I drift off because I don't want to be here, having this conversation.

His eyes scan down my body, and I realize a moment too late what this must look like. Finnick in his pajamas, me in Finnick's clothes, both of us with obvious bed hair.

"…Oh," he says.

I hate how he's looking at Finnick then. Like Finnick's done something wrong. Even if we had been having sex, Finnick wouldn't have been hurting me. I know Henry has no idea of the ideas Finnick is struggling with right now, but I still hate that he's reinforcing those ideas with this simple look. He's telling Finnick that he knows what we're doing and he thinks he's a horrible person for doing it. But we're not and he isn't and even if he was it's okay because I'm not so mad I have no idea what I want. I remember being in the Capitol hospital, realizing no one trusted me enough to consent to what kind of soup I'd want, and I realize now that people will think no less of the idea of me being in a relationship with Finnick. I don't want that. I don't want them looking at him like he's taking advantage of me, because never ever ever would he do that. I know for a fact if I were to strip down naked right here he'd avert his eyes out of respect. Because he loves me the way I love him: unselfishly, fully, asking of nothing more than to be loved in return.

I wait for Finnick to defend himself somehow, but he doesn't. He simply stares back at Henry.

"Did you need something, Henry?" I speak up, because the tension is horrid, and I don't know what else to do.

Henry turns to look at me, smiling tensely.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing," he replies.

I'm confused then, because if he really wanted that, why haven't I seen him before now? He wasn't waiting when I got off the train. He wasn't at my family's funeral. He didn't stop by once to see how I was doing when I was at my worst.

Finnick's on the same wave length, per usual.

"Funny, you didn't stop by before," he says, his voice just as accusing as Henry's, although I'm not quite sure what exactly he's accusing him of. Being a bad acquaintance?

Henry reacts with much less grace to this blatant mistrust than Finnick did. He balks, opening his mouth without any sound coming out for almost a full minute.

"When I was watching the Victory Tour I—"

Finnick interrupts his awkward explanation.

"You what? Thought she looked beautiful and decided to come see her again?"

At first I'm looking at Finnick in shock, because why is he acting like that, like he's jealous? I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason Henry didn't come by before. I can't believe that he saw my awful red dress on television and then decided to see me. He's the one who broke our relationship in the first place. Since when does Finnick think he should be jealous of anyone, anyway? He is better than anyone I even could have dreamed up.

Henry is visibly uncomfortable.

"Well, in a manner of speaking, yes!" he squeaks.

And then I just feel bad for doubting Finnick's ability to read people.

Finnick doesn't say anything. I think he might be angry. I hurriedly speak up.

"Thanks for stopping by to check up on me, Henry. That was sweet. I'm doing very well, thank you," I rush out. But I'm starting to feel angry, too. Because if what Finnick was implying is true, Henry isn't very nice at all, and that's just more memories tainted.

He smiles uneasily.

"I'm glad, Annie."

But I don't think that he is, and that makes me uneasy as well.

"Well, bye, Henry!" Finnick says, stepping back and setting his hand on the door with the intent of closing it. It's clear in his voice how much he doesn't like Henry, and clear in his actions how ready he is for him to leave.

Henry's eyes flash.

"It's not like I came over here to try and take her from you, Odair! Calm down! Don't lose your head, man!"

But of course Finnick isn't going to lose his head. No, that's Chiron, and he's on the ground, and both Twine and Osmium are hovering over him, and Twine's reaching into his chest and yanking out the blade and using that while Osmium uses the other knife and they're stabbing violently over and over again into Chiron's neck, and he's screaming screaming screaming in pain and he's begging me to save him but I can't I can't I can't and I'm running towards them and jumping on them and beating onto their backs and spitting on them and trying everything I can to get them to stop stop stop but they don't even realize I'm there at all and then they move back suddenly and I'm lying in a pile of blood and flesh and Chiron doesn't have a head anymore because he lost it and it's gone and it's lying right there beside me, just at eye level, and his eyes are open and wide in fear and pain and what if he is still trapped inside of there, thinking and feeling and living, but he can't move because his head is lost lost lost—

A warm washcloth is set over my eyes and it pulls me away from the arena.

I'm shaking violently, so violently it makes my muscles ache, and my head is spinning. When I open my eyes, all I can see is a gentle blue haze due to the lightly colored washcloth over my eyes, so I just close them once more. I can tell I'm back in Finnick's bed, though, and that makes me feel a little better instantly. Nothing bad happens here. It never has and it never will.

I'm gasping and then Finnick's got his hand around mine.

"Annie," he says.

He doesn't have to say anything else. I can hear it in the way he says my name. The sorrow, the regret, the guilt, the anger. But it's not his fault, and even though he's angry at Henry, it's really not his fault either. I think Finnick and I both forget sometimes that most people don't know how to deal with a mad girl. They can't see the landmines to step around in conversations or recognize the small gaps that mean I'm drifting away away away faster than someone can follow.

When I start to cry he pulls the washcloth off my face and helps me sit up, pulling me into his arms. And there aren't enough words in my mind, there aren't enough to express how much I hate it when I'm having such a good day and then I am cruelly reminded of all I never wanted to remember in the first place. I can never escape, because there are triggers hidden everywhere. They're hidden in book passages that describe turbulent waters. They're hidden in the red paint they're currently redoing the market walls with. They're hidden in the knives in the silver drawer and in someone's misplaced words. They are in too many places to keep up with, too many places to hide from.

But they aren't here. There aren't in between the light green sheets or in Finnick's arms or lurking under the bed. They're not even in the closet or in the corners of the room or on the ceiling. This is ours.

"What he was thinking isn't true," I mutter suddenly. And I mean all of it. It isn't true that Finnick is a bad person, and it isn't true that I'm even in some small way worth coming out to check on, and it isn't true that Finnick is going to lose his head. I don't know why someone would even think any of that at all, but it makes furious.

"It was all wrong. Except for him recognizing that you're beautiful," Finnick replies.

That was wrong too, though. It was wrong that he would completely forget about me before and then decide to come see me just because he liked the way that I looked (if that is even why he did). I don't understand it.

Finnick sets two fingers under my chin and gently redirects my glance back up at him, and I realize I've been quiet and locked in my brain for a few minutes.

"I know it was the comment. Do you want to talk about it?" he offers.

Do I want to talk about it? I don't think so. Sometimes I do. Sometimes it helps to articulate out loud the horror that feels so extreme inside of my mind that I think my brain might burst and splatter out on all the walls. But I don't think so today. I want to forget about it, I want to pretend I never had to see it, and I especially don't want to dwell on it until I'm going back again, but this time watching Finnick losing his head instead of Chiron.

I shake my head, turning in his arms to examine the bed. My eyes land on the now crumpled piece of paper and I stretch across the space, pulling it to me and lifting it up to eyelevel.

I keep my eyes trained on the paper as I reply.

"No. I just want to proofread my boyfriend's poem."

The word slips out without my consent, like it too thinks I'm not competent enough to give it. I feel a blush seep over my face and I keep my eyes trained to the page, mortified by my slip of tongue. I know we are something, because we love each other and we live together like we're married and I kiss him every day and he lets me and he kisses me too, but we've never actually put a label to it. And I understand why as soon as the word comes out. It just doesn't feel right. Nothing really feels right. Friend is too casual, boyfriend seems too ephemeral, lover seems too carnal, and husband feels like something special that I wouldn't want to jump too quickly to say. Almost like a title that you have to work to gain, like a prize after a particularly grueling quest, even though if I'm admitting it to myself, that word is the one out of all of them that feels like it would fit the best. But in the end, the only thing I can think of that explains what he is to me is my Finnick. It's not a title at all, but that's how I think of him. If someone were to ask what he was to me, I would just tell them my Finnick. And I think he would do the same. I think other people would do the same, too. Her Finnick, his Annie. Your Annie, your Finnick.

I raise my eyes up quickly, just long enough to gauge his reaction, and he's smiling smiling smiling.

"I think we bypassed boyfriend and girlfriend a long time ago without even realizing it," he replies, always understanding what is going on in my mixed up mind, effortlessly and blessedly.

I lower the paper, meeting his eyes for the first time, my face still red. I can breathe easier, though.

"I agree."

He taps his knee, peering thoughtfully at me.

"Still, if we were to be forced to give it a name, what would it be?" he asks, almost more to himself than to me. I know the ordeal with Henry has him thinking about this, too. Because people think things in District 4. Some think he's just doing it out of pity, some think he's being paid by the Capitol to watch over me, some think he's mad like me, and some must be like Henry and think he's taking advantage of a mad girl. They're all wrong.

I'm thinking too, and suddenly I realize something.

"I don't think I want to give it a name. Not now, at least. Not until…" I stop suddenly, unsure whether or not I should even mention marriage, because it can never happen and that fact made him sad that day, but we tell each other everything. "Not until we can be married. Nothing else would feel right. Nothing else would fit."

I've said "not until we can", as if the day will come when we can, which it won't. We will never be able to, and so we will never have a name, but it doesn't matter. Because this is ours, too. Ours to know, ours to understand, ours to hold tightly. It doesn't matter how we'd explain it to someone else, because it has nothing to do with them.

He smiles, reaching over and setting his hand on my knee affectionately.

"I think you're exactly right."

Sometimes I feel like he might be telling the truth, about me not being mad. Are mad people usually right about things? Maybe. Perhaps it's the mad ones who are right, and the sane ones who are wrong.

My sister's sobbing on my shoulder that night.

It's a role reversal like no other.

I smooth her hair back from her forehead and whisper soothing words but she cries and cries and cries.

"You're never going to get better, are you?" she weeps.

Her words hit me at the same time the knowledge that this isn't the real world does. My other reality floods me, and I'm staring blankly at the wall for a while, trying to adjust to this new realization. I have to shove things off the shelves in my mind to make room for all the new things I know, all the new memories I have, all the new tragedies that take up space in my heart.

I look back at her, and when I reply, I sound shocked myself.

"No, I don't think so, Cora."

She pulls back, angrily wiping her tears from her face like they are a waste of her valuable time. She probably does think they are a waste of time. I was the one who was officially named after my mother (my middle name, I mean), but Cora might as well be short for Cordelia instead of Coral, because she's so much like her sometimes it's scary. Just a bit happier, though. A bit more optimistic.

"And you're okay with that?" she demands. She stares me down, her eyes incredulous and hard, as if she's pleading with me to fight this, fight fate, fight what has happened, but there is no point at all.

"Yes," I breathe, and it's so honest I can't even speak it above a whisper.

In those first few days out of the arena, my obsessed over the word mad.

It defined everything I thought of myself, everything I did, everything I said. It was me. I was Madness personified. But now I'm realizing there's a word that's stronger than that, a word that defines me as much as it sets me free.

"And I'm happy," I tell her.

I have reason to believe the only happiness that is true happiness is the happiness that comes after you are sure you will never feel it again.

I come back to reality and Finnick's in bed beside me, nodding off over the pages of a book. I gently pry it from his hands and place one of the sheets of paper littering the bed in between the pages he was on and shut it, reaching across him to set it on the nightstand. I slide out of bed and remove the poems, stacking them neatly beside the book, and then I pull the blanket up to his shoulders and flip the lamp off.

I kiss his cheek once I'm in bed again. I stare at the moon for a few moments, and then I'm gently pushing his hair back until he rouses slightly.

"Finn?" I ask.

He turns his head to the side, still half asleep.

"Mm?" he asks.

"I'm happy," I tell him.

He smiles a bit, pulling the blankets up more.

"Me too, Ann," he murmurs.

This is ours, too.

Chapter Text

Bright purple flowers have just begun to bloom once more in the garden outside Mags' house the morning Finnick wakes me.

I'm certain I've slept well into the afternoon, because Finnick always rises later than me, but after a few moments of fighting off sleep I begin to register the sound of birds chirping. When I open my eyes, the room is still in a pale blue early morning haze, and Finnick is grinning and standing beside the bed with a neatly wrapped gift.

I smile back at him, but I'm bewildered.

"Good morning!" I tell him carefully, hoping it will encourage some sort of explanation for why this day has started out so unlike every other.

Finnick sets the box down on my lap and I pull myself up into a sitting position, hesitantly pulling the box closer to me as if I'm unsure whether or not I'm the recipient. I stroke a hand over the wrapping paper—it's silver and wonderfully metallic and very smooth—and then look back up at Finn. When he sees the question in my glance, his face falls a bit.

He recovers quickly though, perching on the edge of the bed and giving my hand a squeeze.

"Happy birthday," he says, his voice soft and full of affection.

I just stare at him for a couple of seconds, my mind whirling whirling whirling, because it is my birthday, isn't it? I looked at the calendar yesterday, and it was the 17th of March, and I didn't even realize what that meant. March 18th means my brother crawls into bed with me early in the morning and giggles until I wake up. He walks downstairs with me and everyone is there—even Dad because he takes off work on this day—and they make me blueberry pancakes and Cora braids a small rope strung with seashells into my hair. We eat breakfast and spend the rest of the day on the boat, playing games and swimming and fishing and talking, until we come back on shore around dinner time, our noses sunburned and our fingers still wrinkled, where we eat dinner on the beach. March 18th was special to me because it was the day we all got to spend together, and now that we can't, now that my brother will never crawl into bed with me and we will never get on my father's boat because it drowned with them all, I'm not sure exactly what is special about this day or why I should have a present on my lap.

Finnick's eyes are still on me though, as if he's waiting for something, and when I realize what it is I'm sliding my finger under the tapped flap of the wrapped gift. I unwrap it slowly, terrified to rip the beautiful paper, and when I do I feel myself getting unnecessarily upset over it.

"It's okay! It's just paper," Finnick reassures me.

It's not just paper though. Nothing is "just" anything. It wasn't "just" slips of paper that changed our entire lives forever and it wasn't "just" a boat ride that my family went on and this isn't "just" paper and it isn't "just" a gift. This is paper that Finnick picked and spent a while taping neatly to whatever is under it. This is evidence of Finnick's love and I love it.

A voice somewhere in my mind is yelling at me for being so crazy crazy crazy but I can't hear it over the sound of another tear in the paper.

I quickly press the box into Finnick's hands.

"Can you open it?" I plead. "I keep ripping it."

I'm not surprised at all when he takes it without any question or argument. He very carefully unwraps it, without tearing it once, and I know he's doing it just because he realizes that it means something to me, and because of that, it's no longer "just paper".

He folds it neatly once it's free of the box and then sets it on the nightstand on my side of the bed. I watch the way the weak sun that's shining through the window reflects on it for a few moments. It kind of reminds me of the dress they put me in for the Recap, but it's not unpleasant.

I turn back to the box and Finnick sets it on my lap once more. It's a flat rectangular box made of heavy duty cardboard. I lift the top carefully, struggling for a few moments because the top sticks to the bottom, until Finnick grabs hold of the bottom half and then pulls it down while I pull the other half up, and then I'm immediately reaching for the contents.

The pieces are small and smooth in my hands and I run them through my fingers, loving the sound they make. I pick up piece after piece and examine it—the detailed pieces of sand, the puff of a cloud, the corner of a tiny starfish—and then I'm flinging my arms around Finnick, the box filled with thousands of hand-painted puzzle pieces wedged between us. He laughs happily and sweeps a hand down my back over my hair.

"I love it," I exclaim, my words muffle against his shoulder. "I love it so much."

"I hoped you would," he says, and I can feel his smile against my temple when he kisses me.

Finnick sits on the bed and answers my questions about the puzzle as I brush my teeth and get dressed in the bathroom. It was made by the granddaughter of the same man who crafted the puzzle Mags has that I love so much. The beach that is depicted in pieces is the same beach I took Finnick to a few weeks back, the beach my family always went to, the beach I entered the water from for the first time since my Games. And it's perfect. It's one of those gifts that you didn't even know you wanted until you had it, and it feels like no other gift can ever top it.

Mags sings happy birthday to me over a breakfast of blueberry pancakes and I cry and I don't know whether I'm crying because I'm so happy, or if I'm crying because I miss my family. Perhaps both. I have gotten to a point where I understand that it can be both. I can be happy happy happy but also miss my family. I can be happy and sad at the same time. Happy is a permanent state; sad is something that just occurs a lot. There is a difference and it is an important one.

We'd normally go cultivate our rebirthed garden after breakfast, but I'm eager to the point of restlessness to start putting together my puzzle. I don't say anything about it, because I don't want to mess with our routine, but either Mags is just as impatient or she senses that I am, because she suggests that we work on the puzzle instead.

Finnick's laughing and I'm practically bouncing back to his house. I stop at the door and wait for them to catch up. The day's hot now and the sun is commanding the sky, bleaching it of its blue hues gradually the closer it is to it. The air is salty and when Finnick grabs me suddenly on the doorstep and kisses me full on the mouth, his lips are sweet. He breaks away from me, almost looking surprised at his own actions, because we have never kissed in front of Mags like that. Our heads turn quickly to glance at her, and she's just fighting back a smile and acting like nothing out of the ordinary happened at all. But it did, and my stomach's bubbly, and Finnick's hand is searing with the heat from the sun when he grabs onto mine. It feels like another gift, enclosed gingerly in silver paper.

It's humid both outside and inside, so Mags turns the fan in the kitchen on and Finnick and I sprawl out on the cool tile with the colorful pieces strewn out in front of us. Mags refuses to get on the floor and declines our constant offerings to move into the living room, insisting she's tired of puzzles right now and content to watch. That leaves me piecing it together slowly and Finnick commentating on the event per usual. We don't get very far before lunch, because just like with Mags' puzzle I find myself unable to place a piece before examining it thoroughly, but I've joined together enough of the picture to spot my favorite flowers sprouting amongst the marram grass in the sand dunes. They definitely don't realistically sprout in that terrain, so I know that Finnick asked for them to be there. He probably even brought one of the flowers to show the artist who did this. And I want to kiss him again for it.

Finnick and I haven't had a picnic in quite a few weeks. The Victory Tour shattered that tradition somehow. In fact, we don't go out in public together much at all. I think it must be because we both don't want to have to try to pretend we're nothing again. We don't have pretend at his house or Mags's or mine, so we stay here. However, he pulls the picnic basket out again today and Mags and I load it with sandwiches, carrots, and chocolate cookies with vanilla frosting Finnick must have purchased from the bakery this morning. He holds my hand as we walk out of the house and I keep a concerned eye on Mags as we walk down to the beach because walking in sand is difficult enough for someone my age, much less someone with mobility problems. She fares well enough, though, and stops suddenly a few feet from where the sand is damp from the rising tide. Seeing and smelling the ocean I can handle easily, my lifetime of memories overriding the awful one I have of salt water from the arena, but touching it is entirely different, and it's testament to how well these two know me that this is just an understood fact between us.

I spread the blanket out on the sand that's practically blistering and pull our lunch out, setting it strategically so the forceful winds won't send the blanket spiraling down the beach. That's happened before when I was probably around eight. My mom took Cora and I down to the beach for lunch and the blanket took off, flying through the air as a whipping flash of pink and orange. My mom was frustrated because it was a picnic blanket her mother gave to her and her mother to her and so on and so forth. It didn't ruin our picnic, but we never took a blanket ever again. Risky and wasteful, she said. She was probably right, because Cora never got that picnic blanket, and neither did I. But I guess Cora never got a lot of things.

Eyes are on us the entire meal, so Finnick and I sit a modest distance apart, but it doesn't matter. We're together as usual, a unit like usual, finishing each other's sentences and understanding a point the other was going to make before it's even been made. And the glares from a lot of the women on the beach don't matter, and the pesky seagull that keeps trying to run off with our lunch doesn't matter, and the way the wind keeps whipping my hair into my face doesn't matter, because it's one of the best lunches I've ever had. What matters is Mags' laughter at Finnick's jokes and Finn's smile as he observes the rolling waves in the distance. What matters is the fact that I feel like my family is still with me somehow, but not in the unhealthy way I drift off into a universe where they are. In a way that I can almost feel them with me each time I smile.

It must not be March 18th without sunburned noses, because mine is red and hot by the time we finish our meal. Mags is chatting with us about something she had planned for the few hours before dinner, but she's interrupted by a small child running up behind her.

She falls silent and turns, peering at the little girl. She's in a bright pink swimdress, her light blonde hair pulled back into French braids, and she's got a smile so genuine I find myself smiling up at her.

"Hello!" she says brightly. Her voice is small and cheerful. Everything must be so easy for a child. Everyone is a friend, everything is bright, the colors are always there. Things always make sense. There's always an adult to protect you.

"Hello there!" Finnick replies. I turn to look at him, and he's grinning so kindly at her that my heart is swelling.

She beams even wider, if possible, and then reaches out to tug on my hair. I'm tense at first, because sudden movements towards me sometimes make me flashback to the arena, but her small hands are sandy and gentle.

"I like your hair!" she exclaims, the compliment flowing easily and honestly from her lips. That's something I remember about Arnav. He always said exactly what he was thinking, whether it be good or bad. I wonder at what age children cease doing this. I wonder what age they start to think it's unacceptable. "Do you want to help me build a sandcastle?"

Her request is sudden and blunt, and I'm quiet for a moment, staring at the damp sand and the rising water, before I feel my mouth moving and answering for me.

"Sure!" I say.

But I'm unsure whether I can handle it, unsure why she would want to build a sandcastle with me, unsure of a day I was previously very sure of. I turn to look at Finnick and Mags, and they're relaxed and happy, so I climb slowly to my feet. The little girl slides her small hand into mine without wait and begins pulling me with her to a spot down by the water.

"My name's Orabelle. It means beautiful seacoast, did you know that?" she asks curiously, peering up at me as we walk.

I wonder if she knows that I'm mad. I wonder if she would even care if she did. Would Arnav have cared? Would he have been frightened of me? I know I should accept that maybe he would, but I can't think that. I can only think that he would have loved me anyway.

"I didn't know that. It's a beautiful name," I tell her.

My feet hit the damp sand and I'm scared to scare this child whose name means beautiful seacoast, who walked up to three strangers and asked one to play with her, who doesn't seem to notice that I'm not quite stable.

I'm aching and my hands are shaking, but when we kneel down in the wet sand, I'm still here and Orabelle is still telling me about the castle she wants to build. She wants it to have "like twenty towers, maybe" and multiple floors. She's talking about a large scale artistic endeavor, but doesn't seem to think it's an overshot at all. She chatters on confidently about the stained glass for the windows and the peach shade of the princess's dress and how the prince will think she is the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

We're packing sand around a crumbling wall when she turns to me suddenly.

"What's your name? Does it mean beautiful seacoast, too?" she questions.

Her eyes are hazel and filled with an innocence I've forgotten existed. I'm thinking then about this little girl watching the Games on television each year, slowly losing that light in her eyes, and it's awful. I'm quiet for a long while, struggling with the violent images of my own Games that are trying to invade my mind, but she doesn't seem to care at all just like Finnick and Mags don't care. She turns back to her sandcastle.

"My name is Annie," I tell her finally.

She looks back up and nods seriously, as if this is very important information.

"That's a good one. I'm going to have a little sister! We're talking about names at my house. That's how come I knew my name means beautiful seacoast," she explains.

She reminds me so much of my sister then. Her hair, her headstrong personality, even the systematic way she's going about building this sandcastle. I just know she's going to be a wonderful big sister. I tell her this, and she smiles hugely as if it's the best thing she's ever heard.

We're making real progress on the sandcastle when a woman appears out of seemingly nowhere and picks up Orabelle by her arms. Judging by the protruding stomach, it's her mother.

She shoots me an uneasily and distrustful look and admonishes Orabelle loudly about playing with strangers, and she tells her that I'm crazy and it's not safe and this is why we don't talk to people without mommy because we don't know who they are, and then Orabelle turns around and looks at me strangely.

"You're crazy, Annie?" she asks innocently.

Her mother turns back around too, and she flushes a bit, embarrassed by her child's blunt question. I find that peculiar though, because if I were her, I'd be more embarrassed by my actions than her sweet child's.

I don't know how to answer Orabelle's question, nor do I want to, but she looks so confused. I know it must be because she's had dark images of dangerous and insane strangers drilled into her mind all her life and I just don't fit that image. I am crazy, but not in the way her mother thinks that I am. I'm not crazy in a way that makes me unsafe for anyone but myself. I don't know what I am beyond the fact that today is my birthday, and the man I love is somewhere up the beach with the woman who took care of me when no one else did, and I hope Orabelle gets to finish her sandcastle one day.

"I don't know. But I'm eighteen today, and I think you should think about naming your little sister Coral. It's like coral in the sea."

My words seem to confuse her mother, because she slackens her grip on her daughter and she falls back into the sand. Orabelle jumps up and down excitedly.

"Oh, I like that! Coral is pink sometimes and I love pink!"

Her mother is even more uncomfortable. She sets a hand on top of Orabelle's head.

"Say goodbye to Annie, Belle," she demands.

Orabelle frowns but then has her small arms around me in a hug. I pat her back once, my eyes still on her mother, and then she pulls away.

"Bye, Annie!" she says.

"Bye, Orabelle," I smile.

Finnick meets me halfway on my walk back to the blanket, and he's concerned at first and then angry when I tell him the story, but I'm calm and content because Orabelle didn't think there was anything wrong with me at all. And children never lie.

Mags leaves us to cook dinner once we return.

Finnick does the dishes and rejects my help, insisting that no one should have to do dishes on their birthday. Honestly doing anything at all with him is preferable to sitting alone, but I don't tell him that. Instead I go to the bathroom and take a shower, watching the sand slide down the drain as it washes off my feet in streaks. I redress and pull my hair back into a ponytail and find Finnick in the living room, peering intently at the TV with a small bowl of sugarcubes in his lap. I can't help but smile at that sight. He's lucky he has the best dentists in Panem attending to his teeth or else they'd probably have all rotted out by now.

He switches it off when I enter and holds a hand out. My feet carry me a little too quickly over to him, but I don't care when I'm sitting beside him and his arm is around me.

"Good day so far?" he asks me, his voice slightly hindered from the sugarcube he's sucking on. He winds my ponytail around and around his finger, beads of water sliding off the ends and landing on his arm.

"Great day." I reply.

He smiles happily and his eyes are bright and before I have even processed the urge in my mind, my lips are pressing against his. I have so many things I've been struggling to say to him all day, so many positive emotions that have a strength that makes it almost impossible to articulate them, and I am tired of struggling to find the words. Talking is easy sometimes but painfully difficult others, and I'm not going to fight with my brain to catch the right words that make sense to anyone else. I'm just going to hope he can take from this exactly what I'm trying to tell him.

For the first time, he kisses me back without hesitancy of any type and without restraint. Sometimes when he kisses me I think he thinks he is going to break me, but something about today seems to have made him sure I won't break anytime soon. His mouth is warm and sweet from the dissolving sugarcube and my tongue tastes sugary the rest of the afternoon. It's a sweetness that I hope never fades.

Dinner is nice and animated. I've gone all day without a slip of mind, and Finnick is elated, and Mags is even talking better than usual. The conversations flow naturally and excitedly and I feel like Annie on her birthday again. May 18th isn't the same as it was anymore, but that doesn't mean it's awful by any means. Things can be different and good, happy and sad, difficult and simple, easy and complicated. That's something I think children don't know, something that can cause a lot of unhappiness for adults. Once I grasped the idea that nothing at all makes sense, it was a bit easier to let it all go.

Once we're finished eating, Finnick pulls out a brown glass bottle from a lower cabinet and pours us a drink. Mags refuses and rambles about the evils of alcohol while she sips her green tea, but Finn and I both have three glasses apiece. It's champagne, and I've had it only one other time in my life—when Finnick won his Games. The celebration we had in District 4 included it and no one seemed to mind how old you were when you reached up to pluck one off a passing tray. I remember it being sweet at first but rather harsh and burning afterwards. Now, it's the perfect amount of sweetness. It's bubbly and each sip I swallow makes me feel just as giddy as I am when Finnick holds my hand. Mags leaves around nine, exhaustion so obvious that she even lets Finnick and I help her back over to her house, and then he and I attempt to race home. We end up in a heap at the doorstep, laughing so hard we're clutching our stomachs in pain.

We clean up the kitchen and then settle on the couch, giggling sporadically about things that are funny for reasons I can't pin. Things like the dog that wanders around the Square eating from bins and people's hands and is now so fat he seems to waddle, earning him the affectionate nicknamed Waddling Wally. Or the story I tell Finnick about my seventeenth birthday and how Arnav got so furious at Cora over a card game that he picked the cards up and dramatically threw them overboard, proclaiming that he wins for eternity. Or the retelling of my traumatic first date, complete with details on how Henry spilled a glass of water in my lap and then leaned too far over the candle in the middle of the table, catching the sleeve of his shirt on fire.

We're still laughing even when we're suddenly kissing, and we stay down there for what must be hours, kissing in between drifting bursts of giggling.

It's not until I'm tucked under the covers, pressing a goodnight kiss to Finnick's jaw and thanking him for the wonderful day, that I remember he has to leave in a few months for the Games. That thought has me far away and trimming Arnav's hair and chatting with him about names, and then I'm asleep.

The Games becomes a dirty word that I don't want to hear.

It's always been awful and it's always triggered horrible feelings, but now it's somehow worse, because it's going to take Finn away from me. And I can't follow.

I keep my distress silent and locked inside because I don't want Finnick to worry while he's away, but the knowledge that he's going to be gone for what could be up to three months burns me. I don't say anything, but he notices when I start pulling calendars down once more and locking my hands over my ears when anyone starts to talk about the date, or how many months until the Games, or anything like that. It's dirty dirty dirty and I don't want to hear it and I don't want anyone else to have it touch their lips.

Finnick and I are eating breakfast, and it's just a few days until he has to leave. I know this because even though I try so hard to stop time from passing by refusing to acknowledge it, it still passes, and he's pulled his suitcase from the closet.

He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his and my stomach drops to my toes because I don't want to talk about this, I don't want to hear it, I don't want to accept it at all. But his eyes are serious and sad and that makes me sad and so I'm locked inside of myself, listening to whatever he's going to say.

"Mags is staying home this year. Meredith is going in her place," he starts gently. He knows I know exactly what he's talking about.

At first I'm relieved that Mags isn't going, because I don't much desire to live here without both of them, but then I'm worried once more. Meredith is the only other living District 4 female victor. She's around fifty and nice enough, but that's not who I want there with Finnick. I want Mags with Finnick because she knows him and how to help him and what he's going through. Finnick will worry if Mags isn't here with me, but I'm going to worry if she's not there with him.

"I want Mags with you," I tell him at once. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize they must have already talked about this. And they must have decided amongst themselves that I was the one that needed Mags more. It's true, I know it's true, because I can still drift off for up to half of an entire day and my flashbacks can still cause me to become violently physically ill, but Finnick needs her, too. I hate the idea of him suffering alone in the Capitol every night because of me, because of my madness. If I weren't here he would have had Mags with him just like normal.

He's patient and he's holding my hands so softly. He does that sometimes when he touches me. It always seems so reverent.

"I need Mags with you," he replies. "I'll be just fine. I won't be just fine if I'm worried about you."

I'm frowning and I know he can read the words I'm not saying. I worry about you too, Finn.

"I'll be fine by myself," I try and argue, but we both know that's a lie. We know it so much we're both frowning deeply at each other the moment the words leave my mouth. There was a time when that was true, when I could take care of myself, but how true was that really even before my Games? I was relatively sane and self-sufficient, but I still ran to my sister for everything. I don't know how well I would have fared without her back then. So perhaps that sentence has always been a lie every time I've said it.

He smiles sadly and leans across the table, pulling one of his hands free long enough to tap me on the nose.

"There's no need to worry about me. I'm Finnick Odair." He grins cockily.

But I'm still frowning because this is exactly why I worry.

"I know. That's the reason I worry," I say.

In the end though, there's not much that can be done about Finnick leaving. He is going to have to do it every year, and I'm just going to have to be okay with it, and he's going to insist Mags be here for me instead of there for him. I try to volunteer to be the female mentor, but I really don't want to leave Mags here alone, and Snow's already given specific orders that I'm to stay home in District 4 forever. He says it's because of concern for my mental health, but I think perhaps this is exactly why. So I can't go with Finnick, so he can keep us apart.

My suspicions are confirmed in a way when the phone rings later and Finnick brings it to me with a grimace on his face.

I take it timidly and Finnick sits and pulls me down onto his lap, locking his arms tightly around me. I know before I greet the person on the other line that it's President Snow, just by Finnick's sudden protective actions.

"Hello?" I mutter.

"Good afternoon, Miss Cresta. I had a question and I was hoping you could clear it up for me." His voice is just as unpleasant and chilling through the phone. My heart rate automatically increases, because he can ruin my life even now. He could do whatever he wanted. He could make Finnick move to the Capitol and keep me here. He could kill Mags. He could do anything.

"Sure, President Snow," I say.

Finnick's arms tighten a bit around me and I know he's scared, too. I'm glad he is here. I'm glad his arms are around me. Either he's anticipated what I'd need to handle this before I even knew or this is just what he needed to handle it. Either way, I'm not slipping away, and I'm not crying either.

"Is there something wrong with your house?" he asks, false innocence leaking from his words like some sort of pus.

At first his words make no sense to me, and I'm picturing my home trying to understand why he would think something was wrong with it. Then what he's saying hits me and I feel my mouth open in shock. I don't even know why I'm shocked, because of course he knows I'm staying with Finnick. People in District 4 must have noticed that I'm always here. I had hoped they'd just think I don't leave my house, but I guess somehow word has gotten around that this is where I am.

"No, it's great," I finally struggle out.

He hums thoughtfully. "Then why are you living at Mr. Odair's? Surely that's not a typical arrangement for a new victor and her mentor?"

His voice seems challenging, like he's testing me. And perhaps he is, because he's asking me this question instead of just demanding I move back into mine. As if if I could think of a reasonable excuse for my presence here that people would believe, it would be okay to stay with him still. I don't want to move back into my house, so I'm thinking intently, trying to determine if there's an answer he's looking for or not.

It hits me with the same force as the revelation of the extent of his knowledge did.

"Because I'm mad," I say slowly, worried that his question was rhetorical and I'm just going to anger him.

"That's true, but it would be in your best interest to make more of an effort to be seen coming and going from your home. People are beginning to talk, and Mr. Odair's lovers aren't very happy about what's being said. They like him all to themselves, you see."

I'm expecting to feel anger licking at my stomach, but instead I just feel numbing hopelessness. I nod, and then I'm puzzled as to why there's a long silence, but Finnick gently prods me and I clear my throat.

"Okay," I whisper into the phone.

"Wonderful. I'm glad we could come to such a quick understanding, Miss Cresta. Now, I—"

But I'm confused and scared. Does he literally mean I just need to be seen at my house more or does he mean I need to move back into it?

"Wait, I have a question," I tell him quickly.

He falls silent immediately, and the silence is disapproving.

"Yes?" He inquires.

My eyes are burning and my heart is racing and I hate that he plays these games with me. I'm never certain as to what he's trying to tell me, never certain as to what he means. People get hurt because of it. And it's not fair because conversations are difficult for me as is.

"I don't quite get what you're asking. Do I have to move back into my house?" I ask. My voice is shaking and I hate it.

He laughs coldly. "Oh dear. It seems I've moved too quickly for you. No worries, I'll explain. What I'm saying is that everyone understands you're mad and you can't function independently. They understand that Finnick Odair is taking his role as a mentor very seriously. But what they can't understand is why you wear his clothes and sleep in his bed."

My skin is crawling because how does he know that? How does anyone know that? That isn't theirs. It's ours. It's none of their business. I squeeze my eyes shut and I want to rewind time and have Finnick never pick up the phone. And I still am not sure what President Snow wants from me.

He notices my silence.

"Be more discreet, Miss Cresta," he says bluntly. "When people look at you two, they should see a pathetic mad girl and her overachieving mentor. Not two lovers."

He hangs up and I'm left clutching the phone, sick to my stomach because I thought that's already what people were seeing.

It takes Finnick a while to pull the entire conversation from me, because I keep drifting off mid-sentence, but an hour and two beach trips with my mother later he's got the gist of it.

"It's fine, Annie. Don't worry about it. If he was demanding we never see each other again he would have said that. All he means is we need to be more careful. No more picnics where people can see us, no more answering the door together in the mornings, things like that."

It's not fine, though. Because even when I'm out of the Capitol I'm not out of the Capitol. Snow keeps taking and taking and taking and soon I'm going to have nothing left for him to take.

I know this also means I'm going to have to at least pretend I live at my house at least half of the time. The problem is that it's become a tomb and shrine for the dead. I haven't touched it since we packed up some of my things. The ghosts are roaming around and around and I'm not strong enough to fight them. But I'm going to have to be.

"I don't want to sleep at my house," I find myself saying, panic weaving in and out of my voice in a way that makes it jump octaves. I turn around in Finnick's lap and peer at him worriedly. I can't regress back to sleeping alone and waking with blood caked under my fingernails from tearing at my skin. I don't want to wake up and see nothing where I used to see Finnick.

Finnick cups my face in his hands and stares at me reassuringly. "You don't have to. We'll just spend time at your house during the day and then come over to mine for dinner. Just don't leave after dinner. I don't think anyone will notice."

I nod and try to take a few deep breaths, but it's difficult.

"I need to clean out my house, Finn. If I'm going to have to be there every day, I can't be there with it like that," I rush out.

He nods understandingly.

"No, you can't. We should do that before I leave. Although you should just stay here or at Mags' house while I'm gone."

We do clean it out before he leaves. We head over to my house with a cart full of boxes pulled from Mags' attic and start in the kitchen, loading up Arnav's toys that are scattered on the floor and Cora's wedding invitations on the kitchen table and my dad's stacked bills. And it hurts. With every bit of them I place away into a box, I feel like they're slipping away more and more. I have to do it though, because I can't keep living here like they're going to walk back through the door any moment and start playing with those toys, or resume filling out the wedding invitations, or pick up the stack of bills and begin paying them. Because they aren't going to, they won't, they never will, and I can't lie to myself anymore. It hurts too badly.

I'm numb when we're packing up my dad's room.

I'm hysterical when we're emptying out Arnav's.

I leave completely halfway through going through my sister's.

We get into a fight, my sister and I. She tosses a coffee mug at me in anger after I tell her I won't be coming to her wedding. She keeps asking me how I could do that to her, and I try to explain that it isn't my fault, but she won't listen to me. I want to be angry back at her, and she keeps screaming and telling me to fight back, but I'm too tired, too sad, too worn, too defeated to do anything but just stare.

Finnick's hand on my forehead draws me back. We're in her empty room, and the boxes are my sister now, because they're all that's left.

"I'm so proud of you, Annie," he says.

I'm not proud of myself, but I am shocked by how calmly I can hand Finnick each box to place up in the attic. My hands don't even shake even though I feel like the earthquakes from the arena are inside of me, knocking everything apart. And when I start to cry, I imagine it's just like the arena with the earthquakes breaking a dam that floods everything and drowns everyone, my family included. I didn't know waters could reach that far. But Finnick's sad eyes tell me that they can.

He holds me and lets me cry until I can't anymore, and things are easier then. My family is just as gone today as they were yesterday, and really all their things are still here, just not in plain sight. I drift off and my sister apologizes for screaming at me. I come back and Finnick's looking at the calendar on the wall and I'm gone again.

The remaining days I have with Finnick pass so quickly it's cruel. I'm not sure if we're even being more discreet or not, but we do make an effort to pretend I've been at my house most of the time. I still stay at his house every night, though.

The night before the morning he has to leave, I can't let go of his hand. We eat dinner with our hands locked and I only let go long enough for us to get ready for bed, and then my hand is finding his once more. He pulls me close to him under the blankets and we cling tightly but it doesn't matter how closely we hold each other. He still has to leave in the morning, and I still can't go.

I'm scared and shivering because I don't want him in the Capitol where anything could happen to him.

"It's going to be fine," Finnick whispers to me. But it's dark and even his words are dark because it's not going to be okay because it's never okay when we're apart and we both know that. "I'll be home before you know it."

I realize I've got my hands pressed against the skin of his back and it's not even enough.

"I'm scared they're going to hurt you," I whisper.

He kisses me and when he breaks away it's too soon too soon too soon.

"They aren't going to hurt me. I'll be around until we're both as gray haired as Mags," he laughs.

My hands ghost over his shoulder blades and his spine as if I am going to forget everything about him while he's gone. I'm scared that I am, but I never could, and maybe that scares me more.

"Promise?" I ask weakly. I am clutching this promise tighter to me than anything else, because I need that reassurance to feel okay about his absence. I think I always will.

He strokes his fingers through my hair and presses his forehead to mine.

"Promise," he says.

We hold each other tightly and drift off to sleep every now and then. I keep jerking awake out of brief nightmares where I've overslept and I wake up and he's gone. Every time I open my eyes and he's still intertwined with me I have to sigh in relief. I can't let myself remember that in just a few hours I'll wake up and the room will be empty except for me.

"I think Snow made me stay back here because he knew it would hurt to have you go." I tell him somewhere between three and four in the morning.

Finnick's voice is sleepy and sad when he replies.

"I have no doubt." His hands stroke mindlessly down my back, and when he speaks next, I am sure this is a thought he's kept to himself for a while. "Sometimes I think they reaped you because they knew I would love you."

I don't know how they could have known, but I think sometimes I think that, too. Because the odds never were stacked against me that high. Realistically, it didn't make much sense for my name to be pulled. There were hundreds of other girls with their names in that Reaping Bowl, some with their name in there dozens of times, and no one at all volunteered. Not even the eighteen year olds that had been in Career Training since they were small. I'm sure it was just chance, but if Snow could have known that Finnick would love me, I know he would have wanted to use me against him.

"I wouldn't put it past the Capitol."

He's quiet for a while before he replies.

"I wouldn't put much past them at all."

We drift off to sleep at some point, and when he wakes me in the morning, it physically hurts to let go of him.

"Keep our bed warm for me," he tells me.

I follow him to the doorway and hug him tightly, and his arms feel just as desperate locked around me.

"I love you," I whisper.

He smiles against my hair.

"I love you, too. Always," he replies.

I step back and swallow, staring at him and the awful sight of the suitcase in his hand.

"Take care of yourself. The world needs you too much," I find myself whispering. I remember him telling me something almost exactly like that when I was so sick with sorrow over my family that I couldn't do anything at all. I remember understanding exactly what he meant when he said that. That he needs me too much.

His responding smile, soft and affectionate, makes me sure he's heard exactly what I mean, too.

Chapter Text

Here is a question that I am unsure how to answer: When you make a person your home, where do you go when they are gone? What shelters you from the wind and rain? Where do you go at the end of the day when you're exhausted and on the edge of tears?

I'm not sure, and for the first week Finnick is gone, I can't even find it in me to search for an answer. Every morning I slide my hand across the open expanse of the bed and then have a panic attack when I realize it's empty. By the fourth day I stop forgetting he's gone in those early moments and simply drift away. I don't leave his bed—no, our bed, he said that before he left, didn't he?—for a week. Mags comes by at the end of that week, deeply concerned and determined to get me up and active. I try very hard to keep her company, but I'm a mess. I watch the Opening Ceremonies and catch glimpses of him as well as brief sights at the interviews the night before the Games begin, but I can't watch the Games themselves. Mags tells me not to even try, but I do because as awful as it is I can't seem to look away. I am able to look away once I encounter flashbacks so intense I'm sprinting to the bathroom, bile rising in my throat and blackness swirling in front of my eyes.

We keep the TV tuned to the Games because it's required, but I work on the puzzle Finnick got me instead. I finish it once, twice, three times, and yet the Games still go on and on. And so I slowly pull each piece apart from the others over and over, intent on doing this until Finnick is back and can sit down beside me and make silly comments.

I'm having trouble eating, and Mags keeps telling me she's worried about me. I am sorry once more for my madness, for my weakness, for my instability. There is a girl on the Games, and sometimes I find myself wishing I could be more like her. She has neither weakness nor madness. She is from District 7 like Twine and Kaya. She started out gentle and scared, and I felt bad for her because I know how that feels. I know how it feels to shake so hard out of fear that it's hard to even keep from passing out. But what I don't know is what it feels like to suddenly wake up one morning, completely okay, and systematically decapitate and otherwise murder six people in one day. More than anything I am repulsed by the thoughtless and callous killing, but a part of me does envy the way it all seems to roll off of her. She can make wisecracks at people and then kill them three seconds later and have time to clean the blood off her ax calmly before bed. I bet she would never be as lost as I feel now.

Mags doesn't like her. I press pieces together and listen to the commentary on the television that's background noise for Mags' vehement annotations. I drift away a lot, but from what I gather, Mags dislikes her because she pretended to be frail and defenseless and that's nothing to joke about. I wonder if this would have bothered her before me. I don't think so.

I've got blisters from my obsessive piecing and pulling apart and piecing and pulling apart. Mags gently asks me if I want to go on a walk one day, reaching forward to move the puzzle away, but then I'm looking up at her and begging her as much as I can with my eyes not to, and she immediately withdraws her hands. I can't explain it to her, but I need this. This keeps me calm. It's relaxing like tying and untying knots, but I haven't done that since I tied knots with Finnick over a year ago now, and I am afraid that it would remind me too much of Cora as well as make me miss him even more.

I don't eat for three days in a row, and Mags tells me that if Finnick knew it would hurt him very much. She says this as kindly as she can, because she knows that once she does I'll be forced to eat, but I can still hear the disappointment in her voice. I know I'm being selfish. I never forget that. But it's difficult.

"It will get better each time he leaves. I promise." She tells me as I force a spoonful of soup past my lips. I have to squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to swallow, and even then it's heavy in my stomach and makes me feel ill.

I am reminded for the hundredth time that I am not better. I am only better with him. And unfortunately, there is a difference. A huge one.

The District 4 tributes die a few weeks in. They lasted much longer than I thought they would, as tributes from the district whose tribute won the previous Games usually never even make it past the Cornucopia. They die at the hands of the District 7 girl, who I am sure is going to win. I don't think you can defeat someone who looks so much like she has absolutely nothing to lose.

I worry about him constantly, because I know what he's doing while Johanna Mason is murdering her way back home to District 7. He's with strange Capitol people and he is coming home every night to an empty room that simply echoes back his troubled thoughts. I try to close my eyes and tell him the things I want him to know as often as I redo the puzzle. I scream it as loudly as I can in my head, but I know no matter how loudly I scream, even if I screamed it outloud, he wouldn't hear it.

It's nearing the one month mark when Johanna Mason is declared the winner of the 71st Annual Hunger Games.

When the anthem plays and she's pulled into the sky, I cry, because this means Finnick is finally coming home.

I know I can't go to the train station to meet him when he arrives, because I don't know how I'm going to react but I'm certain it won't be in a way that is acceptable for Panem to see. Mags leaves to wait there for him, and I pace and pace and pace his kitchen with my eyes flitting to the clock every five minutes. The train's late, so I clean the faucet and stovetop, unable to stand still. An hour passes, and then another, and I'm getting frightened. I carry the puzzle into the kitchen, my breaths coming out short and shallow, and begin piecing it together once more.

I'm intently grasping a piece that makes up the corner of a slightly wrinkled beach towel, narrowing my world so I only focus on this—the colors, the shapes, the pieces that fit and the pieces that don't— in order to keep myself here, when a voice mixes easily in with my captivated concentration.

"I think that goes a little to the left."

I'm dropping my focus and taking in the kitchen—Mags at the door with a huge smile on her face, the clock on the wall above the door, the shiny faucet, the leftover lunch wrapped in tin foil on the counter, and Finnick, Finnick, Finnick, leaning over the table across from me, still in Capitol clothes and smelling strangely but smiling like always and his eyes green green green—and I can only stare for a few extended moments, my face aching from a smile that's slid up on it without my acknowledgement. And I can feel my heart swelling and my stomach jumping and then I'm rising to my feet and perching on the edge of the table so quickly I go sliding across it a bit, knocking a few puzzle pieces to the floor, and I've got my arms around Finnick tightly. I press my face into his shoulder so hard his collarbone bites into the bridge of my nose, but I don't care, and I think my nails must be pressing into his back from my tight clutch, but I don't think I could loosen my grip even if he asked me to.

He wraps his arms around me just as securely and kisses the top of my head, pressing his cheek there afterwards and rubbing a hand down my back. We don't say anything, and I don't let go, and neither does he. We end up sitting together, on top of his kitchen table, our arms tightly wound around each other for what could be anywhere between fifteen minutes and half an hour. I don't know when Mags leaves, but when I finally glance up, the kitchen is empty.

"So you didn't forget about me?" he jokes after a while, his fingers playing with the ends of my hair.

I press my face against his neck and I can't even answer his question because that is such a ridiculous thing to joke about. As if I would ever forget him. As if I could ever go back to how I was before I loved him. He's imprinted himself so deeply into my heart and skin that I can hardly function without him. It's too late too late too late to even hope of there being a life without or beyond him, and I don't even want there to be. I don't care if that makes me weak. I've always been weak. The arena can't change you that much.

And yet after a few minutes I feel my old self rising from underneath the bricks I had her buried under.

"I very obviously married another man while you were away. We're expecting," I mumble. I mean for it to come out sarcastically, but I'm surprised to hear I'm teary. Sure enough, I can feel tears spilling over from my eyes and landing on Finnick's neck. Happy or sad happy or sad happy or sad happy or sad?

Finnick pulls back for the first time since I slid towards him and presses his nose to mine, a teasing smile on his face.

Happy.

"Really, now? I bet you had the time of your life free from me," he mutters, his eyes intent on mine. Our eyes are doing a familiar dance, drifting down to each other's lips and then back up to look at each other and then back down again in a never-ending loop.

"It was heaven," I lie, but my voice breaks on the last word, because it was hell.

His eyes drift shut for a brief moment, almost as if he's in pain, and then he looks back at me.

"For me, too," he says.

His eyes drift down once more, and the air feels strangely heavy, like it's something solid you could touch. My breathing hitches a bit and my heart begins to pound and honestly, you'd think he had never kissed me before, because when he turns his head slightly and presses his lips to mine I'm clutching him tightly against me and kissing him like I never have and I never will again. I've got the Capitol suit jacket, made from some material so expensive I'm sure it could feed a family of six here for a month, balled up tightly in my hands as I grip him to me and his hands are equally greedy as they bury themselves in my hair. And after a few minutes my lungs are screaming and burning burning burning for oxygen but I don't care and it's just like being underwater in every way except for the fear.

I'm gasping for air when we pull apart. I lower my arms and press a hand over my beating heart.

"You shouldn't kiss other men's wives," I joke, still out of breath and blushing.

He's gazing at me fondly and smiling softly, his hands reaching out to take mine. When he speaks, his voice is full of confidence.

"I'm sure my future self won't mind."

It takes me a while to figure out what he's saying. I go upstairs with him up and help him unpack his suitcase, the words bouncing around my mind and slipping from my fingers the moment I think I've grasped them long enough to make sense of them. When I finally decipher what he's saying, I just turn and look at him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes and socks off, looking exhausted beyond belief. It's difficult to breathe sometimes because I love him so. I love him in a way that makes me unsure what to do with the affection rising like the tide inside of me, sweeping everything under and flooding me. I don't know what could have happened in the month we were apart that made him certain that one day we will be able to marry, but his surety is contagious, and when I walk over and find my hands automatically loosening his tie for him, his eyes meeting mine with a look so concrete in its love that I can't help but smile, I know that one day he will be my husband, and it will be perfect, and we won't have to hide inside these mansions, and finally there will be a word strong enough to explain what he is to me.

After a reunion dinner with Mags we're back in bed and it's like he was never gone at all. It occurs to me then that you never know where life is going to take you. If someone would have told me two years ago that I'd be in bed with Finnick Odair (and not in the way that I would have assumed they meant back then), I wouldn't have believed it for a second. I like to think that in five years I can look back to the moments I've been certain Finnick and I will never get to be anything but secrets and laugh, because I had no idea where I would end up. I had no idea the good things that were waiting just around the corner to creep up and make all our suffering worth it.

It must be the part of me that comes from my mother that whispers a dark reminder to me just before I drift off to sleep: bad things can creep up on you, too. I never would have expected two years ago that my entire family would be dead, or that I'd have killed someone, either. Good and bad good and bad good and bad. They are always together, weaving in and out in and out in and out. I think we've had enough bad things happen to us, though. Why couldn't there be some sort of invisible quota every person has that dictates how much suffering they need in an average lifespan? I think ours have overrun with darkness and tears and blood. I think it's safe for us now.

Of course, I thought that very same thing after my Games.

I thought I'd be free from the stinging skin and scented soaps my prep team subject me to after my Victory Tour, but it seems that a victor's prep team is part of the entire post-Games package. They show up at my house the day before Johanna Mason is due in District 4, arms laden with silk bags full of lotions and lipsticks and powders. I don't mind it so much anymore, but it was rather nerve-wracking to wake up to them worriedly banging on Finn's front door, saying I was "missing". He told them I was taking a walk on the beach and I slid out the back door, running full speed to the beach long enough to cover my legs in a layer of sand. Luckily they were so distressed over my sea-breeze tousled hair and freckled nose that they didn't even question the fact that I was wearing a man's shirt.

I get lecture after lecture on how bad the sun is for my skin (the main offense being freckles, which are an atrocity in their opinions), and then it's quiet for the rest of the prep session. Mauve is allowed to pick my dress once again, so I am clothed in a periwinkle dress that reaches my knees instead of a frightening skintight garment like before. She pulls my hair back in a series of complicated twists that intertwine together and then knot at the base of my skull, but for once I feel like I can handle that. Finnick will be at this party with me and he doesn't have to sleep with anyone at all. That knowledge protects me.

We head over to Finnick's house after I'm fully dressed. His prep team is done with him already and they are all sitting in his kitchen laughing at some rumor about a Capitol citizen. My prep team seems oblivious to any type of bond between Finnick and I as they proceed to give me a verbal tour of his home under their breath once we enter, obviously trying to show off the fact that they've been in here before. I smile and nod and look humbled at the right moments, because they aren't allowed to know that I live here. And so I'm shocked to hear that the tea set in the glass cabinet was the same price as President Snow's hovercraft (It wasn't, actually. Finnick's mother was a potter and made it the year he was born), and I'm very interested to hear more about how the "antique" curtains in the kitchen were given to him from a very affluent lover in the Capitol who purchased them from a museum (especially since I was with Finnick when Mags gave them to him, insisting he finally hang some up). I can tell Finnick has one ear in his conversation with his prep team and the other on my team's words because he looks like he's fighting laughter just as much as I am. My favorite part of their "tour" is when they start talking in whispers amongst themselves about all the passionate things that must go on upstairs in Finnick Odair's bedroom. They look up at the ceiling of the kitchen as if they could see through the floor and into said room, and all I can think about is how Finnick and I spent two hours yesterday sitting on his bed drawing ridiculous things onto each other with strange skin inking markers someone sent in the mail. Unfortunately, we didn't read the package all the way until we were already inked, so we didn't know that anything drawn with the markers that sits on skin for three hours becomes permanent for up to 3000 washes. We sprinted full speed into his bathroom and jumped into the shower fully clothed, breathing heavy sighs of relief when the ink washed off us and down the drain in streams of gold, magenta, and cerulean. We laughed so hard we slipped in the soapy water beneath our feet and fell hard to the floor of the shower in a tangle of wet clothes and limbs, earning us a couple of bruises. That taught us not to play around with the odd cosmetics his Capitol lovers send in the mail, no matter how much fun it is to draw cat whiskers on Finnick's face, or how adorably he laughs when he discovers just how much it tickles me when he presses the cool tip of the marker to my stomach.

So I nod innocently in agreement as they go on about the steamy nights women must have right above our very heads, because I guess technically the hot water in the shower was steamy.

Finnick walks over a few minutes later with the pretense of adjusting my necklace. His voice is humored when he mutters something only loud enough for me to pick up.

"They just have no idea," he snickers.

I bite back a smile.

"None at all," I agree. That's the Capitol for you.

He lowers his hands and almost looks regretful. He says one last thing before joining his prep team back at the table.

"Just the way Old Snow likes it."

But not the way we do. We are doomed to a life of performances. We put on a show where I'm The Mad Girl and he's a prostitute by choice and no one sees anything odd in the mentor/victor relationship we have. We put on a show where these Capitol people have to tell me what all these things in his home mean and where he takes girl after girl upstairs and where I sit and stare out the window all day. Sometimes I want to call Snow and say "Forgive me for asking, but this isn't a very interesting show is it?". But I know the answer before I ask. It's not supposed to be interesting. I am supposed to disappear as much as I can without actually becoming invisible. Judging by the way people talk about me like I'm not in the room, I have succeeded.

Capitol cars escort all of the victors to the venue. I hate the entire ride and I am dizzy and nauseous by the time we pull up to the building. Finnick was shuffled into a different car so I don't see him when I step out onto the stone sidewalk. The Justice Building doors are propped open and I can hear the roar of hundreds of people chattering. Important citizens in fine clothing are exiting cars and exchanging brief words with the Peacekeepers scattered everywhere. "Non-important" District 4 citizens are dressed in the nicest things they have, tiredly walking through the doors to hear yet another victory speech from the person who killed their children. I can't locate Finnick, so I decide his car must have already arrived. I walk up the stone steps and a rush of warm air slams into me the minute I enter the building.

Mags finds me and we stand in the audience, waiting patiently for Johanna Mason to arrive and accept her plaque. Finnick slides up beside me a few moments before she walks on stage. She is very pretty, but very intimidating. Her face is sharp and she talks like someone who not only knows what they want, but will do whatever it takes to get it. She doesn't say anything mean, but there's a few times in her speech where she talks as if she was going to say something else but was advised not to. Bitter. She even shoots a glare backstage, presumably at her mentor and/or escort.

There is always a special dinner with dancing and music after the presentation of the plaque, and since I am a victor this year, my presence is mandatory. I'm already tired after the ceremony and I wish for the thousandth time that I weren't a victor. I have been around more people today than I have since my own Victory Tour.

Finnick gets pulled away immediately once we walk back into the lobby and Mags gets separated from me somehow in the flood of bodies. I walk forward into the ballroom where the dinner will be held, immediately wishing I hadn't because red is the color they have gone with this year. Red glass bowls filled with rolls settled on red satin tablecloths beside red trays with slices of red meat and red cake. Red banners and red streamers and red wine glasses filled with red wine and red ribbons and red lobster and red lighting. I'm worried I'm going to have a flashback, but then a familiar hand is around mine.

"Ugly dinner," Finnick observes lowly, his voice almost impossible to make out above the sounds of the band. I look up at him and he isn't red. He's green eyes and bronze hair and pink lips and a navy suit.

"Hate the red," I agree, just as quietly.

His hand reluctantly drops mine. I know it is necessary, but I hate it all the same. My hand feels very cold without his. I look back at him and his mouth is pulled into a line.

We're seated as far apart from each other at the table as possible, and I just know Snow had to be responsible for it. Johanna Mason is on the other end with Finnick, although it doesn't look like either of them have interest in talking to one another judging by the fact they don't even spare a glance the other's way. Or it could just be because the mayor holds a practically one sided conversation with Johanna the entire time. She looks bored out of her mind, picking at her meal with her chin resting in her hand and her elbow on the table. Her eyes are even glazed over. I think Annora would have been in tears by now.

People slowly begin to rise from the dinner table after the third course, dispersing around the room. Some dance and some simply amble around, talking and drinking. Finnick excuses himself and "accidentally" knocks into my chair on his way across the room. I wait a few moments, because a kind lady on my right has been making painful effort to talk to me the entire dinner. She's currently attempting to pry information about my own Games out of me. I politely tell her I can't talk about it, excuse myself, and then I'm crossing the room to the corner where Finnick is standing.

His fingertips barely graze my palm before he catches himself and shoves his hand into his pocket.

"How long will this last?" I ask him, desperate to be out of this dress and back home. I scan the room, making sure no one is paying any special attention to us.

His eyes are following mine, sweeping over the room and its inhabitants.

"Probably another three hours. Let's not pretend to be strangers. Let's just try to act like we're friends."

I turn my eyes to him and he turns his also. We stare at each other for a moment and I can tell that we both doubt our abilities to act platonically towards each other, but I can also see that we have no desire to go back to acting like we don't know each other at all like we did on my Tour. Not even for three hours.

We drift apart only to drift back together. We keep our hands off each other, but I don't know how to hide the smile that always consumes my face when he is with me again, and he doesn't either. I keep hoping the dinner attendees will continue pouring alcohol into their mouths at as constant of a pace as they have been so they won't care how Finnick and I look at each other.

I'm standing at the wall and examining a framed picture when a man who smells strongly of alcohol asks me to dance. I could probably refuse his offer, because this isn't my Tour anymore, but Annora must have succeeded in brainwashing me at least a little bit because I say yes without even thinking about it. He leads me to the dance floor and he's very nice. He rambles on and on about his little girl, and he's not creepy like the man with the snakes, but he is unintentionally sloppy with his hand placement (most likely due to his inebriation). Finnick appears after only a few moments of discomfort and smoothly slides in, joking that I've owed him a dance since my own Tour, and the man guffaws like Finnick's told a hysterical joke. He passes me to Finn good-naturedly.

And then I feel like crying, because I'm Finnick's arms and he's twirling me around the dance floor, but I can't really be in his arms. That isn't allowed. He's keeping a modest distance between our bodies, but I feel like it's a wasted effort due to the way he's looking at me, love and longing obvious in his expression. I know I should try to tell him to stop, but I can't look away from him, either. His hands are warm on my waist and my hands feel right splayed across his shoulders and we're spinning spinning spinning. The world is a red blur except for Finnick and we're laughing and smiling and I know he wants to kiss me like I want to kiss him. I just hope no one else can tell that.

The song ends and we immediately separate. I'm worried when I notice we have attracted quite a few curious and suspicious glances. We walk indifferently with a safe distance between our hands to a table that's practically bowing under trays and trays of finger foods and small desserts, trying to play it off like that meant nothing at all. Because it isn't allowed to mean anything.

We've got our backs to everyone when we finally turn our heads and meet each other's eyes. We're both frowning, worried and regretful. I'm about to say something when I see someone sidle up beside us from the corner of my eye.

Johanna Mason stands beside me with her back to the dance floor just as we are standing, casually piling cakes and snacks onto her plate.

"You did a great job hiding that one," she says sarcastically. She continues examining the foods. "That was so disgusting I almost puked all over the mayor's shoes." She turns around, leaning back against the table and observing the crowds of people wandering around the room. She gestures thoughtfully with a pretzel stick dipped in chocolate. "Although it probably would have been an improvement. And it would have given him at least one interesting story to tell."

I turn and glance up at Finnick, deeply concerned now because surely this means we're going to be in a lot of trouble. He seems intent on keeping a blank face, though. He reaches over me and pulls a small cake from her plate, smirking a bit at the hostile glare she gives him. She smacks his hand hard and pulls it free from his clutches, biting into it herself.

He continues like nothing ever happened.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says coolly. He turns to me and grasps my hand. "Let's go, Annie."

We're only a few feet away when she yells something after us.

"I'm not an idiot like everyone else here, you know."

Finnick stops and I think he swears under his breath. He turns and walks back over to her, pulling me with him. He stands beside her where I was standing previously, glaring at her.

"What's it to you, anyway?" he demands.

She pokes a finger at a pastry on her plate, grimacing when dark red jelly oozes out. She picks it up and then drops it to the floor carelessly. She turns back to her plate.

"Believe it or not, I couldn't care less about Finnick Odair's love life, unlike the rest of these shallow imbeciles. I do, however, care about why every victor I meet seems to be hiding something." She looks up at Finnick then, her eyebrows raised and her tone challenging.

I'm uncomfortable and scared by her brash statement. My hands rise suddenly to cover my ears, as if if I don't hear what she just said, Snow can't either and no one will be punished for it. She just doesn't understand. She can't just say things like that in a place like this. You just don't do it. She has no idea what can happen if you aren't careful. She has no idea what Snow is capable of.

Her eyes turn to appraise me, and I feel a bit like prey when she is looking at me. I bet everyone does under her glance.

"Except for you, Crazy. You're just as mad as they say you are, aren't you?" she laughs.

I can sense Finnick's anger before he says anything. His back stiffens and he clenches his fists.

"Watch it, Johanna. Just because you made it out of the arena alive doesn't mean you'll make it out of here alive," he threatens. He turns to me and takes my hand briefly, giving it a gentle squeeze. I slowly lower my hands, remembering with his touch that Snow can still hear things that I can't. That gesture was for naught.

Johanna grins.

"Is that supposed to be a threat, Odair? I don't see any pretty ladies or men around to give you a trident."

Her words make me frown, because she has no idea what she's talking about, but Finnick is smiling amiably at her.

"No need. I can kill you with my bare hands."

His words are chilling and even more so when they come from such a seemingly friendly smile. Johanna laughs again, not the least bit troubled by Finnick's anger when she really should be.

"I'd have loved for you to be in the arena with me, pretty boy," she says. "Now that would've been a real challenge."

He is smiling back still, but his eyes are hard.

"Don't say things like that to Annie, and don't question the Capitol." I can hear the rest of the sentence he leaves off. Don't question the Capitol in places like this.

She seems almost angry for once. She crossly tosses another jam-filled pastry onto the floor. I watch it land and burst, sending sprays of red jelly in every direction. I turn away, sick and faint.

"I won their Games; I'll question whatever I like!" she cries. "I don't like the way all you victors act, like he's got you on some sort of chain. I think it's pathetic."

I want to tell her that her chain will come, and that she'll understand once it's tied to her that it's better to stay on it than risk the alternative, but I can't I can't I can't. I want to beg her to shut up, to close her mouth long enough to realize what Finnick and I are trying to tell her with our expressions, because I don't want someone else's innocent little brother to drown for no reason at all. Needless deaths are everywhere and they are buried underneath my skin, heavy and burning, and I can't handle any more. I have an urge to scratch at my arms again now, but I lock my hands together behind my back to keep from acting on it. The last thing this room needs is to be redder.

Finnick's visibly uneasy and I wish we could just walk away from this right now.

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," he warns carefully.

I'm staring at her and pleading with her to stop stop stop because she is going to get us all in trouble and I have had enough trouble and I want to go home with Finnick tonight like I always do but if she keeps going on and on and on about this Snow is going to do something bad he is always doing something bad always always always and he's going to hurt her and her family and then probably Finnick and then probably me and I am panicking and breathing is difficult and I hate all the red all around and why can't she just be quiet be quiet be quiet?

Finnick's arm slides around my waist and it's an anchor. I feel my panic ebbing away slightly. Johanna's frowning again. She turns to me.

"What's he doing to you all? What is he going to do to me?" she demands.

I can't tell you. I can't. I can't because Arnav is buried in a suit and my sister left Marv all alone and my father will never hold my hand ever again. I can't because Finnick is responsible for the sun rising and setting and it will be so cold without the sun.

Finnick drops his arm from my waist then and grabs her arm roughly, yanking her towards the exit of the ballroom. I keep my eye on everyone as we walk out, but they are too drunk to care about anything at this point. Mags has fallen prey to the mayor's awful stories and is nodding off while he talks.

I slip out of the door and Finnick pushes Johanna through a doorway that leads to a winding staircase. She's cursing at him vehemently as we climb and climb and climb. I walk ahead of them and open the door at the very top.

We climb up, suddenly at the very top of District 4. The Justice Building has a fake lighthouse attached to it, and we've climbed up into it. The walls are huge, glass windows that overlook everything: the Square and shops on the ground straight ahead, the coastline running along the left of the district, the marshlands on the right.

It's drafty and chilly up here. Finnick pulls the door we climbed up through shut and turns around, glaring once more at Johanna.

She's walking slowly around the room, observing the windows.

"Is this dramatic enough of a setting for you?" she asks him finally, turning to him with an irritated expression.

I feel words bubbling inside of me.

"It's not that!" I exclaim. "It's not safe to talk down there! You can't just say things like that! You can't!"

Johanna looks mildly shocked. I feel bad for my outburst almost immediately.

"And why not?" she demands.

"Because people get hurt," Finnick says, finishing my thought.

She turns back to me, her eyes trying to pull answers from me.

"Like your family?" she asks.

I know she's not saying it to be mean, I know she's just asking, but it feels like I've been slapped in the face. Finnick yells at her again, but I'm feeling mentally shaky once more. Yes, like my family. Yes.

"Snow is going to give you an order one day soon. I don't know what it is, and I don't know when exactly, but when he does, you have two choices: you give into the demands, or he kills everyone you love," Finnick whispers quickly and urgently.

She's thinking deeply, her eyes glancing between us once more.

"He ordered you two to pretend like you aren't lovers? Why?" She's confused and impatient, demanding demanding demanding answers that I don't want Finnick to have to endanger himself to give.

He falters a bit.

"That's part of it. We all have our own demands," he hedges.

She scowls. "Well, thanks for that. Very helpful."

Finnick is sneering back. "No problem."

She laughs again, but it sounds empty this time.

"Well, I for one didn't win his damn Games only to be pulled into another one. You two might put up with that, but I did my job. I won the Games and I'm done playing. So when he comes to me with his "demand", I'm going to tell him to shove it up his ass because I'm free from his control now."

Her voice is dark and I know she means every word she's saying.

"But he will do it. He will kill them. He really will." I find myself whispering to her, frantic for her to understand the full extent of the repercussions if she does decide to do what she's saying.

She's grinding her teeth then, furious and frustrated. Finally she turns back to us, her eyes narrowed.

"Let him. Let him destroy the only way he has to control me. He won't get what he wants by doing that, so he won't," she decides.

No. She still doesn't get it; she still hasn't reached the full understanding of what life is as a victor. She just doesn't get it.

"It's not like that. If he thinks he won't get what he wants from you, he is going to punish you. That won't—" Finnick tries.

"Whatever!" she yells, throwing her hands up in the air. "If he kills them, good for them. They're better off dead. Better than being kept alive only to be used against someone."

She turns and she's a blur of orange silk as she throws the door open, climbing back down to the staircase. We stay up there listening to the clicks of her heels against the stone steps. I turn and look at him.

"Do you think she really means that?" I ask him.

Finnick pulls me to him and hugs me tightly and I needed it. His voice is irritated when he finally speaks.

"Don't worry about her. We did more than enough by trying to warn her. If she's not going to listen to us, it's on her loved ones' heads."

His words make me sick and shaky and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight against the images I can feel creeping up on me. He inhales sharply, pulling back to look at me. I can feel his hands grasping my upper arms but it's supposed to be dark when I close my eyes but it isn't. There's Chiron in a familiar scene, but it's Johanna who has the blade, and when she stabs it down into his neck, blood that looks just like red jam bursts everywhere and it's sweet when it hits my lips, so sweet I'm vomiting, and she's laughing and her orange silk dress is ripped and stained with blood, and she's bringing the knife back down, and—

"—sorry, Ann. I'm so sorry."

Finnick's voice is tortured and deeply apologetic when it breaks through to me. It's still cold, so I think we're still in the lighthouse. This is confirmed when I open my eyes. Finnick's holding me to him, and he looks stricken, but it isn't his fault.

His eyes snag mine and he looks so sad.

"I shouldn't have said that. I don't know why I did. I was just so angry, and it slipped out before I even—"

I lean up and kiss him, because I can in here, and this isn't his fault. I slowly part our lips, looking up to him again.

"It's fine," I tell him. "I'm fine."

And I am now, because he's with me. He nods, still a bit upset, but accepting my words.

He rises and helps me to my feet and keeps his hand in mine the entire walk down. He doesn't let go until we're entering the ballroom again and it's absolutely necessary.

The rest of the party goes by very quickly. My feet are aching by the time Finnick and I walk through his door. I kick my shoes off first thing and then set about yanking my hair down and pulling every piece of jewelry off my body.

Finnick isn't as uncomfortable in his. He picks a few pieces of paper off the kitchen floor and then turns around to see me struggling with the clasp of a necklace that's somehow gotten twisted up with my hair.

He laughs a bit, crossing the room and taking the tangled mess from my hands. I drop my arms to my side and stand still while he fiddles with the necklace.

"Eager to get undressed?" he teases, his warm breath hitting the back of my bare neck as he lifts my hair up to try and pull it free.

His voice is quiet and smooth and I can't explain why I suddenly feel goosebumps rise up on my skin or why my heart picks up pace.

"You could say that," I reply, my voice less stable than I would have preferred.

He laughs a bit in triumph and then I feel the strain on my hair lessen. It falls back down my back and he reaches around me, dropping the necklace into my hand. He presses a gentle kiss to the back of my head.

"There you go, my darling!" he practically sings.

The air goes cold when he takes a step back and I spin around and grasp onto his hand before he walks away. He stops walking instantly and turns back to face me. His eyes scan over my face and he furrows his eyebrows.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

I have an urge to smooth my fingers over his forehead until his eyebrows unfurrow and the worry lines melt away and I'm not sure where it came from.

"Nothing," I tell him, and when it comes out, I sound just as confused and puzzled as he must be.

He looks down at me and I up at him and the room feels sweltering all of the sudden. I drop his hand and avert my eyes, glancing instead at the wall beside his head.

"Do you remember a few months back, when you got home from the Games, and you said that your future self wouldn't mind?" I ask. I wish my heart would stop pounding because really there's no reason for this.

He looks even more baffled. He thinks for a moment and then nods, reaching out to grab onto my hand again. I don't even have to look at him. I can feel his worry. I can feel it on his skin.

"Yes." He replies slowly.

I look back up at him, taking a deep breath that sounds shuddering. Maybe the lobster was bad at dinner.

"Did you mean that?" I ask. "About us getting married one day?"

He's staring hard at me, trying to understand where I'm going with this, and I'm staring hard at myself too, because his guess is as good as mine.

"Of course I did," he tells me softly. He reaches forward and gently redirects my gaze so I'm looking at him once more. "That's number one on my list, Annie. That's the thing I want the most. It has been for a while and it will be until we get it."

I don't remember either of our faces moving an inch, but they are suddenly closer than they were before. They must be, because I can see each of his golden eyelashes, and our noses are practically touching.

"That's number one on mine, too," I whisper.

He smiles a bit, reaching up to cup my cheek. He strokes his thumb back and forth and leans his head forward so our noses bump into each other's.

"Then we'll just have to find a new number one together once we achieve it."

It isn't until I kiss his lips, propelled forward by something powerful that originated in my heart rising inside of me and taking over, that I realize exactly what the problem is. It's a problem that isn't even really a problem, but I want him. In every way, all the time, no matter what, until I die. I want him beside me when I drink tea in the mornings and I want to know he's beside me when I wake up randomly at three in the morning and I want to hold his hand on summer days underneath the sun and I want to be there for him when he's sad and I want to make him smile and right now I want to pull him as close to me as he can possibly get, skin on skin, because the love is eating away at my heart, creating a hollow space inside of me that hurts hurts hurts and I want it filled.

I think I'm being transparent with my thoughts again, because when we break apart, he looks like he wants the same things, too.

But I won't love him like that until I know for certain he wants to be loved like that, or even could let someone love him like that, and that's completely okay because I feel blessed I have the opportunity to love him in any way at all. I will love him by sneaking extra sugarcubes into his coffee during breakfast when Mags is over and attempts to limit his sugar intake by yanking the box out of his hands. I will love him by reminding him every time he's forgotten just how good and wonderful he is. I will love him by throwing the blanket into the dryer in the winter when he's cold and curling up underneath it with him until he's not anymore. I will love him by letting him leave the top off the toothpaste and I will love him by telling him so. On and on so he always believes it.

He brushes his thumb over my lips and smiles down at me.

"Oh, Annie. You always were the only one that could make me understand that all the things I've thought were about power aren't really supposed to be at all. You're the only one who could make me feel like sex would be something pure and good and wonderful."

I'm a little surprised that we're on the same page once again, although I'm not sure why. We're almost always on the same page.

I reach up and grasp his hand and kiss it.

"One day," I promise.

He smiles and reaches behind me, pulling a stray pin loose from my hair.

"One day," he agrees.

For once, the calendars and the clocks and the dates on newspapers don't make me feel like screaming, because we have time. We have a future, one that we both want to spend together. And it hurts every time he has to go away, but he always comes back. We have the rest of our lives to spend together. That is a true victory.

Chapter Text

Mags was right, just as she always is.

It does get just a little bit easier in some ways each time Finnick leaves. I don't take to our bed for a week, refusing to get up, ever again. I try my hardest to go about the normal routine, just as Finnick wants me to. But it's also harder each time, too; because the longer I spend with him the more I'm accustomed to having him around. The morning after he left for the 72nd Games I couldn't sleep at all for three days. After almost two years of sleeping with him by my side, his absence was more than painful: it was crippling. I tossed and turned all night long and paced restlessly around the house during the day. I ended up falling asleep at the table during lunch on the fourth day and resorted to sleeping only when my body forced me to, usually at odd times of the day like four in the afternoon and in odd places like Mags' garden. The night before he left for the 73rd I was confident that I was used to it now, that I would be okay and that I could handle the month long absence with ease and grace. That was proven to be incorrect that morning when he woke me up to say goodbye and I gripped onto him, crying into his shirt for ten minutes. I at least slept at night that month, though.

It hurts him to leave me as well, but as selfish as it is for me to say, I think it must hurt me more because I'm losing not only my Finnick, but also my sanity. I'm left shaken and drifting, clinging to fading puzzle pieces and the brief glimpses of him through the television screen. As awful as his absences are, the day always comes when he's walking back through his kitchen door. We clung to each other for days upon his return from the 72nd Games. His lips were never far from mine for too long and our hands were almost always intertwined. It stayed that way in varying degrees up until he left once more for the next year's Games. When he came home from the 73rd, I could feel how broken he was the minute we embraced. I sat with him on the couch, cradling his head to my chest and combing my fingers through his hair for four hours. He didn't say a word, and he didn't cry. But his pain was solid and it was sinking into me, too.

Something was different for him in the Capitol this time. He's been home from the 73rd Games for a week, and things are dreadful. They made him do something, or he had something done to him, that he's never had to do before. I don't know what it was. All I know is that he's been worse this week than I have ever seen him. He tries, he does. He smiles at me in the mornings and laughs a bit during the day. But his smiles are tight, his eyes almost pulled like it's painful to grin, and his laughter is watered down and a weak, empty replica of his normally joyful chuckles. The worst part is the washing. He typically has bouts of this every time he returns from the Capitol. He'll scrub his skin violently in the shower like he's trying to wash the memory of the Capitol from his body. It's escaladed from that point. Now he showers twice a day and washes his hands at least ten times. And it's not normal showers or normal handwashing. It's hard, stubborn scrubbing. The kind that leaves skin so raw and rough it's cracking and bleeding. The kind that I know must hurt, but obviously not as much as whatever he's fighting inside of him.

He's back to that point where he feels contaminated by something awful. He apologizes each time he kisses me and looks so guilt-ridden, like he's hurting me somehow. He holds my hand as we fall asleep at night because he can't relax with our arms around each other like we normally sleep. And that's fine. I don't care that it's changing our routines. I care that he's suffering so much. I care that I don't even know what to do about it. I can't ask him about it. I know he won't want to talk about it, and he wouldn't tell me even if he did, and talking probably wouldn't help anyway. He never discusses what goes on in the Capitol. The only thing he's ever told me he shared one morning sometime after he returned from the 71st. We were still in bed and my fingers were tracing over a small red dot in the inside of his left elbow. I asked him what it was, and he said that's where they inject a needle into him each time he goes to the Capitol, to protect him from diseases and to protect the women who buy him from getting pregnant. I don't know why it hasn't healed completely, but my fingers brush over it sometimes, wishing for more times than I could even know that none of this had to happen to him.

One of the worst and most frustrating parts of all of this is that I can't seem to stay present long enough to figure out a way to help him. My mind is lost at sea and I have no chance of saving it from the forceful waves of Finnick's agony. It drags me far away, where I'm braiding hair with Cora and stacking plates with my mother. I am better at controlling my drifting, but not when I'm faced with Finnick's pain. That's something I haven't learned how to handle yet. Probably because he's so good at hiding it. He knows it sends me away and so he tries to bury it where it can't hurt me, but it only hurts worse when it finally comes out.

I'm washing dishes and looking out the window over the sink the morning he partially mentions what he's going through.

I'm up to my elbows in soapy water and I can't take my eyes off a yellow bird that's perched on the gutter of my house. It's bright yellow like the Capitol's bright yellows: electric and almost eye-watering. I've never seen a bird like that in District 4 before. I'm about to ask Finnick if he has when he speaks up from the table, his voice tired tired tired.

"Sometimes I feel like I take three steps forward only to be shoved ten feet back."

My hands sting when I pull them out of the hot water and turn around. I observe his down casted expression while I wipe my hands off on the dish towel, frowning because he's frowning. He's hunched over, peering intently at the table with his hands tucked beneath it. I wonder if they're shaking. I really hope not.

I cross the room slowly and sink down into the chair across from him. I grip the edge of the table because if I don't I know I'm going to reach out for him and I don't know if he would want that.

"You don't deserve any of this, Finn." My voice sounds alien and choked when I hear it. He tucks his face even more when he hears that, and my hand unclenches from the table without my permission and rests on the table. I extend my arm and leave my hand palm up, in case he feels like it might help him to take it. His hand is warm but rough when it grips onto mine. I clutch it tightly because I don't want him slipping away somehow. I worry that he is.

My eyes are stinging and I'm observing our clasped hands.

"You'll get through this. I promise," I say. But it comes out more as a plea than a certainty.

He nods and says nothing else about it. We sit with our hands intertwined for an hour, easy silence that's tinged with sadness resting over us. When he finally speaks up again, it's to suggest what we should make for dinner tonight.

I'm washing tomatoes when I'm not anymore.

Finnick's kitchen becomes a packed dirt road surrounded by grass that reaches my shoulders. The tomatoes I had gripped in my hands turn to water bottles. Cora's in her favorite sundress, a pink cotton one that's been washed so many times it's faded and fraying. She's beside me and Finnick's on my other side. He's in his favorite clothes too—a gray t-shirt so soft I steal it frequently and white shorts. I glance down at myself, expecting to be in my favorite clothes too, but I'm in a black dress with pearl buttons and I don't like it. I'm fidgeting with the collar, deeply bothered by the dress even though I'm not sure why. Perhaps because the sun is violent as it beats down on the crown of my head and the black fabric isn't helping. I tuck the water bottles into the fabric bag slung over my shoulder. Judging by the plates inside of it, we're headed somewhere for lunch.

"That's rich coming from you, Odair!" Cora snaps. She's smiling when she turns away from him, though.

Finnick's glaring across me at her in mock anger.

"If we're going to be in-laws one day I'm going to need you to cease with the bossiness," he says.

I'm laughing then, because bossiness is Cora. There's no pulling the two apart. Finnick looks at me and smiles widely, reaching out to take my hand. I love the way the sun makes his hair seem so golden. I love him.

Cora's walking ahead of us now, impatient with our slow paces. She turns around so she's walking backwards and addresses Finnick again.

"I'm not bossy. I'm a natural born leader," she explains haughtily. She jokingly turns her nose up in the air and spins back around so she's leading us forward.

Finnick leans over, his lips to my ear.

"Natural born annoyance, more like it," he whispers.

We're giggling when Cora turns back around, her eyes narrowed. She studies us and then points a finger at Finnick.

"You're a bad influence on my baby sister, Odair. You're lucky to have gotten my blessing. Don't make me take it away."

He grins broadly and confidently, squeezing my fingers lightly.

"I hardly count myself as lucky. From what I hear you had my pictures on your bedroom wall for a while. I could have asked for your house and I would have gotten it and a blessing."

Cora's eyes narrow threateningly, just as they do every time Finnick brings up the days she was his number one fan. I can't help but smile every time they get into this, because it's hilarious. Their friendship started out awkward, with Cora blushing every time he was near, unaccustomed to the idea that Finnick Odair is a real person and not a TV persona. It then evolved into one of distrust once Finnick and I became something, with Cora certain he was bad news. And now it's developed into a comfortable friendship full of empty insults and power struggles and it's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I love being with them, not just because they're so entertaining, but because it's like a gasp of air after being underwater for too many minutes to be with my two favorite people in the whole world.

"You got Annie. She means more to me than the house. You, buster, got lucky," Cora replies shortly, her voice flat and deadly.

Finnick knocks gently into my side and I turn to look at him. I feel bubbly when I see the look he's giving me. He is the only one who looks at me this way, like I'm a treasure. It's silly because I'm not a treasure at all, but he really thinks that.

"I did get lucky," he replies, smiling softly down at me.

Cora gags and I smile and I don't know why we're walking down this dirt road, but I'm glad we are.

"Cora, you know who you're a lot like?" I say suddenly.

She's still marching ahead of us, kicking up clouds of dust and dirt in her wake. She stops to let us catch up.

"Who?" She asks curiously. "And don't say your boyfriend. That's an insult."

Finnick and Cora share a glare.

We come to a stop in front of her.

"Johanna Mason. But nicer, of course. And less…vicious. If you, Johanna, and Finn were in a room it'd be like an insult contest."

I'm giggling at the image, but Cora and Finnick are staring at me like I've said something very strange. I'm worried then that I somehow insulted Cora, although I don't know how that's an insult. I mean they're alike in their headstrong attitudes and senses of humor. That's all. I'm not trying to say I think Cora is cold or anything like that.

"I don't mean that as an insult," I quickly explain, nervously looking at my sister. She looks confused and shares a befuddled glance with Finnick.

"How do you know Johanna Mason? Isn't that the District 7 victor?" Cora questions slowly, looking once more at Finnick. He shrugs at her and rubs his thumb back and forth over the back of my hand. I turn to him, confused too, because how do I know her? We only just saw her win her Games last year. I didn't even go to her speech when she came to District 4 on her Victory Tour because I was sick.

I'm opening my mouth to reply but nothing is coming out.

"Is that just how you imagined she'd be, from what you've seen on TV?" Finnick tries.

I close my mouth and nod slowly, because that must be it. My head hurts then, like I've slammed it into something. I wince and pull my hand free from Finn's, pressing it to my temple.

"Are you okay, Shell?" Cora asks, concern swimming in her tone.

I close my eyes and nod again, pressing down harder over where the pain is originating.

"Headache. Let's keep walking," I reply.

Finnick wraps an arm around my waist and walks slowly with me, like he's afraid I'm going to collapse. I can feel his eyes on me and him and Cora exchange glances every few minutes. They're a unit like no other when they're worried about me. It's overwhelming sometimes.

My head gets worse and worse the further down the road we get, and I'm starting to feel almost as if there's a build up of forgotten information swelling in my mind like floodwaters swell against dams. I don't remember where I saw it, but I have seen a dam burst before, and I am certain I don't want that to happen to my brain.

"Can we stop for a minute?" I finally ask them. I have to lean against Finn because it hurts suddenly to even open my eyes.

"Of course," he and Cora say at the same time.

I'm breathing shallowly, and Finnick's hand is cradling my head to his chest, when the dam bursts and I'm gasping for air.

"Shell?"

I stand up and lock my hands over my ears, fighting against whatever is happening to me in the only way I can. When the pressure evaporates finally from my mind, I'm left with only one thing still inside of it.

"You're hurt," I tell Finnick. I lower my hands and my voice is shaking as I look at him.

He's deeply concerned and confused now. He stares at me for a few moments before walking hesitantly towards me and taking my hands in his.

"I'm fine, Ann. You're the one who is hurt," he says gently.

I'm shaking my head before he's finished talking though, because he's wrong. I can feel panic rising inside of me and I'm fighting back tears.

"No, you went to the Capitol, and something happened and I don't know what it was, but you're very sad and I don't know how to help you. How do I help?" I beg, peering helplessly up at him, searching for answers I need him to give me because even if he says he's not upset, I know he is. I know it. I remember it. Something inside of me won't let me forget it.

Cora sets a hand on my forehead.

"You're burning up," she tells me, her voice stern like she's mad at me for being sick. I know she's only mad because she thinks I was hiding it.

I'm frustrated and pulling at the hem of the black dress angrily.

"I'm not sick! It's just hot out here!" I exclaim.

Finnick's frowning. "I'm fine, I promise. But even if I weren't, having you around would help fix whatever was wrong."

Cora takes my other hand.

"Come on, we need to head back. You're not well."

She starts to pull but I'm rooted to the ground, the grass and dirt and blue sky blurring together.

"No! I'm fine! I have been with you Finn, and it hasn't helped! I don't know what to do!"

I double over, gasping for air against what must be sobs, because I don't know how to help the person who helps me, who saved my life multiple times.

Finnick's hand pulls gently too until him and Cora are leading me back down the road. I'm tired and can't do anything but follow.

"You always know the right thing to do," Finn tells me.

But that isn't true at all.

I'm on the couch in Finnick's living room when I'm back and realizing that none of that was real at all, and that I hated that black dress because I wore it to my family's funeral, and Cora has never met Finnick before and she never will.

Finnick's beside me on the couch and he turns to look at me when he realizes I'm back again.

"I'm sorry," I say immediately, and then I'm crying.

Finnick tries to pull me into his arms but I don't want him to comfort me. I want to comfort him. Only I don't know how. I don't know how to do a lot of things and it's the most maddening thing. I don't know how to have conversations with anyone but Finnick, I don't know how to not drift away to a world that doesn't even exist, I don't know how to sleep alone and I don't know how to keep from falling to the floor in tears after I've had flashbacks and I don't even know how to keep myself from crying right now. They say what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger but that's a lie, because I'm not stronger at all.

I shake my head and then I've got his face in my hands, peering at him through a veil of tears.

"I love you." I tell him, and it's not what I wanted to say, but it's true all the same. "I love you more than I love anything, and will ever love anything. You are essential to me. You are the most wonderful person I know."

He's got his hands covering mine warmly, but his skin is still dry and cracked and so I know he isn't okay.

"And I love you, Annie. Just as much and more."

"But it isn't enough?" I voice my deepest fear. The fear that, this time, I can't help him. That it doesn't matter that I love him and he loves me. It can't erase what has been done to him.

He's puzzled.

"Of course it's enough," he tells me. "It's more than enough. What's this about?"

He slides my hands from his face and pulls me to him and I don't resist this time. He smells like home and I'm homesick.

"I'm worried about you," I whisper into his shoulder.

He strokes his hand over my hair. I think he's going to placate me with a lie about how he's perfectly fine, but he doesn't.

"The Capitol was…harder this time around. But I'm not going to die. It's really no different than every other time I come home. It takes the memories a while to fade," he explains.

I believe his words when I'm locked in his arms and I've got mine around him. I don't know if I'll still believe them later though.

"I want you to be happy. You deserve it," I murmur.

He laughs and it sounds startled somehow.

"I'm happier than I've ever been right here with you. It doesn't matter what they do to me in the Capitol. I have you."

It does matter, though. More than he thought it did because another week passes and the only improvement is that he stops apologizing after he kisses me. He still regards himself as someone contaminated with something that taints everything. But it's not true because he cures everything. He can cure my mixed up mind and if he can do that, he can cure anything.

We're brushing our teeth before bed the fifteenth night that he's been home. He drops his toothbrush back in the holder and then sets about washing his hands and it's like he's rubbing my heart down with sandpaper because it hurts to see him scrubbing away at his already raw skin. I linger, drying my hands on the hand towel, looking at him in the mirror. I want to grab him and stop him before he makes himself bleed but I know the physical pain hurts less and if this helps him even a little bit, then good.

But he just keeps scrubbing, and before I can stop myself, I'm reaching out and setting my hand gently on his forearm. He looks up at me in the mirror, his eyes haunted.

"You aren't dirty, Finn," I say.

He's expressionless and his voice is flat when he responds.

"I feel dirty."

I keep my eyes on his through the mirror for a few long moments, and I'm not sure whether my eyes are reflecting his pain or if his are reflecting mine. I walk closer to him and slide my hand down his arm until I'm grasping his hand. He turns to look at me directly and I at him and I lift his hand up, pressing a kiss to the heel of his palm, the inside of his wrist, the underside of his forearm. He simply stares at me, kind of like I'm holding something he desperately needs, like a key to a chest he has to open immediately.

"You don't taste dirty," I tell him. I step closer to him and he turns automatically. I wrap my arms around him and hug him to me, pressing my face into his neck and kissing him gently before inhaling. "You don't smell dirty, either." I take a step back, his arms sliding off me, and I scan my eyes over his body slowly, so he knows I'm actually looking, and then I rest a hand on his chest so I know I have his attention. "And you don't look dirty. You want to know what I see?"

"What?" His voice sounds weak and I think his eyes are wet.

"I see a pure heart, a beautiful smile, perfect jawline, gorgeous body, and clean hands. There isn't anything dirty about you."

His eyes keep trying to drift from mine but I'm not going to let that happen, because he needs to know that what I am saying is true. There is nothing wrong with him at all. He stares back at me, blinking his green eye a few times, and then I can see that he knows I'm telling the truth.

"I believe that you think that and I believe that's what you see. So why do I feel so unclean?" he questions, and I know this isn't rhetorical. I can tell that this is a question that been peeling at his skin and clawing at his heart for the past two weeks. It's an awful feeling to not understand why you feel the way that you do. I experience that a lot of the time. I can't image what it must be like for Finnick. To always feel so dirty no matter how many times you bathe and to not understand why. It must feel so hopeless, and now that I've got that word gripped tightly, I see that that is exactly what he looks like. I observe his tortured eyes, stripped of any and all hope, his cracked and bleeding hands, his pink wrists and arms, and something in my mind snaps and then someone else is in control, almost as if I'm becoming my own copilot. I feel my arms raise and grasp the bottom of my t-shirt and I pull it up over my head, dropping it lightly to the floor beside me. Finn stares, confused and-is that a blush on his face?

"What are you doing?" he asks carefully, his eyes bouncing from my face to my body to the shirt on the floor.

"We're taking a shower," I reply, my own plans becoming clear to me all at once. I unbutton my pants and step out of them, kicking them to the side. He needs to know that the grimy touches of his Capitol lovers can be washed away. He needs to know that not everyone is going to use and abuse him. That at least one person wants him to have whatever it is he wants more than anything else.

He's swallowing, his face flushed and his eyes on me. I worry then that this won't help, that it will just backfire. I just don't know what else to do, how else to help him. I'm lost.

I'm standing foolishly in the middle of the bathroom in my underwear, so sick with anxiety over Finnick's pain that I don't even feel a blush rising to my face at all when ordinarily I'd be mortified. I'm fighting tears and trying to catch his eyes that are drifting from mine to my body and then back to me.

"I just want to help," I admit. I feel self-conscious suddenly and I wrap my arms around my middle. I'm self-conscious not about being almost naked, but about the idea that I might honestly have no idea how to help. That this shot in the dark is worthless, that what he said about our love being more than enough just isn't true at all. "I just want to see you smile again. I want you to see yourself as I do. Maybe you just aren't washing yourself the right way. Maybe you need to wash your mind, too."

I don't know exactly what I'm saying, but Finnick seems to. That happens frequently. I talk and think in circles so wide that I never can understand fully what I'm getting at, but Finn is great at listening to me and then taking my mixed up words and reordering them and giving them back to me.

I wonder if this is how he felt a few years ago when he took me to that market to meet me again for the first time. I was destroyed like he is now, and he must have felt at least half as desperate as I do now, searching frantically for anything to call the other home.

And just like then, the words hit a chord. He pulls his shirt off easily and then steps out of his pants, leaving him too in just his underwear. I extend my hand for him to grasp, because I don't want him getting naked and associating this with anything he already associates with horror and disgust. He understands and takes my hand with the ghost of a small smile, the one he always used to have when he'd tease me for being cute. I smile back a bit, because a ghost of a smile is better than no smile at all by a long shot.

I lead him over to the shower and shove the faucet up; adjusting it not to the boiling heat he's taken to showering in recently but to a comfortable temperature. The steam from the shower is almost revitalizing and I'm feeling more confident because really, what do I know more about than shoving away horrible memories? I know more about forgetting the terrible things that have happened than I know about gardening or making jewelry or swimming or anything. I spend half my life locked away where the worst things that have happened to me don't exist. Maybe I can take that and mold it into a way Finnick can finally let go of the horrible images and memories of the Capitol. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The water's the perfect temperature because all my muscles immediately relax when the spray hits me. Finnick's standing with his back under the water and he lets his eyes shut, tipping his head back a bit so his hair darkens to a very light brown. I reach over and pull the dark blue curtain shut, and just like that, I get this sense that nothing else really exists. The shower is dim and small and I can't see anything but the ceramic walls and Finnick and the water spewing down. It's echoing loudly as it hits the floor and I am certain that someone could walk in here and scream and scream and I wouldn't hear them. I am convinced that Chiron could scream in my memories and still I wouldn't hear that, either. I hope that Finnick feels the same way about his bad memories.

I wrap my arms tightly around him and hug him to me, letting the water drench my hair until it's sticking to both of us. His hands are warm on the small of my back and he lowers his head, resting his forehead against my shoulder. We stand still and quietly like that for a while, my hand stroking the back of his neck and the water slamming into us and nothing else existing at all.

"I used to imagine that the bad memories would just wash down the drain," I say after a while.

"That sounds nice," he mumbles against my shoulder. He plants a kiss there, too. "This is nice."

I move my hand up and stroke my fingers through his soaking wet hair, watching how the water shoots off from my fingertips when I hold it diagonally under the stream of water.

"It is," I agree.

We stand like that for a few more minutes, and then I slowly step back, removing myself from his arms. I reach up and sweep his wet hair back from his face, watching drops of water drip down over his eyebrows only to cling to his eyelids and then slide down his nose and eventually fall down to his lips. I have an urge to catch each drop clinging there with my lips, but I'm content to watch the progression to his chin. I reach a hand up and run my thumb over his lips just as I did that day on my Tour.

"None of it matters here, Finnick," I tell him. I stroke my hands over his cheeks and then his shoulders, sliding my hands down his arms as well. "The Capitol is just a nightmare, one that I'm not going to let take you. You never let mine take me, and so I'm not going to let yours get far, either."

I'm envisioning the memories of the Capitol people's hands rising from his skin like smoke and then turning into water and sliding down the drain. Everywhere I touch I am certain he will never be touched by them again, even though I know that's a lie.

I caress my hands over his back and step back into his arms.

"There are things that happen to us and we can't stop them and we can't go back and change them, either," I whisper. And for all I know, I could be crying right now. I don't know if I am or not. Water is dripping down my face steadily so it doesn't matter, anyway. He could be crying too. "But we don't let them define us. We don't let them get under our skin and live there."

My hands fall still and I lean back to look at Finnick. He's still looking at me like what I am saying is the most important thing he has ever heard.

"They can touch you all they want when they have you, but it will never really be touching you. They can slide their hands over you and dig their nails into you but never will they be able to get to the heart of you. They'll never know the things that really matter, like where you got the triangle shaped scar on your left shoulder or how much pulp you like in your orange juice. They aren't sleeping with you, Finnick. This is who you really are, right here, with me. What happens in the Capitol isn't real when we're here. It doesn't exist. It's far away. Just like the arena is far away for me when I'm with you. And no matter what they make you do, no matter what they do to you, you are still the man you have always been. Nothing that you do in the Capitol reflects on you because it isn't you doing it."

I'm getting frustrated because I'm talking in circles and I can't get down to what I'm really trying to say.

"It's like how I have two worlds. There's Annie in one world and Annie in another. I can feel horrible about whatever I do in the other world, but in the end, this is the real world and I didn't really do whatever I did there. It's like that with the Capitol. You didn't choose to do anything you have to do there, so it's not your fault, and you aren't contaminated or dirty because of it. At the end of the day, you've only done what you had to, what you were forced to do."

He hugs me so tightly it hurts, but I don't care. I think he might be crying. I stroke my hands over his back while he holds me, listening to his breathing and the water slamming into the shower floor. I'm pleading for him to be okay in my head, for my words to have somehow given him a way to handle what he's been through.

I think I must have, because after what must have been thirty minutes standing together after my speech, he's pulling back and kissing me sweetly.

He breaks his lips away and presses his forehead to mine.

"You always know the right thing to do."

Then I feel a bit like I'm drowning right there in that shower, because that is so, so, so wrong. I never know what to do, ever, period. I don't know why both Finnick here and Finnick in my other world think that I do.

He holds me again that night for the first time since he got back, and so I guess maybe he was correct. I don't always know what the right thing to do is, but perhaps this one time I did something right. Even nicer to think about, maybe this one time my madness did some help instead of hindrance.

"You know how sometimes in my other world someone will remember that it's not the real world, or sometimes I'll remember?" I ask him, warm and ecstatic to see him really smiling again with his arms around me. Our hair is still damp and my fingers are still wrinkled from the shower. It's impossibly comfortable under the soft sheets and blankets. I'm in Finn's favorite shirt too, the extremely worn one, and I've forgone pants and I'm sure this is as comfortable as I will ever get. Our legs are intertwined and it's so wonderful to lay like this with him again. Our sleeping position morphed a bit over the last year—Finnick ditched his shirt, I ditched my pants, we moved closer—but I like this one better anyway.

He kisses my cheek, and even the kiss is soft.

"Mmhmm," he replies.

The moon is bright, and I'm tired.

"That happened today, kind of. But it was so strange. It all started because I told Cora she reminded me of Johanna—her headstrong personality, anyway—and you and her stared at me like I was…well, crazy. And then I was so confused because I could sense that I did know her, but I couldn't remember that I did," I murmur, sleepiness making my words stick together drowsily.

He plants another kiss on my neck and it's warm warm warm and I missed him being here. He traces his nose down my neck and kisses me again.

"I could see that. Cora and Johanna being a little alike. At least from the stories you've told me about Cora," he mutters, his breath hot against my collarbone. Finnick and Johanna are pretty good friends now. They see each other every year at the Games because Johanna is a mentor, too, and then of course they see each other at the Capitol party during the Victory Tours. Snow tried to sell her like he sells Finnick, but just as she swore to us she would, she told him no. I asked Finnick if she looked particularly sad the next time he saw her after her family mysteriously died while out in the woods in District 7, but he said she looked perfectly okay. Maybe she wasn't that close to them. Or perhaps she really meant what she said about them being better off. Sometimes I think about what it would be like for Finnick if they were to use Mags and I against him, and I am sure that maybe we'd be better off dead, too.

"Did you remember completely how you knew her?" he continues.

I'm finding it rather difficult suddenly to focus on what I was telling him, because he seems determined to make up for all the kisses we've been missing out on since he left for the Games this year. His lips are warm and soft against my collarbone and it takes me a few empty grabs to close my hands around the words I was trying to say.

"No. I didn't even really remember that it wasn't the real world. I just had a really bad headache," I reply, but my words are coming out as jumpy as my heart is currently. I'm startled at Finnick's insistent kissing, because typically it takes him at least two months home to reach a point like this where he can kiss me anywhere but my lips or forehead or cheek. Roaming lips and giggling is saved for those few weeks before he has to leave again, when he's completely disassociated kissing with the horrors of the Capitol and instead associated it with love, but he seems calm and content right now, so I have to hope he's okay and that somehow his mind has reached that point already.

"That's new," he says, and then he resumes kissing again, as if he will never kiss me ever again, like he has no intention of stopping. And he's right, that is new. He's talking about the headache in my other world, but I'm talking about this. He's full of abandon as he kisses me, and I wonder for a moment if he actually is going to stop. But I know he will eventually. For the past year it's not been a question of if we're going to make love: it's been the question of when. We both know the day is coming, because we wait longer and longer to pull away when we get carried away, and before these most recent Games of course he's been doing so much better. We've gotten to the point where we joke about when we think it's finally going to happen, some days joking it's going to happen under ridiculous circumstances and others actually going so far as to throw out occasions where it would be the most special. We're having fun with waiting, because beyond betting when we're finally going to cave we've taken to playing a game whenever we kiss where we see who gives in and has to put a stop to it quickest. Right now there's an even score. And so we're at ease, not rushing, never rushing, because we're content with how things are now. When it happens it will be lovely, but until then, it's not a huge concern.

He's got his hands splayed across my stomach under my shirt and his lips underneath my ear when I'm squirming and calling chicken.

"I'm out!" I breathe, my heart pounding in my chest and my face flushed. I feel the curve of his smile against my neck and then his fingers dance over my stomach briefly, tickling me long enough to have me laughing for a few long moments. He pulls his hands back up over the blankets and hugs me to him, sweetly kissing my forehead.

"I'm in the lead now," he jokes, his voice a cheerful whisper that makes me grin. I close my eyes and lean my head against his shoulder.

"Not for long," I mutter, just loud enough that I know he'll hear but pretend that he didn't just to tease me.

"What was that?" he asks.

I pull back and open my eyes, peering at him innocently. And it's so good to see him smile again. It's the best thing there is. I wish I knew what it was that helped so much, because I would say or do it every single day if it made him feel this much better.

"Nothing," I reply finally, biting back a smile.

I think we both fall asleep smiling.

Things are better than ever before. The days are bright and full of laughter and they go by slowly, slowly, slowly. I like it when that happens. I am so used to having to chase after them wildly, grasping onto them only to have them slip right out of my hands. It's a welcome change.

Finnick and I decide to take on a project and spend two weeks repainting the rooms in his house. They were varying colors, mostly beiges and whites, and we both agreed they needed a bit more life. In a direct echoing of how alive we felt, we went and purchased vibrant paint in colors like coral, sunflower yellow, sky blue, and even a green close to Finnick's eyes, but a little lighter. We painted the bedroom the green that somehow Finnick knew was my favorite color, even though I don't remember telling him that. We made the living room coral and the dining room yellow and the kitchen blue like the sky you can see out of the window over the sink. His house has been my house for years now, but this makes it feel more real, somehow. Of course I'm still pretending to live at my home, just enough that people don't get suspicious, but it hasn't ever felt like a home. Not like Finnick's house has. Pretty much all of my clothes are here now, anyway.

We sat on the couch drinking tea after we finally finished painting, covered in drying paint and a bit sick from inhaling paint fumes. Finnick took my paint-stained hand in his and said: this is the house I want to grow old in, with you. And the idea of that is honestly too wonderful to let myself think of, so I kissed him for hours instead.

The funny thing about happiness is that it starts to make you feel like anything is possible. When everything makes you smile—the shade of a kitchen or the sight of flowers in a vase or the sound of someone's voice when they walk into the room—it's hard to think that anything dark could ever have as much power. I drift away and I have flashbacks just as I always will, but both seem so weak in comparison to reality. I remember a few years ago when I was thinking to myself that sadness will always be more powerful than happiness. I was wrong. Because nothing is more powerful than the way my stomach feels like I've swallowed butterflies the moment Finnick smiles at me in the morning.

We're both in our twenties now and suddenly when I talk about a future of getting married and having children, it doesn't seem that far off. Of course it can realistically never happen, and yet I find myself planning for it anyway. I think about fabric for wedding dresses when I'm vacuuming and baby names when I'm dusting. I think about tiny little shoes and wedding bands when I'm gardening. It's become a bad habit, like nail biting. One that I catch myself doing way more than I'd like to, because I know it's just going to hurt me in the end. The life that I think about, filled with china teacups and knitted baby blankets and woven nets made from grass draped over our shoulders, does not exist. That is a life for the Annie that lives in my other world. Snow would never let it exist for me. This is what Finnick and I get: we get months of happiness, a month of misery, a few days of sadness, and a lifetime of secrecy. But it's enough. I don't know how and I don't know why and I sometimes feel like it shouldn't be, but it is. It's enough to wake up and trace his jawline with my fingertips. It's enough to fall asleep with the taste of sugar still in my mouth. It's enough to laugh with him and get in pillow fights and race childishly down the stairs in the mornings. It's more than enough.

And so I do find myself humming the wedding song sometimes, and I do find myself pondering what it would be like to have children, but I am okay with the knowledge that it will never happen. Even if Snow were to somehow decide to let us be, I'm not so sure children would ever be a possibility. Finnick's talked about it once, idly. I was lying with my head in his lap on the couch, listening to the sound of the television, and he brought it up sporadically, mentioning lightly that if we had children he'd want them to have my hair. It shocked me, but that was all he said, and I didn't want to bring it up again. Because I think perhaps it would be irresponsible for me to ever have a child. I know I would love them intensely, but I also know that there would be times that they needed me and I wouldn't be here. No child deserves a mother like that. Perhaps we could have had children one day, because Finnick would be there to help me when I'm away, but it's an empty dream, a barren hope. Nice enough to think about on rainy days, but so is a future where the Hunger Games don't exist and my family is back.

I rise at five in the morning the day of Mags' birthday. She turning eighty-three and we planned a few months in advance to surprise her at breakfast with a cake. She won't eat it until the afternoon, but we have the entire day planned out and we don't want to have to cut into it by leaving to bake a cake then.

I'm lying in bed, detangling myself from the sheets and Finnick's arms and legs, when I register the storm raging on outside the house. I groan immediately, because that ruins two of today's plans. We were going to garden with Mags until she got too tired and then head to the beach for a picnic like we always do for my and Finnick's birthdays. Both of those will be impossible if it's raining. Hopefully it will let up in a few hours.

I'm exhausted and the rain definitely isn't helping. It's so dark in the room it's almost impossible to make out Finnick. I allow myself five minutes to lie there quietly, listening to the rain pattering against the window and roof, but then I know we need to get up so we can have time to bake the cake, decorate it, get ready, and make it to Mags' on time. I turn on my side and stroke my finger down the length of his nose. He twitches, mumbling something incoherent. I can't help but smile.

"Time to wake up, Finn," I sing quietly.

He's not budging though, which doesn't surprise me. I sigh and stroke my hands through his hair and then down his face.

"Finnick!" I hiss.

He makes a garbled sound that sounds like "no" and then rolls over so his back is to me.

I sigh, thinking to myself then that I don't even need to have children. Finnick's enough of a child sometimes on his own.

I sit up and lean over him, my hair falling into his face. I pull it back around the same time he starts to swat at it unhappily. I lean over him and press a kiss to his cheek.

"It's cake time!" I try.

Nothing. He yanks the blankets up further, snuggling under them more.

"I'm going to sit on you," I warn him.

He mumbles something that sounds like 'I don't want cake', and then he's drifting back into a deep sleep.

"I warned you," I mutter, more to myself than anything, and then I rise to my knees and press his left shoulder down so he rolls over onto his back. I climb over and sit down on top of him, leaning over so my face is above his.

"It's morning time," I demand, my voice rising to normal volume now.

He yawns and then cracks an eye open, grinning tiredly up at me.

"Well good morning!" He says thickly.

I smile back at him. "Morning! Are you going to get up now or do I need to stay here?"

He lifts his arms and rests them on my back, his eyes drifting back shut again.

"Mmm, stay here, I think. Rain sounds good. Let's sleep," he tries, attempting to pull me down so I'm lying against him instead of sitting. I refuse and he pouts, his mouth turning down into a frown. "But it's so early," he whines.

I reach behind me and pull his hands off me, setting them back at his sides. I sit up fully and press a finger into his chest.

"It is Mags' birthday! We are getting up." I'm exasperated because this was his idea in the first place.

He makes a sound almost like a whimper and it's so pathetic it actually makes me sad for a moment. Until I remember that I'm asking him to wake up, not go off to war or sacrifice his first born.

"Annieeeee…" he complains. He opens his eyes and even in the darkness the green is lovely. "I have a better idea. You stay here, we can sleep for another hour, and then I can kiss you for another, and then we can walk to the bakery and buy a cake and go to Mags' house."

He's beaming like he's just solved a really difficult question. Sometimes I am sure that if I had to list all the reasons I smile throughout the day, Finnick's smile would be listed so many times it's probably unhealthy.

"Hmmm," I pretend to mull his suggestion over. "Or we could get up now, bake her a cake ourselves like you know she would prefer, and go to her house for breakfast like we planned."

He sighs and then before I know for sure what's happened, he has his hand securely on my back pulling me down against him and he's flipping us over, so he's hovering over me. I shoot him a pretend glare, my heart beating from the sudden action.

"Are you sure we haven't gotten married already? Because you are so much my wife sometimes I don't know what to do about it," Finnick jokes, leaning down to kiss me with a smile still on his lips. His words have me grinning with happiness bubbling up inside of me. He's never called me that before. Ever. I hate how much I love the way it sounds coming off his lips.

"You could help me bake Mags a cake," I try, still breathless from his kiss and his words.

He rolls his eyes, leaning down to kiss me a final time.

"Touché," he says.

An hour later we're covered in flour and peering anxiously into the oven.

"Do you think we put in too much sugar?" I'm asking nervously.

Finnick's taking a strange pleasure in drawing things on my arm with flour.

"I don't think there can ever be too much sugar. I am a bit worried about it burning, though. How long do we leave it in?" he asks.

I close the oven door and spin around, glancing down at my arm that's now the canvas for flour hearts. I smile at him and then grab the recipe card off the counter, peering at it worriedly.

"It doesn't say how long. It just says until it's done," I say.

My mother was a phenomenal cook and baker, but her recipes leave much to be desired. She never wanted to waste time writing down things she thought people should already know. Like what kind of pan to put a cake in or how long to leave it in the oven or how many cups of sugar or when it's done. These are things I guess she was planning on teaching me, but she never got the chance, and Cora's not much of a baker. Or I guess she wasn't much of a baker.

"I guess it's done when it looks like a cake?" Finnick guesses.

His voice pulls me from the sadness that was beginning to surround me. I shrug in response and take a seat at the kitchen table. If worse comes to worst we will always know when it's burning by the smell.

I flip through last week's newspaper, eating batter off the spoon sporadically when Finnick offers it to me. He's sitting with his chair tipped back, his feet propped on the table, and the bowl of leftover batter in his lap. I find after a few boring Capitol stories that he's much more entertaining and so I push the newspaper to the side and focus on him instead. He keeps scooping too much onto the spoon and it drips off as he's raising it to his mouth. He always sticks his hand under the spoon at the last minute, catching the blob of batter on his palm and then licking it off his hand.

He notices my stare halfway through the bowl of batter, looking up and smiling at me. He offers me the spoon.

"Want some more?" he offers.

I shake my head with a smile.

He waves it a bit, batter teetering dangerously near the edges of the spoon.

"It's sweet!" he tempts.

I have an urge to kiss it off his lips more than anything, but I'm going to sit here because right now I'm winning in our little game. He's so endearing right now, his hair still sticking up from sleep, enthusiastically digging into the bowl of batter, that I'm sure I would lose. I'd kiss him maybe three times before that wouldn't be enough and then one of two things would happen: one, we'd get carried away and I lose my bet that we're going to end up making love for the first time either before he leaves for the 74th Games or when he comes back, or I'd have to pull away and Finnick would get another point. Although honestly I don't care much about either of those seeing as though it's never really been about competition. It's always been about making each other laugh, and the bets and scores do that spectacularly well.

He finishes the bowl of batter and I'm worried he's going to be sick, but when the time comes to mix color into the icing, he's enthusiastically eating what's left of that, too. We're awful at icing the cake, especially since we end up in a small war halfway through, but we finish it in plenty of time. We've iced it using yellow for the base, because it's Mags' favorite color, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY in white on top. The letters are shaky and very unprofessional, but I know she'll love that more than a beautiful one from the bakery.

I'm putting it on the counter carefully when Finnick suddenly jumps up from the chair.

"Race to the shower, first one gets to use it first, readysetgo!"

He's taking off up the stairs before I realize what he's saying. I turn and immediately begin bolting after him.

"CHEATER!" I yell, but we're both laughing when I collide into him in the bathroom.

He taps my nose playfully.

"I win, Cresta!" he sings. "You get to stay covered in icing for just a little bit longer."

He raises an eyebrow. "Unless you want to join me?"

I blush and push my yellow icing caked hair back behind my ear.

"No way. I have a bet to win," I remind him.

He shrugs with exaggerated indifference.

"Suit yourself."

An hour later we've both had a shower and we're walking to Mags' house, cake balanced in Finnick's hands. I knock on the door excitedly.

We hear Mags footsteps and she opens the door curiously, because we're never over this early. Finnick thrusts the cake forward proudly.

"Happy birthday!" we chorus.

When Mags starts to cry with a smile so large it almost looks painful on her face, it makes my entire week.

She's so excited she even eats the cake for breakfast. She makes a point of letting Finnick have as large of a piece as he likes, and we share a conspiratorial glance because we know if she knew how much sugar he's already consumed this morning she'd be pulling carrot sticks from her refrigerator for him. We prop the windows open and listen to the birds as they come out from hiding. The rainstorm passed over us a while ago, luckily.

Mags hugs each of us after breakfast. She mumbles something to me as she pats my head, and I'm not sure what it is, but she sounds pleased.

She pulls back and observes us.

"Growing up," she mumbles. She's got tears in her eyes again and she's beaming proudly.

We smile at her, because we know how much that must mean to her. She's had to send child after child off into the Games, certain they will never live to even see their next birthday, and here we are growing older and older as each year passes.

"Guess the odds were in our favor," Finnick teases.

She's still smiling with that same prideful look on her face.

"Proud. Of both of you."

It isn't until she's hugging me once again that I realize I'm proud of us, too.

Chapter Text

Change comes in all different shapes: sometimes in small rectangular slips of paper, sometimes in imposing peacekeepers, sometimes in a smile. This time, it comes in the shape of berries.

The day Finn leaves for the Capitol is just like every other Reaping Day. We're both unhappy and exhausted, suffering from little to no sleep the night before due to anxiety over our impending separation. I handle it just as poorly as always, clinging to him and crying because I'm certain that nothing hurts worse than having to miss him. We sit two seats apart from each other and watch as two children are reaped, and then Finn is gone and I can't follow. Mags and I walk quietly back to my house and I can't feel much at all except for an emptiness that rings painfully throughout me.

I crawl underneath the blue blanket Finn gave me a few years ago and curl up on the couch, exhausted more from the stress of being without him than my actual lack of sleep the night before. Mags sits in the chair beside the couch and flips the television on, watching the reapings in the other districts and knitting as she always does. I jerk awake later that afternoon just as they're switching from District 10 to District 11. Mags tries to coax lunch into me while my eyes lock onto the screen, but I don't want anything. I just want to sit here, arms wrapped tightly around my legs and the blanket around my shoulders. It's too cold for summer.

I typically sleep the entire day after Finnick leaves, but I'm cold and lonely and for once I feel like it would be lonelier in my dreams than it would be in reality. Mags is good company and I'm trying. I'm always trying. Trying to be less mad, trying to be stronger, trying to be braver. I can't say I am successful much, though.

I'm rising to pull a leather bound book from the bookshelf in the living room when the name of the first tribute from District 12 is called. I'm on my tiptoes, straining to close my fingers around the spine of the book on the top shelf, and I find my head turning back automatically to glance at the screen. I frown because the girl is very small. She doesn't look like she should even be eligible at all. It is always particularly awful when twelve year olds get reaped. I turn back around, my heart heavier suddenly, and I stretch my arm up even higher. My fingers have just closed around the book when a scream fills the living room.

Sudden noises startle me enough as it is, but screams on this day in particular are jarring. I immediately fall down to my feet, the book sliding from the shelf and then out of my fingers, falling down to the floor where it lands face down, pages most likely bent. I turn to the television, and I'm sick when I see a desperate and frantic girl who must be at least sixteen or seventeen grabbing onto the small girl whose name has just been drawn and pulling her behind her.

I can see the anguish in her eyes and I can't take my eyes off her hands and the way they're shaking as she's gripping the girl who must be her sister tightly. I only look away when she volunteers, and then my eyes have found Mags'. We're not strangers to the idea of people volunteering for the Games, being a Career district. But we are strangers to the idea of people volunteering for someone else, to save them. Volunteering is something people do out of brashness and overconfidence, not love.

I'm glued to the same spot on the floor, my eyes drawn back to the screen, watching in horror as the small girl grabs tightly onto her sister and sobs and begs for her not to go. And when the girl who's just volunteered stands tall and orders her sister to let go, marching steadily to the stage to accept the fate she's just chosen, she reminds me so much of Cora that I'm immediately distraught.

Her name is Katniss Everdeen, and when the escort asks for applause, the people of her district refuse blatantly. Instead they all raise their hands, making some sort of gesture that I have never seen before but I know must be some sort of symbol of respect. It's chilling to say the least. I have never seen anything like that, either. I have never seen a district so joined as a unit like this, so together and so separate from the Capitol.

I miss the rest of the reaping because everything becomes blurry. Mags pats my back and pulls my hair from my face where it's sticking to my tear-streaked cheeks and asks me what's wrong over and over, confused and concerned. I'm confused and concerned, too. At first I think I'm upset because she reminds me of my sister so much, but then I realize that's not it at all. A lot of people remind me of my sister, and it always hurts, but it never affects me like this. When I finally pinpoint what's upsetting me, it devastates me even more because it makes me consciously aware of it.

"They're going to destroy that girl, Mags," I whisper, wiping tears off my face. "They are going to ruin her."

Mags sighs and wraps an arm around my shoulders. She squeezes my upper arm comfortingly, but she doesn't refute what I've just said. She can't tell me I'm wrong, because she knows I'm not. Katniss Everdeen is going to die and she will never see her little sister ever again. I'm tortured by more thoughts then. Thoughts like how her sister will feel about that. I wonder how I would feel if Cora volunteered for me and then died. Appalling. I would want to die. She'll have to watch it too, all the time knowing her big sister is suffering all because of her.

"Maybe she'll win," Mags tries after a few minutes.

But that's worse. If she wins, they'll destroy her in different ways, ways that are drawn out and terrible.

It's disgusting because anyone strong and brave enough to volunteer to take the place of someone they love doesn't deserve this. I am still a naïve child because I still find myself shocked and upset any time I see instances where things aren't fair. I know life isn't fair, and yet I am repulsed by the deeds of people on a daily basis. There was a point growing up where I was supposed to have gotten used to it. I was supposed to have accepted that life is unfair, that you can be a wonderful person and still have awful things happen to you, that life has no score of good and bad. I haven't yet, because I am angry and sad that this poor girl will end up dying miserably after sacrificing herself for her sister.

I don't even pretend to watch the Games this year. I don't pretend to live at my house, either. Mags stays over at Finnick's with me during the day. She puts the Games on in the living room, but I stay in Finn's bedroom, tracing over each letter in every poem he's ever written with my fingertips and piecing together my puzzle for what must be at least the two hundredth time. I'm able to forget about the girl who volunteered for her sister and the disgusting world that I live in. The sheets still smell like Finnick for two weeks and it breaks my heart when they no longer do. I tire frequently, exhausted from fighting with my other world that keeps trying to pull me away. I don't want to be there because Finnick is there, and it hurts too badly to be with him in my other world only to wake up and remember he's gone.

I'm in the shower one day near the end of the Games when Mags begins knocking on the door. It sounds frantic and my stomach immediately drops to my toes. My hands shake as I turn the faucet off and secure a towel around me. Steam billows out into the room when I open the door and Mags looks shocked and I hate when Mags looks shocked. It takes a lot to shock her and typically whatever actually manages to isn't good.

"Don't panic," she starts with, and I realize I've been biting worriedly into my lip so hard I taste blood. I hold the towel shut with one hand and reach up, drawing the back of my hand over my lip. I'm glancing at the streak of bright red blood, feeling my vision swim, when Mags sets her hand on my wrist to get my attention once again. I look up at her, sick to my stomach, and she motions for me to go downstairs after I'm dressed. I nod and she leaves and then I'm on the bathroom floor, hot but cold and spinning spinning spinning. Chiron loses his head again and I come back to the bathroom long enough to make it to the toilet before I vomit.

I'm shaky as I pull my clothes on and I have to hold onto the walls as I walk down the stairs. Mags is standing in front of the television, her face pinched with worry. I stand beside her and take deep breaths, terrified to look at the television because I'm sure something has happened to Finn. But when I do, it's not my boy at all. Instead I see Katniss Everdeen and another boy being lifted into a hovercraft.

I stare at it for a few moments, confused, and then it all begins to make sense.

"This isn't real, is it?" I ask Mags. I look around the room because if I've slipped into my other world Finn should be here too, as well as my family. But I don't see anyone but Mags. I look back at her and she's saying that it is real. The problem is that she would say that if this were my other world, too. This has to be phony because two tributes can't win. There is no way that could happen. It's one person that wins. I remember because I was there. I watched everyone else die. I was the one who came out.

I'm deeply disoriented, my lip still throbbing and my skin still clammy, and I wish Finnick would walk through the door because I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

Mags tugs on my hand and points back to the television. The announcer is smiling tightly, recapping what everyone in Panem must have just seen except for me. I'm listening as he says the Gamemakers decided to let two tributes win this year, due to the deep love that the two District 12 tributes apparently share. I'm listening as Mags grabs a notebook and writes out what really happened (the Gamemakers tricked the tributes into thinking they would let two of them win, causing Katniss Everdeen and her district partner to team up thinking they wouldn't have to kill one another, only to revoke that rule at the last minute. Katniss pulled poisonous berries out and gave half of them to her district partner, threatening to commit suicide with him. The Capitol stepped in before it could happen, allowing both to win). I'm listening as she says nothing at all, because her worried expression says enough. I'm listening, listening, listening, but I'm not believing a word of what I hear, because I have no idea where I am.

I'm mixed-up until Finnick returns. I drift off but I no longer know if I'm drifting off to a fake world or if I'm waking back up to the real world. I can't remember what is real and what is fake. Did my family really die? Was I really in the Games? Did Katniss Everdeen really outsmart the Capitol?

I don't know and I'm scared and I can't stop crying no matter where I am. No one in either reality can tell me which is real and I don't know don't know don't know and Finn is gone no matter where I am and so I can't ask him at all.

The sudden splash of clarity that saturates my mind when Finnick pulls me into his arms is so intense I can't breathe for a moment. Things are immediately put back into order. My family is placed into the category of GONE, I'm placed into the category of INSANE VICTOR, and Finnick is placed back into my arms.

I can't can't can't let go of him because he might slip away and my mind might too, so he picks me up bridal style and carries me to the living room, my arms still looped around his neck and my face pressed into his shoulder. Mags is mumbling to him about something, and I think it might be me because I catch my name a few times. He absentmindedly strokes the side of my thigh with his thumb as he listens, and I can pinpoint the exact moment he grows concerned. He holds me tighter in his arms and even his breathing seems to become shallower.

He doesn't set me down and Mags leaves sometime later. He carries me up to our bed and lies down on it with me still in his arms. I slide off him and curl up against him and his hand is warm on my scalp as he rakes his fingers through my hair. It's quiet for a moment and then he speaks up, his voice gentle.

"Are things clear now?" he asks.

I nod against him, sniffing as tears decide to make themselves present. He spends the next few minutes re-explaining the 74th Games and I listen and I believe him because he wouldn't lie to me. If he says this is the real world, it is. No matter how odd things are.

The Capitol suit he's still in has small, wet circles on it by the time he's done. My arms are underneath the suit jacket and my hands are safe splayed across his back and it's warm here, with him.

"Snow's going to be mad," I whisper, and it's then that I realize how scared I am. Scared for Finn, scared for Mags, scared for every other victor. Snow already hates us and I worry he is going to be angry over this. Angry to the point that he sees us all as threats to be removed or otherwise disabled.

"Furious," Finnick replies. He kisses my forehead. "But it's Katniss and Peeta who are going to have to deal with the fallout, not us."

I believe him, even if I know deep down that I probably shouldn't.

Despite the stress that still hangs over all our heads, things are beautiful. Finnick only had to see one client in the Capitol because they were all so engrossed in the Games and its starcrossed romance, I'm feeling stable once more, and Mags' is doing well. We've been back together for two weeks when Snow calls Finnick's house, informing him that he won't need to come to the Capitol for Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour. Finnick and I sit in front of the fireplace that night and ponder why that is. I think maybe Snow is embarrassed and doesn't want many influential people around, but Finnick's explanation makes a lot more sense. He thinks that Snow doesn't want other victors around Katniss and Peeta because he's worried they're trying to rebel.

The word rebel frightens me, because sometimes I worry Finnick actually would plan to do something like that. I think this in moments when I'm just overcoming a terrible flashback and his eyes are dark with pain and what can only be described as a craving for revenge. I think it when he's angry in those days before he has to leave for the Capitol. I think it when he's returning and we both want to scream at the top of our lungs because it isn't fair that Snow can just make Finnick do whatever he wants.

I hate Snow too, but we all do. We all hate him for destroying our lives. I don't think about rebelling though. Maybe because I never have been a fighter. Maybe because I'm scared. Maybe because I'm weak. Or maybe just because I know it's hopeless.

I think about the idea of rebellion for the next few days, and by the end of the week, I'm realizing that I was wrong. We all rebel in our own ways. I rebel, too. Some get their fill of vengeance by daydreaming a day where Snow is gone and the Capitol with him; I get my fill of vengeance simply by being able to smile every morning. When I'm filled from head to toe with anger over what that man has done to me, my family, Finn, his family, and so on and so forth, all I have to do is remember that I have beaten him in this small way. Every morning that I wake up and meet eyes with Finnick and smile I am conquering something. Every morning that I kiss his lips and touch his skin I am winning. Because Snow tried his hardest to destroy me in order break Finnick and I apart, but the only thing he managed to break was any chance we would ever be separated. He tried to shatter us but instead he bound us together. Let Katniss rebel with berries and let others rebel with fire. I am going to rebel with quiet unconditional love that Snow can't touch. I will rebel with quickening heartbeats and carefree laughter and sugarcube flavored kisses because it's the kind of rebellion that hurts no one at all.

We've just gotten home from the ceremony in District 4 (our presence was not requested at the dinner afterwards, which is just fine by me because I hate those dinners, anyway) when Finnick says something that makes me sad.

"There's no way she loves that boy."

All I can think about is Peeta Mellark's blue eyes and the way he looks at Katniss like she is the most beautiful sight he has ever seen. I'm frowning then and turning to Finn, observing his blank face.

"Do you really think that?" I ask him.

He turns and looks at me, too. He nods and I know he does believe it. I think back to what Katniss was like on stage. She seemed willing enough to be around him. They shared a kiss at the end. So maybe she didn't seem quite as adoring as Peeta did, but maybe she shows her love in her own way?

His fingers brush my neck and he leans in, kissing me gently. It's my favorite kind of kiss, where his lips part from mine slowly and then he hovers his just above mine, almost close enough to touch, and then leans back in for another after a few overly long moments. It's the kind of kiss that typically gets me carried away on some sort of wave that I know will drown me if I'm not careful.

He breaks away before that happens and lifts his hand, caressing his fingers over my cheek. His eyes study mine, like he's memorizing something important.

"She doesn't look at him the way you look at me," he tells me.

I have to smile then, because doesn't he get it?

"Nobody looks at anybody the way I look at you. Nobody loves anybody the way I love you."

He smiles elatedly, like he always does when I say that I love him, as if he still can't believe that I really do.

"Maybe she loves him in her own way," I try.

I don't know why I'm defending her. I think maybe I'm not really defending her at all. I'm defending Peeta and how lovesick he looks when he takes her hand. I can't stand to think that he loves her that desperately while she's only pretending.

Finnick shrugs. "Maybe. I think she's lying, though. I think that's what Snow is making her do."

By the end of their tour, I'm certain that she has to love him back. At least a little bit. This certainty is strengthened when Peeta falls down on one knee during their interview in the Capitol and proposes and Katniss smiles so widely that it can't be forced.

"Fake," Finnick says flatly, watching them with an almost angry expression. His head is in my lap and he's fiddling with a length of rope. I turn my eyes from the exuberant couple and look at Finn, setting a hand on his forehead as if I'm checking his temperature. Because he has to be sick and disoriented if he thinks they aren't happy right now.

"No way!" I argue. "They look so happy."

He reaches up and grabs onto my hand, pulling it down to his lips and pressing it to them. He releases it and I move it back to his hair.

"Hysterical desperation can often mask itself as happiness," he retorts.

I look back at the screen, eyeing her hand in Peeta's and the smile on his face and the grin on hers. I don't want to believe that it's true that she doesn't love him. I don't want to at all. I don't think I can. I was speculative at first along with Finnick, but now I have to believe that it's the truth. Why would you marry someone you don't love?

"We'll see, Odair," I reply, grinning down at him.

He smiles back, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Oh, we shall, Cresta."

He sits up suddenly, leaving my legs cold. He fiddles a bit more with the rope and then flings it onto the floor, turning to look at me. Green meets green and I love him and he smiles because he can see that in my eyes.

"I think part of it is that I'm jealous of them," he admits, his smile disappearing. "I'm jealous that their punishment is having to get married. I'm jealous that they get to get married at all, while we're…well, imprisoned."

My smile fades as well as I consider this.

"I don't think I am," I finally reply. I continue quickly before he thinks I mean something that I don't. "Because no one at all could ever doubt that I love you. I'd rather love strongly in secret than love weakly in public."

My words must spark an idea in his mind, because he smiles and spends the rest of the night thinking deeply, tying and untying knot after knot. Mags yells at him to get the rope off the table during dinner and asks me if he's okay during dessert. I reassure her that he's fine, because I don't think he's upset. I think he's planning something, only I don't know what.

He goes to bed quiet that night, speaking up long enough to tell me goodnight. It isn't until breakfast the next morning that he makes any move to even begin to share what idea has been growing in his mind.

Mags sleeps in now and Finn and I usually fend for ourselves in the morning, unless we've missed dinner the night before. Then we're expected at Mags' house bright and early just like before. We're at the table, trying to eat omelets that turned out too dry to be any good, when he suddenly puts down his fork and rises from the table. I watch him circle it and then take his extended hand, letting him pull me to my feet.

"Let's get some pastries," he suggests, but the way he says that makes me certain we're not just getting pastries at all. I nod slowly, trying to read in his eyes what has been going on inside his head, but all I can see is contentment, like he's solved a question that's been eating at him for years.

I pull a light jacket on but it's pointless. It's February but it's been warm this year. Finnick takes my hand, and at first I'm pulling it away immediately, but it's too early for many people to be around. He reaches out and takes it once more and we chatter on about anything and everything on the way to the bakery, unlinking our hands only when we get near the Square.

Finnick chats easily with the baker while she rings up his purchase while I examine the pastries and cakes on display. The colors are lovely. I focus on those and find it's easy to ignore the stares I get from almost everyone. I'm used to being The Mad Girl now. It's almost as easy as loving Finnick.

"Do you know what the mandatory program tomorrow night is going to be about?" The baker asks Finnick as she hands the boxed up pastries to him. His friendly smile falls slowly and I can feel my legs carrying me over to where they are, because I didn't know there was a mandatory programming, either.

Finnick regains his smile. "Oh, I'm sure Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark."

The woman beams even larger. "How exciting!"

I can tell by the faint lines forming on his forehead that he's forcing his smile to stay in place. "Absolutely. Have a good day, Mary."

We're walking quickly out of town and it's difficult to keep up with Finnick. He slows his pace once we're near the outskirts of town once more and takes my hand back in his. He seems better, then.

"Do you think it's the wedding?" I ask curiously. I assumed they would have waited longer. It hasn't been but maybe two or three months.

Finnick squeezes my hand and turns to look at me.

"No, but I think it probably has something to do with the wedding. Something ridiculous, I'm sure."

Knowing the Capitol, he's probably correct.

We walk down to the beach and sit in the sand, messily eating the jelly doughnuts and finding out quickly that it's not smart to set your jelly-smeared palm down in the sand beside you. The early morning sky is a pale, diluted blue and the breeze is very cool in the early hours.

Finn's staring thoughtfully at the shore, disappearing once more into a corner of his mind that he's been visiting a lot in the past few hours. I take a moment to appreciate the way the breeze tousles his bronze hair gently and the serious pout on his lips as he thinks, and then I'm sticking a finger into my doughnut and smearing the jelly on his cheek.

I'm giggling and he jerks out of his reverie immediately, grinning and turning to me with his eyebrows raised.

"Did you just jam me?" he demands.

And then I'm laughing even louder because I didn't know jam could be used as a verb. He's peering at me threateningly, reaching down to grab his doughnut, but then I'm springing at him and he falls back onto his back in the sand. I sit on top of him and pluck his doughnut out of his hands.

He's glaring playfully, turning his head to look at my doughnut that's now lying in the sand.

"You might want to get up before someone sees you. This doesn't look too platonic," he warns me, his voice low and suggestive. I take a minute to look up and examine the shoreline, but I don't see anyone out yet. I look back down at him.

"You just want me to get up so you can grab your doughnut back," I say.

He's fighting valiantly against a smile, his cheeks jerking up every few moments only to have him quickly rearrange his face.

"Not true. You attacked me when I was defenseless which is against the rules of proper conduct, Annie Cresta." His voice raises in what must be a poor impression of Annora Bellamy. I grin and he gives up his fight and smile back. He lifts his head up and pins me with his glance. "Now kiss it off."

I'm flushing immediately because the thought is tempting. So tempting I'm of course shaking my head.

"No, I think not," I reply, just because we both know I'm going to.

We're locked in a stare, false glares on our faces. I wait until he's opening his mouth to say something else, sure I'm actually not going to after all, and then I'm setting my hands on his shoulders and leaning down on top of him, closing my lips over the blob of jelly and then kissing his cheek when it's gone. It's sweeter somehow this way and it lingers in my mouth even after it's dissolved. Finnick turns his head, his lips about to catch mine, and the air is heavy as we pause for a moment, our lips almost touching. Beach. Right.

"I think we should go back to the house," he breathes.

I'm nodding and then I swallow drily.

"Good idea."

We're shooting nervous glances around us as we walk back up the beach, but we've gone unnoticed for the first time. Early rising does pay off sometimes.

We begin laughing the minute the door is shut and we know we're safe. We cross to the sink to wash the sand and jelly off our hands. The soap suds leave a fine layer of frothy bubbles on the bottom of the sink and the light hanging over us makes them sparkle sparkle sparkle, more than my dress did at the Recap. I'm staring at it for a while, almost in a trance, and then Finnick's voice pulls me away.

"Let's do it."

It takes me a moment to pull my eyes away from the bubbles, but then I'm looking up at Finnick and this sight is just as addictive if not more. He's looking at me with such a tender look on his face that I'm immediately looking down at myself, trying to understand why. I glance back up at him and his expression hasn't shifted a bit.

"Do what?" I finally ask, blinking up at him in confusion.

He lifts the dish towel off the counter and pulls my hands from the sink, and I didn't even realize I had them there still. He wipes the bubbles that are clinging to my skin off onto the dishtowel and when they are off me, my mind is clearing even more.

"Let's get married," he glances up from my hands and meets my eyes, blindly placing the towel back on the counter. I know I'm frowning deeply, because I feel very sad. "I'm serious. Let's do it." He says when he sees my expression.

And then it's like I've been burying every sad feeling I've had about our impossible future inside of me and he's just dug up the grave because my heart aches aches aches for what I know I can never have and I'm sick of lying that we can because I know we can't and it hurts hurts hurts.

"Finn, you know we can't," I remind him, my voice coming out a lot more stricken than I wanted it to.

He grips my hands tightly and caresses the backs of them lightly with his thumbs, staring at me so excitedly with confidence brimming in him.

"We can do it as a secret, just us and Mags there. We can do the ceremony just fine by ourselves. It won't be official in the records, but it will be official to me. I want this, Annie. So much. I want you so much. In every way, forever." His hands drop from mine and my arms fall limply at my sides as if his hands were the only things holding them up. My heart is beating as I stare at him blankly. He reaches up and strokes his index finger down the bridge of my nose, smiling affectionately at me, and I've got those bubbles from the sink inside of me I'm sure because I feel like a bottle of champagne. "I want to be able to call you my wife. I would love to say that. And I'd love to hear you call me your husband. Even if we can only say those things between these walls."

A voice in my mind that sounds remarkably like my mother is screaming sense at me but I don't care. I don't want to listen, because I want to call him my husband, too. What he's saying is plausible. It's something we could do. Maybe it's not official to anyone but us, but who cares? It would be real in the only place that matters: right here in our home. It's something we can do. It's just another way to say I love you, and I will never tire of saying it in any way I can as many times as I can.

I realize I've been quiet a while. He's looking at me worriedly and I know he's afraid I've slipped away.

"I'm still here," I say quickly, and he visibly relaxes. I feel a shock in my heart as I look up at him, pink cheeked and practically glowing with excitement, smiling so widely his cheeks have to be aching, and it's so powerful and sudden that it almost hurts, and then I'm flinging my arms around his neck and pressing my lips to his. His arms wrap around my waist and I can't stop kissing him no matter how many times I try. I keep pulling my face back, only to have his lips move forward to take mine once more or mine to drift back and close over his. His hands are up the back of my shirt and his mouth is just as sweet as normal, this time from the doughnuts instead of the customary sugarcubes. My heart is beating so rapidly I'd probably feel sick if I could feel anything but how swollen my heart feels in my chest and how desperate I am for him to stay as close to me as possible.

He pulls back and I press my forehead against his shoulder, taking a minute to catch my breath.

"So will you? Marry me, that is?" he breathes, sounding a bit out of breath himself. He sets a hand on the back of my head and then I'm lifting it and kissing him once again.

"As soon as possible," I say once I'm pulling my lips from his once more.

He's giddy as he hugs me tightly. My face hurts from smiling. It occurs to me then that maybe he was right about Katniss' reaction to her engagement being fake; because I am certain her smile didn't make her face ache like this does.

"Next week. No, Friday," he mutters, lowering his head down to kiss my neck. His breath hits my skin and goosebumps rise as he continues. "No, the day after tomorrow." He kisses me again and then pauses, lifting his head to look at me again. "I suppose it'd be too soon to say tomorrow? Or right now?"

I reach up and brush a few stray pieces of hair out of his face. His hair is getting long just as it always does when he's away from the Capitol prep team.

"The end of the week. We need to give Mags time to gloat first," I reply.

He laughs exuberantly and I sound just as excited as I laugh along with him. My head is spinning and I feel like jumping up and down but I know that's ridiculous, and I would have to move out of his arms to do that and I just don't want to. He promised me we would get married and I was certain that that promise was a white lie, but it wasn't. He's found a way to keep yet another promise that no one else would have been able to.

He leans back down and begins outlining my jawline with kisses, mumbling something that I don't catch, and after a few moments of heat rising to my face and my heart pounding, I've made a decision and my lips are sharing it with him.

"I forfeit," I tell him suddenly, eyeing the way his eyelashes fall against his skin when his eyes drift shut. He lifts his head, looking at me curiously.

"You forfeit?" he questions.

I'm scanning my eyes over his lips—red from all the kissing—and the way his eyes crinkle up when he smiles and I'm nodding my head, certain that I'll never be more certain about anything ever again.

"Yes. I lose. Forever. Lost all my bets, too. Don't care. Can we have a game over?" I ask, hesitancy sneaking into my voice near the end of my sentence, the shock of what I'm asking hitting me. A part of me is confused confused confused because I'm Annie Cresta and I blushed the entire night after a boy kissed me the very first time and here I am asking someone to sleep with me. I know it should feel bad, but it doesn't. I actually feel like I'm doing something good, something I should have done a long time ago.

I'm watching Finnick carefully, trying to see if any panic creeps into his eyes, because if he isn't ready then I'm not going to say anything else about it. But he's looking at me just as comfortably and just as lovingly as he has been, the smile still content on his face.

"Game over. Games are overrated, anyway," he agrees.

I feel more like myself when I feel a blush taking over my face once again. This only makes him smile wider and I can only smile wider too in retaliation to that. I worry then briefly that our faces might shatter into a million pieces, but then his hand pushes my hair behind my ear and I'm remembering that that isn't possible at all.

Then I am practically jumping up and down and I step back from him.

"Race you to the bedroom readysetgo!" I yell and then I'm bolting up the stairs, laughing at his indignant groan and yelled complaints of cheating as he races after me. I grab the doorknob and twist it to the side, my sweaty palm slipping off it the first two times, urgency making my hands shake as I try to grasp it again. I knock my shoulder into the door when I finally turn the door knob, laughing as Finnick runs up behind me and attempts to speed past me. We fling ourselves at the bed and collide, knocking foreheads. We roll over, laughing and gripping our heads, and I'm seeing stars for a moment.

"I so won," he gasps.

"You're so a liar!" I dispute.

I roll back over and pull my hands from my head, opening my eyes to observe Finn who is in a similar position.

"Hey now, let's not bump heads over it," he says, winking jokingly.

I groan and roll back over onto my other side.

"You just had to..."

"It was an easy shot. You know you love me."

I roll back over again and he's smiling confidently.

"More than I love beating you in races," I affirm.

He narrows his eyes.

"I'm going to let that one slide, Cresta."

I gaze at him with a pseudo look of intense gratitude.

"Really? Thank you." I whisper, my eyes wide and a hand pressed over my heart.

He moves closer to me and reaches out, setting a hand on my back and pulling me over to him. He kisses my lips and then my nose and then between my eyes, pulling back to look at me with a sweet smile.

"Anything for you, my darling," he says, his voice practically dripping with exaggerated chivalry.

I roll my eyes at him, but when he presses his lips to mine once more, nothing is funny at all. It's almost like someone's flipping a switch and the air is heavy and I'm back in the kitchen, unable to kiss him as much as I want to. I feel like my body is caging me in, keeping me from touching all I want to and kissing him as much and as long as I'd like to. It's frustrating but after a few moments I forget I'm frustrated at all and my leg hooks around his waist automatically, like I'm once again my own copilot. Half of anything of a sexual nature Finnick and I do I have no idea how I know at all what I'm doing because I am so innocent it's laughable. And the only information I've ever received on the topic of sex has been tear-filled regretful stories Cora told me as she cried after sleeping with yet another guy she never planned on sleeping with, or my girlfriends' dramatic retellings in the courtyard or on the beach. Nothing of any real substance. But something inside of me that I think must be my heart is leading me always and everything is easy just as it always is with Finnick. Loving him is the simplest thing I have ever done, as if that's what my body and mind were fashioned for in the first place. Anything else is unnatural and difficult.

I kiss him until it's honestly not enough, and then I'm touching him like I can memorize every vein and every scar and every inch with my fingertips. They say that sailors know the sea better than they know their own personal histories. I want to know Finnick like a sailor knows the sea, like a bird knows the sky, like honeybees know flowers. I want to know him so well I could close my eyes and draw him perfectly. And so I touch him just like this, like he's something special, something I respect, because he is. I learn new things about him with each passing minute, and each new discovery makes me smile against his lips. Things like he shudders a bit with my foot caresses down his calf and he makes a small sound that drives me mad when I run the backs of my fingernails over his skin. I'm breaking away for air, my hands resting on his abs, when I can't take it anymore and it's just like our game but this time there is no game.

"Can I make love to you now, because I might go crazy if I don't."

The words leave my mouth breathlessly and automatically, and something strange happens the minute they do. I feel like I've been sliced in two and half of me is sitting in my living room, nervously asking Finnick if I can kiss him finally, and the other half of me is here, gasping for air because the only thing worse than going minutes without breathing is going seconds without his lips on mine. His hands bring my mind back into sharp focus and he's looking at me seriously, his eyes darker than I have ever seen.

"I am never, ever going to let you go crazy," he whispers.

And he's right because I'm not mad and everyone else is wrong wrong wrong because he holds me together and he loves me just as I love him and he is good down to his core.

He pulls my lips back to his and rolls us over slowly and the weight of another person feels so comforting and right, like steaming tea on a cold winter day or towels pulled straight from the dryer. He kisses me so longingly that my toes are curling and then just when I'm about to reach for his shirt he's reaching for mine and our hands hit each others', our knuckles colliding painfully. We dissolve into laughter and Finn falls beside me, sitting up long enough to begin the struggle of getting undressed. I'm giggling like mad as we fight with each others' clothes because we of course make a messy ordeal out of it, with Finn's head getting stuck in his shirt and the back of my shirt getting stuck to my bra hook. I'm freezing when we're finally free from our clothes and I can feel embarrassment start to take over as Finnick's eyes leave mine and drift down, but then mine are drifting down too and he's climbing back over me and it's warm warm warm.

He kisses down my neck and it's so familiar that I'm not scared at all. He plants kisses over my collarbones and my heart, whispering mixed matched bits of all his poems and punctuating each word with a kiss like they're seeds he's planting into my heart. His lips are warm and the way the girls gossip about sex they always make it sound like something so disrespectful, but I've never felt more respected than I do with his lips on my skin and my heart under his mouth. He kisses me like I'm worth more than his own life to him, and when my eyes drift shut I imagine those seeds blooming into my favorite bright red flowers. He kisses each of my ribs and I feel the curve of his smile as I laugh a bit, briefly surprised that I can even still be ticklish in a time like this. Eventually my lips are growing cold without his and I'm pulling on his arm, because I miss him even with his lips on my stomach. He complies and I kiss him so fiercely our teeth knock painfully but I don't feel embarrassment at all. Soon I'm not sure where he ends and I begin because we're so tangled, and it's always been like that, hasn't it? Never knowing where my heart ends or his starts or when I began loving him, only knowing that I do, I do, I do. And then we really are together and there is no end and no beginning because it's just us, fitting together to make a picture even more beautiful than the hand painted puzzle he gave me, a picture that's dyed with bronzes and greens and browns and pinks and looks like a first kiss, whispered conversations, a comforting hand, and love. Our kisses are sloppy and disjointed, and when he mumbles something to me, something I think must be one of his poems but the blood is rushing in my head so quickly I'm not certain I'm hearing anything right at all, his lips brush against mine with every word.

"It is you I love the most/ Like the storm-swept sailor loves the coast/ Only with you am I whole."

I scare Finnick to death when I start crying a few minutes after we fall against each other, sweaty and exhausted and shaking. I'm wrapped up in his arms in the bed, a dull ringing slowly fading from my ears and the pounding of blood in my head subsiding, overwhelmed with happiness and love so intense it is escaping from me through my tear ducts.

I'm lying halfway on top of him, and his hands cradle my face the minute a tear drips onto his chest. He directs my face so he can see me and he looks so upset that I immediately feel horrible.

"What's wrong, Annie?" he asks frantically, his face paling rapidly, and I hate how guilty he sounds because he has no reason to be guilty at all.

"Nothing," I tell him, blinking a few more tears out of my eyes. "I'm just really happy is all. And I'm really glad you want to be my husband."

He smiles then and I smile too and I swear one day my heart is going to choke me and I will suffocate.

"Well, I'm really glad you want to be my wife," he replies, rubbing his nose against mine in a move so adorable I'm fighting with an urge to kiss the breath out of him once more.

"I'm glad it's game over." I can feel my tears drying on my cheeks and I'm relieved no other ones are taking their places.

He laughs loudly, his cheeks pinking a bit. That is something I never knew, either. Finnick Odair blushes in bed with me and I think it's the best thing I have ever seen.

"I'm glad, too," he replies.

I sit up then, wrapping the sheet around my shoulders as I do. Finnick sits up with me and I can't seem to stop touching him because my hands are rising automatically, my fingers tracing over his brow.

"So it was okay for you?" I ask, worried still that somehow it made him feel guilty like the Capitol does.

I lower my hand to his cheek and he presses his hand over it, his eyes drifting shut.

"It was perfect. It was unlike anything I have ever done or known. You were right," he says, his voice so smooth and honest that I'm feeling giddy once again. He opens his eyes and chuckles at my expression. "And what about you? Okay?"

"Amazing. Let's stay here instead of going to Mags' for dinner."

The words slip out from my mouth so quickly that I foolishly slap my hands over my mouth after they've already escaped, my eyes wide and my cheeks reddening. Finnick laughs gleefully and pulls me into his arms in a hug so tight that even if I could have somehow doubted he loved me before then, I wouldn't have afterwards.

"You're adorable and beautiful," he mumbles into my hair, his voice strangled, before kissing me on the head. "And whether you believe it or not, sexy."

I pull back immediately, embarrassment over my words clouded by disbelief.

"Stop!" I demand, because that is something I am not and it will be that way always.

He's grinning now. He leans down and teasingly kisses the tip of my nose.

"Even Mauve saw it, that's all I'm saying," he sings.

It takes a minute to dig up the memory, but then I'm recalling Mauve trying to cast me as sexy when searching for a persona for my interviews. And I'm so happy right now that I think someone could put on a Recap of my Games and I wouldn't even have a flashback. That knowledge has me grinning.

"I think you're a liar," I say stubbornly, but honestly he is the only person I know who isn't a liar. He never tells me things he doesn't mean and he never makes promises he doesn't keep.

His lips are more familiar than my own name now.

"Ever played hooky before?" he mumbles, his lips against my cheek.

Thirty minutes later Finnick's on the phone with Mags and I'm fake coughing in the background.

"Yeah, she's fine. She just needs to stay in tonight. Is that okay? We can come over if you really want us to. I cou— oh, well then! I see how it is. You enjoy your PEACE then, Mags. Mmhmm. Well, I don't think we'll have much fun because poor Annie's hacking up a lung here, but the fun will commence tomorrow morning at breakfast! I—Fine. Yes. Okay. I'll bring pancakes. Mmhmm. Bye, Mags."

Finn hangs up the phone and reaches out for me but I catch his hands.

"Are you sure? I'm sick, you know."

I drop my hands and he circles his arms around my waist, pulling me to him and tickling me. I'm laughing and trying to push his hands away and he's grinning.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you," he promises.

He's joking, but it is the truth. He does take care of me. We take care of each other.

Finnick and I rise early, shower, and then take on the daunting task of making breakfast to bring to Mags' house.

"There's no way she would demand we make breakfast unless she knew I wasn't really sick," I say, tapping the spatula against the stove as I watch the skillet. I'm bad about burning pancakes.

Finnick's sitting at the table, building some sort of structure out of sugarcubes. He was supposed to be making coffee but I guess he got distracted.

"Oh, she definitely knew you weren't. Expect a full arsenal of sly comments and knowing looks today," Finnick replies, carefully placing a cube on the very top of his structure so it looks like a house with a small chimney. He turns and looks at me, plucking the chimney off the house and popping it into his mouth as if he didn't just spend a few long moments slowly and meticulously placing it on the roof.

I can't tell if my face is red from the heat of the stove or a blush.

"Oh no," I say.

Finnick picks up the overturned and empty box of sugar cubes beside him and twirls it around on his finger, grinning up at me.

"That's what this is for. I'll come over with this and ask to borrow sugarcubes because I ate all of ours this morning and she'll get so angry at my unhealthy sugar intake that she'll spend at least half of breakfast scolding me for it."

My heart warms and I have to force myself to turn back around and flip the pancakes over. I sigh as the side that was against the skillet comes into view because it's almost black.

"You know that means you'll have to eat your pancakes without syrup," I remind him. I push my spatula under the side of one of the pancakes that's sticking stubbornly. "And trust me; these aren't going to be pancakes that are any good on their own."

I can hear the smile in his voice when he replies.

"That's just a sacrifice I'm willing to make to protect your honor."

I finally pry the pancake free. I flip it and then turn the burner down, spinning so I'm looking at Finnick once more.

"Thank you," I tell him. I want it to be sarcastic, but instead it's deeply sincere, because I always have a lot to thank him for.

His eyes are soft.

"Thank you," he replies. And for the first time I feel like I've done something worth being thanked for, too.

The pancakes are burnt and Mags is angry about Finnick's sugar consumption. She writes him a novel about how she's legitimately worried about his health while he kicks me lightly under the table, pushing his socked foot up the cuffs of my jeans and biting back a smile every time I jump a bit. I kick him back and soon we're in a war of socked feet, trying to keep our faces unaffected.

She questions me about my health and I make it through the questions relatively unscathed, but her eyes do seem to sparkle with mirth as she's inquiring, making her appear to know more than she should. But I think I'm just seeing things.

It's still too cold to resume gardening, so we all sit outside on the porch instead, drinking tea and chatting. Mags is in a nostalgic mood so she has Finnick pull down heavy photo albums from a bookshelf in the lounge. She sits between us on the swing with the photo albums on her laps and points to pictures, writing in her notebook wonderful stories every now and then for us to read. It's so nice to be there with them, swinging gently, feeling the cool breeze, taking small sips of hot tea.

It isn't until halfway through lunch that I remember there's mandatory programming tonight.

"Finnick—" I start, looking over at him.

"The program—" he says at the same time.

We share a smile and then Finnick turns to Mags, explaining what we both just remembered suddenly to her.

"Katniss?" she asks.

"Most likely," Finnick replies indifferently.

We tell Mags about the ceremony we want to have during dinner. Her eyes shine and she smiles widely the rest of the night, making comments that I think would unscramble to mean I told you so every now and then. She's positively ecstatic and Finnick and I are too.

I curl up under the blue blanket with Finnick on the couch after dinner, watching the flickering television screen. Mags is knitting away, humming happily to herself. It occurs to me in that moment, with Finnick's arm tightly around me and Mags happily knitting away, that this is home. This is why I kept going, why I didn't just give up after everything that happened to me. For moments like these.

Finnick sighs loudly in annoyance when the mandatory programming turns out to be a wedding dress fashion show for Katniss Everdeen. I feel badly for her because in her pictures I get this feeling that she didn't want to do this anymore than Finn wants to watch. I feel even worse for her when I realize people are voting on which dress she'll marry Peeta in. How dreadful to have complete strangers dictate exactly what you're going to wear on your wedding day. That doesn't seem fair at all. Mags and I share a few comments about how wonderful her stylist is, and then Finn is rising to turn the television off, but he quickly sits back down because Caesar Flickerman says there's more coming. Finnick starts to say something, and I'm sure it's going to be something like what, do we have to vote on her shoes, too?

"That's right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our Quarter Quell!"

The atmosphere in the room changes entirely. We both glance at Mags, the only person old enough to remember every Quarter Quell that ever occurred. I have never lived to see one, but I've heard them talk about one year when twice as many tributes were forced into the Games.

She's frowning deeply, setting her knitting aside. Finnick takes my hand reassuringly and I feel sick because what will they do to the children this year? Who will it be, this time?

President Snow takes the stage and gives a brief history on the Quarter Quells. Finnick's hand finds its way underneath my shirt and he traces abstract designs into the skin of my lower back. I lean against him as Snow reaches inside of a box and pulls out a yellowed enveloped marked with a 75. Finnick's hand on my skin is calming and it's making me drowsy.

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Two things happen at once: Mags curses loudly and flings her knitting needles at the television and Finnick's hand grips the side of my waist tightly, his nails digging into my skin. My head is spinning because I know I've just heard this wrong, wrong, wrong. Because just like there can't be two victors, a victor can't be reaped again. It doesn't work that way. So either I've stepped into a dark, third world or I've simply heard it wrong.

I'm staring at the screen, waiting for them to say something else, to make it clear that that's wrong and that can't be true and that they wouldn't never do that ever because that isn't fair, that isn't right, and it would be mean.

But I can feel Finnick shaking and his hands are desperate as they hold me and Mags is furiously flinging anything she can get her hands on.

And then I'm gasping for air because I realize that this isn't a third world, or even my other world, this is the real world, the one I am actually in, the one that was going beautifully, the one that I was going to marry Finnick in, and now one of us is almost certainly going back into the arena. I try to tell myself that there's a chance it won't be us, but Snow is despicable. He failed breaking us apart before and I just know he will never pass up the opportunity to throw us into the arena together.

Then I'm picturing Finnick back in the arena and I'm hyperventilating. I push Finnick's hands off me and rise to my feet, running unsteadily for the bathroom because I am going to die, pass out, faint, vomit, die die die, I don't know which one. I fall hard to the ceramic tiles, my knees probably immediately bruising, and then I'm hovering over the toilet gasping gasping gasping because I can't breathe and they are going to take Finnick and he is going to die and I can't have that I can't I can't see him die I can't be without him I can't live without him he will go into the arena and someone will behead him slowly and I will be standing there and I won't be able to help and they will make me watch and my head will explode or my heart will burn to cinders I will die I will kill myself I will go so crazy I literally lose my mind my head will roll straight off my neck I think that could happen but it won't matter because life will be pain unless I am dead too but they will reap me with him and he will die trying to protect me and that will hurt worse than anything else and I can't have this happen I want to just die now I wish I would have died last night in Finnick's arms I wish I wish I wish I wish he would have smothered me with the pillow I wish I would have taken a handful of pills I wish I would have drowned myself in the shower with him I wish my heart would have exploded into thousands of pieces anything anything anything to have died like that and not like this and—

"Would you calm down for a minute?" Cora yells irritably. She's standing in what looks like piles of broken glass and seashells, her hands over her face protectively. She lowers them slowly, her eyes narrowed. "What is your problem?"

I look down at my hands and I'm holding a large, fragile looking white shell. I look back at Cora and I let the shell drop from my hands in horror, because have I been flinging these at her?

It shatters and adds to the pile and her mouth is hanging open in shock. I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering and then I'm looking around, tears falling quickly from my eyes.

"Where's Finnick?" I whisper. I walk to the hallway and peer down it, thinking maybe he's down there, but he isn't. I turn to my sister and I feel something inside of me snap. "WHERE IS HE?" I scream. I kick the leg of the table and it almost feels good when my foot rings with pain.

Cora's backing up like she's scared of me. Maybe she should be. Should she? I don't know.

"I don't know, Annie. I guess at his house," she replies, her voice shivering a bit.

My legs fold underneath me and I fall into the pile of broken glass and shells and I have been like this before, haven't I? I don't remember when but I have sat in a pile of broken glass and china, heartbroken and aching, before.

My blood spreads out around me as the glass slices into the skin of my legs but I don't care. I cry until the tears are mingling with it.

"It's not fair," I whisper.

And then my mother is there, standing beside my sister and looking around the destroyed kitchen with an angry look on her face.

She snatches a broom and begins sweeping up the broken shards, but I'm still bleeding out, and the more I cry into the puddle the lighter it should get but it doesn't. She circles around me with the broom, sweeping sweeping sweeping.

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" I yell so loudly I'm sure my throat is bleeding, too.

She stops sweeping, looking down at me harshly.

"How many times do I have to tell you that life isn't fair, Annie?" she demands. I stare up at her, tears falling into my open mouth, and she is so angry at me and that isn't fair, either. "What are you going to do about it, huh? Sit on the kitchen floor and bleed?"

Cora joins her and they are staring down at me, demanding something of me, but I don't know what it is, and if I'm going to bleed out I wish it would hurry.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!" I find myself shrieking. I slam my fists into the floor and stare at the shiny shards of glass that imbed themselves in my skin. They sparkle in the light, like bubbles in a sink or sparkles on a gown. "I'M ANNIE! I'M NOT LIKE YOU TWO! I'M NOT AND I CAN'T BE AND I NEVER WILL! I CAN'T DO THIS! I WON'T LET THEM KILL HIM!"

My mom kneels down beside me and grasps my chin firmly between her fingers, pulling my face up so I'm looking at her. She wipes the tears from my eyes.

"You're going to have to learn to handle the unfairness of the world, Annie. Because it isn't going to cut you any slack just because you're fragile."

The broken fragments of seashells are back in the sea suddenly, except the sea is my blood and I'm drowning finally.

Chapter Text

My little brother is with my mother.

My sister and father are there, too.

I am here and I am there and I cry everywhere.

I am here and I am there and actually I'm nowhere.

Did you know that my brother is turning ten? I didn't either. My sister is married and she is going to have a baby. My mother and my father bought a puppy. We still spend my birthday on the boat.

Did you know that I was going to get married? I didn't either. It was going to be secret and our kiss was going to be the sweetest of all. Mags was going to do the ceremony for us, and I was going to wear an ivory dress, and my husband to be was going to look so charming I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off him the walk back to our home. We were going to cry because it was going to be everything we ever wanted.

Did you know that victors can be reaped twice? I didn't either. Did you know that there are only three female victors for District 4? Did you know that they are going to include the names of people in their eighties?

Did you know that Finnick Odair has a soul woven with stars? I do. Did you know that I love him more than anything else in the entire world, any world, every world? Did you know that they are taking him away from me?

I walk up and down the streets of District 4 and no one knows any of this.

They wave and smile at me and Arnav swings our joined hands back and forth and my entire world has been shattered and I'm just living on the pieces. This is what the pieces look like.

Did you know I have bits of glass and seashell underneath my skin? I do. It slices me every moment of every day and I bleed constantly. I expect to die very soon.

I spend my days with my little brother because he thinks I am strong. He kisses my cheek and tells me I'm his favorite sister. He knocks on my door at night when he's had a nightmare and says he trusts me to get rid of the monsters underneath his bed. He tells me I'm the strongest of all. Did you know my little brother is a liar? I didn't either.

I go fishing with my should-be husband in the world where there never was a secret wedding, where my sister could be my maid of honor if there would have been, and we catch no fish at all. I fall ill one night and have to go to the hospital and he cries into my hair. Did you know that Finnick Odair is scared to lose me? I didn't either.

Did

You

Know

That

I

Know

Nothing

At

All?

Nothing

And

Nowhere

And

None

Make

Up

My

Mind.

Did you know I saw my district partner beheaded? They held my face forward and I watched as a small blade was used and he was slowly decapitated. Did you know I still see his headless corpse on a daily basis? Did you know that it talks to me, even though it does not have a mouth because it does not have a head because the head was cut off while I watched? You should.

Did you know that I am probably going back into the arena? I do. Do you know how many heads there will be for someone to slice off? I do. Twenty four, counting mine. Did you know that I've cradled one of those heads in my hands and to my chest more times than I can count? Did you know that the very idea of losing him and his head has made mine roll off my shoulders?

Did you know that I know you know I'm mad? Of course you do. They all know I am mad and they all know I know they know. Did you know that actually that doesn't matter for shit? I am mad and so I can't go to the Victory Tour parties but still I can go back into the Games. Did you know they would take Mags too? She is in her eighties. She had a stroke. They take the children and they take the elderly and they take the mad. How accepting the Capitol is.

Did you know that I am stuck in my other world? I am. Maybe you didn't know this wasn't real. Did you? I am stuck here. Guess what? I am mad here, too. My father and my mother got into a fight last night. I bet you knew that, because I'm sure you heard their screaming. My father wants me to see a therapist. My mother says it's pointless. Have you met my mother? She's very practical.

Did you know that sometimes when I am walking on the shore alone I can hear my love, calling for me all the way from another world? I can. The sand gets stuck between my toes and his voice gets stuck between my ears. He is scared and he wants me back. I can't go back. Did you know that I've tried to swim back to him? Did you know that I am scared to swim? Did you know that I tried anyway?

Did you know that he cries for me and I for him? Did you know that you are them? Did you know that you ruined the only good thing I had? Did you know that you killed my little brother? Did you know that he wanted to grow up and be a lifeguard so he could protect the sanddollars that wash up on the shore? Did you know he cried when he learned they were alive? Did you know you killed my big sister? Did you know that she was only sixteen when our mother died? Did you know that she raised my brother and I? Did you know that she is afraid to cry because she thinks it makes her seem weak? Did you know that she used to give herself to boys just to feel good about herself because she was always so worried she wasn't being a good big sister? Did you know she was the best sister in the entire world? Did you know you killed her before she knew that? Did you know that she loved me? Did you know that you killed her before her wedding?

Did you know that the only thing I hate more than you is myself? Did you know that you stole my mind and you stole Finnick's body and you stole Mags' right to die peacefully with her family? Did you know that you destroyed us all?

Did you, Snow?

Arnav messily places bandaids on my sliced palm and my tears fall down onto the crown of his head.

"What are you always thinking about?" he asks me innocently.

My tears wet down his messy hair, still sticking up in every direction from going to bed with it wet.

"I'm holding someone accountable," I whisper.

Arnav slaps his hand over the bandaid. I guess in his mind that will make it stick longer. He climbs up onto the stool beside mine. He swings his legs back and forth happily once he's seated, pondering over my thoughts.

"What does that mean?" he finally inquires, turning to look at me.

"I'm blaming someone who hurt me," I explain.

"Oh," Arnav says. It's quiet for a few long moments. "You should forgive them."

I'm crying again because that would have been what I would have done years ago, too. Before he broke me.

"Why should I?" I demand, looking to my baby brother for answers that don't even exist at all.

But he is looking at me like the answer is so obvious.

"Because you don't deserve to be hurt and forgiving him will make you feel better," he replies, his eyes wide.

I cry into my hands until the sun is setting and then Arnav is speaking up again.

"You can't hide forever. Even in hide and seek. If no one has found you by the time it gets dark outside you have to go home."

My home is with a boy with bronze hair and eyes greener than I can remember and I have tried to get back to him.

I'm walking down the beach again when I hear him talking behind the stars. His voice is strained and panicked and he's apologizing profusely for something. And then the waves start to rise and rise and then they are surging at me, crashing into me with a force so intense I fall off my feet and land in the sand, soaked with warm water.

"Annie, Annie, Annie, Annie."

I scream the minute I realize I'm back in the real world. It fades into sobs quickly and I am overwhelmed with sensory information as my eyes open. The room is yellow and the floor is white and my lover is behind me and I am sitting in a bathtub with warm water and I'm safe with my back against his chest and I'm shaking and he is crying and his arms are around me and I can feel his tears against my hair.

My stomach hurts so intensely and it takes me a while to realize it is hunger. I know then with a bone-deep horror that I have been gone for a very long time, longer than normal. I stare at the silver of the faucet for a few moments because I can't move. I can only listen and see and regret.

The minute the panic in my muscles dilutes a bit I'm reaching down and setting my hands on Finnick's calves, crying and stroking his legs because it's all I can reach because I still can't move.

"I'm sorry," I weep. "I'm so, so sorry."

I am scared that I have been gone for the only time we've had left. I am so scared I can't breathe and I'm choking and Finnick is standing up and pulling me out of the bath, sitting me down on the edge of the tub. He grips my arms and tells me to breathe with him but one of us is going to die, or maybe both, and so I don't want to breathe at all.

His hands are calming me though, as they always do. And slowly I find myself matching up with his deep breaths and then the pressure on my chest is lessening and my head is no longer spinning. He lets out a breath of relief when my eyes meet his and he's pale, pale, pale and the skin under his eyes is dark, dark, dark.

"How long?" I plead, my voice nearing a hysterical tone.

He cups my face and kisses me so hard my lips and teeth ache when he pulls back.

"Just four days. Don't worry. It's okay," he reassures me.

But I'm crying even harder because it's not okay at all. He pulls me against his chest and his voice is tight and fierce as he mumbles something into my hair, kissing the top of my head over and over and over again.

"Please don't ever do that again. Please don't leave me like that," he's whispering desperately, and I don't want to think about how awful it would have been if he would have been the one to disappear into his own mind completely for four days, but I do. It cuts me worse than the glass and seashells did.

"I'm sorry," I'm saying again, my voice practically impossible to make out around my tears. I try to tell him that I didn't want to, that I was worried for him, too, that I tried to get back, but I know I don't need to. I know he knows all of that already.

His arms are so tight around me it hurts, hurts, hurts. But not near as much as my heart does.

"I didn't think you were going to come back," he admits, his voice breaking at the end of his sentence and raising a few octaves. "You have never been gone that completely. Never for that long."

I just cling tighter to him, because I know. I do know that.

He rubs his hand up and down my back for hours, kissing my temple every now and then, until both our tears are dried up. It's then that I press my face into his neck and say what I have to say.

"I don't want us to go back," I whisper.

"We're not," He says immediately, his voice hard and certain.

I can't say anything to that. I don't want him to lie to me. He is the only one I can trust.

"What if they reap Mags?" I ask, my voice shaking with the horror of that thought.

"They won't," He says again in the same tone.

I wish he'd stop doing that.

He takes my hand and helps me stand and it's just like after my arena again. My legs are shaky and weak and he sits me down at the kitchen table, forcing me to eat. He tells me a bit more about what's been going on while I was out. Apparently I'd drift back for a few minutes each day, typically just long enough for them to coax water into me, but I have no recollection at all of those moments. After I've eaten a bowl of soup Finn helps me stand. It takes us five minutes to get up the stairs and into our bedroom because my legs are shaky, shaky, shaky. Finn helps me pull my wet nightgown off and I insist that he pulls his wet clothes off too. I sit on the edge of the bed and he runs a brush through my hair just like he did all those years ago, gently pulling every tangle from it just as he pulls every tangle from my mind. He sets the brush on the nightstand and then we crawl underneath the covers completely, pulling them over our heads so the world is a dark blue haze. We wrap our arms around each other and intertwine our legs and I cry again.

"Don't lie to me, Finnick Odair," I say, the words strangely loud in our small space. "Snow is going to make sure we are the two that go in the arena. You know it's true."

He strokes his hand back and forth over my hip and I think he thinks I can't tell that it's shaking, but I can.

"We don't know that for sure." He pauses for a moment and then I can tell he's trying his hardest to smile. "Since when did I become the optimistic one in this relationship, Annie Cresta?"

My nails press into his back I'm holding him so tightly but I can't let go because I only have a few more weeks to hold him like this. That is all I get. That is all I will ever get. What we should have had is being taken away from us.

I weep and weep and weep and still I feel like a grave has been dug where my heart used to be.

"I don't want you to die," I choke. The air is heavy and hot from being trapped underneath the blankets for so long but neither of us are making any moves to pull the blankets down. I hope we suffocate underneath here. I hope we die like this, together. "You have to promise me that I can go first in the arena. Please, please, please, please, please. I don't care how. Please just let me die before you do. Please. It's all I will ever ask of you again. Please, I can't do it, Finn. I can't see you die. I can't see you hurt."

Small lights burst in front of my eyes and I realize I actually am about to pass out from a lack of air. I can't breathe at all. Finnick sits up quickly and tears the blankets off of us, lifting me into a sitting position and settling a hand on my back as if he's feeling to see if my lungs are expanding. I go a few long, dark moments and then I'm gasping wildly and violently, my chest heaving as my lungs all at once try to suck in enough air to compensate for the loss.

"Promise!" I shriek in between deep inhalations.

He cradles me to his chest and when he says he promises, I know he's lying, because he sounds desperate, desperate, desperate, like he thinks I might die right here and now if he doesn't give me what I want. And maybe I will. Did you know that I am the most selfish person who ever lived?

I calm eventually and we lie back down, falling back into our previous embrace.

I want to ask him if we can still get married, but I fall asleep before I can get the words past my raw and aching throat.

The sun is warm and brings with it a sort of calmness.

I lie in bed for a while and just appreciate how warm it feels against my bare skin. I reach out blindly for Finnick, expecting to feel him right beside me as he always is, but my hands come up empty and then I'm sitting up in the middle of the bed, cold and naked and alone, clutching the sheet in my hands.

My eyes sweep anxiously over the room and I'm terrified that I've slipped away without noticing it and Finnick has left me for good. But I spot a sheet of paper on his pillow and I lean over, snatching it up so quickly I earn myself a papercut.

Went to Mags' house. Be back soon. I love you.

I love you too, I love you too, I love you too.

The only thing that I know is that I love him. And I'm mad.

I reach down to the foot of the bed and pull the blanket back over me, curling up into the tiniest ball I can manage under the covers. It is so cold without Finnick and I miss him already. I am so relieved when I feel the bed shift that I'm smiling and when he sees my smile, his eyes are wet and he's smiling, too.

He climbs onto the bed and underneath the covers with me again, and I curl up against him, uncaring to the fact that he's fully dressed with shoes on and I'm completely naked. His hands trace up and down my body and he sniffs a few times and I'm scared he's crying.

"You are beautiful," he tells me.

I find myself laughing weakly even though I still feel empty and pained.

"You're prettier," I whisper.

He laughs just as feebly.

"Didn't anybody ever tell you not to lie, Annie Cresta?" he quotes himself, and it feels like such a long time ago that he said that, and I can't remember exactly when he even did.

I remember what my response was, though.

"I've heard that somewhere before, I think," I murmur.

I stare at his face for as long as I can, and then I kiss him without stopping for anything, not even my lungs or my tears. All I can think about is how much I love him and how much I need him and how much I can't be without him as my hands fumble with his clothes, pulling and pushing until he's helping me remove them. My heart is pounding and we're desperate and frantic and a mess, kissing with no rhythm at all, our teeth hitting again and again, our tongues dancing confusingly, our hands sliding over any skin we can reach and our voices saying disjointed things that don't make much sense but all come out meaning please don't leave me. I cry into the damp skin of his shoulder when he's in me and he cries, too, his tears sliding down to my lips and causing his lips to slip from mine every two kisses. Soon I am breaking apart completely but it is fine, it isn't uncomfortable, it's wonderful, this kind of breaking apart is always good and not bad, but unlike last time it is sad sad sad. I once loved a boy so much that I let it drown me.

I kiss the skin over his heart over and over again once we fall apart, wondering why making love can make me sad. I guess in the spring of our life together I forgot that love is sad, too. It's blissful and wonderful, but sad. And when you're making it, everything it is must be reflected, like an unforgiving mirror.

"How are we going to handle this?" I ask him a few minutes later. I don't know. I don't know how to handle the fact that we most likely only have a few more months together. I don't know.

"We're going to make the best out of the time we have left," he replies.

For once I think I can do that. Either I'm exhausted, or I'm reaching a point where the only thing I'm scared more of than the Quarter Quell is wasting the last few months we have together.

"We are." I agree quietly, pressing my cheek to where I was previously kissing. The beat of his heart is so comforting I almost cry again.

He strokes his fingertips down my spine and then he's tracing letters into the skin of my back and I am sure I know which ones they are.

"That means no more making love like we're saying goodbye. Because we aren't. That was our goodbye. We won't say the word again," he mutters, and it's just like the night before I left for my Games, but not too. Just like then we're both certain that we can't say goodbye. But unlike then, our hearts are tangled so tightly they don't exist separately any longer. He's giving me answers to cling to like he always does and it keeps my head above water.

I nod, sniffing and blinking against tears because I'm not crying anymore. I'm not. That was our goodbye and now we're going to be happy and revel in the time we have left. We're going to reverse time to how we were before that awful card was read.

It's a lot harder than that, though. We learn that quickly. We can't stand to be away from each other for more than a few minutes at a time. We reach a level of togetherness that I didn't know could even exist. We don't even have to talk much anymore, because we can look at each other and understand what the other is feeling and thinking immediately. Yes, I am heartbroken, too. Yes, I had a nightmare about that, too. Yes, I miss you already, too. Yes, I am scared, too.

We skip breakfast in the mornings and hold each other instead, and he pulls me into his lap whenever he sits down. I hold his hand at all times, always, and we make love every night. We even shower together. We're crazy. We're mad with love, mad with fear, mad with a desperation that clings to us no matter what we do. Nothing is ever enough. Nothing will ever be enough, because our life was stolen from us.

We learn to smile and laugh again, though. It's just a lot more difficult than before. We regain a semblance of the carefree, innocent love we have. It is always there, no matter what happens to us, but the darkness and pain buries it sometimes.

Sooner than I know it's a month after the announcement and I break down when I realize that, even though there's still time left. It doesn't feel like there is.

Finnick kisses me awake one morning, pressing his lips gently to my nose, cheekbones, forehead, and lips. My eyelids flutter open right after he presses light kisses over them too, and he's smiling down at me, his eyes tired and his hair disheveled.

"Happy birthday," he tells me sweetly.

It's March 18th. I'm twenty-two years old. My entire family is dead. Mags is in danger of being reaped. My Finnick is going to be taken away from me. I have officially found it almost impossible to see the bright side. Happy birthday to me.

But I love Finnick, and I love that he cares enough to pretend like this is still something to celebrate, so I kiss his lips and hug him tightly.

We stay in bed all day. We even take our lunch up. I lay across the bed with my head in Finnick's lap after we're done eating and he strokes my hair back, slowly, his eyes on mine.

"Do you know how much I love you?" he asks me softly. I smile easily up at him. I do know. I know that he loves me too much. More than I deserve.

"Well, take what you know and multiply it by a hundred, and that's how much I truly do," he mutters, his eyes never straying and his hand never stilling and his heart never faltering.

My eyes burn and suddenly my smile feels sad.

"Sounds like it ends up being near how much I love you," I say.

He smiles down at me and leans over, pressing a kiss between my eyes. He lingers for a few moments, and I'm frozen, terrified that I'll feel a tear fall against my skin, but I don't. He sits back up, his hand resuming stroking my hair back.

"I saw the future, you know," he tells me then.

I smile wider, warmth filling me at those silly words.

"Really?" I ask. "My little brother told me that same exact thing once."

I blank for a few moments when I remember that technically Arnav didn't, seeing as though that was a fake world, but I guess in a way it still happened. Finnick strokes a finger down the bridge of my nose to call my mind back and then I'm looking back up at him.

"What did he see?" he questions, as if there was no gap in our conversation at all.

I laugh a bit, but it comes out sounding almost bitter.

"He said that you and I are going to get married one day. And have babies."

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he beams and I can't help but beam back.

"That's funny, because that's what I saw, too," he admits quietly, like it's a secret that only I can know. And I think typically I'd refute this and try to change the subject, because it hurts to think about what will never be, but I'm so thirsty for hope that I'm sure I'm not going to do that this time.

My throat aches when I finally reply.

"How many children did we have?" I ask.

He smiles lovingly, his hand beginning to stroke through my hair once more.

"We had twenty two," he teases.

I laugh disbelieving, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Somehow I doubt that, unless you carried two-thirds of them somehow."

He sighs with mock regret.

"Alas, I'm not that good, my darling."

My eyes are drifting shut due to drowsiness when he speaks up again.

"We had three. Two sons and a little girl. They're all dark haired with green eyes, and they're sweet like their mother. They see the best in everyone and everything like their mother."

I can't help but picture it. Finnick talking teasingly to my swollen stomach, Finnick holding my hand at the hospital, Finnick cradling a baby in his arms. Finnick smiling like he's never been happier. A small infant curled up on my chest. My tears are hot as they leak out of the corners of my closed eyes and slide down the sides of my face.

"What about their father? How are they like him?" I ask.

Finnick's quiet for a long while and the tears never stop and for once I don't even mind them. I am allowed to cry over this. I'm allowed to be devastated over what I will never have. Cora and my mother are wrong. Crying isn't a waste of time. Not if it helps lessen the extreme pressure on my chest. Anything that can do that it not only helpful; it's necessary. I am constantly being crushed under the weight of sadness and anything to breathe again.

"They love their mother more than anything else in the whole world," Finnick finally says.

An audible sob escapes my mouth and I close a hand over it. Finnick sits up straighter and sets gentle hands on me, pulling me up into his lap and wrapping his arms around me. I lean my head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat because it is my favorite sound in the entire world, and they can't take this from me. Not now.

"I would want them to be like you," I find myself admitting.

"They're like both of us," he settles with. His thumb strokes back and forth over the outside of my thigh and it's always that I feel we will never be parted when we're together. I feel like it could never happen, that it isn't possible. But I know that it is and that knowledge is more painful than anything else. I've been trying my hardest lately to remember that there are other male victors, that maybe Snow hasn't rigged the system and perhaps Finnick won't be drawn. On good days I can believe it easily. On bad days it's ridiculous.

"Will you tell me more?" I find myself requesting.

He tells me yes with a kiss to my head and I keep my eyes shut and my head rested on his chest. It feels so good to be held by him. It's always felt like a blessing but now more than anything because I know we don't have much time left.

"We got married during sunrise on the beach. People kept complaining and asking why we couldn't do it at sunset, because sunrise is so early, but they just don't know what we know. That sunrise has nicer colors, that the feeling of a beginning is much nicer than an end. They irritated us with all the complaining, but they all showed up early just as planned. I cried when you walked down the aisle because you were the most beautiful thing in the entire universe. Annora walked around the reception, plucking drinks from the hands of people already extremely drunk and reminding them about manners. Mags sat at the head of the table with us. You flushed bright red when someone made honeymoon cracks and it made me laugh. We danced and danced and danced and everyone was jealous of us."

His words paint pictures so solid in my mind that for a minute I'm certain that they did happen. But always, at the last minute, I'm smacked in the face with the reality that this will never be. My head aches.

"Our honeymoon was perfect. Of course it didn't turn out the way we expected, but it ended up being even better. We went to District 11 and saw golden fields of grain and apple orchards. We planned to stay in a house that no one owned that Capitol people sometimes stay in when they visit, but President Snow was there. We accidentally set the house on fire and then we stayed in a small cottage in the middle of a meadow of flowers. I kissed you more often than I slept or ate and we were so happy. We came back to District 4 and because of Snow's tragic death, I didn't have to leave for the Capitol any more. A year after our wedding you told me you were pregnant over breakfast and Mags cried in happiness when we told her. You were radiant and lovely, happy and beautiful, and I talked to our baby every night before bed. You had a completely painless, safe, and easy delivery and our little boy was born. He was the healthiest baby that ever lived, with pink cheeks and a toothless smile and a patch of dark hair on the top of his head. His nursery was green but by the time he was two he was crawling into bed with us instead of sleeping in there. He calls us mama and papa and we named him something perfect, something from the sea."

He talks on and on, piecing together the life we deserve, the life I want. I cry and cry and cry but I never ask him to stop telling me because I need to live this life any way I can. Even if this is it. And once again he is giving me something that I can never repay him for, something that is keeping me going when there's nothing else. He is giving me a birthday present so perfect that I will never forget it.

The sun has long set when his story drops off.

"We live until we're one hundred. Our children all come to see us one evening and we have your favorite food for dinner. We die in each others' arms in our sleep that night, and it's painless and quick and pleasant because we're together."

A happy story that ends with death. Death that's happy, death that's wonderful. Who would have known that could exist?

We hold each other so tightly our fingertips turn white until it's time to go to Mags' house for dinner, but even then we intertwine hands so snugly our knuckles turn white, too.

I sit in his lap at the kitchen table, so far from caring that that isn't normal, that people don't do that, that I should be in my own chair. He keeps his right hand on my leg the entire dinner and it keeps me smiling and laughing with Mags. It keeps my mind in sharp focus when I'm sure the stones pressing on my heart are going to drag me under the water.

We open presents after dinner, although I'm certain that nothing can top the gift Finnick gave me when he let me live our should-be life for the entire afternoon. I'm right, nothing tops that, but still the gifts are lovely. Mags gives me a thick photo album filled with pictures from the past five years. All the good parts, the beautiful parts, the moments that I made myself remember whenever I felt like maybe I didn't want to wake up the next morning. I stroke my hand over the leather for a long while, thanking Mags over and over again, because it's perfect. I open a small box from Finnick, and it's almost too much, and I almost drift away. But he pulls me back when he gently takes my hand and slides the thin silver band, simple in its shape and size but extraordinarily in the two small diamonds embedded into the silver, onto my left hand.

"You are my wife," he says simply.

I stare at him until I'm certain I could count the different shades of green in his eyes.

"And you are my husband," I affirm quietly, mirroring back his smile.

And that's just that.

We go into the living room and work on a puzzle together for a while, but eventually I'm with my little brother again. We play hopscotch and feed the seagulls. Then Finnick's voice is pulling me back, but I'm in an armchair now. I know because my head is leaning against the side of it. I begin to register the voices. They're coming from the kitchen and they're loud whispers, like the way someone sounds when they're angry and trying to get a point across but they don't want to be too noisy.

"When I said I didn't know what to do and I needed help, this isn't what I meant."

Finnick's voice is deeply pained. So pained it hurts me to the point my eyes burn. Why is he so upset?

"My decision! This is right," Mags struggles to say. There's a pause and then she continues, talking very slowly and almost painfully in order to get her words out where they can be understood. "No one deserves to go to the arena, that girl least of all."

I'm not sure what they are talking about. But they are right, Katniss didn't deserve that, and she still doesn't. She will go back, though, because she's is only living female victor. I wonder then how she's taking this. She was going to get married, too. She will absolutely have to go back in with her fiancée. I feel so terribly for her then, my heart aching and aching, because I understand how she feels. I understand that maybe she feels worse that I do. It hurts to know that's possible.

I rise to my feet, startled to notice my blue blanket is around my shoulders. Finn must have gone back to our house and gotten it. I hold it around me and walk into the kitchen. Finnick's standing in front of Mags and they're talking lowly and seriously, both their faces pale and unhappy. Finn looks up when I walk in, immediately falling silent and Mags does as well.

He crosses the room and wraps an arm around my shoulders, mumbling something that sounds like "good, you're back". That's how I feel too when he's holding me. Good, you're back. Good, you're still here. Good, you haven't left me.

I don't have the energy to ponder why they were talking so intently, so I push it away into the back of my mind where I hide a lot of things I just don't have the strength to deal with. Eventually it will disappear completely. Mags hugs me tighter than she ever has that night before Finnick and I walk back home.

I was wrong about it disappearing. It sneaks back up two weeks later, without my permission, and when it does, I wish it never did.

Finnick and I are in the shower when I suddenly have a flashback so overpowering I'm doubling over, my vision swimming and my head spinning. Finnick sets a hand on my back and moves my hair back so he can peer at my face, trying to judge what is going on inside my brain by my expression, but I'm finding it difficult to see him because all I can see is Kaya's leg. I quiver, trying to fight back against the visions that are trying to take over, but it's useless. I fall to the floor and then I'm back in the arena, shaking and screaming as I stitch Kaya's leg up bit by bit by bit. I'm still shaking when I'm sitting on the floor of the shower instead of the floor of the tent and Finnick's holding me instead of me holding Kaya's leg. Welcome changes.

I'm dazed and I can't feel much at all when I turn to him. I reach up and stroke my fingers over his wet hair, plastering it down, my fingertips shivering.

"I don't know how I'm going to go back, Finn," I whisper.

I don't. I don't know how on earth I'm supposed to stay sane long enough to even get past the Opening Ceremonies. I will surely lose it the moment I'm in in the tube, about to be shuttled up into the arena. There is no way I can hold onto my mind in a situation like that when it's difficult to even hold onto it when I'm so happy I can't stop smiling.

He kisses my lips three times, and each time I know he is saying a different word. I love him, too.

"You won't go back, Annie. I promise you that on what matters most. You won't go back," he promises.

It's the first time he says that that I actually believe he is telling the truth. His eyes are steady as they hold mine and he doesn't look down once. How does he know that I'm not going back? How can he swear that to me so honestly? There is no way he can know that. Most likely my name will be pulled from that bowl. There's a one out of three chance that really ends up being a three out of three chance when you consider the situation we're in with Snow. Even if it wasn't guaranteed that my name would be pulled, how could he feel so confident that it was a guarantee that it wouldn't? Unless somehow he made it where it wouldn't be.

I'm terrified. I turn to face him fully, his arms sliding from me. I'm pale and my eyes are wide.

"Finnick, please tell me you didn't make a deal with Snow. Please, please, please tell me you didn't do that," I ask, but it comes out hoarsely and quietly and I don't even know if he hears it over the roar of the water.

His eyes fill with pain immediately and I'm backing up away from him, placing a hand over my mouth because I think I might be sick. I take shallow breaths and lock my eyes on him so he can't look away.

"What did you do?" I demand, my mind already whirling with awful ideas and my voice reaching hysteria. What would Snow want from him? To die in the Games, maybe. Or perhaps he'd want him to move to the Capitol to be a prostitute full time. Both are things I hate the idea of so much I would rather enter the Games a thousand more times.

Finnick scoots near me carefully, slowly taking my hand in his.

"I didn't make a deal with Snow. I swear to you I didn't," he says. I stare at his eyes for minutes, trying to see if he is lying or not, and usually it is so easy to tell. But even though his eyes stay locked on mine, I don't know if I believe him.

"What did you mean, then? How could you know that I won't go back? How could you promise me that?" My voice is high and strained and I can't understand this for the life of me. Finn doesn't lie doesn't lie doesn't lie. Not to me.

He averts his gaze then, his eyes ashamed and sad, and then what I thought I'd shoved away comes walking back into the main corridor of my mind. If Finn didn't get Snow's guarantee that I won't be picked, there is only one other way he would know that I wouldn't be going back into the Games. If he knew that even if my name was drawn, someone else would take my place. But there are only two other people who could, and Meredith is a Capitol pet, and Finnick was in an argument with Mags in her kitchen on my birthday.

I rise shakily to my feet, staring down at Finnick in horror, because that can't be true, can't be true, can't be true.

"Tell me I have a chance of going back in. Tell me that if they draw my name I will have to go," I demand. My voice reminds me of trees in the fall, different words shaking and shaking in the sentence until they seem to fall off completely, drifting to the floor of the shower like leaves on the ground. I watch them slide down the drain and look back up at Finnick, waiting and waiting and waiting, but he doesn't say it because he can't.

I'm yanking the shower curtain back then, sliding across the freezing tiles and falling to my knees. I vomit until I'm dizzy but still I can feel what I know inside of me, poisoning me. Finnick holds my hair back and hands me a small cup of water when I'm done, but as soon as I'm spitting into the sink, I'm crying. I turn around to look at him, and for the very first time, I am honestly furious at him. Even his eyes can't shake that feeling.

"Tell me she isn't going to volunteer for me! Tell me that!" I plead.

He's heartbroken, his eyes glossy and his mouth agape. He pulls at his hair, squeezing his eyes shut, and it hurts when his lips quiver.

"She made up her mind to a long time ago," he finally whispers.

I can only stare for what feels like the longest time, my heart shattering and shattering and the pieces slicing me into ribbons. No. No, this was never supposed to be an option. Never was it supposed to be Mags and Finnick going in. That is worse. That is so much worse than the former. That is worse on so many different levels that I feel instantly betrayed by this man who is supposed to know me better than I know myself.

"Talk her out of it!" I yell, surprised at how bossy I sound. I guess I did get some of my mother's genes, after all. She'd be surprised. Would she be proud? I don't know.

When Finnick shakes his head slowly, his mouth drawn into a tight line and self-repulsion in his eyes, I can't see any longer because of the tears. They're angry tears though, because we both know he could do something about this. She would do anything for him. If he told her that he'd rather I go in and rather I die, and if she knew that honestly he could manage better afterwards if it were I that perished instead of her, I think she would rethink this.

"Then I'm going to volunteer after she does!"

Finnick just shakes his head again.

"You know it doesn't work like that, Ann," he says softly.

I know he's right. I know it doesn't. But I don't care don't care don't care, because this is Mags. She can't go in the Games, especially not for me.

"I don't care! I'll make it work like that! I don't care!" I yell.

But I'm shaking and I know he's right. I can't do anything at all if she decides to volunteer. My legs carry me quickly out of the bathroom and then I'm frantically opening my drawers, pulling the first clothes I see from them. Finnick walks out of the bathroom and I'm trying my hardest to step into a pair of pants but I'm so upset that I'm unsteady and I keep falling over. He walks over to help, but suddenly I don't want his hands on me at all.

"Don't," I choke out, and then I'm fighting back a sob at the look he gets when I say this. It's my family's funeral all over again with someone I love and trust betraying me. Except it was only Marv then, and while I did love him, it wasn't like how I love Finnick.

It takes me a few more moments but I pull the pants up and yank a shirt over my head and then I'm turning and fleeing down the stairs. I can hear Finnick running after me. I stop at the foot of the stairs and struggle with my shoes, trying to pull them onto my feet.

"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice thin with fear.

"To see Mags! To change this!" I say. I can't look at him. I give up with the laces because my hands are way too unsteady. I shove the other shoe on my foot and make to walk towards the door, but Finnick grabs onto my hand. I'm sobbing so hard I'm not making any sounds when I rip it from his grip.

"How can you let her do this?" I ask, spinning to face him, because I have to know how and why. "She doesn't stand a chance, Finnick!"

I crouch down on the floor, the pain inside of me so intense that I can't even stay upright. I wrap my arms around my legs and cry into my knees, trying so hard to understand, but I can't. The girl Mags was talking about was me and not Katniss Everdeen, but Mags was wrong, I do deserve to go back into the arena, because I'm selfish selfish selfish. I asked my Finnick to promise that he would let me die first because I am too weak to see him die. I am horrible and I deserve to go back most of all. I won't have Mags' death on my hands, too.

Finnick's voice comes from above me, and it's almost angry somehow.

"None of us stand a chance!" he exclaims. These words make me look up, tears cold on my face, because he's never admitted something that upsetting to me before. His mouth keeps jerking down and he's obviously fighting back sobs that would probably be as violent as mine. "It's what she wants. Don't make her die alone here. Don't make her watch the only people she loves die."

I'm rising to my feet, staring at him like I don't know him at all, because how could he do this?

"What about what I want? Don't make me die alone! Don't leave me here alone!" I shriek. "Everyone is always making these decisions for me! Always acting like I'm too unstable to make them on my own! Don't you think this was a decision that should have been shared with me?"

Finnick has never ever yelled at me before nor I at him. And it's the scariest thing in the entire world. But not as scary as the thought of what they are trying to do.

Finnick pulls at his hair so hard I am sure he's yanking strands out. He screams in frustration and I am close to that, too.

"No! No, Annie! Because you are too good, you would never have agreed to what we had to agree to! You never would have said it was all right! We didn't want you to find out at all! We wanted to protect you, because we love you, because you don't deserve this!"

I'm struggling for breath and blinking rapidly, trying to see clearly and understand how he thinks this is protecting me.

"Neither does she! Neither do you! What do you think is going to happen to me once you two are gone, Finnick?"

This question makes him falter. His hands fall from his hair and his arms hang limply at his side, his wet eyes meeting mine without straying.

"You're young and you're beautiful. You will meet someone else. You'll get married and have children," he says, his voice almost sounded resigned.

Never have I ever heard words that make me angrier. I'm practically seeing red and then I'm screaming. I turn blindly behind me and snatch a mug off the kitchen table and fling it at the wall, because how can he do this, how can he say that, how can he think that?

He jumps a bit and immediately I'm falling to my knees just like I did in my other world because I just threw something near Finn, and what if it would have hit him? What if I would have hurt him? I cry so hard I'm dizzy and blood is pounding in my head and I'm sure I'm going to be sick. I can't even look at Finnick when I reply.

"That will never happen! If you think my life would be anything but a nightmare, you're the crazy one. If you think I won't find a way to kill myself as soon as possible, you are deluding yourself." I have to stop screaming then, because my body aches and I can't breathe and I keep seeing spots of black in front of my eyes. I fall back and sit on the floor, my hands covering my face, because I can't handle this anymore. I wish I could kill myself now. If I were alone, I would.

I hear his hesitant footsteps and I see him sink down in front of me from the cracks between my fingers. He reaches out slowly and cautiously and pries my hands from my face. Both our eyes are swimming and drowning drowning drowning and I want to pull my hands away but I am too weak. He sees to notice though and drops them quickly, falling down to the floor in front of me.

"I need to believe that it would happen. I need to believe that you would go on and be happy again," he whispers.

I can only shake my head and cry harder at those words, because he is asking too much of me for the first time since I've known him.

"You're what the world needs most, Annie. Your light. Your heart." 

But he's wrong because I feel no light and no heart. All I feel is pain and betrayal.

"If I do go into the Games, I promise I'm going to come home to you. I'm not going to leave you here alone," he whispers.

I open my eyes and look at him with those words. I'm sniffing and wiping at my eyes, examining his for the millionth time.

"Swear to me," I beg. "Swear that you will come home. Swear you won't leave me here alone."

He reaches forward and grasps my face between his hands tightly.

"I swear, I swear, I swear. Whatever it takes."

And I have to believe him because still he has never broken a promise to me. I wrap my arms around his neck and weep into his shoulder, feeling worse and worse the longer I sit here.

"I'm so sorry for throwing that at you," I sob.

He rubs small circles into my back and kisses my temple.

"I'm sorry for yelling," he says.

I wrap my arms tighter around him and kiss his neck because I'm sorry for that, too.

We stay on the floor for a while and then Finnick agrees that we can go talk to Mags about it. I know he's only agreeing because he knows nothing I say will change her mind, but I'm still glad that we're going. Maybe I can change it somehow.

Mags is sitting in an armchair when we walk in her living room and the minute I see her I'm crying again. I don't want her to die.

I cross the room and fall to my knees in front of her chair, already begging and begging and begging because I don't want this. I grab onto her hand and she knows immediately what's happened. I think she shoots a glare at Finnick.

"Please don't, Mags. Please. Please. I will do anything. Just please don't," I plead desperately. Her wrinkled forehead creases more as she smiles sadly and how can she smile? How can she smile at a time like this?

She motions for Finnick to bring her her notebook and I cry into her skirt as she writes and writes. Her other hand pats my head comfortingly as she makes excuses for what she is going to do.

She sets the notebook facing me on her lap and I sit up, reaching for it.

I am not losing another daughter to these Games. This is what I want to do, and I am going to do it. I will not watch you two die. I promised you a long time ago that I would protect you, and I meant that. You never should have had to go to the arena even once, and it broke my heart that you were as soon as I got to know you. I always told myself even that early that I would have done anything to change what had happened to you. Now I am getting the chance. I am old. I am going to die very soon now anyway. You on the other hand are young, and you have so much more left to do. Finnick will come back to you just as he always does and all I want is for you two to get the life together you deserve. This is what is fair, this is what is right, this is what is going to happen. I am only sacrificing maybe a year of my life by dying in these Games. It is such an easy sacrifice for me when I realize that I am giving you two sixty years to spend together. Would you deprive me of dying happily, knowing that I have finally given two children the life they deserve after all this pain? I am doing this because I love you, and you're going to accept it because you love me, too.

I do love her. It seems selfish to have her die for me, but maybe I know nothing at all like I keep feeling. Maybe the real selfish thing to do would be to not let her die for me. It seems more and more that the noble thing is letting others die first, because it's so much easier to die than to watch those you love die. That is a truth that I never knew when I was little. I would read stories about princesses who die for their princes and kings that die for their queens and I remember thinking how romantic, how beautiful. But perhaps the real beauty and the real love is the princess that knows the prince would be in so much pain if he were to see her die, so she lets him die first, taking that pain herself. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I cry into her skirt for another hour and she hums the same song she sang when I was the maddest I have ever been, chained to the bed in the Capitol, fingers still wrinkled from the water in the arena.

"Love hurts," I whimper, shocked as I always am to realize this, no matter how many times I am punched in the gut with the realization.

She leans over and pats my back. I feel like a toddler then, clinging to my mother's skirt and crying because I've dropped my ice cream.

"Most painful thing," she agrees.

I slice my finger on the broken pieces of china as Finn and I clean up the shattered mug.

Finnick takes my hand and kisses my injured finger after we've bandaged it and thrown the shards away.

"It shattered pretty well. Looks like all those throwing lessons I gave you really paid off, huh?" he teases.

At first I can only stare, but then warmth starts in my toes and spreads up until I'm smiling, because Finnick is joking around again and I'm smiling again and guess what? He's still here with me.

"Bet you never knew I'd use them against you," I joke, my voice nasally from tears.

He grins and it's so beautiful and hopeful and perfect and happy that I lean towards him and kiss him. The minute our lips touch I feel like crying even more, so I pull back before my tears dampen the mood.

"I did so. That's why I taught you bad aim." He winks.

I hear my laughter before I feel it, but I can feel and see Finnick's before I hear it. I reach up and slide my hand down his face, looking at the only treasure I have ever had and will ever want, hoping he can feel just how much I love him and how sorry I am for my selfishness, my madness, my fragility.

"That's my Finn. Always thinking ahead," I mutter.

His smile never fades and I hope I hope I hope it stays forever.

"That's my Annie. Always apologizing for things she never needs to," he counters, letting me know he does see exactly what I'm trying to tell him.

He thinks I don't need to apologize for anything and I think he doesn't either, but that night we're apologetic when we make love and we kiss each other like we're telling a secret that's not supposed to be told. He holds me tightly afterwards just as he always does and it occurs to me that this deep, hopeless panic that I am constantly feeling must be a lot like what my mother felt the months leading up to her death. She was given only a few months to live as well. Death sentences change you. I know because it has changed me. I am living every moment in fear, gripping so tightly onto each minute of every day that I'm crippling it, suffocating with terror every time the clock ticks or the sun sets. Suddenly my memories of my mother are different, and I'm wondering if maybe she was so practical and so intent on never wasting time because she didn't have any left, not because that's who she was. I wonder what she was like when she met my father, before her diagnosis, before her disease took a turn for the worst, before her entire life had to be condensed into just a few months. I wonder if she was like me at all. I wonder if I'm like her now.

I lift my head and look at Finnick. His eyes are shut but I know he isn't sleeping because his mouth is still curved up into a small smile. I kiss the corner of his mouth to get his attention and meet his eyes when they flutter open.

"Do you think I'm detached and prudent?" I ask him.

He laughs immediately, looking at me like I've just said something utterly ridiculous. I frown and he quickly backtracks, resuming caressing my leg thoughtlessly like he's been doing for a few minutes.

"I think you're loving and vibrant," he replies, his voice serious as he realizes I'm deeply worried about what I've just asked. It isn't that I don't want to be like my mother or that I'm ashamed of who she was. It's that she made me feel almost like I was never quick enough, never strong enough. Like I was wasting her time when I had bouts of extreme emotion that, as my mother, she had to help me sift through. I probably was. I never want to make anyone else feel that way.

"Why would you ask that?" he questions curiously.

I lay my head back down and glance up at the ceiling, wishing it was gone and we were gone, too. Somewhere else where night is forever and the stars always show up in the night sky and love doesn't hurt.

"I think I'm becoming my mother," I admit, and it sounds so ridiculous that I'm laughing and then he's laughing, too. Of all the things to worry about, I'm worrying about this. I guess that in itself shows I'm not her, after all.

"Well, if those words are what people used to describe your mother, I can promise you that you aren't. Those are the words I would use if someone asked me what words are opposite of you. Along with ugly and stupid," Finnick reassures.

Still, there is something to be said about the way it's harder and harder for me to see the bright side now, when it used to be so easy. There's something to be said for why the spot inside of me that used to house my optimism is now empty.

I guess that's growing up, along with accepting that you really know nothing at all and you probably never will, and that no matter how hard you try, you can't protect the ones you love from pain.

Chapter Text

The chiming of a clock reverberates throughout the house, and just like that, we only have one month left.

I apologize profusely to Finnick when he finds me on the floor in front of the mantel, the small gears and wheels and pins of the smashed clock spread all around me. But he is not angry and he is not disappointed in me. I am simply angry and disappointed in myself. He cradles my sliced hands in his and kisses each cut. We decide to spend the rest of the night trying to see what we can create out of the broken clock pieces.

"Let's make a new clock that goes backwards," I suggest. I fiddle with a part that has a sort of jagged wheel that's impaled with a short, thin metal rod. I spin the wheel around and around on the rod, wondering which gears this triggered, which wonderful hour it sent running away. Deep down in my mind I know it isn't the clock's or the calendar's fault that time is passing. Time would pass regardless. But I have to have something to blame, something to rage against, something to break. It's this or myself and Finnick would be distraught if I chose the latter.

I'm on Finnick's lap and he's watching the wheel spin around and around over my shoulder. I feel his eyes travel from the wheel to the side of my face and I turn a bit, meeting his eyes. We share a smile that's much more intricate than these metal parts and much more hopeful in its nature.

"Okay. Maybe it will send us back in time," he says. He says it jokingly, but we both cannot ignore the wistful undertones.

"Maybe," I agree, hating myself for the hope that's already slid into my voice and heart. Ridiculous ridiculous ridiculous, but lovely too. Very lovely.

I lean back against him and pick up piece after piece, experimenting to see which parts can attach and which cannot, which can balance and which cannot. I have no idea what any of the wheels or gears or pins mean, and neither does Finnick judging by the way he's mindlessly jamming pieces together like I am. I wonder how we're supposed to build a clock that goes backwards if we can't rebuild a clock that goes forwards. I think the answer is that we can't.

Eventually we both turn to each other again and Finnick says what I'm thinking.

"I don't know anything about clocks," he admits.

He looks disheartened by this fact, but I feel laughter bubbling up inside of me. The corners of my mouth jerk up and Finnick's nose twitches and then we're both laughing so hard the pieces in our hands go clattering to the floor. I roll off him and land painfully on some sort of wheel object, and in the throes of my laughing fit, I reach a hand under my leg and pull it free, accidentally flinging it angrier than I planned. It flies across the living room and smacks into the wall, making an almost satisfying sound. For some reason this makes me laugh even harder and I worry I'm heading around the corner that separates normal laughing from hysterical. But Finn rolls over and lays his head on my stomach, still laughing so hard his eyes are shut, and I am able to stop walking down that path. My laughter begins to die down around the same time his does, but then he nudges the fabric of my shirt up with his nose and presses a kiss to the skin of my stomach and I'm admonishing him while laughing once more. I close my hand over his mouth to keep his lips from kissing my stomach again—I think I might pass out from oxygen deprivation if I have another laughing fit—and I feel him smile against my skin. He presses his lips to my palm and I take that to be a promise that he won't tickle me again, so I lower my hand.

He makes a point of sitting up and slowly pulling my shirt back down, diligently smoothing the fabric with an overly innocent look in his eyes. I'm fighting against a smile so intensely that the muscles in my neck are strained. I try to glare at him, but when he leans down and makes a point of nicely and guilelessly kissing over the same spot, my face is overrun by a smile.

"Sorry, my darling," he hums, taking my hand in his. He tugs lightly on my arm and I sit up, my body automatically leaning towards his as if he's the north side of a magnet and I'm the south of another. I wonder sometimes when that began. Have I always been drawn to him like this? I can't remember a time when I wasn't, but then again, I can't remember much about what I was like before I went mad in the first place. It's a blur of strange comments, shy glances, my sister's hand in mine and Arnav's, nets, and sea glass.

His words warm me and fuel the smile that's still in place. I keep moving forward bit by bit until I'm leaning against his arm, my throat swollen and choking me as it almost always does anytime I'm with him (which is always, always, always, every moment of every day, just as it should be).

It should be, but it won't always be. The security of his body leaning against mine is something I will be without for a month in the best of circumstances and forever in the worst. The sadness of this has taught me yet another lesson: there is no passion quite like passion born out of fear, too much love, and the ticking of a clock. I think this is simply because you know that any inch of someone you haven't kissed before, you will never get to kiss ever. When there is little time to live, there is little time to love, and so you have to try your hardest to make up for all the years that you will never wake up to. We are running running running, trying our hardest to fly past what we know is coming, trying to pretend it isn't on our heels, but it is and we can't stop it and it's closing its hands around the things I love most.

This is normally a time that I cry into Finnick's shoulder, but instead I am filled with a bitter hatred that swells inside of me with a power I can't quell. I'm clenching my fists so tightly both my arms are shaking and my nails are biting so hard into my palm that they break skin. Finnick notices my tense posture and looks down at me, his eyes immediately reflecting back the rage I feel.

He reaches down and picks up a panel of wood from the clock.

"Let's throw it all," he suggests, his voice low and measured, like he's holding back a fury that makes him want to yell, too.

I turn to him and nod eagerly, smiling despite the anger because he always knows always knows always knows.

He rises to his feet and helps me up and hands me a particularly large metal disk. It's heavy and cold against my palm, and I find my body automatically remembering what Finnick taught me such a long time ago, and I'm flinging the disk just like it's a knife aimed for an enemy's body. I wish it was, because this time, the enemy is Snow and he deserves this.

At first the sound is so loud it startles me and I flinch, lifting my hands to my ears. But Finnick's throw makes contact with the wall and slowly I become accustomed to the way it sounds. We stand there, lifting piece after piece, hurtling it against the wall, until there are no pieces left and our hands are pink and raw from the sharp edges of the wheels and Finnick's living room wall is dinted.

We stand there for a few long moments, just looking at the destruction we've made, feeling the rush of anger leak out bit by bit. There is something else that I have learned that they don't want you to know. People will hide it hide it hide it, and probably for good reason. This secret is that destruction feels great. Any kind of destruction. Destruction of dishes, destruction of clocks, self-destruction. It all feels good. It is addictive, though. And very bad because it hurts a lot of people. But I would be a liar if I said it didn't feel fantastic in the moment. There is something so dark, so satisfying about breaking something yourself. Something that feels a bit like control, and aren't we all craving that most of all, deep down? It is easier to break than to mend. I have never been one to want to break anything, but these past few months, I have wanted to break it all. The dishes, the clocks, the picture frames, the vases, myself. Anything, everything, nothing. I am raging against a man who will never feel or care about my rage. I am raging against a world that isn't fair.

It helps in the short term. But really all I am doing is making a bigger mess.

Finnick and I turn to look at each other, silently acknowledging the fact that we have both probably lost control of everything now, even ourselves. But there is still one thing we are in control over, and that is each other. And that's perfectly fine, because if Finnick couldn't steer my soul and mind some of the time, I'd be halfway around the world, underwater, my ship and skull cracked. I know he feels the same by the way he sometimes looks at me after he brushes his lips against mine with the lightest and most cherishing of touches.

We clean up the mess together, regretting our fit now that we're at this point. But it doesn't take long with two sets of hands and we shove the pieces into a trash bag, tying it and setting it out on the back steps as if it's going to pull one of us away. Which, I guess in a roundabout way, it is.

It's not quite bedtime, but we slide underneath the sheets anyway, and it's there that I feel the safest to free my mad and troubled thoughts.

"Time is too quick. I'm scared. I can't remember a time when I didn't drift towards you," I whisper, punctuating each fear with a kiss to his neck because I can. Have there ever been two lovelier words than I can? I can talk to him, I can hold him, I can kiss him, I can feel his heart beating, I can I can I can. It's almost laughable how ugly just a small apostrophe and a t can make that beautiful word.

He tangles his hands in my hair, weaving it between his fingers until I am sure it's knotted around them. This is something new he has been doing lately, and sometimes I think he does it because it makes him feel like he can't be pulled away from me. Not as easily, at least. It's funny in a way, because one thing I do remember is that before Finnick was my source of security, my hair was. I felt vulnerable with it up and it made me feel at home. Now it's just hair, and I feel vulnerable with Finnick gone, and he makes me feel at home, but here he is going towards my hair when he's feeling scared, too. Mags was right when she said we are made of the same stuff.

His hand is warm and heavy on the back of my head. He leans down and runs his nose down the side of my face, and I'm automatically turning my head to meet his lips, but his never brush mine. He stays with his face bowed, pressed against mine, eyelashes fluttering against my skin.

"I'm frightened, Annie."

His confession has my nose immediately burning and my eyes stinging. His voice sounds so small and so broken and he has never said anything like this to me before about the Quell. He is very openly sad about it, and angry about it, but never scared. Never frightened. That's my job, I'm the one who is always scared, Finnick is the one who is brave and strong. But I used to be a girl who loved to fix things, and now I'm a girl who breaks things just because it feels good, so that doesn't mean anything at all.

I slowly pull myself away from him and sit up, the sheet gathering at my waist. I set a hand on Finnick's arm and tug lightly and he sits up as well. I hug him so closely to me that my arms ache and he lowers his head, pressing it into my shoulder. I caress the back of his neck and bite my tongue until I am certain I am not going to cry.

He turns his head to the right and his voice breaks the silence.

"I'm scared to leave you. I'm scared that…things aren't going to go the way that I've planned. I'm scared that you are going to get hurt."

But things never go the way you plan when the Games are involved. Surely he knows this? The best you can do is expect the unexpected. His worries confuse me, because why should he be worried that I'll be hurt when he's the one who is going into the Games?

I remember my words to him the first and only time we've ever fought, when I said I'd kill myself if he were to die, and I can't help but wonder if that is what he's talking about.

"I'm going to be fine, Finn. I promise," I whisper. But that's a lie, lie, lie, so I have to add onto it to make it a truth. "As long as you come home to me, I will be fine."

He lifts his head and pulls back, looking into my eyes, and I hate what I see in his. I drop my hand from his neck and it falls heavily into my lap and my heart is surely being crushed.

"And what if I don't?" he asks, the fear and guilt in his eyes so intense that mine are filling with tears.

"Don't say that," I whisper, looking away from him because I can't stand to see the possibility of that in his eyes.

His fingers are cold when he grips my chin and gently redirects my face.

"What if I don't?" he repeats, his voice serious and pleading for answers I know he isn't going to like.

What if he doesn't?

For the very first time, I allow my mind to open up the dark box that stores this possibility. I try to imagine seeing him perish in the Games, his body pulled up by the hovercraft. I imagine going to the train station to receive both his and Mags' bodies. I imagine burying them in that cemetery. I imagine walking back to Finn's house and opening it and smelling him, but knowing really I will never smell him ever again. I imagine sleeping in this bed all alone. I imagine his clothes gathering dust, his smile slowly fading from my mind, his hands never grabbing mine ever again, his laughter never waking me up in the mornings, his lips never on my skin, his voice never existing, and I'm suffocating.

I'm bawling then, my hands gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like someone is trying to pull him away right that moment. I move over until I'm in his lap and then I lock my arms around his middle tightly. I press my face into his neck and I can feel his Adam's apple move up as he swallows tears because I know this isn't the answer he wanted, the answer he needed.

He wraps his arms around me and settles his cheek on the top of my head.

"You are stronger than you think you are. I still believe in you," he mutters. "I just need to know that you believe in you, too."

I have never been able to lie and there is no way that I will start now, wrapped in Finnick's arms in our bed on one of the last nights we will have together. There is no one and nothing that could make me do that to him, to me, to us.

"Just come back to me," I cry.

His hands shake as he pulls me back, pressing a frightened and sad kiss to my forehead like he did the night before my Games.

"I'm always trying to get back to you, Annie."

A few hours later, when I'm almost asleep and Finnick thinks that I have been asleep for a while, he takes my hand between his and kisses it. I listen as he tells me he's sorry ten times, a tormented tone in his voice. The pieces of my heart settle somewhere near my toes and I drift off to sleep terrified and pained, wondering just what it is he is apologizing for and why he waited until he thought I was asleep and how I can help him.

My dream that night is a showcase of Osmium's knife-wielding talents.

The ground is soaked in blood as Osmium beheads victor after victor. Katniss' head rolls into the bushes, Peeta's blonde hair sticks to his bloody face, Johanna laughs coldly in Osmium's face the entire time he hacks away at her, refusing to let him have any sort of pleasure from his conquest, Wiress just stares at the sky, Beetee gasps until he can't gasp anymore, Haymitch curses vehemently and then spits up blood, Cecilia cries.

Finnick stares directly at Osmium the entire time, accusing him with his glance, and I can't do anything but watch as Osmium stabs the blade into every spot I've ever grazed my lips.

I wake up to bloody sheets and Finnick's hands holding mine tightly.

"They can't have your head," I gasp, my mind already drifting from all the blood sliding down my arms.

"Why would someone want my head?" Arnav asks curiously.

I lower my arm that's holding the kite string, watching it flutter down towards me. I turn towards my brother, upset for whatever reason, and shrug my shoulders.

He just kind of smiles, like he knows something that I don't know. He turns back to his kite.

"You can't take someone's head, Annie. It's attached to their shoulders," he says matter-of-factly.

I cringe as my arms begin stinging intensely, and then I'm sitting on the edge of the bath, Finnick in front of me. He's pouring what must be alcohol or something akin to it on a particularly deep scratch, his face white.

"Finn, I'm—" I try.

His head snaps to mine, his eyes grief-stricken.

"Please don't apologize. I'm the one who is sorry. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I never should have talked to you about the arena before you went to sleep."

No, no, no. That's all wrong, because he was upset, and he should talk to me whenever he is upset. Things like this happen when you love a girl who is mad and it isn't his fault, it isn't, it isn't.

I tell him all of this, and he listens, but I don't know if he hears.

The next two weeks are riddled with the same nightmare each night. But I learn quickly that I don't tear at my skin until the encore with Finnick, so I take to setting an alarm every thirty minutes to ensure I don't get into a deep enough sleep to get to that point. I try to sleep in another room so it doesn't disturb Finnick, but he absolutely refuses, clinging to me like I suggested moving permanently to the Capitol.

We treat each other like something fragile and rare that was pulled from a museum display. Our hands don't leave each other for more than ten minutes cumulative a day, and still we make love like we haven't seen each other in a very long time. We start doing silly things to make each other smile, because that sight is something I think we both need to stay strong. Finnick writes and writes and writes, sneaking at least three poems a day into my path. I read them and smile and kiss him and I'm happy. I let Finnick tickle me whenever he wants, because it makes him smile so brightly I am sure nothing is more beautiful. I cook him clam chowder every single night, promising that I will do it until he tires of it, but he never seems to. I think more than anything he likes watching me make it, because I tend to talk to myself and he thinks it's cute (but really it's mad). Mags gets more and more nostalgic as time passes, and so we are content to spend the majority of the day at her house, sitting either on the porch or in the living room, listening to story after story after story. Finnick and I cook breakfast and lunch for Mags now and bring it over, eating with her and trying our hardest to enjoy the time we all have together. I talk Finnick and Mags into going to the Training Center at least once a day. I don't go with them though, because I hate it hate it hate it. I stay home and clean until there is nothing left to clean, and then I make a mess and clean that up.

I give sleeping without the alarms another try one night, because I'm scared to damage Finnick's chances in the Games by causing him sleep deprivation. It takes three nights, but I find that if I sleep almost directly on top of Finn, I'm hardly plagued with the nightmare at all. It's silly, but I think maybe I can register that I'm shielding his body with mine in my dreams. I'm not much of a threat at all, but the dark things that lurk in my mind stop attacking him, so I must somehow be a threat to myself at least. Finnick likes the new sleeping arrangement, anyway. He says it makes him feel like I'm safe, too.

It's morning and I've woken up very early, way before Finnick needs to wake up. His arms are resting on top of me, having been secured around me when he was conscious. I lay still for a while, but eventually I'm registering that my leg is falling asleep and I can't stay put any longer. I slide off him as gently as I can, but he still mutters something in his sleep and then turns over on his slide, his hands sliding out like he's searching for something. His fingers graze my knee and his search stops. He drifts back off to sleep, I guess reassured that I'm still here, and I climb out of the bed and walk around the room a few times, trying to get the pins out of my leg.

Once I'm walking normally, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I almost miss the folded piece of paper sticking out of the pocket in my robe when I pull it on. It's still dark outside and I don't want to turn a lamp on in the bedroom for fear of disturbing Finn, so I lean against the bathroom wall and unfold the paper, already smiling because I know it's a poem.

The paper is soft and so are the words that have been carefully inked out.

"Beauty"

a breeze is coming through an open window and
n ight has soaked the sky.
n ever will I want to leave you or your
i gniting eyes. I am always
e xhaling with you and
c raving you: the sight of the
r ing on your hand, the joy of our
e mbraces after tears, the
s unlight in your smile, the
t aste of your skin.
a lways is how long I will love you.

I'm smiling just like a girl in love, stroking my fingers over the words fondly, when my eyes pick up on the way he's pressed down harder with the pen for every first letter of each word, making them darker. When I realize that he's spelled my name out, I'm carefully folding the paper up and carrying it out of the bathroom with me. I set it down on my nightstand and crawl back into bed, sitting down beside him. I stretch out so I'm lying on my side facing him and lean forward, grazing my lips over his just faintly enough to make his nose crinkle in his sleep. I smile then, because a sleeping Finnick Odair is still one of my most favorite things in the entire world. I lightly caress his face until he's furrowing his eyebrows, and then I press slow, small kisses to his lips every few moments. He stirs finally, his eyes fluttering open tiredly and his lips raising into a smile.

"Mmm, good morning," he hums. "For the record, I prefer being woken up this way."

His eyes are laughing, but my heart is still fluttering from his poem. I lean forward again and kiss him deeply, smiling a bit when his hands rise momentarily in surprise. They fall back down, resting on my back, and he kisses me back like he's about to burst with affection, too, though I can't imagine why.

Heat is sliding over my skin and I'm inching closer when he breaks the kiss, turning his face to the right so my lips are resting against his cheek.

"Either you found a poem or your dreams really have been better lately," he jokes, pressing a kiss to the side of my face. I aim a light kick at his calf, but I'm laughing along with him when he chuckles.

"It was beautiful," I tell him, finding myself pressing another kiss to his cheek without even realizing it. I make to scoot away from him before I get carried away so he can go back to sleep, but he tightens his arms around me and makes a sound of protest.

"I thought you were seducing me, overcome with emotion due to my romantic poetry?" he teases. His fingers creep underneath his t-shirt that I'm wearing and he runs his fingers over my skin in a way that makes me squirm.

"I don't know what kind of girl you think I am, Finnick Odair, but I was definitely not doing that," I reply, trying my hardest to ignore his drifting fingers. But my heart rate has increased and I am sure by his smile that he knows that as well.

"Ah, well, had you been you would have succeeded."

"Really?" I ask, as if I'm mildly interested.

He winks. "Really."

"I'll keep that in mind for the future."

He nods, his eyes on mine.

"You do that."

There's a long pause, both of us just looking at each other. His fingers flutter restlessly against my skin and I'm still fidgeting.

"Oh, come here, you little seductress," Finnick finally says, his face breaking out in a smile so natural and easy that I'm grinning back. I scoot closer to him and place my lips back on his, smiling because I love him, and he loves me too, and it hurts more than anything, but it's the best thing I have ever known.

Mags teaches me how to make her famous shortbread cookies the day before the reaping.

I cry for an hour when I get back to Finn's house, still covered in flour and raspberry jam, because she taught me to keep the recipe from dying with her.

I don't want her dying at all.

Finn is upstairs, but he doesn't know I'm home yet. I can't get myself to walk up the stairs and see him, because I don't know what I'm going to do or what I'm going to say. What could I possibly say? My heart hurts so badly I keep feeling like I'm going to vomit? I am so petrified I can't move? I have honestly considered suggesting we commit suicide together now, rather than go through whatever trials we're about to have to face?

I spin the ring he gave me for my birthday around and around my finger as I try to rise to my feet, but I can't get my legs to cooperate. It takes me three failed attempts before I'm shakily rising to my feet, and even then I feel like my legs are going to collapse from underneath me.

What do you say to the one you love most on the last day you have together?

This is something I wish I could have asked my mother.

I grip the railing and climb the stairs slowly, missing my family, missing Mags, missing Finn. Missing myself.

We simply look at each other when I walk into the bedroom. He's sitting crossed legged in the middle of the bed, papers strewn everywhere around him. His eyes are red like he's been crying, and I wish that I would have come up here earlier. We could have cried together. Again I get the feeling that nothing else and nowhere else really exists. It is just Finn and I in this room, isolated by our grief, enclosed in a sorrow so great I can't think of a single spelling word that would even begin to encompass it.

I'm feeling sick as I walk over and perch on the edge of the bed, my eyes traveling over the papers filled with words that I know must be beautiful. The back of my throat aches and aches as I stack a few neatly so they don't slide off the edge of the bed.

Finnick's hand is warm when it settles on my knee. I look up at him, and he smiles forlornly, his eyes dropping from mine and sweeping over me, rising to meet my eyes once more.

"Do you remember the first thing you said to me?" he asks.

I try to think back that far. I can remember the first thing he said to me—something about Arnav threatening to kick him if he didn't teach me how to use a trident—but I can't remember exactly what I said to him. Hello, perhaps. Now the only thing I can imagine saying is please, please, please, don't go.

I push some of the papers out of my path in the same moment Finnick starts to do the same. I can't help but laugh sadly at that, because we are always always always on the same page in the same book. It's just a shame that the book is almost over.

We move towards each other and Finnick pulls me into his lap, holding me in an embrace that is both wonderfully familiar and frightening unfamiliar, my back against his chest and his arms around my waist. He's holding me like I'm hanging overboard on a ship, about to tumble headfirst into turbulent waves. I am glad because I need to be held like that. I lean my head back against his shoulder and grip his forearms that are resting on my stomach tightly. Let them try to pull us apart. I don't think they would get very far.

"You said 'I'm Annie Cresta', but when you said it, you said it like you were apologizing for something," Finnick says. "Like you were apologizing for who you were. I remember thinking to myself that it was an odd tone of voice for someone so beautiful to use. And after we had our first conversation, I left thinking it was an odd tone of voice for someone both beautiful and wonderfully unique to use." He leans his head towards me and kisses the side of my face tenderly, his eyes meeting mine. "I always thought you should have said it proudly."

My lips are trembling and what if I can't remember the exact shade of green his eyes are? What if I forget? What if I wake up one morning, alone alone alone, and I can't even think back to this moment and picture the shade with clarity?

"I think I loved you from the start," I admit quietly. I cannot remember a moment when I didn't love him anymore, so maybe that moment never existed.

"And I will love you until the end," he promises. He lifts his right arm off my stomach and reaches over, taking my left hand off his left arm and holding it. He slides the ring up and down idly like I was doing early, but when he does it, it makes me feel like he is having a quiet conversation with me.

Why is the end so close?

"When I come home, we're going to get married properly." His voice is burdened with pain so great I don't think for a second he believes his own words. It sounds kind of like the tone you would use if you were to hold the hand of someone seconds away from death and promise them that they are going to be just fine. When our eyes meet again, his hold the same amount of guilt that the liar's would have.

"Don't you dare make a promise you can't keep. Not now." I find myself pleading, because he can't make me one that he can't keep now. He can't make me lose my trust in his promises after all these years.

"I didn't," he swears.

And of course I am going to believe him.

We take a walk on the beach and openly hold hands, because who cares anymore? What does it matter?

When the sun sets, I fling myself into his arms with an embrace so tight and sudden he jumps a little. The sand is cool and the water looks like molten gold. The sky is bright yellow around the edges of the white sun that's sinking under the water, but bright orange everywhere else. I stare at it until my eyes hurt: the dim blue above us that gently fades into orange which fades into yellow which sinks into the sun. The longer I look at it, the surer I am that the sun is actually a hole, sucking the entire sky into it and burning burning burning it up. Just like it is burning up the only time we have left.

Gold water, shadowy sand, and soon I will be alone.

"It's hideous," I tell Finnick, my eyes burning because it's the ugliest thing I have ever seen, and the prettiest.

"Atrocious," he agrees, because we were never going to be gracious towards our last sunset.

We grip each other tightly as we walk back to our house, our feet dragging underneath the weight of pain that will most likely never go away.

I cook for Finnick, mumbling angrily to myself every few moments because I keep adding the wrong amount of ingredients or forgetting them, pretending that he isn't crying because I can tell that he's trying his best to hide it.

I butcher the clam chowder worse than even my sister has.

"I guess it's a good thing the judge isn't here, because he'd take my award away," I joke hollowly, letting the soup slide off the spoon and land back into the bowl.

I don't know who he thinks he's fooling, but he merely smiles and holds my hand, eating not only his bowl but a second serving too. Either he feels bad for me, or he really is mad with love.

After dinner I walk around the house, confiscating every single clock and tossing them into a coat closet downstairs. Finnick locks the door for good measure, and it's silly, but it makes me feel better. I know he knows that it does.

We have no patience for anything coming between us, so we rip the blankets off the bed when we go upstairs and pull our clothes off with a similar hastiness. Things are easier when we're holding each other, skin on skin, and I can almost breathe without pain again.

"If I'm reaped, please don't come to the Justice Building for final goodbyes," Finnick says suddenly, his voice anguished. "I honestly don't think I will be able to let go."

The tears start then, and I figured once I let myself cry it would help, that the tears would be like draining poison from a wound on my heart, but it only makes it worse. I know what he is requesting is for the best, but that means the very last time I will see him will be on stage. Some part of me tries to say that that is lovely, because the first time I ever saw him was on stage too, and it's like a complete circle. But I smother that part of me, because she is crazy.

I am able to stop my tears a few minutes later once I remember that this is the last time I will have with him. I will have plenty of time to cry. So my lips taste his and my hands map out the body I already know like a sailor knows the sea. We promised we wouldn't say goodbye again, but we both break that promise. I guess there was never any way we would make love for the last time like it wasn't the last time. There is a certain reverence when you know you will never do what you are doing ever again. You appreciate even more the things that you never want to forget, like the way someone's breath feels against your lips when they whisper to you or the way their shoulder blades feel underneath your palms. I've always felt it wrong to say or even think that I worship anyone or anything, because it just seems like such a foolish thing to do, but there is no doubt in my mind that that is the only word I could pin to the way our fingertips delicately trace over each other's skin and our lips meet gingerly again and again.

When Finn rolls off me, shaking and sweaty, I smooth back his damp hair and look down at him. I am sure now that I will never forget the green of his eyes. How could I ever? They were the only color I could ever see.

"Promise me you'll listen to me and believe what I'm about to say, Finn, because it is very important," I murmur, smiling back at him when he recognizes the words I've just said. They were his that he whispered to me the first time I saw him after my Games, when he gave me what I needed to hear desperately.

He nods in agreement, his eyes studying mine intently, and I wonder if he's scared he's going to forget mine, too.

"I love you with a love I can't control half of the time. You are the most wonderful person I have ever known," I start. My heart aches with the words I am about to utter, but I love him I love him I love him and I will give him this. I would give him anything. "I love you enough to try to swim to you when you're on the other side of the sea." Panic, panic, panic, always panic and blood in the water, but I did it over and over in my other world, because Finnick needed me to. He waits, and I remind myself that that doesn't really make much sense to anyone but me. I continue. "If you don't come home, I promise to try and be as strong as you believe I am."

He breaks at these words and when he pulls me down against him and cries into my hair, I can almost feel his worry sliding off his skin. He is crying with a relief so intense that it even makes me feel a little relieved too. He kisses anywhere his lips can easily reach, thanking me over and over again, and I cry too, because I know that the promise I have just made will be the hardest thing I will ever do, but probably also the most important. I know that no matter how brutal or savage my agony is, no matter how worthless and vacant my life is, I will have to try until I honestly cannot try any longer, because he has never broken a promise to me and I will never break one to him.

"I love you so much I want to die," he croaks out a few minutes later, tears clinging to his eyelashes and his lips on my shoulder. We have never been actually married, but we have shared many salt water kisses tonight, so perhaps that counts enough on its own.

He knows I know exactly how he feels. Some could say that life hasn't truly been lived until you've loved someone so much you almost want it to kill you, but perhaps it is best to not live life in that case.

We fall asleep with our fingers intertwined. I jerk awake every hour, frantic that I've somehow overslept and missed the reaping, but Finnick is always beside me. I think he keeps waking up, too, because two of the times I wake up to find him looking around nervously as well.

I clutch him with no intent of letting go in the shower that morning. He fights back tears when he has to gently loosen my arms from around him. I search the closet for something to wear, knowing that whatever I pick I will most likely cut up with scissors at some point. I choose an old blue dress from the back of my closet. It's frayed and faded. Finnick pulls on an outfit similar to what he was wearing at my own reaping, his eyes blank. He comes to when I cross the room and begin buttoning up his shirt for him. He wraps his hand around my fingers and nothing is said, but it doesn't need to be. I know.

He leads me down into the kitchen and kisses my lips, telling me he'll be right back. I watch him disappear down the hallway, pulling nervously at my dress because I don't want to miss out on even a minute of seeing him, but then he's walking back to me and he has a tiny kitten in his arms.

I cry when he sets it into my arms, because I know what this means. This means that he knows he is going to be called. This means he is trying to give me something to live for, just as he always is. The tiny kitten meows and nuzzles its head against my arm and Finn smiles at me.

"This is Poseidon, and he already loves you."

I stroke my fingers over his tiny head, so sorry that out of all the people to live with, he got stuck with me.

We spend the rest of the time we have left with Mags. She seems to have mastered the art of cherishing time. She laughs and smiles, hugging us like nothing is really out of the ordinary. I try to follow her example as I always do, because she is the wisest person alive, but I'm just not strong like she is. We say our goodbyes before we leave, also deciding that it is probably best if I don't go see her for final goodbyes, either.

"Thank you for taking care of me," I whisper into her shoulder, my voice thick with tears.

She pats my head and I don't have to look at her to know she's smiling.

"Thank you for letting me," she replies, her words coming out garbled but clear enough for me to get what she is saying.

I hold her hand as we cross the street and don't let go of it the entire way to the Square.

I haven't seen anyone but Mags and Finnick since the announcement, so I'm not sure how anyone else feels about this. I scan my eyes over the people of District 4, and they looked more than angry. They look bloodthirsty. I cannot yet determine if this is bloodthirst for a particularly exciting Games or bloodthirst for revenge on Snow for taking away their victors.

There's a small roped off section near the stage where the other victors are waiting. Meredith is there, chatting easily with a middle-aged victor named Caleb. The other three male victors are standing stiffly, their backs to the crowd. Dowell looks particularly scared, his face pale and his hands shoved into his pockets. He was a Career that had to kill his own district partner. I don't think I will ever forget seeing that on television.

They all look up when we join them. Meredith is the only one I've ever even said a word to. The others have had no desire to get to know me and I don't blame them. If I were them I probably wouldn't get to know me, either.

Finnick looks like he's in pain when he reaches out for my hand, only to realize at the last moment that that probably wouldn't be a good idea with the cameras all around. I don't want him blowing our cover completely because I am still relying heavily on the sponsorships I know his Capitol lovers will provide to keep him alive. They might be less willing to do that if they know they have no chance at all with him.

Annora is bothered. I can tell by her strained smile and the way her hand quakes when she sticks it into the reaping bowl. I feel terrible for her. She can't even pretend that we aren't people now, because she knows each of us personally. I hope she doesn't feel guilty. It isn't her fault which slip her hand falls on.

She's stuck her hand into the bowl with all five of the male victors' slips first this time, and my knees are shaking and my heart is pounding as she picks a slip of paper up. I'm praying then, and I don't think I've ever prayed in my life, and I don't even know who or what I'm even praying to. But please, not Finn. Please. I feel bad for it, but all I can think is anyone but Finn.

My hands are reaching out and my fingertips lightly brush the back of Finnick's hand, my fingers just curling around his, when Annora calls his name, her lips drawn tight.

My hand slides from his as he moves away from me, and I'm trying my hardest to not run after him, but I don't know if I can stop it. He turns and looks back as he walks back up to the stage, giving me what I think is supposed to be a reassuring smile, but actually comes out looking more like a frown. I'm feeling my legs move forward, my body automatically trying to follow after Finnick's, because this isn't right at all. It's wrong wrong wrong, why is he on that stage, why am I here in the audience? Mags locks her hand tightly around mine and refuses to let me budge, mumbling things I can't understand under her breath. Annora is patting Finnick's arm and he's looking straight forward, over all our heads, and why is he alone? Didn't I promise him I would always be with him? Didn't I?

Annora crosses to the other bowl and reaches in, and I'm turning to Mags, hysteria in my voice because all I want in the entire world is to be up there with him and her back safe in her home.

"Please, Mags," I beg, my hand gripping hers so tightly I'm sure it's painful. Tears are filling my eyes and I am going to die if she won't let me do this. I need to go with him. I need to die with him. I can't stay here and watch them both die. I can't do it. I can't let Mags die. I can't let her suffer for me. I can't can't can't can't can't.

She gives me a look that says we already talked about this, missy, and then smiles.

"But I love you," I say weakly, my lips barely moving in my pain. I'm hysterical then, my head spinning and my throat closing up, because I can't be without them and I was so wrong to think that I could I was an idiot I never know anything I always think things are true that just aren't like when I thought that this would ever be okay it isn't it never will be it never can be how can Annie be without Finnick and Mags that isn't possible that can't happen I don't know how to be without them I haven't been without them since I turned into The Mad Girl and I don't want to go back to being her I don't want to see my family killed again again again I don't want this to happen I can't have this happen and I can't breathe I am going to die right here right here right here.

She tells me she loves me, too, by immediately volunteering when my name is called out.

I lose it then completely, falling to the ground because there is no one here to remind me that I need to stand. There's a flash of gold, and when I look up, Finnick's got his eyes on me and there is pain in his. I gasp for air and then I set my hands on my knees, pushing myself slowly back into a standing position.

Green meets green, and more than likely, that will never happen again.

And then Finnick and Mags are led away, and I'm standing completely alone, my hands empty and my heart torn.

I stand there long after everyone has filed out, gasping for air, ignoring the people who try to walk up to me and say things. There is nothing they can say to make me feel better. I want to drift away then, but I can't because this is a nightmare I can't wake up from or tune out. I eventually find the strength to lift my feet, and then I walk back to Finnick's house, so dizzy I keep stumbling and almost falling on the stones.

I do fall down when I enter the kitchen, landing hard on my knees. I double over, sobbing into the tiles, because Finnick is gone and I may never get him back. He is going to have to go back into the Games. I will never see his smile again.

I scream and jump back when something brushes against me, because I'm more than aware of my solitude, but then I see it's Poseidon. He walks back and forth, brushing against my crumpled legs, mewing over and over again. I sit up a bit and watch him, my tears flowing, and then he leaps into my lap, curling up there. He's small and warm and he seems completely at peace.

His presence reminds me of my promise to Finnick, so I carefully lift him in my arms and rise shakily to my feet, trying to ignore how empty both I and the house feel. The world is a tilting blur as I climb up the stairs, Poseidon warm in my arms. He yelps a bit and jumps free from my grasp when I trip and land hard on my knees again—this time on the steps—and that makes me cry even harder.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs. So I don't stop it. I stand in the hallway and scream and scream, pulling at my hair and scaring the poor kitten. I can't stop though, because Finnick is gone, and Mags is gone, and I'm gone, too.

I scream until my throat is so raw I can't even swallow, and then I push open the bedroom door and fall down onto the bed. But that's just worse, because all I can remember is all the times I've been with Finn here, and it still smells of him, and he was just here a few hours ago and now, just like that, he will probably never be there again.

I run out of the room and barrel back down the stairs, my knees screaming in protest. My blue blanket is resting on the couch in the living room, folded neatly, and on top of it there's a folded piece of paper. Just the sight of those two familiar things calms me immediately.

I slide down onto the floor in front of the couch and grab the paper, smoothing my hands over it because my Finnick wrote this. I set it in my lap and wrap the blanket around my shoulders, leaning back against the couch. I pick it back up and unfold it, my heart aching and my mind shaking. I read it, and after I'm done, I can't feel anything at all.

Last night I dreamed we said goodbye
I did not eat, I did not cry
I need not wait for my eyes to dry
for last night I dreamed I died

the dead don't cry and the dead don't scream
without you there is no gleam
there are no more fish in the stream
did you know you were my only dream?

I held you so close that you were I
I love you beyond sheets and thighs
the meaning of life was in your eyes
it was only for you that I ever tried

your laughter was my glee,
you were the salt in the sea,
the sugarcube in my tea
forgive me but I have one last plea

remember blue blankets and coneflowers,
puzzles, pancakes, and warm showers,
fingertips, fruit stands, and small hours
remember that all of these are ours

know that I wish you smiling and living,
gardening, picking flowers, and forgiving
especially me for leaving you
I promise the darkness will go soon

above all please know this in your soul:
it is you I love the most
like the storm-swept sailor loves the coast
only with you am I whole.

I had a dream last night, my darling
a dream both harming and alarming
I dreamed it was time for us to part
but you are forever in my heart

Chapter Text

I wake up freezing in the first hours of morning. I sit up, trying to understand why I was sleeping in my clothes on the living room floor and why I'm alone, when Poseidon prances into the room and I remember.

Oh.

My blanket's puddled at my feet so I pull it back up over my legs, turning so I'm leaning against the couch once more. I search numbly for the piece of paper I had clutched in my hands when I fell asleep, and when I find it peeking out from underneath the couch, I grip it so tightly it wrinkles in my hands. I scan over each word again and again, searching for some kind of answer, because I don't know what to do. I need answers that only my sister and Finnick could ever give me. I need to know what I am supposed to do to continue living, because I honestly have no idea.

Certain words like dream and forgiving and part hit me like they're solid entities that have slammed full force into my body. I don't remember crying yesterday, but the ink is smeared a bit in places like I did. I don't remember much at all from yesterday. I remember Finn and Mags leaving me. I remember dropping Poseidon on the stairs. I remember feeling the texture of this paper in my hands. I remember being unable to breathe. I remember washing dishes with my sister. I guess I fell asleep after that.

I haven't known silence like this in a very long time. It makes me uncomfortable and uneasy and I feel it humming loudly in my ears. There's always been some sort of noise: Finnick laughing, Finnick and I talking, Finnick's breathing, Finnick singing in the shower. With him gone, there is no sound at all, no warmth at all, there's not even much light.

I sit there for two hours, staring at the wall, drifting back and forth between here and there because what is the point? There is nothing to do. There is nothing to say. I'm alone. I'll always be alone. My family is dying for a second time, and I will not have another one ever again. I don't want another one. I don't even want to live any longer, but I promised him I wouldn't do that. There is nothing that matters beyond the promises I made to him and he made to me.

Poseidon eventually wakes up from his nap and walks over to me, purring and brushing against my leg. I stare at him for a while, unsure what he wants, when I realize he seems almost concerned. I don't know if animals can be concerned, but this one sure looks it. I'm wondering what he has to be concerned about when I realize I'm shaking so badly that it almost appears that I'm having a seizure. There is a chill underneath my skin and in my bones that is uprooting me.

Poseidon mews and I can't figure out what he wants. I reach down and pet him, but he just mews even louder. Finn's left a bowl of cat food in the kitchen and it wasn't even halfway eaten last night, so I'm sure he's not hungry. I'm worried for him, worried that he's sick, worried that something is wrong, worried that he's going to die because I'm mad. He doesn't stop until I rise unsteadily to my feet, and then he immediately falls silent. He stares at me, his blue eyes bright, and I stare back. He begins walking out of the room and turns around at the doorway as if saying come with me. I grip onto the walls as I walk out of the living room and into the hallway, following the gray streak that Poseidon has become. He falls still in front of the staircase and curls up at the base of the first stair. I just stand there, holding onto the wall.

"What?" I finally say out loud, and I'm startled to realize my voice is thick with tears. I sniff and reach up, touching my face. My hand comes back wet and this releases the full intensity of the pain that's been quietly eating away at me so much that I couldn't feel anything at all. I slide down to the floor, sitting on my folded legs, pressing the heels of my hands over my eyes until I can't see any light at all. I want to rip my own heart out. I wish Osmium were in my home right now. I wish he would do it for me. He could do it so quickly and so accurately given the proper knife and the proper heart.

I hear Poseidon meow once more and I pull my hands off my eyes, blinking a few times to restore my clear vision. Poseidon's head is lifted and he's staring at me, his blue eyes bright and striking against his downy, dark gray fur. He mews again, insistent that I do something, only I don't know what it is. I press my hands hard against my knees and sob heavily.

"What do I do?" I plead out loud, completely uncaring to the fact that I'm asking a kitten for help. Poseidon is at my side a few moments later, brushing back and forth against me again, and I can only register how warm he is, which reminds me of the coldness seeping inside of me. I look down at the kitten, my eyes blurred, and I think I understand. What do you do when your world ends? You do whatever you can. Maybe Poseidon is simply telling me to do something, anything.

I hesitantly lift my hands off my legs and he prances over to me, leaping smoothly into my lap. He purrs and rubs his head against my stomach and I blink a few times, tears leaking from my eyes and my vision clearing even more. I slide my hand down his back and he purrs even more and then I smile a bit. Leave it to Finnick to find something kind and gentle to leave with me to keep me smiling. I don't know how I didn't expect it, because now that I think about it, of course Finn did. He is wonderful.

All I can think about then is how much I miss his eyes. I carefully pick Poseidon up and this time when I climb up the stairs, I make sure to lean against the wall and lift my feet carefully. We make it to the top of the stairs without falling once, and when Poseidon stretches his head up and rubs it against my upper arm, I can't help but feel like he is congratulating me somehow. I grip him tighter.

The kitten seems content when I set him down on the bed. He curls up right in the middle, laying his tiny head down on his paws. I stand in the middle of the bedroom, unsure what I'm going to do, but knowing that I have to do something. If I just keep doing things maybe I will get somewhere. Maybe along the way I will figure out how to handle this, how to breathe, how to keep from crying. Maybe.

Tears are searing down my face as I tear the dress I wore to the reaping off me. I cross the room and shove it to the very bottom of the hamper, certain I never want to see it ever again. I pull a pair of thick socks out of my drawer and fall over a few times as I try to pull them on with shaky hands while perched on quaking knees. My feet feel so much warmer once they're on though, and then I find myself in Finnick's closet, running my hands over his clothes and crying even harder. I find the light switch that's hidden behind his suit jackets and I flip that on, an eerily bright white light illuminating the small space. His shoes are strewn everywhere on the floor, and for a minute I'm sure he's just tossed a pair of shoes in here this morning and he's downstairs waiting for me. But he isn't, and he probably never will be again, and where is his favorite sweater? I push hanger after hanger, searching the entire closet, and I let out a breath of relief when I locate it near the very back with the coats. It's brown and made out of a sturdy but soft cotton. When I pull it over my head and fall to the floor of the closet, all I can think about is all the times I've curled up against him while he had this sweater on, or all the times I've pushed my hands up it, or all the times he's pulled it over his head. But I feel better with it on, like he isn't so far away, so I pull the sleeves down past my hands and curl my fingers up, hoping the pain of my nails digging into my skin can keep me from becoming hysterical once again. I cry on the floor, lying on top of boots and sandals and dress shoes, indifferent to the way they're digging into my skin, trying to imagine a day when I will never see him again. Then there is nothing at all in my chest. It's just an aching, hollow hole in the middle of my body.

I can't cry anymore. It's like my family's deaths all over again, when the pain broke something so necessary and so fundamental inside of me that it felt worse than my heart being punctured. It felt like it was actually stolen. But it wasn't a relief, because the pain didn't go away. It multiplied and with it came a sorrow so deep I couldn't cry or do anything about it at all.

I crawl out of the closet and rummage around his drawers, breathing shallowly when I finally find what I'm looking for. The sweatpants are just as soft and roomy as they were the first time I wore them, the night I decided I was never going to sleep anywhere but Finnick's house ever again. I still never will, this much I am sure of.

I crawl back into his closet after I'm fully dressed, but this time I take the blanket from our bed and Poseidon with me. He happily swats at the shoelaces on a pair of boots and I travel to the furthest corner I can reach, leaning my head into the crack and wrapping the blanket tightly around me. The smell of laundry detergent is strong in here and it reminds me of Finn and his arms around me. Poseidon prances around excitedly, clawing at this and that and swatting at anything hanging from the hangers that's low enough for his paws to reach. I drift off to sleep, waking up a few minutes later to find Poseidon curled up beside me, and then I just let myself fall back asleep once more.

I panic when I wake to the sound of someone entering the bedroom. I slide even further back into the corner, pulling Poseidon into my arms in case it is someone harmful. The doorknob to the closet turns and the door is pulled open, letting air that doesn't smell like Finn and coldness and yellow light in with it. I peek up and I'm not even surprised to see Marv and Henry standing there, frowns on their faces. Did I forget to lock the front door? I can't remember.

"Hey, Annie," Marv says cautiously. He kicks a few shoes to the side and walks into the closet and I'm immediately standing and hurrying out, because I don't want them in here. Marv backs into the bedroom and I cross over to the bed, setting Poseidon down. He's frightened, though, and merely darts back over to me. I lift him back into my arms and walk over to the closet door, pulling it shut tightly, because that's all I have left of my Finnick and I won't let anyone take it away. I lean against the door and look at them. I take in Marv's dirty hair and his sleep-deprived eyes, and Henry's anxious expression and bitten nails. I know why Marv is in such bad shape, but I can't say I have any idea why Henry looks distressed, nor why he's here at all.

"Hi," I finally say, realizing suddenly that I never replied to Marv. Henry's eyes meet mine and suddenly I want them out of this room so badly I could scream. This is the world that I share with Finnick and Finnick only and I don't like them in here. I don't like them in this house at all. I know they are probably here to check up on me, and I am touched that they care, but at the same time I wish they wouldn't have barged in. They are looking for Annie and Annie isn't here. She's still looking for Finnick.

I wordlessly walk out of the room and they follow, much to my relief. I lead them to a sitting room a few doors down from the living room that Finnick and I almost never enter. It's dusty and cold, but I can't feel him in here, so they can't take him away.

They sit down on a couch and it's then that I realize they haven't come for a quick visit to tell me something. I stay standing, hoping they'll get the message, but they just stare apologetically at me.

"We're so sorry, Annie," Henry speaks up. His eyes hold true remorse when he meets mine again.

I swallow and hold Poseidon closer to me. I glance down at him, and he's staring intently at Marv and Henry, never taking his eyes off them for one moment, like he just doesn't trust them. Leave it to Finn to find probably the only protective kitten in District 4.

"It isn't your fault," I mutter a few minutes later. I finally sit down in a rocking chair across from the couch, because they aren't going anywhere and my legs haven't stopped shaking since the reaping. Poseidon turns in my lap so he can keep his eyes on the two men on the sofa. Henry is looking uneasily at him, and it's then that I remember he hates cats. He used to take the long way around town to avoid the cats that hung out in front of the bakery.

"We know you must be in a lot of pain," Henry continues.

I just stare at him, because of course I am. What do I say to that? They had to have known that the minute they walked into the room and found me huddled in Finnick's closet, holding onto the only things I have left of him.

They have no idea how to speak to me and it shows. They are extremely uncomfortable, and if I wasn't so empty and ringing with sorrow, I'd probably feel uncomfortable too. I'd be trying my hardest to help them, trying to at least act like I'm sane, but I'm too tired. I'm too tired to pretend I'm anything but what I am: mad and broken, wishing more than I wish to be alive that Finn and Mags were back here with me.

"Finnick Odair came to see me a few days before the reaping," Marv speaks up, his voice careful and measured. I wait to feel surprised by this, but I don't.

"And he told you to watch over me," I finish for him, my voice flat and asking no questions, because I know this must be so.

Marv nods. I wonder what Henry is doing here. I can easily picture Finnick asking Marv to watch over me, because Marv is the closest thing I have to a family member with Finn and Mags gone, but I can't imagine him going to Henry. I can't even imagine him smiling at Henry on the street. They don't like each other after the disastrous first meeting they had. I know Finnick, and I know that he doesn't trust people easily, and so I'm confused over why he'd trust Henry with me.

My questions are answered a few moments later when Henry speaks up, his voice meek.

"I was on my way over to check on you when Marv and I crossed paths," he explains.

It takes a few moments, but I work up a small smile. It leaves me hurting even worse, but they both seem to feel a lot better because of it.

"Thank you for caring," I say. I don't know why they do, but it is nice to know sometimes that the world isn't full of awful people.

"You're Cora's little sister," Marv tells me as if that explains everything, his voice taking on a hint of grief. I wonder then if he's moved on. If he's dating other girls. I wonder how Cora would feel if he was. I think probably relieved.

A silence falls over us again, and I wonder what they want now. They checked up on me, so why are they still here? I want them to leave, because I feel even madder with them here.

When Marv suggests he cooks something for lunch, I understand the full extent of what he meant by "watch over me". He meant he'll be here for three meals a day, trying his hardest to force conversations that aren't going to flow and food down my throat. And judging by the way Henry walks with him to the kitchen, Henry intends on doing the same.

I glance down at Poseidon again and he looks up, and my smile is almost genuine when I am sure he feels the same about this as I do.

I only make it halfway through lunch before I'm sobbing hysterically. Marv awkwardly pats my shoulder, unsure how to comfort me, and asks me what's wrong. I can't tell them that everything is wrong, that Finnick is gone, that I want to be gone, too. Henry leaves abruptly, the door slamming after him, and I think he's gone for good. But he returns a few minutes later, a small pitcher of cranberry juice in his hand, and that makes me cry even harder. We used to drink that together every holiday. We loved it, but it's a commodity that costs a bit much in 4, so we used to save our money for it to drink on special occasions. But now when I see it it only makes me think of blood and I want to vomit and I can feel a flashback coming on and Finnick would have known that. He knows the things that aren't allowed, the things that can send me into hysterics so intense I tear my skin.

"I'm not her anymore," I gasp out to Henry, in such a panic I can't even get myself to pretend to drink the juice to be kind. It hurts me to hurt him, just as it always hurts me to hurt anyone, but then I'm gone and it doesn't matter any longer.

There's a baby in my lap, and she's giggling and waving her arms up and down. She's got dark blonde curls on her head and bright blue eyes. I know that I love her, but I don't know for sure who she is.

My sister walks into the room, a laundry basket in her arms and a stressed expression on her face. She glances at us momentarily and then dumps the clothes out on the couch, beginning to fold a few.

I want to ask her whose baby this is, but I get the feeling that I should know, so I just turn to the baby and smile. She smiles back and my heart warms immediately. I hug her to me and kiss the top of her head and I look up to find Cora watching us with a smile.

"Delia sure does love you, Shell," she says.

She turns back to her laundry and I turn back to the baby that I now can see is my niece. I don't know how I could have ever misplaced those blonde curls or those blue eyes. She looks so fragile, her skin light and thin and her curls shining in the light like they're made of a delicate metal of some sort.

I am suddenly terrified for her, terrified because this is how I started out, too. Small and fragile and giggling, with a head full of dark curls and bright green eyes. My father always told me that I had everyone in the family wrapped around my tiny finger the moment they met me, and because of that, they all treated me extra gently. And now look where I am. I was raised as something breakable, something gentle, something defenseless, and that is exactly what I became.

I kiss the top of Delia's head and make her a promise that no one made to me.

"You will be a strong person when you grow up," I tell her. "You won't fall apart and you won't be lost without someone holding your hand."

She just beams widely at me.

I come back to the kitchen and my neck aches. I realize I'm being shaken back and forth urgently. I look up into Marv's face, confused and annoyed that he's shaking me, before I remember that he doesn't know that it's useless. He doesn't know that unless Finnick is there, I only come out of my other world when I'm ready to. He's just doing whatever he can, and it's not his fault.

"Are you okay?" Henry demands, rising from the chair beside me. Marv asks me a question too, and suddenly I'm completely overwhelmed, so overwhelmed I can feel a panic attack starting.

"I think I need to be alone," I tell them, and then I push past Marv and run towards the stairs. I can hear Henry rise to follow me, but then Marv stops him and I am grateful. I almost step on Poseidon when I make it to the top of the stairs. He's curled up right in the middle of the hallway, sleeping. I reach down and pick him up and he blinks blearily around. I take him with me and slip into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

I'm gasping for air and sliding to the floor immediately, sure that there are heavy stones on top of my chest. I reach down to try and pull them off, but nothing is on me except for Finnick's sweater. I lie down on the floor and struggle to breathe for what must be an hour, my head spinning and tears streaking down from the corners of my eyes. Poseidon stands beside the bed and mews until I pull myself up and pick him up, setting him on the bed once more. I lie down on it as well, rolling over to Finn's side and pressing my face into his pillow. I slide my hands under it as well, and then I jump up immediately when my hand grazes something. My hand is shivering almost as much as I was earlier this morning when I move the pillow aside, my eyes falling on a folded sheet of paper. There's a confusing moment where I can't decide whether I want to smile or sob, but then I'm smiling a bit and clutching the paper to me.

"I miss him so much," I say out loud to Poseidon, because the feeling is eating away at me and I will burst if I don't get it out somehow. Poseidon merely stares at me with those large eyes. I wipe tears off my face and carefully unfold the paper, missing the man who was my husband in every way that matters. The man that held my face and kissed me when I was upset and did things like hiding poems around the house for me to find when he's gone, so he's really not gone at all.

My life without you?
I don't think I could exsplain it
because I'mm sure it can't exiist
I can't imagine llying alone,
eempty arms,
just me and the pillows.

my liife without you is like
my poems without your spellchecking

my heaart without a beat
mmy sleep without dreams

a sail withhout any wind
a beeach without the sun
i am always with you, my darrling
i lovee you.

At first I'm laughing weakly at his attempt at purposely misspelling words to make a point, because it doesn't make much sense at all. I hug the paper to my chest and lie down, feeling the words warm inside of me. But the longer I keep my eyes closed and replay them, the more I'm wondering why he did it the way he did. He's Finnick, he always does things deliberately, with some sort of purpose. I open my eyes and lift the paper back into my view, examining and seeing what each misspelling has in common. A few moments later I'm realizing it's all letters that aren't necessary instead of the wrong letters. I don't understand why he would do it that way, but then I'm reaching for a pen and circling every extraneous letter, and I understand. It becomes a small poem on its own, living inside another. Smile, I am here.

And he's right. He is here. He's in these words, in my heart, in my memories, in this room. He's everywhere, he's everything. And he's Finnick. He always comes back to me, doesn't he? He leaves every year but he always comes back. He won his Games when he was fourteen. Surely he can do the same ten years later. I can't let myself remember that he's up against other victors now. The only ones I think would even be a threat at all are Katniss and Johanna, and maybe they'll take each other out before he has to worry about it.

Please come home.

I drift off to sleep only to wake up and have a violent flashback, the arena always on my mind now, almost more than it was right after my own Games. I make it to the bathroom before I vomit, and when I'm brushing my teeth afterwards, feeling my mind about to drift far away, I see another paper sitting innocently on the towel rack. The sight of it brings me into focus and I unfold it, absorbing the words.

I will misss brushing my teeth
besiide you
I will miss ttalking
and ttouching
and being iinspired by you
I will miss nnights
and morninggs

most of all, I will miss
you.
yourr smile
your hoope
yoour laugh.
try not to mmiss me, too.

When I find the words hidden in this one (sitting room), I realize what he's done. He's hidden these all over the house, messages to decode in each, because he knows the only thing that keeps my mind present without his hands here are puzzles. He's given me dozens of them. He is gone, hundreds of miles away, getting ready to enter an arena to fight to the death, and he is still taking care of me, still giving me what I need to feel sane.

Never will anyone love anyone as much as I love him.

I spend the rest of the day trailing throughout the house, crying and smiling and decoding. His words keep me warmer than his sweater and they keep me steadier than anything else could. Poseidon follows me around, interested in whatever I'm doing. When night falls I go into the living room and stack the poems and messages on the table beside the couch. I find an old ball of yarn Mags left here that's been sitting on the bookshelf, untouched, for a very long time and I cut a piece free. I sit on the floor with Poseidon and dangle it above him, watching as he leaps high into the air to try and snatch at it. We do this for an hour and by the time my mind is tiring and about to drift, I'm holding him close and my tears are dripping into his fur.

Finnick is with me again.

We're on a dock and we're trying to fish but it never works out.

I can't let go of him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks me, leaning down to kiss me.

I just hold him closer, amazed at how right it feels to have my arms tightly around him. The firmness of his body is what makes the pieces of my life fit together. They're all jagged and wrong without it.

"Somewhere you aren't with me, and I want to die because of it," I whisper, and I know it's true because I can feel the pain eroding my chest like some sort of acid. I press my face against him and try to keep from crying, but it hurts hurts hurts.

He gently lifts my face so his eyes can meet mine.

"Then I can guarantee that in that same place, I want to die because of it, too," he says softly.

This makes me cry.

He strokes my hair and admits something like it's a secret, even though we both know that I know it already.

"I would do anything to get back to you."

My eyes are burning when I reply.

"Even kill your friends?"

His hand stills and I look up at him, my eyes burning and the skin around them sore. His eyes are scanning over me intently.

"Yes," he says immediately, without having to think much on it at all. But the word sounds heavy with pain, because I know he is telling me the truth. I know that he would do it, even if it would destroy him, just so he could come back to me. Because we both know I'm a mess without him.

The real question is if I would ask him to.

He kisses my hands and spends an hour telling me funny stories to make me smile, and it's then that I know that not only would I ask him to, but somewhere, I already have.

Maybe that's why my parents and Cora raised me to be the way I am.

Maybe they were trying to save me from becoming a person who would do that.

I wake up from another nightmare where Finn was beheaded.

I try unsuccessfully for four hours to tend to my wounds. It's impossible though because every time I look down at them, I either have a flashback or slip away. And when I have a flashback, I tend to rip at the area even more, pulling more skin away or ripping off new scabs that have just finally begun to form.

It's the early afternoon when Marv and Henry come by, arms laden with food. They take one look at me and freak out. Henry forces me down into a chair and Marv kneels in front of me, examining the cuts that are now covered in sticky, half-formed scabs.

Henry's face is white and he sets a heavy hand on my shoulder. I turn and look at him and he's frowning.

"Don't you ever do this to yourself again," he orders. He speaks to me like he's scolding a child.

I just stare at him.

He has no idea what he is talking about.

And I wouldn't listen to him even if he did.

This doesn't concern him at all. I don't concern him at all. I don't even know why he's here. I don't know why anyone is here. Why can't it just Poseidon and me? Why?

I know the answer when Marv begins cleaning and bandaging up my arms. Right. I can't take care of myself. Neither can a kitten.

I try to think of a way to explain to them that I didn't do it on purpose all throughout lunch, but I can't find the words. The only words in my mind are Finnick's and I am not sending them away just for the sake of explaining something to Marv and Henry.

Marv tries unsuccessfully to play with Poseidon after lunch. We all sit in the living room and I pull my puzzle from the shelf, almost feeling like a weight was lifted off my shoulder when I lift the top of the box off and run my fingers over the pieces. I've done is so many times that I have each piece and where it fits memorized, but it doesn't matter. It's still as calming as it's always been.

Henry sits down across from me and asks if he can help, and I tell him yes before I can even think it through. But it's actually not too bad. He gets very serious about it and rambles on about angles and mass and other things. It's interesting to listen to, even if I don't get what he's saying.

We're almost completely done with it when Poseidon prances over, sitting down right in the middle of it. I laugh but Henry gets irritated, complaining that Poseidon is ruining it.

"He's fine," I tell Henry, surprised that he's getting upset about a kitten. I'd forgotten how short his temper is, too.

Henry looks a bit shocked by those two words, like he can't believe I'm going against him. Maybe he is finally understanding what I meant when I told him I wasn't Annie anymore. At least not the Annie he knew, anyway.

His eyes drift down like they have been throughout the entire puzzle, and this time I follow his gaze. My ring is shining in the light. He looks back up at me.

"So you married Odair?" he asks casually.

I don't know how to answer that one. Marv joins us, looking at my hand in surprise. I'm feeling uncomfortable and trying to figure out which would have made me more uneasy: taking the ring off before they came or being in this current situation.

"Kind of," I hedge. I regret the words as soon as they are out of my mouth. When Finn makes it to the final eight reporters are going to come here and interview, and what if Marv or Henry lets this slip to them? I worry until I remember a few words from one of Finnick's poems, and then I'm reminded that if they interview anyone here, it will be me. Finnick doesn't know anyone else on a personal basis anymore, just like I don't. I look back down at the puzzle, suddenly hating that I pulled it out with them here, and hating that I feel that way. I wish it wasn't so hard to be with other people. But more than anything, I wish Finn was here.

When Henry speaks next, I can tell he's trying to word it in a way that doesn't upset me. The words come out slow and careful. "You kind of married him, knowing he sleeps with people in the Capitol all the time?"

He's looking at me like I'm an idiot. Marv is visibly uncomfortable. He looks at Henry with an expression that screams shut up.

"Guess I did," I finally reply, because what else could I say? I will never tell them Finnick's secret and I can't deny that he sleeps with them. Everyone knows he does.

Nothing else is said about it, but Henry spends the rest of the day acting in a way that reminds me of Arnav after he lost a race to a bully. He frowns and no matter what he says, it comes out sounding like it's not fair.

I want to scream at him that life isn't fair. Doesn't he know that? I know that. I know it because my family is dead. And Finnick and Mags are gone.

Marv and Henry are trying though, and I have to remember that none of this is their fault. I thank them for coming by, because even if it's uncomfortable for all of us, I guess it's best in the long run. Better for me because I can't live completely alone, better for Marv because he feels like he is doing something for Cora, better for Henry because…well, I don't really know why. He was always stubborn though so perhaps he's got it in his mind that this is his job somehow. Either way, he's here.

I sit in front of the television for an hour before the opening ceremonies even begin. I'm anxious and sick, desperate to see Finnick but also scared to. When the first chariot begins making its way around the City Circle, I feel sick. It's awful to see these adults in costumes like these. I feel embarrassed for them. When Finnick and Mags' chariot comes into view, I'm even sicker. They've put Mags in some sort of tan dress covered in a netting material, but they've of course put Finnick in next to nothing. At first I think he's naked, and I'm leaning towards the TV, anger coursing through me, because that isn't allowed, is it? They can't just make him go out there naked. But then I see he's got a golden net on him, knotted just right so he's not exactly naked, and somehow that makes me feel even worse. Even when he's about to go into the arena they have him depicted as a sex symbol. And how can he look like him but not like him? It's his body, but it isn't. It looks familiar, but it doesn't. Somehow my mind can't understand that the body being paraded around in front of screaming, lustful Capitol eyes is the same body that sleeps beside me every night. This body is glowing and polished and it looks like it was created just for this purpose, to be ogled at and lusted over. It's perfect, but in a way that is almost too perfect. It looks like it belongs to those shrieking and fanning themselves on screen. But Finnick's real body is just that. It's real and it exists for him and it is perfect because it's his. It exists to do what he wants and go where he wants. It exists so I can hold him to me and kiss him. Not for this. Never for this.

"Wow. Odair's wasting no time getting those sponsors, is he?" Henry mutters.

It takes me a moment to understand what he's saying, because all I can think about is my Finnick and how awful he must feel deep down. I study his face any time it comes into view, and I can see two small lines between his eyebrows, and it breaks my heart.

When Henry's comment sinks in, I spin around.

"Shut up!" I shriek angrily, looking even more surprised after I do than Henry does.

Marv stares, open-mouthed, and I am sure he has never heard me yell at someone in all the years he's known me.

Henry backtracks quickly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

I'm blinking back tears when I turn back to the television, my heart aching for Finnick and Mags.

"You have no idea what you mean. You don't understand any of this," I whisper.

Finnick isn't beheaded in my dreams that night. Instead, he's strangled with that golden net.

I'm sitting on the beach, and Finnick is most likely in training.

This is a game I play now. I like to check the time and think back to my own Games and try to determine where and what Finnick must be doing. Yesterday I cried all morning, drifted all day, and curled up with Poseidon all night. Marv and Henry left me alone, but they stayed, and they forced food into me.

They're a little ways down the beach, talking to each other and keeping their eyes on me, as if they think I'm going to drown myself.

For some reason that makes me smile and I wish Finn was here to smile with me. It shows how much they don't know me that they'd even consider that I would kill myself that way. That would be my last resort option.

I drag my fingers through the sand and I can't help but wonder what Finnick and Mags are going to do for their private sessions tomorrow. What are any of them going to do? I guess whatever they're best at, but it's going to be quite boring I suppose, since everyone in Panem knows what that is.

The closer the actual Games get, the more desperate I feel. I sleep directly in front of the television now. I know that the Games aren't starting yet and they won't start in the middle of the night, but I have to do it anyway. I know these are the only Games I will watch completely, all the way through. And they will be the hardest to watch. But I have to. I have to because the only thing worse than knowing what Finnick and Mags are going through is not knowing. That's why I have to play this game, why I have to picture where they are and what they're doing. I have to know that they are doing something, that they're still alive, that they're out there somewhere and maybe, just maybe, they're thinking of me, too.

When the sun begins to set it stains the sky orange, and I'm sobbing into my hands.

Marv helps me walk back up the shore and into the house. He sits me down in the living room and Henry turns a fan on, making comments about the heat and how it shouldn't be this hot at night, but that only makes me feel worse because I am always cold. The moment Finnick left me the cold feeling from the water in my Games took back over me, and it hasn't left since. I bundle up in his sweaters and coats and try to warm myself, but nothing really works at all. I know the only thing that would help would be him, like when he crawled into that bed with me in the Capitol and held me until I was warm for the very first time in weeks. That won't happen, though.

I beg Marv and Henry to leave, and at first Marv refuses because he doesn't leave this early usually, but then he agrees. The front door shuts and I let out hysterical sobs that I've been holding back. I should have just died in my own Games.

Poseidon finds me, curled up on my side on the floor, a few hours later. He climbs up on top of me and curls into a ball in the dip of my waist. He seems to not notice that I'm shaking from tears, or he doesn't care. His tiny little chest moves up and down as he falls into a deep sleep, and I find myself calming down, too.

I'm walking down the street with Delia, and she's five, and I'm not sure when that happened.

Her blonde curls are pulled back into a blue ribbon and she's singing a song Cora always sings under her breath. I know I'm taking her to see her mother, but I can't remember where that is. I'm sad and I miss Finnick.

"Auntie!" she exclaims. Aunt Annie was too difficult for a child to pronounce, so she started calling me "Auntie" a long time ago, and I'm sure she always will. I look down at her.

"Yes?" I ask.

She's smiling widely, happy like all children are, because life is easy and beautiful and warm.

"Are we going to see Finny?" she asks.

I find myself smiling widely, because for whatever reason, I'd forgotten she calls him that. It's adorable and leaves me wanting to giggle and tease him for it, but he's not here right now, so I can't.

"No, we're going to see your mother," I reply.

She frowns and stops in her tracks.

"I want to see Finny," she decides.

I'm unsure what to do, because I want to see him, too.

"I don't know where he is. And I told your mom I'd bring you to the shop," I reply. That's right, isn't it? I was babysitting her while Cora was at the shop and I'm supposed to bring her by at three. How did I forget that?

She frowns.

"You don't know where he is?" she asks, skeptical.

And then my throat is aching, because I really, truly don't. Where is he? Where's Finnick?

I come back to the real world, Poseidon brushing against my leg and my chest aching. I have an intense moment of panic, sitting up and pulling at my hair, because I never figured out whether the other world just stops or if it goes on. What if I left Delia all in the street by herself? What if she gets taken or hurt?

It takes me a while, but I slowly remember that Delia doesn't exist and neither does anyone else I see in my other world, except Finn. But one day soon he might not exist, either.

The next day I can't do anything but find more of Finnick's poems. I miss him so badly even getting up is difficult. The only thing that could get me to move would be the promise of somehow communicating with him, even if it's only in the limited way of reading words he's written down. I do that all day, ignoring Marv and Henry's confused looks as I drift back and forth between rooms. I know I've found the last one when the hidden message is simply: I love you.

I take them all and set them on the dresser upstairs, feeling like I've lost him all over again with the last one placed on top. I am sick of lasts.

We're all quiet as the scores begin. Districts 1 and 2 get high scores as always. District 3 receives medium scores. My heart beats rapidly when they flash Finnick's picture, and then I can't decide what I feel when I see the ten. Relieved that it's high, I guess. Mags gets a three. I figured she would have at least made a six if she'd shown off her hook crafting abilities, so I'm wondering once more what she did. Knitted, maybe? The idea is so Mags that I'm smiling a bit. I hope with everything inside of me that she goes painlessly and happily in the arena.

One more day, and then the interviews, and then the Games begin.

I can't help but wonder how long exactly I'm going to be able to keep my promise to Finnick.

It's dark all the time, but it's cold more than anything.

I'm back to how it was when I knew the sun was shining, but still everything was in some sort of dark haze. Henry and Marv force conversation the day after the scores, but the day after that, I can't even pretend at all. I take to Finn's closet again and sleep for hours, waking up only to drift away. It's not so bad in here. It smells like he'll be home any minute and it's warm and safe. Enclosed spaces are good, nice, lovely. I can curl up so tightly it almost feels like I'm pressing the pain out of my heart.

Marv comes and knocks lightly on the door when it's time for the interviews. I drag myself up and carry the blanket with me downstairs, shaking and unwell. I sit beside Henry on the couch and he smiles at me and it's nice to see a smile.

Caesar Flickerman begins the show as he always does, and then they start the ball rolling with the District 1 tribute. She rambles on about how she's devastated that the people in the Capitol are going to lose their victors, and everyone in the audience is frowning and some are blotting at tears with fancy handkerchiefs. Her district partner is her brother and I cry for a while, thinking about how awful it would be to be in the Games with Arnav. I miss the interviews for 2 and 3.

When Mags comes on stage, I feel like an earthquake from my arena has broken my sternum and cracked my chest open. She never should have had to go back to the Capitol. She should be here, I should be there. I should be on that stage. Oh, Mags.

Caesar is struggling, because hardly anyone understands Mags. He rambles for most of it, trying to take up the three minutes with as little pain to her as possible. He seems insistent on asking one question, though.

"Now, Mags, we've all been wondering. Why did you volunteer?" Caesar asks her, real confusion on his face.

Mags pauses, her eyes almost angry.

"Because you can't have them both," she says. And I know without a doubt that Snow is who she's talking to. Caesar and the crowd are completely lost, and I'm confused too. I don't know whether she means her baby and me, or Finnick and me. I just know that this is all wrong.

I find myself sliding off the couch and walking towards the television with Finn walks on stage. I sit down right in front of it, my heart in my throat and my eyes burning. He looks beautiful, but sad. I have to clench my hands together tightly to keep from reaching up to touch the television screen. This is a pain I can't brush away. He is too far.

He sits down and Caesar sighs heavily.

"Well, I never thought I'd be seeing you like this again, Finnick. What do you have to say about all this?"

Finnick appears thoughtful as he frowns.

"I don't know. I mean, what is there to say about all of this? I've been friends with some of these people for ten years, and now I'm going to have to kill them. What do you say about that?"

The crowd is tearing up, all of them looking like they would give insurmountable amounts of money to comfort Finnick Odair right now. I would give my life to.

"I guess nothing. How have you been handling this, especially being back up against your own mentor?" Caesar pushes.

I want to crawl inside the television and punch him. Stop asking Finn these questions. Stop. His eyebrows are furrowed; the corners of his mouth are down. Don't you know that means he's sad? Don't you? Stop stop stop!

Finnick looks down, overcome with sadness, and I'm dying because I know it's real. I know he must be showing it for a purpose, because he is very careful about what he does and how he acts on screen, but it is real sorrow and it breaks me.

"Not very well. The worst part of it is that I have to leave my one true love. We should have had years together. Now it's over," he mutters, looking back up at Caesar with a stricken expression.

The audience has fallen completely silent except for nervous whispering every few moments. I'm leaning forward on my knees, staring at Finn, because what is he doing? He can't be doing what it sounds like he is. He wouldn't.

Caesar seems shocked as well. His eyes are wide and he leans forward almost like him and Finnick are telling secrets to each other. Which, I guess they are.

"And who might this one true love be?" he asks.

Finnick looks up at the audience, smiling a smile so beautiful I get butterflies even from this far away, and then his eyes land on one of the cameras.

"She's here right now," he says, turning away after he's said it to meet Caesar's eyes once more.

The women in the audience shriek widely, convinced it is one of them he's talking about. His words make me sad, because even now, we have to pretend. But I know he means me, and that's all that really matters. I wouldn't want him admitting anything, especially not now.

Caesar starts to say something else, but Finn cuts him off.

"With my remaining time, could I recite a poem I wrote to her?" he pleads, looking at Ceasar with his green eyes wide and desperate. Finn. Of course he is using his interview to recite me a poem. Of course.

The women scream louder and Caesar nods quickly.

"By all means."

Finnick rises and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a piece of thick, expensive looking paper. He unfolds it carefully and then looks up, his eyes finding the camera once more. He stares at it for a few extended moments, and I know he is looking at me, and I hope he can feel that I'm looking back, too.

He drops his eyes from the camera and turns to the paper, and I am sure everyone else misses it, but his hands are shaking a bit. I'm shaking, too. Always step in step with Finn, hand in hand, heart in heart. Always.

He begins reciting the poem, his voice smooth and deep and I can feel the love in every word he utters.

"I could look at you forever/ and still, it would not be enough./ You are beautiful like the soft pink of the sunrise/ after a terrible yesterday/ or the fragile white of a shell/ dug up after hours of searching/ I see you in everything/ in the rain on the pavement/ in the sunlight reflecting off stained glass/ in the opening notes of a song/ My heart and body ache to be/ with your heart and body/ always./ You are the only one I love/ the only one I cherish/ the only one I dream of/ I am lost without you./ No matter how long I am with you/ it is never enough./ I could look at you forever."

Women in the audience are sobbing, and I'm curled up in a ball on the floor, and I can't breathe.

Henry and Marv try to comfort me, but I don't want them touching me, I don't want them near me, I don't want them here right now. I rise and run up the stairs, frantic and filled with such a sense of horror that I find I can't control myself at all. I watch myself open the door to the bedroom and the door to the bathroom. I watch myself turn up the faucet and I watch myself watching the water fill the tub. I watch myself lowering myself into the water and I watch myself falling into hysterics, screaming and crying and wanting so badly to die, because Finnick is going to die, and he is all I have, all I have, all I ever will have, all I could ever want, and he loves me so much, and I love him so much too, and why am I sinking under the water?

I crawl back into my own skin and mind and my muscles are tight with fear and I can't move. My eyes are open, looking up at the ceiling from under the water, and what am I doing? Am I trying to drown myself? I don't know, but I'm not moving, and my eyes are blurring and my head feels weightless and my chest is burning. But then I'm breaking the surface and weeping, because I promised him. I promised. I promised. I never should have, but I did, and now I have to do as I said. I can't just do things like this. I mean something to him now, which means whatever I do, it affects him. I have to believe that things will be okay. But I'm scared. I'm scared to see him die. I'm scared to be without him. I'm more scared of those things than death.

It isn't until later that night, curled up in front of the television with Poseidon, that I realize that maybe keeping all your promises to someone, even when it's implausibly painful, is the true test of love.

Chapter Text

Two hundred years ago, there lived an enchanting young woman named Nyveve. She had hair like autumn leaves and eyes like honey. When she spoke, her voice came tumbling out of her mouth with a similar smoothness to water flowing over smooth pebbles. She walked as easily as you float and when she smiled, she looked just like the sunset, her hair flaming and her golden eyes alight with happiness.

She grew up sheltered and stunted. Her parents were fishermen and very kind, but they didn't understand that there are greater dangers to a girl than the outside world. They told her all about the horrors they saw out on the sea and all about the terrible things people did to one another. Nyveve would sit at her mother's feet every night, inhaling the scent of salt water she always carried with her, and listen to story after story. The man she saw selling crabmeat last week was tossed overboard and drowned. The girl who walked on the shore every morning was dragged out to sea. The boy who roamed around town was stabbed. The dangers of both sea and human nature were disquieting. They crept inside of Nyveve slowly, bit by bit, story by story, until the only thing she ever wanted to do was sit at her mother's feet and listen. She would grip her skirts and think: life is terrifying enough to hear secondhand. Why would anyone want to live it?

That was what her parents wanted, because she was their only child, and even then she came to them as a miracle. They had trouble conceiving, and after suffering through the death of one baby, they were certain they could never have another. But Nyveve came just as the fall does every year, sudden and beautiful, and she brought with her a fear that corroded both her mother and her father, like water rusting away at steel.

But what her parents did not want, what they did not expect, was that Nyveve would begin to fear the good as well as the bad. They only wanted to deter her from doing dangerous things, but as she grew, she didn't want to do anything at all. She was gripped by a paralyzing fear that even leaving the house would result in agony. Her father tried telling her happy stories about life and the sea, but it was too late to overwrite what she'd already heard her entire life. She was living in cupboards inside her very soul, peeking out at brief moments to catch a glimpse of something beautiful (a silver silk sail, a startling sunset, a small smile), only to retreat back in a few seconds later, terrified of what she'd seen and what it might mean.

There was someone else who lived inside cupboards, too. A girl named Eirene with hair so blonde it was white, white like ice, white like a winter sky, white like pearls. Her eyes were blue like the sea and she lived hidden away because she was sick. The healers were unsure what she had. All they would ever tell her was that her blood wasn't right, that it was drowning her. She wasn't sure what that meant, but sometimes when she coughed and blood spewed everywhere around her, she understood why they used that word.

She was terrified to look outside of her cupboard for too long because she did not want to see what she would be missing. She only had a few years left, after all. Better to die believing she wasn't missing anything than to die sick to her aching bones over what she will never see and never do.

Nyveve's parents, desperate for their daughter to know and to live, arranged for Eirene to be brought to their home. Eirene and Nyveve sat in a silence so quiet you could practically hear the leaves falling from the trees the first time they met. They peeked and peeked and peeked, peering cautiously at each other, one terrified of being injured and the other terrified of being happy. But when Nyveve smiled, Eirene saw the setting sun for the first time in her entire life, and the shock sent her tumbling out of the cupboard. She skinned her knee on the way down, coughing up blood immediately in shock of actually being somewhere, with another person, another person whose hair made her burn and whose burns made her feel.

Nyveve clawed her way out of her cupboard as well, terrified by the sight of the sea of blood. She grabbed onto Eirene's hand and her skin was cold, but Nyveve was cold, too. She pulled Eirene from the red sea and from that point on, they exited their cupboards when they were alone. They breathed words to each other that had never been heard out loud. And they understood. Nyveve ran her fingers through Eirene's hair and spoke of all the horrors she'd heard of and how they frightened her. Eirene laid her head on Nyveve's knee and told her of all the beautiful things she's heard of and how they terrify her. They built up a world within each other, their sheltered souls bridged together, and huddled there. Nyveve hiding from dying, and Eirene from living.

By the time Nyveve was as tall as her mother, her soul was aflame just like her hair, and only the cool ice of Eirene could soothe her. The two were inseparable. Eirene came by Nyveve's house every day, and with her, she brought something Nyveve never expected: bravery. She learned that there are greater dangers than dying. Dangers such as loneliness, separation, red seas that drown her lover. Nyveve was terrified of many things in life, but the only thing she was frightened of more was the idea of never living at all.

Eirene listened to Nyveve and two years after they met, she realized something with a jolt: she's been living all along. What else could this have been? She has been burning silently in front of fires with Nyveve, at the table with Nyveve, on the shore with Nyveve. Burning for time, for change, for Nyveve's smile. Burning alive and burning well, because she still hadn't drowned, and the healer said it will happen any day now.

They clung to each other like sand clings to wet skin and they understood. What pulled them together will pull them apart. And so they worked together and Nyveve learned to swallow her fear while Eirene learned to accept living. Nyveve's parents were filled with joy because their beautiful daughter was happy, and she was wading in the sea, and she was going into town. She was holding someone's hand and entering the sunlight.

Eirene's were concerned, because their daughter was sick. Her physical state was deteriorating by the day while her emotional flourished. They didn't like Nyveve because she made Eirene do things she just couldn't. She made Eirene believe she could do anything. Eirene leaped and sang and twirled and swam and sailed, but all the while her blood was rising and rising and rising, and her face was paling until it was as light as her hair.

Eirene's parents locked her away from Nyveve. They were frightened and did what those who are frightened do: they grabbed onto whatever they had left with all they had. They were selfish and terrified to lose Eirene.

Eirene wilted, Eirene melted, Eirene drowned.

Nyveve beat against the heavy wooden door for hours, trying to get inside to see her.

Eirene cried, Eirene choked, Eirene shivered.

Nyveve set her hands against the stone walls and pushed.

Eirene ached, Eirene gasped, Eirene gave up.

There was no more sun, no more fire, no more light. Only ice and blood and clammy skin. And soon, there was no more Eirene.

The last thing Eirene thought before she was blown away is that, in the end, she wasn't afraid of how much she lived. She was afraid of dying.

How about that?

Nyveve stayed on Eirene's doorstep for two days. Eirene's parents came out and she shrieked: You killed her. I told you she needed me. I needed her, too.

Nyveve was dragged away and taken back to her own home, where she shivered and her red hair fell out strand by strand.

Devastated and achingly lonely, she fled her home. She ran across sharp stones and jagged bits of shell and into the surf. Being inside her cupboard no longer felt comforting, because she made room for one more, and her one more was gone.

She walked out into the sea until she could not walk anymore.

She drowned like Eirene.

The last thing Nyveve thought before she extinguished was that, in the end, she wasn't afraid of dying. She was afraid of living safely for the rest of her days.

How about that?

She died, but she didn't. She rose out of the sea hours later, lighter than she's ever been. She glided over the water and took to the sand. Others glided around her, too, but she couldn't see any hair white as bone. She screamed and as she did, the waters rose and crashed angrily against the rocks. If this is where those who have drowned go after dying, why isn't Eirene here? She drowned, too.

They call her the Maiden of the Sea. She haunts the shoreline every night at dark, looking for her lover, trying to save others from befalling the same fate as she did. When she cries, it pours, and when she screams, boats sink.

I think her and I could be friends.

I can't find my lover, either. They took him away, too. There is water all around and I'm afraid he might drown as well.

The 75th Annual Hunger Games have begun.

I shake when the arena comes into view. It's got forests so dense they aren't forests at all. Here's another spelling word for you: jungle.

Water is everywhere, and the minute I see it, my heart is aching. The only thing to do is to dive into it, because the Cornucopia is in the middle and the only strips of land that lead to dry land are stemming off from there. The problem is that this water could easily be filled with the same blood thinners that the lake in my arena was filled with, or dangerous creatures.

I dig my fingernails into my thighs when the countdown starts. They're panning over to each tribute's face, and when I see Finn, I press down so hard blood begins dripping in small beads down my legs. I can't have a flashback I can't have a flashback I can't have a flashback. I can't. He's peering intently at the Cornucopia, and at this point I can only hope that the water is safe. If it is, I can breathe easier, because I am sure he is one of the only tributes who can swim. He'll have a huge advantage because he can get to the weapons first.

I have a brief, horrid moment where I consider how great it would be if he could get to the weapons and take out everyone before they even got into the water.

I press down deeper into my legs after that thought, because I do deserve punishment for it. How awful for me to think that, how despicable. Why does he love me? I don't know.

The camera turns to Katniss Everdeen, and she reaches down into the water and brings it to her lips. Judging by the way she grimaces slightly, it's salt water.

Salt water and arenas salt water and arenas salt water and arenas.

Henry's hands grab onto mine.

He sits on the floor beside me and tries to yank my hands free from my legs, but I jerk away from him.

Marv sounds like he's in pain when he speaks up from the couch.

"Leave her alone."

Henry's eyes are pained when he meets mine. He looks back at Marv incredulously, like he can't believe what he's heard.

"Do you not see what she's doing to herself?" he demands, reaching once more for my hands. But I'm shaking my head because I need this, and the countdown is almost over, and Henry's head is blocking the screen.

Marv rises and when he speaks, he sounds so powerful I suddenly understand for once why he and Cora were ever together.

"I said leave her alone. Move out of the way," he barks.

Henry rises and walks back over to the chair.

I hope somehow Cora knows how much I owe her fiancée right now.

The gong echoes loudly throughout the living room, and I can feel it in my bones. It shakes me and I'm shivering, finding a new place on my leg to dig my nails into because I know I'm going to need a lot of pain to handle this without drifting.

I'm frantically craning my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Finnick and Mags. The camera rises so it's an aerial view, and I see Finnick dive easily into the water. Mags seems bored, standing and tapping her toes on the metal plate, like she's got somewhere to be.

I think that perhaps my dark wish will come true when he climbs onto the land of the Cornucopia, dripping with water and still somehow managing to look beautiful even in a fight to the death, but then Katniss Everdeen is turning around to face him, her hair dripping water and her eyes hard. She aims her bow straight at him.

"This is the showdown I'm sure everyone has been waiting for. There's no way the Gamemakers will let it happen now," Henry says, his voice holding a thread of nervousness.

My entire body is nerves.

I'm pleading with the Girl on Fire in my mind. Please, don't kill him. Please. I need him. Do you know he used to rescue stray cats when he was a little boy? Do you know that he cried into my hair before he left for these Games, not because he was scared for himself, but because he was scared for me? Do you know his soul is woven with stars?

Finnick's got a trident in his hands and he's got it raised, his eyes on Katniss. And he's smiling, of course he's smiling, because Finnick is always smiling. Especially when he's unhappy. I hate that, sometimes.

He's scared, though. I can see that in the seagreen of his eyes.

Please, Katniss.

"You can swim, too," Finnick says, his voice surprised. I wonder if he had the same cruel wish at the start that I did. "Where did you learn that in District 12?"

Katniss appears indifferent, her eyes hard and gray and her hands never wavering from their position on her bow.

"We have a big bathtub," she answers shortly.

Finnick's eyes are hard, too. I see his fingers flex a bit around his trident and part of me wishes he would just get it over with. I don't know if he could even reason with her at all. If he could, I would want him to, but her eyes are so intent. Could he kill her before she killed him? I don't know. I don't know, and I wouldn't ever risk finding out.

"You must. You like the arena?"

I find myself almost grinning despite myself, and I know he'd be grinning back at me if he were here. Oh, Finnick. Smug like always, beautiful like always, but far away unlike always.

Katniss glares a bit, her eyes narrowing at him. I wish the camera would pan away so I could see where the other tributes are. What is Mags doing? Why is Katniss here without Peeta? Where are the tributes from 1 and 2?

"Not particularly. But you should. They must have built it especially for you."

They don't build anything especially for Finnick. They build things against him, things to punish him, things to cage him. But never for him. I don't know why the arena starts out with water, but it surely isn't to give Finnick an upper hand. Besides Katniss, Peeta, and Johanna, Finnick is probably number four on Snow's most anticipated deaths for these Games.

I move my nails to another spot on my leg, because the intensity of this is making my head spin. Blood is everywhere, I can feel it, but I won't look. I can't keep myself here if I look. I have to be here.

They stare at each other for a few more tense moments, and then Finnick grins (a grin that's almost real, not the small smiles he gives in sad or scary situations), and I find my nails letting up a bit. It's wonderful to see that. It's reassuring, it's life-giving, it's beautiful. Breathing is easier and watching is easier and I miss him so.

"Lucky thing we're allies, right?"

Katniss doesn't look like they're allies. Her hand moves and I'm leaning towards the television, a scream forming in the back of my throat, because she can't kill him. But then she suddenly stops.

"Right," she says, sounding almost angry about it.

Nothing makes sense to me, because if they were allies, why would they have just had that stand off? I can't see Finnick allying with Katniss, anyway. I figured he'd team up with District 7 and Mags. I don't want him teamed up with Katniss. She's the one I'm most worried about, the one I am sure will try to take Finnick away from me.

I don't have time to ponder this any longer, because people are approaching them.

"Duck!" Finnick yells, and I'm rethinking my worry that Katniss is any sort of threat against Finnick when she immediately lowers down.

His trident soars through the air right above Katniss and stabs sturdily into the chest of a tribute I don't recognize.

I have to look away, my head tossing like waves are crashing into me and my stomach rolling, as he falls to the ground. My eyes are shut when I hear Finnick speak up again, instructing Katniss to not trust 1 and 2, and the barely discernible tone of remorse in his voice makes my eyes burn. I know it isn't remorse for killing the tribute. It's remorse for being put in a situation where he has to. But as awful as it is, that's almost the same thing.

I remember watching Finn's first Games. I was terrified of him. Terrified of the way he could kill and kill and not feel a thing. But now I know what it is like to be in the arena, and I know who Finnick is, and so I am sure it hurts us more than it does the person he just killed. Even in the midst of this, I find myself worrying what Finnick is thinking about himself right now. I want to reach through the screen and cradle his face because it isn't his fault. He is doing what he can to keep a promise, a promise I made him make. If anything, it's my fault.

I look back up at the screen, placing my fingernails back to the third row of bloody halfmoons in my legs and pressing down once more. Katniss and Finnick are working together seamlessly now, and all the other tributes have to be frightened. I'd be terrified to go against the two of them. On their own they're intimidating; together they appear as a force of nature, scavenging for supplies, shooting at tributes.

I can't help but exhale in relief when I see them leaving. Katniss heads towards Peeta immediately, and I don't know why, but Finnick follows. I search the screen for Johanna, but I don't see her anywhere. Why is he with the star-crossed lovers?

I'm even more confused when Finnick lays a hand on Katniss' shoulder and offers to go get Peeta. Katniss looks at him suspiciously and refuses, but then he pats her stomach and says: "Better not exert yourself. Not in your condition."

I'm turning to Marv and Henry then.

"Condition? Katniss is pregnant?" I demand, my voice quivering.

Marv nods.

"Peeta announced it during the interviews. You missed it," Henry adds.

I turn back to the television. Pregnant. How awful, how sad. I can feel my throat tightening. Katniss is pregnant and up against her fiancée. Perhaps Finnick feels poorly for her. Perhaps that's why he's helping them. But doesn't he know that they can't come home if he does? He can't honestly want Katniss to make it back instead of him. He can't. I'm awful for thinking this, I'm awful for wishing she would die, but Finnick shouldn't die, either. None of these people should die. But they have to, and Finnick promised he'd come home. That means what it means. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know who I am anymore. And I'm sorry.

I'm anguished, surprised to find I'm more troubled over my dark and cold thoughts than the blood soaking into the carpet. Finnick thinks I'm good, but he's wrong.

Finnick effortlessly swims back to Katniss with Peeta, and Peeta kisses her warmly when he makes it back. I spot Mags then, slowly making her way towards Katniss. I wonder what she was waiting for. She isn't the best swimmer, but she can swim well enough.

The screen switches then, and I'm distressed. I suffer through a few minutes of watching the District 2 tributes run through the woods, arguing about non important things. I guess the Gamemakers decide the viewers have gone long enough without the star-crossed lovers, because it pans back to Finnick soon.

"Well, I can't leave Mags behind. She's one of the few people who actually likes me," Finnick says.

I'm crying then, digging my nails even harder into my skin, because that's not even the half of it. Katniss and Peeta have no idea. They have no idea how much is in the fabric of Finnick and Mags' friendship. They have no idea how much it is going to kill Finnick to see her die. And how is Finnick still Finnick in a place like that? Why is he there and why am I here? Why can't I be there, too?

Finnick picks Mags up out of the water and it's like a weight has been lifted off my chest to see them together again. Mags pats the belt and tells them that it's a flotation device, but Katniss and Peeta just stare blankly at her.

Mags shoots Finnick an almost bored look and Finnick turns to them.

"Look, she's right. Someone figured it out."

He points at Beetee. He looks so much older somehow than when I saw him at my Victory Tour. He's floating through the water, bobbing so just his head is free from the waves.

Katniss is still lost. Mags' expression makes me want to laugh even through my tears. No one understands her speech like Finnick and I do.

"The belts," Finnick says patiently. "They're flotation devices."

Understanding paints Peeta and Katniss's faces. Mags mumbles something under her breath to Finnick that sounds like finally. Katniss and Peeta miss it though because they're staring intently at Beetee and Wiress.

I'm calming a bit as Katniss hands Peeta a few of her weapons. Mags and Finnick are together, Finnick has tridents, things will be okay. He can do this. I have to believe that he can.

Mags pulls on Katniss' sleeve and she turns to look at her.

"Do you expect me to bite them with my gums?" Mags demands, her garbled speech confusing Katniss and Peeta.

Katniss just stares, unsure what Mags is going on about. Finally she seems to get it. She hands her an awl and Mags holds it in her mouth as Finnick pulls her up onto his back.

The camera switches again. Johanna and her district partner are hacking at vines as they make their way through the forest.

"Of course it's a jungle. Because having a normal forest would be too easy," Johanna gripes, angrily slicing through an abnormally thick spider web with her ax. "This is bullshit."

Her district partner stops and examines a tree intently.

"These trees are strange. The texture is odd, look at it."

Johanna doesn't turn around for a second. She stops and sets her hands on her waist, observing the dense jungle.

"I bet there's not even any water except for that salt water. How long do you think it takes before some idiot tries to drink it?"

Her district partner ignores her, too. He slides his hand down the green trunk of the tree and then leans forward, sniffing it. Johanna turns around then, sighing heavily when she sees him.

"When you're done having a moment with the freaky tree, Blight, we should keep going. We need to find Nuts and Volts."

I'm left wondering who exactly Nuts and Volts are as the camera switches once more.

An emaciated female tribute is climbing almost dreamily through the trees. I'm not sure what district she is, but she looks like she's either sick or on some sort of drug. She seems completely unbothered by where she is or what she's doing there. After she spends two minutes chasing a strange butterfly with long, thick legs, the camera switches once more.

My heart rate immediately surges when I see Finn.

He's standing at the bottom of a tree, saying something to Mags that I can't pick up. Peeta seems stressed, and by the way he's peering up at the tree as if it holds his heart in its hands, I know Katniss must be up there.

She climbs down a few seconds later, her eyes determined and her hands clenched. I wonder what she's decided.

Finnick doesn't, though. The minute she lands on the ground he's got his trident firmly in his hands, ready to raise in attack if necessary.

His voice is careful and condescending when he speaks up.

"What's going on down there, Katniss? Have they all joined hands? Taken a vow of nonviolence? Tossed the weapons in the sea in defiance of the Capitol?" he asks.

Katniss is staring at him, a slight pinkness to her cheeks that must be from anger.

"No," she says.

"No," he repeats, his voice devoid of emotion. "Because whatever happened in the past is in the past. And no one in this arena was a victor by chance. Except maybe Peeta."

My earlier worries over what Finnick is thinking about himself are intensified. It's true that he wasn't a victor by chance. It's true that probably the only tributes who ever were victors by chance were Peeta and me. But that doesn't mean everyone who wasn't is a coldhearted killer. It just means they were strong enough to do what needed to be done, what had to be done.

If I would have been allowed to go to the Capitol as a mentor instead of Meredith, I would have sent him a parachute telling him this.

Katniss and Finnick are still locked in a glare, their weapons tight in their hands, when Peeta steps between them. I'm so relieved that I want to hug him. I don't want Katniss and Finnick fighting ever, period. Especially not now. And judging by the unhappy look on Peeta's face, he doesn't, either.

"So how many are dead?" he asks, attempting to smooth over the fight that's brewing.

He convinces the group to keep moving and Finnick and Katniss lower their weapons. I let up on my legs when they do. I'm feeling weak, but surely it can't be due to blood loss already. If it is, it is. I have to do this. I have to.

The Careers are on screen now.

They're silently making their way through the trees, stopping every few moments to listen.

"Should we begin hunting down 12 or look for water first?" The female from 2 asks.

The others think for a moment before turning to her.

"Water. Then we take down 12," they decide.

And here's another reason for me to regret Finnick's decision to ally with Katniss. She's got the most heat on her. She's the one people want to kill. I don't want him that close to a ticking bomb.

"Odair never should have allied with Katniss Everdeen," Henry speaks up, voicing what we all must be thinking.

I'm sobbing then, because Finnick is my heart. He's my heart, and he's going to be sliced into pieces.

"I swear if you don't shut up, Schwartz!" Marv hollers. I hear his footsteps and smell him and then he sits down beside me. He wraps a cautious arm around my shoulders, and I find myself resting my head against his shoulder without even realizing it. He pats my arm while I cry.

"It's going to be okay, Little Annie. Finnick can handle all of them. Even Katniss Everdeen," he says.

Cora, please don't let your lover be a liar. Please.

I expect the camera to switch to Johanna and Blight, or perhaps Beetee and Wiress, but then it's back on Finn and Mags and their allies.

I panic at first, because Finnick and Mags are on the ground and Katniss is standing. But then I see that Peeta is the one who is really on the ground. Katniss runs over to where he is, dropping to her knees beside his body. Finnick and Mags sit up, looking around in a brief moment of confusion. Katniss is distressed, calling Peeta's name over and over again, shaking him, but nothing happens at all. She lays her head on his chest, I guess listening for a heartbeat, but when she lifts it and her eyes are empty, I know his beat was absent.

She's hysterical then. She shakes him wildly, screaming his name and slapping his face, but nothing is happening because, somehow, he must be dead. And she has to love him. No one can doubt it now. She has to love him like I love Finnick, because the hysteria that's taken over her is the same hysteria that's been climbing inside of me every single day, choking me and drowning me.

Finnick helps Mags over to a tree, and my eyes frantically scan over her, making sure she's all right, but she just seems shaken. He hurries over to Peeta and Katniss and picks her up, moving her away from his body.

"Let me," he says. He begins inspecting Peeta, trying to see why he's stopped breathing and if he can help.

I'm digging into a new row in my thighs, trying to tell Katniss to listen to Finnick, because he knows what he's doing, but she's inaccessible. She flies at him, but Finnick simply lifts his hand up. Katniss slams into it and is immediately thrown back, knocking into a tree with such force that the branches shake and I am almost positive her breath leaves her.

She stares forward, confused and wincing for a moment, but then she's scrambling for her bow. I'm yelling at her out loud now, because Finnick isn't going to hurt Peeta! If Peeta was already dead, why would he go to harm him? That makes no sense no sense no sense, and I'm the mad one!

She doesn't shoot, though. She freezes completely when Finnick places his mouth over Peeta's. She stares at him in shock.

"Why is she so surprised? Is she stupid?" Marv demands.

Henry sounds frustrated.

"Maybe she's surprised because he's BRINGING A TRIBUTE BACK TO LIFE! Come on, Odair! Get it together!" Henry yells angrily.

I'm kneeling forward, blood sliding into the carpet. Please please please. I know I should want Peeta to die, because that's one less threat for Finn, but I honestly don't. He saved Finn earlier, I'm sure. I'm sure he did. He and Katniss probably would have killed or injured each other. He doesn't deserve to die.

The moments are tense and awful, staring at Finnick pumping over Peeta's heart, seeing the look on Katniss's face that makes me sure it's actually her heart he's trying to revive. Finnick's calm, but I can see something underneath his skin. Something that seems a bit like desperation. I know then that he wants to save Peeta, too. Why? Why, Finn? I worry so much that he's choosing them over us. That he's going back on his promise to me for the sake of letting Katniss make it out of this alive. Deep down I know that's probably the fairest thing. She's pregnant. She's young. But I can't bear the thought of Finnick dying. I can't. But perhaps if he breaks his promise, I can break mine too. Then I can escape whatever hell is left without him.

Peeta gives a small cough and Finnick moves back, exhaling in tired relief.

Katniss throws herself at Peeta, letting go of her bow for the very first time I've seen. She calls his name and strokes her fingers through his hair and down his neck, her eyes filling with tears.

Peeta opens his eyes and I could swear I see the life sink back into Katniss's.

"Careful, there's a force field up ahead," Peeta says, his voice thin and aching, but joking too.

Katniss has tears leaking from her eyes at an astounding rate. It's odd to see her cry. Like seeing someone do something that they just aren't made to do.

"You were dead! Your heart stopped!" she shrieks. She's making choking sounds that I recognize well. They're the sounds you make when you're filled with fear and sorrow so extreme you can't even cry normally. There's too much, it forms a wall that builds and builds until it crushes you.

Peeta tries to comfort her, but Katniss is devastated. Finnick is out of breath and he tries to reassure Peeta that Katniss is okay, and this entire situation is a mess of concern born out of love. Katniss worrying about Peeta, Peeta worrying about Katniss worrying about him, Finnick trying to reassure Peeta that he doesn't need to worry about Katniss worrying about him.

Katniss continues weeping hysterically, though. Her eyes almost seem angry too, but I don't understand why that would be.

My stomach jolts when Finnick's eyes are suddenly looking right at the camera. He's got a look on his face. A look that has me smiling. A look that says you were right, Annie.

I've always believed she really loves him, and now, finally, Finnick believes it too.

He shoots a look at Katniss, like he's trying to see if there's any other reason that she could possibly be acting the way she is, but there isn't. There is nothing else that could make someone that hysterical. Nothing but love.

The group decides to keep moving, and then they're gone and Johanna and Blight are back.

"—of course. Katniss better be so overjoyed she cries when we find her," Johanna snaps. She wipes the back of her hand over her sweaty forehead and angrily swipes her axe at a strange rat like creature, beheading it swiftly.

I look away then, my mind reeling, and no amount of pain can hold back what is coming. I curl into a ball immediately, the blood from my thighs soaking through my shirt, and then I'm in the arena, too, and Osmium is chasing after me with an axe but I can't run because Finnick is somewhere behind me and he's injured and he can't breathe and his heart stopped but I can't find him to restart it and he's going to die and Osmium is going to kill me and he's going to do it slowly with the tip of the axe bit by bit like he did for Chiron and—

Cold water soaks me and I'm pulled from my flashback and back to the living room. I rise unsteadily to my feet and make it to the kitchen sink before I vomit, but I'm shaking so badly I can't stand so I fall to the floor immediately afterwards. I'm too weak to move but I need to. I'm missing Finnick and Mags. I don't know what's happening. They could have died right now.

Marv walks in a few moments later. He scoops me into his arms wordlessly and carries me back into the living room, setting me down where I was before. He places his arm back around my shoulders like nothing happened.

I can't stop shaking. My freak out must have woken Poseidon, because he comes trotting into the living room a few minutes later. He shies away from me though, probably upset and worried by the way I'm crying and bleeding. He curls up underneath the rocking chair in the corner and keeps his blues eyes on Marv. They almost look accusing.

I only catch a few seconds of Beetee and Wiress before Finn is back. Mags is munching on some nuts and Katniss is scolding her like she's a child.

I catch an amused look on Finnick's face. Katniss looks at him, as if demanding that he tells her to stop, too, but he just laughs. He knows what I know. That Mags is wiser than anyone else. She doesn't need anyone telling her what to do or what not to do.

The next few hours are what I decide to call the Water Panic. Every single tribute they show is hunting for fresh water. It seems like there isn't any to be found. The Careers are searching, the sickly tributes that I now know are from 6 are searching, 3 is searching, 7 is searching, Finn and Mags and their allies are searching. But nothing is found. I'm getting furious at Meredith and Dowell. They should have sent some water for Finnick and Mags. That was long past overdue. Every time they show their group, they all look worse and worse.

"Why aren't their mentors sending water?" Henry bursts. He's probably the only one even half as into this as I am. He's always gotten into the Games, though. The difference is that I'm invested in them because my life depends on it. He's invested because it's interesting to him.

"It's expensive," I speak up, my voice hoarse. I'm trying to find excuses for Meredith and Dowell. But I don't even believe them myself.

When it switches to a camera near Finnick and Mags once more, they're all camped out. Mags and Finnick must have woven mats. Everyone is also eating those nuts that Mags was eating earlier. I guess they finally realized she knows what she's doing.

The audience follows Katniss as she goes hunting for water. When cannon booms fill the arena, I start panicking. But we're informed quickly by Caesar Flickerman who it was. I take a few moments to feel sadness that Cecilia and Seeder were among those that died at the Cornucopia. But I can't feel much of anything besides the deep, searing pain that's now so intense it radiates up from my legs through my entire torso. After that, I block him out once more. His commentary doesn't interest me.

I cry later that night when I see Finnick and Mags' expressions after the pictures of those who died flash in the air. I want to hold Finnick and help him handle all of this, but I can't. I'm stuck here with nothing but my own nails to keep me present. I can't do anything but watch. I can't even tell him I love him. I know by the look on his face that hearing that would make him feel better. I pull my knees up to my chest and press my face into them, ignoring the blood soaking into my stomach once more, repeating that phrase over and over again in my mind. I love you I love you I love you. I love you. I love you so much it hurts.

Johanna and Blight are still looking for Beetee and Wiress. Either Blight stopped talking about the trees and started up right before the focus was pulled back to them, or he's still talking about. Judging by Johanna's annoyed expression, I think it's the latter.

"They're almost like the inside of a twig. You know when you pull away the bark, and it's green and wet inside? Do you think maybe there's water in them?" he's asking. He stops walking once more and taps on a tree.

Johanna growls and turns around, snatching the sleeve of his jumpsuit and yanking him away.

"Would you shut up about the trees! This isn't home. These trees aren't remarkable except for the fact that they probably hold poison or something," she snaps.

I worry she's going to kill him in his sleep when they stop and make camp, but she doesn't.

Marv forces me into the bathroom after most of the groups have fallen asleep. Finnick is keeping watch while Mags, Katniss, and Peeta are sleeping. Marv cleans my wounds and bandages them. I'm staring at the bright red blossoming through the white and he's taking my hand. I look up at him, my heart aching worse than my legs.

"This would kill Cora," he tells me, his voice pained.

I'm numb when I reply.

"She's already dead."

He leaves abruptly after that, his eyes red, and I cry for a while. I find him in the living room and apologize over and over, because I didn't mean to hurt him. I just want him and Henry to understand that I'm doing all I can. If I have to do this to make it through the Games, then so be it. Poseidon is the only one who knows that sometimes you just have to do something.

I don't sleep at all. I won't sleep at all. Marv and Henry try to coax me to, but I can't be reached. I'm far away, in an arena, setting my hands on Finnick's shoulders and trying to take his pain away. It doesn't work.

When the chiming of a clock fills the living room, I'm dreadfully confused. I look around in a panic, because Finnick and I smashed that clock a long time ago. I remember because I remember how sharp and cold the metal wheels were in my hands. Henry points at the television and I look. Finnick and Katniss are looking around in tired confusion as well.

"I counted twelve," Finnick says.

Katniss nods. "Mean anything, do you think?"

Finnick thinks, his eyebrows furrowing. "No idea," he finally says.

But yes, Finn. You do have an idea. Remember, we smashed a clock that sounded exactly like that when the clock hit noon or midnight. Remember? It rang twelve times too? Remember? It was taking you away so we destroyed it, but still you are gone. I remember. Why don't you?

I realize a moment later how stupid that is, though. Just because it reminds me of something doesn't mean that means anything. That's an arena, not Finnick's living room, and the arena isn't something that you can smash just like we smashed that clock.

A lightning bolt strikes the ground with a boom so loud Johanna and Blight jerk awake.

"Wow, already introducing a Gamemaker's invention. Getting the ball rolling early this year, aren't we?" Johanna shouts at the sky, her voice tired.

Blight sits up and begins gathering their things. They both fall silent when they hear a branch snapping. They barely breathe, crouching perfectly still, and then you hear something quiet in the distance.

"Tick tock."

I'm confused, certain I've misheard that, but then Marv and Henry are muttering about it in confusion as well. Johanna rises to her feet immediately and holds her axe in front of her, ready to defend. Blight does as well.

Leaves rustle and then Wiress and Beetee stumble out of the trees. Wiress is frantic, walking around and around in tight circles. Beetee is pale and I can see blood blossoming out from his shirt.

"Ticktockticktockticktock!" she exclaims.

Beetee is frowning at her, and then he looks up at the sky.

"About time you two nut jobs joined us! We've been looking all over the place. We need to find Katniss as soon as we can," Johanna mutters, lowering her weapon. Blight does the same.

But Wiress is agitated and Beetee is thinking deeply. I'm thinking deeply, too, because why is Wiress saying tick tock? Did she notice that the chiming reminded her of a clock, as well? If so, what does it matter? How does that help anything?

He opens his mouth to say something, but a strange buzzing fills the air. Johanna raises her weapon again, turning around to try and see where it's coming from.

"What's that?" Blight demands, his voice high.

"TICK TOCK!" Wiress screams, and then she begins to run.

Beetee immediately follows after her, his running greatly impaired by the wound in his back, and Johanna curses, picking up her things to chase them, and that's when it starts.

At first I think it's red water, but then I see how thick it is. Johanna coughs and sputters, the blood filling her mouth, and then they're all taking off. They slip over the wet ground, the blood coating everything and everyone, and I'm shaking because that's what the ground looked like under Chiron, too. Bloody. So bloody it was painted. Blood everywhere.

I black out. I come back to myself a few moments later, my hair soaking wet and Marv holding a now empty glass of water above me. I gasp and pant and I am screaming out in pain because in order to stay present I'm having to dig my nails into the first row of cuts. They're red and sore and so the pain is much worse than starting a new one. But I'm here and here is awful and full of pain, but I can see what is happening, and then there's a sizzling sound and Blight falls to the ground and a cannon sounds.

Wiress slips in the blood and falls to the ground and Beetee trips, falling over her. Johanna slides down beside them and grips onto their arms, yanking them up with a strength that surprises me.

"Run!" she demands, blood gurgling in the back of her throat as she tries to speak.

They're all three flying through the jungle. Up ahead there's what looks like clear, blue light. I realize after a moment that it's just the forest, but there's no blood rain there at all. It stops randomly, forming a kind of wall separating the part of the jungle that doesn't have blood raining down and the part that does. They make it to the safe, dry side and land in a pile, panting and shaking.

When the camera switches to an aerial view, I suddenly understand. The blood rain is filing one twelfth of the arena, separated from the others by those strips of land that web off from the Cornucopia. A second later, in the section to the right, a strange, foggy looking substance begins right as the rain stops completely.

It's like a puzzle all over again, but this time I'm gasping in fear.

"It's timed like a clock," I tell Marv and Henry. "It rotates. Bad things happen in each section."

They're looking at me like I'm mad, and you know what? I am. So perhaps they're right to not listen to me.

Horror seeps into my bones like the mist that's seeping into the second section, because I realize that's the section that Finn and Mags are in.

He's sleeping, his face is beautiful in the moonlight even now. A minute later, though, and Katniss understands what I know. Or at least she understands that the fog isn't natural. She rises and screams and then Finn jerks awake, alert at once.

When he sees the fog, he knows immediately (thank goodness thank goodness thank goodness) and he grabs Mags and throws her onto his back. They all begin running from the fog, but I'm going to be sick, because it's gaining on them.

"Run!" Henry yells at the television, and I know if I spared a second glance at him, he'd be gripping a couch pillow tightly.

Peeta is lagging, and I know it has to be from the stress of earlier today. He keeps tripping and it's so awful to see Katniss's desperate expression. I think it's how I must look, too. For a moment I think she's going to leave him behind, though, and that frightens me. I'm relieved when she doesn't and I feel bad for thinking that in the first place.

She tries to help him walk and Finnick is still making progress, not slowed down at all by Mags. Katniss winces when the beads of mist hit her skin and I know then it must be something awful. Something that will burn off your flesh or melt your bones. Run, Finn. Please.

Finnick stops, though, his eyes on Peeta who is still struggling, and why is he so insistent on keeping them alive?

"Go! Go, you idiot! Go!" Henry yelps, and this time he throws the pillow across the room.

I can't breathe and my heart is breaking as the mist gets closer and closer.

"Finn," I whisper, and it comes out quiet and broken and betrayed, because he isn't moving. I feel a few tears roll down my face and I am suffocating.

The mist slides over Peeta, and as it does, something odd happens. It makes half of his face droop likes Mags' did when she had her stroke. Peeta can't walk anymore. His legs are kicking back and forth wildly like he's not in control at all, and then my Finnick is running back over to them.

I have never doubted that I'm in love with the best man in the entire world, but that knowledge is backed up when I see Finnick offer to carry Peeta. He hands Mags over to Katniss, who takes her with a strength I didn't expect, and I'm uneasy with Mags in Katniss's hands but if Finnick of all people trusts her, she's got to be okay.

They take off running once more, Peeta thrown over Finnick's back and Mags over Katniss's. I can hear Marv and Henry marveling over what is happening, because they're all in a game where they have to kill each other to live, but here Finnick and Katniss are carrying people on their backs to save them.

Finnick is leading them, and I know where he is taking them. He's taking them where I would have, too. The water. The fog follows steadily after them, and I'm sure they're going to make it, and Henry is whooping in happiness, when Katniss suddenly falls to the ground. She's fallen a few times before, but she's always jumped right back up. This time, she stays down, her legs and arms flailing around like Peeta's did earlier.

Finnick hurries back over, his face red and sweaty from exertion.

Katniss is panting as she fights against her body. She finally looks up at Finnick in defeat.

"It's no use. Can you take them both? I'll catch up."

The fog is right on their heels though, so I know there's no way she's going to be able to catch up. Finnick is panting and his arms and legs are shaking. He can't carry them both. I know he can't. I know because I know what he can take and he can't take this. He is going to collapse.

The shattered green seaglass of his eyes break me. A strange noise fills the room, and then I feel Poseidon nudging my hand with his nose, because the sound must have been me. He curls up beside me, and I'm stuck and I can't move and horror is chaining me down.

"No," Finn says, his eyes shining with tears. "I can't carry them both. My arms aren't working."

I reach down and pick up Poseidon, holding him tightly to me, and he doesn't even seem to mind the tears falling onto his fur. He must know that I have to have something to hold onto right now. Something, anything. I'm gasping for air, pleading with Finn out loud, wishing I could help him. His arms aren't working. They're jerking around. And the mist is still gaining on them.

He turns to Mags slowly, tears edging over his lower eyelids. He stares at her and I have never seen anyone look so broken.

"I'm sorry, Mags," he whispers, his voice thick. "I can't do it."

What is he doing? What does he mean, he can't do it? What does he mean? This is Mags! This is our Mags! He isn't just going to leave her here to die! He can't do that! This is Mags!

"What is he doing?" Henry demands angrily.

Mags lifts herself up quickly, and it's like she's not thinking about it at all, like this is something she's made up her mind to do a long time ago. She kisses Finnick's mouth and then she turns and walks straight into the fog.

My body automatically rises, as if I can do something, as if I can pull her free. But I can't. I'm beating my fists into the glass screen but nothing is happening. I'm screaming, but she's falling to the ground, her limps flailing everywhere. I can't look away and Finnick isn't looking at all. He's moving forward. Katniss stares at the fog in heartbroken disbelief, and then follows after him.

Why is the camera following them? Why aren't they showing Mags pulling herself out of the fog? They have to go back! They have to show it!

But then a cannon blast fills the living room, and I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.

Both Henry and Marv clasp their arms around me, trying to soothe me, but I don't understand. How could Mags die? How could Finnick just let her? Why would he choose Peeta's life over hers? Why would he? This is Mags! This is Mags! This is Mags who held my hand in the hospital, who knitted me socks, who took care of me for weeks when I couldn't take care of myself, who bandaged my wounds, who always knew what to say, who had done so much and been through so much pain but she was still able to love me like her own daughter. This was Mags, who mentored Finnick, who was as much his mother as anyone, who volunteered to save me. I don't understand, I don't, I don't, I don't!

I scream until I can't anymore and then I cry into Henry's shoulder, pain stitching in and out of the muscle of my heart like a thick thread. It pulls and pulls and I want to die.

When I look back up at the television, my eyes blurred with tears, Finnick is lying face down on the sand, motionless.

I scream out again and Marv immediately grabs my arms so tightly I'm sure it will bruise.

"He isn't dead, Annie. He's not dead," he tells me.

I can't trust Marv, though. I can't trust anyone or anything. I can't trust that this is even real. For all I know, I'm away in my alternative world, and it's taken a turn for the worst, and really I'm with Finnick and we're in our bed sleeping soundly just like we should be and none of this is happening.

Henry grabs my face and turns it back to the screen, and it takes a few minutes before I can see anything at all. But then I slowly begin to take in what I'm seeing. Peeta cutting away Finnick's jumpsuit. Katniss and Peeta slowly pouring water on him. Puffs of fog rising out of his skin like when you run a hot pan under cold water. And Marv is right; Finnick isn't dead, because he keeps crying out in pain. Each scream of pain tears at me.

"Mags," I say out loud suddenly, tears dripping into my mouth that's still open in horror.

Henry pats my back. "I know. I'm sorry."

No one is sorry. No one understands. This isn't fair, this isn't right. I want her back! I want her back now. I want them all back. I want my family back, I want Mags back, I want Finnick back. I'm done with this! I'm done with this Game! I don't want to play anymore! This isn't fun, this isn't fair, this isn't right! Mags will never see Finnick and I get married! She'll never know that we were going to name our daughter after her! This isn't fair!

Henry and Marv restrain my hands once again and I ask them over and over to kill me but they won't do it.

I find the strength, or maybe the desperation, to look back at the screen. Finnick's eyes open and the green is brighter than it's ever been and I'm gasping out sobs, pushing my way out of their arms and over closer to the screen. I sit right in front of it, so close that my eyes have trouble focusing, and stare at him until I'm sure he's really alive. Katniss sits in the water with his head in her lap and they help detoxify him slowly, bit by bit, and I love them. I love Katniss Everdeen and I love Peeta Mellark and no matter what they do I will always love them because they are helping my Finnick.

Once Finnick is well enough to begin swimming through the water, my mind is done. It's had enough. And I'm away.

I'm tucking Delia into bed, and my hands are shaking.

She looks at me curiously, her blue eyes wide.

"Are you scared of the dark too, Auntie?" she asks.

I shake my head numbly, trying to hold back my tears as best as I can. She holds tight to my hand until I sit down on the edge of her bed.

"Tell me a story," she demands. She's just like Cora, and I couldn't be happier about that. The world needs more Coras and less Annies.

"The Maiden of the Sea again?" I guess.

She grins excitedly and nods.

"Yes! I love that one!" she says.

I can't help but smile at her enthusiasm.

"Your uncle does, too," I tell her. Or Arnav did when he was younger, anyway.

I keep a grip on her hand while I tell her the story for what must the hundredth time, fighting back tears all the while, because I keep getting glimpses of Finnick lying motionless on a beach, but I don't know where or when that was. It hurts, though.

When I'm done, Delia's sleepy. She yawns and looks at me.

"Why did Nyveve do it?" she questions.

I pull my hand free from hers and push her hair back.

"Why did she do what? Drown herself?"

Delia nods.

I reach down and pull her yellow blanket up higher, trying to think of how to word it in a way that a child would understand.

"Because she missed Eirene so much it made her not want to live anymore," I finally say.

Delia ponders over this, her eyes drifting shut.

"Is that a real life thing?" she asks, her voice hushed with tiredness. "Does that really happen?"

I'm shaking then, thinking about what my life would be like without her, without her mother, without my brother, without my parents, without Mags, without my Finn.

"No," I lie. "There is always a reason to live."

Did you know I'm a liar?

When I come back to the real world, Marv and Henry look very sad.

I sit up and Poseidon crawls back onto my lap, nudging my stomach worriedly. I reach down and pet him and find the energy to look back at the screen.

Katniss and Peeta are asleep, and Finnick is sitting a little ways down from them. He's crying.

I don't care how crazy Henry and Marv think I am when I set my hand on the glass of the television screen.

"I'm so sorry, Finn," I whisper, and I want him to hear me more than anything. He needs me. He needs the only other person who understands just how much of a tragedy Mags dying is.

He has his face in his hands and he lifts it a few moments later.

"I hope you didn't see that," he says out loud, his voice choked with tears. I know he's talking to me. That makes me cry even harder. "Please don't hate me. Please understand. It was what Mags wanted."

He cries even harder at that and I'm distressed because how could he ever think that? How could he ever think that I would hate him? As confused as I was about why he did what he did, I never for one moment thought he wanted Mags to die. I never for one moment hated him. The only thing in the entire world I trust is the true and honest way our small family loves each other.

"I love you," he gasps out, gripping his face so tightly in his agony that his nails bite into his skin. "I love you so much, and I'm sorry. I miss Mags already, too. I'm sorry. I am trying my hardest."

I'm trying my hardest too, Finn.

I lie awake in front of the television all night fretting over the knowledge that perhaps our best isn't enough.

Chapter Text

By the time the sun has risen, my legs are warm and sticky with blood and I can hardly keep my eyes open.

I sit there for a few minutes, watching Finnick weave bowls and shuffle his feet through the sand in the sea in search for shellfish, when I come to the realization that I'm not going to be able to stay awake on my own. Confident that Finn is safe for the time being, I limp into the kitchen to start coffee and tea and anything else that might help me stay conscious.

Henry and Marv are staying in guest rooms. Marv was insistent that he stay the entire duration of the Games, and it seems Henry plans on doing the same. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, shivering and rubbing my eyes while the coffee brews, when Henry walks in. His eyes scan the kitchen and me and then he walks over and sits down in the vacant chair to my left.

"Good morning," he says.

Good morning? If there was ever a morning that wasn't good, it would be this one. Mags is gone. Finn is probably going to be too. I can't see any good in that, and I'm certain that the girl I used to be wouldn't have been able to, either. I'm pondering that then, wondering what Annie pre-Games would have done about all of this. I suppose it wouldn't have affected me nearly as badly because I was sane then and I didn't know Finnick or Mags on a personal level. I guess I'd be watching on and off, upset when it was in front of me but forgetting it was going on whenever I was in another room. It certainly wouldn't be destroying me.

"Morning," I reply finally, but Henry looks confused when I do. I guess it took me longer to reply than I planned, because when I rise to pour a cup of coffee, the liquid is ice cold when I bring the mug to my lips. I force myself to drink it despite that and despite the fact that it's so bitter I keep grimacing. I do not have the strength to see a box of sugarcubes.

I drift off, and when I come back, Henry's gone. I'm still clutching the half empty mug of freezing coffee in my hands, trying to ignore the vast, aching emptiness inside of me that's taken hold. I'm trying not to remember all the things I never got around to asking Mags about, all the stories I wanted to hear, all the things I wanted her to see, but it's all I can remember.

I'm nearing a point of hysteria when Henry walks back through the kitchen door. He's got a small, orange glass vile in his hand. I realize I've tossed my mug at some point, and I find myself staring at the dark liquid gathering in between the tiles on the floor and creeping towards my chair until my vision is completely blurred by tears.

Henry taps my shoulder and I force myself to turn away from the broken mug and spilled coffee. He's got a glass of water in his hand and two small, orange tablets in the upturned palm of his other. I just stare at that hand, confused and upset and lost without Mags and Finnick.

Henry sets the glass down on the table and slides it over to me. I watch the water rock back and forth and slosh over the sides of the glass, landing hard on the table. It drips down in large droplets from the edge and lands on the floor with a lovely, high pitched tapping noise.

"Take these," Henry tells me, grabbing my hand and setting the two tablets down on my palm. I tear my glance from the water dripping to the floor and focus on the pills. I examine them, taking in the orange coating at the letters and numbers engraved into it that I don't understand. I've never seen any pills like these before.

"What are they?" I ask, without looking up.

"They will make this easier for you," Henry replies, his voice gentle. He reaches over and pulls the edge of my nightgown up a bit, peering at the soaked bandages on my legs.

"You need to clean these again," he tells me. He rises from his chair and the sound it makes dragging against the tiles makes my head throb. "You take those while I go get some more bandages from the bathroom."

He's walking across the room when I realize with a sudden and immense intensity that I don't want him changing my bandages, or looking at my wounds, or really touching me anywhere that high on my leg at all. My volatile reaction to the idea doesn't make sense to me, but it's powerful enough that I'm listening to it even though it has no visible rhyme or reason.

"Marv said he'd do it when he woke up," I say quickly, my voice shaking and uncertain because I'm an awful liar. Most likely due to the fact that I hardly ever lie at all.

Henry stops and turns around, peering at me for a few moments, his expression calculating. Finally he walks back over and sits down in the chair he rose from a few moments prior.

"Okay," he says easily, offering me a kind smile. I can't help but force myself to smile back, because even in the midst of this tragedy, I have to appreciate the fact that he's taking time out of his own life to take care of a mad girl. He's doing it just to be nice, just because it's something he feels is right, not to gain anything. And that is lovely. Lovely enough that I'm forcing a smile that makes me hurt worse.

A few more moments pass in which I take to looking back at the spilled coffee. Henry taps my shoulder again and nods at the pills in my hand that I've forgotten about. I'm about to question him more on what they are and what they'll do to me, but I suddenly don't have the energy. The emptiness from Mags' death pains me greatly and I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to keep my promise to Finnick if something doesn't change. So it's him I'm thinking about when I swallow the tablets, and not all the pills they made me swallow after my Games. Henry isn't a doctor employed by the Capitol. He wouldn't give me something if he didn't know what it was or what it would do.

Did you know I don't know anything at all?

A few minutes after I've taken the pills and we're seated back in front of the television, my vision becomes so blurry I'm reaching up and wiping at my eyes constantly, confused when my fingers come away completely dry. But I'm watching the Games without drawing blood or having a flashback, so I decided the blurry vision must just be a slight side effect that I'll have to deal with. It's not too bad because I can always make out the outline of Finnick and the flash of his hair. And blood, too. There's no missing that.

But then all my muscles because so tense I can't move them at all. There's a few moments of panic in which I try to reach out to tap Henry, to tell him I want this to stop and I'd rather dig my nails back into my wounds, but I can't lift my arm. I feel foolishly betrayed then, because I'm almost positive this is either the same thing or something very close to what they gave me in the Capitol. I know I have no reason to feel this way, but I do. I don't know when Poseidon woke up and joined us, but I can hear him hissing loudly from somewhere in the room.

I'm locked inside of myself, staring forward at the Games, panic rolling over me in waves so powerful I know I'd be screaming if I could. I'm imprisoned just as I was when Twine was holding my head forward and when the Capitol doctors shoved me into the bathtub.

A few more minutes pass and the panic slowly ebbs away until I can't feel anything at all but the emptiness I felt before. It's an emptiness so extreme I can't even stay awake. I am some sort of rag doll, my insides scooped out, my face blank of all emotion that I'm not feeling with my nonexistent heart.

Marv ambles into the room, crossing into my line of vision and sitting down beside me. He says a few things and prods me a few times, and then he grabs my wrist, pressing his fingers to my veins.

"Her heart is racing. What's wrong with her? Her heart is normally slow when she's off in her mind," Marv demands, genuine worry in his voice. I remember him talking like that to me one other time. He and Cora took me fishing early in their relationship and I accidentally stepped on a fishing hook. Marv felt guilty because it was a hook he dropped. He shielded his eyes while Cora tried to slowly pull it out of my foot with the least amount of damage possible. The things I remember most are the deep, burning pain of the hook as Cora tried to tug it free and Marv's concerned voice as he asked Cora for progress updates every few seconds. He bought me ice cream when we made it back to the beach in apology and came by every day to check on me until I was well. Cora admitted she loved him sometime soon after that.

"My dad had some pills. I thought they might help. I don't know why she's blank like that. That never happens to my father," Henry says, his voice confused and almost frightened.

There's a long moment of silence. I can't keep my eyes open long enough to take in anything of value from the Games. I catch a flash of Finnick's hands and green ointment. I can't even feel worry due to the fact that I'm missing the Games. I can feel panic hovering above me somewhere, but I can't reach me. I can feel the sorrow from Mags's death lurking near, but it can't reach me either. Nothing can.

"You did what?" Marv demands, his voice deep and furious.

"I—" Henry starts.

"Did you give her the same dosage your father takes?" he continues, ignoring Henry's attempts at a rebuttal.

"Well, yeah," Henry says, his voice defensive.

Marv crosses my line of vision as he goes over to stand in front of Henry. I feel Henry lean into me as he leans away from Marv, and I know Marv must be frighteningly angry.

"She's a little girl, Henry! You can't give her the same dosage as a grown man takes!" Marv bellows.

"She's not a little girl. She's an adult," Henry tries to refute, but Marv dismisses him with an indignant sound.

"You're a complete imbecile! And I'm going to kick your ass. But before I do, you're going to come into the kitchen with me and we're going to call the hospital and you're going to explain to them what you did."

Marv grabs Henry by the back of the neck and shoves him through the doorway and into the hallway. I'm left alone, frozen, listening to the distant sounds of Henry and Marv and catching brief flashes of the Games. Every time Finnick comes on screen I think I'm close to feeling something, anything, but it doesn't penetrate through whatever is coating my mind. I think I would be scared.

Henry and Marv return and pull me from the brief sleep I'd fallen into. Marv kneels in front of me.

"You're going to be okay. Typically the medication wears off in a few hours. It might take a bit longer because of this sack of shit over here, but you won't die," he says. His words are meant to be comforting, but I want to die. I'm sorry, Finn. I'm sorry. Is it breaking my promise if I just die now? I didn't take the pills. I did, but not to die. I'm sorry.

Marv stands after that and goes over to Henry.

"Leave," he orders.

"You can't kick me out. This isn't your house," Henry snaps back. "I'm staying."

It's strange and unnerving to hear an argument while being unable to see it. It makes it worse somehow. I can feel enough to know I want them to stop fighting. Their voices are rising.

"Finnick Odair actually told me to come here. He didn't tell you. And this is his house, so it's fair to say I do have the right to kick you out," Marv replies.

Henry sounds outraged and confused.

"Why do I have to leave? All I did was try to help her! So I messed up the stupid dosages! It was a mistake! It's not like I'm trying to hurt her!"

"Drugging her up isn't helping her!" Marv retorts, his voice cracking a bit as it rises into almost a shriek.

"Neither is letting her slice up her legs!" Henry roars back. His voice is so deep and loud that I can feel it vibrating in my chest. A silence trickles into the room.

"I have no idea what to do. I have no idea how to help her. I'm not pretending that I do," Marv starts, his voice lowering to a normal volume. "But look at her. Does that look like it's helped her?"

I can feel both their eyes on me then and it's terrible, because I know I can't move or look away. The Careers are making their way towards the Cornucopia now. Then blackness. Then I see a flash of bronze. Blackness. Then I see arrows flying. Blackness. Blood. Blackness. Water. Blackness.

I give up then, letting my eyes fall shut completely, because I don't know whose blood that was and I can still control this. I won't be caught like before, my head held forward watching someone I know killed.

"Yes! She's not ripping her skin off, at least."

"Yeah, that's great. Very helpful. If you ignore the fact that she can't move and she looks miserable," Marv barks back.

"And she didn't look miserable before?" Henry demands.

"At least she looked alive before!" Marv shouts back.

Their tempers are almost as tangible as the temperature. I can sense the moment they both rise past the point of control.

"You and Odair, this is what you're doing wrong!" Henry yells. "You're letting her live in this mad world instead of just finding a way to cure her! There are ways to help if someone cared enough to look!"

Marv laughs mockingly, his voice almost a bark.

"Why don't you tell us all about caring about Annie Cresta, Henry Schwartz. Don't forget to leave out the part where you cheated on her."

There's the hollow, echoing sound of something being slammed into wood.

"Oh, let it go! We were stupid kids! We were barely even dating! And you think Odair cares about her?" Henry challenges. "You want to talk about cheating?! What about what he does right in her face?" 

"I have no doubt in my mind that he cares about her! You didn't see his face before he left. You didn't hear the way he begged me to watch out for her."

"He's just screwing her like he screws every other girl he can get his hands on, and I—"

There's a slapping sound and then the rest of Henry's sentence becomes muffled. The emptiness inside of me has grown. I feel like my head is spinning around but I know it can't be because I can't move at all.

"She might still be conscious. Shut up. We'll finish talking about this in the kitchen," Marv orders.

The couch jostles as Henry stands. It's quiet for a few moments, but then their departure was completely pointless because I can make out what they're shouting clear as day.

"If he really cared, he'd have found a way to fix her!"

"Life doesn't work like that. You can't just fix everything. Sometimes there is no fix. Sometimes that's just the way it is."

"More like people are too lazy and stupid to find it. Putting up with someone's madness and being there to pick up the pieces isn't love. Finding a way to help them is."

"I don't think you could describe what love was if someone held a knife to you and demanded it!"

"Like you have room to talk! You were dating Coral Cresta! Everyone knows she's never in it for love."

I'm close to feeling fear when I hear the sound of someone knocking hard into the wall.

"Don't you ever say anything about Cora again, you hear me?" Marv screams. There's another loud sound, like he's repeating slamming Henry into the wall. "You have no idea who she was! You have no idea what our relationship was like! You have no idea what she went through!"

"Then you don't say anything about me and don't act like you know me or how I feel about Annie!" Henry pants, out of breath and with pain laced through his words.

"I know that you have no right to be here! I know that you're only making things worse for her! And that's enough reason for you to leave."

"This is all going to end one day, Marv. Did you forget that? The Quell will be over soon, and Odair won't be coming back, and Annie is going to have to pick up her life somehow. Maybe Odair didn't care enough to find a way to bring her back, but I will, and when I do she'll be better and she'll be happy!"

"You are literally the stupidest person I have ever met!" Marv rages. "If you think for one second that you and your drugs could ever make that girl happy after this, you don't deserve to live. She isn't a broken fishing pole! She's a person and people can't just be taped back together again! She's tried to tell you time and time again that she's different but you just keep pushing it."

"She's sick, she doesn't—"

"Get out."

"You can't make me—"

"GET OUT!"

Something shatters and then I hear the kitchen door slam so loudly the pictures on the wall shake.

I fight with my eyelids for a few moments, trying to see what is happening on the screen, if Finn is still with me, if he'll ever be with me again, or if he's gone gone gone like my sister, like Mags, like my brother, like my parents. But I can't even get them open enough to peek out. I'm drifting off to sleep slowly when Marv sits down beside me. When he speaks, I can't be certain whether it's in a dream or if it's in reality.

"It's times like these I wish your sister were here. Cora always knew what to do."

She did. My head is still rocking like I'm on a boat and I feel sick and weak. I want to ask Marv about Finn. But I can't speak and even if I could I'm not sure I would. His voice sounds thick and something tells me he hasn't spoken about Cora since she died. Really talked about her, anyway. His words feel protected, like he's kept them locked tightly inside of him where no one could take them away.

"She used to amaze me. But I think she amazed everyone. She could get up and go like no one I ever knew. She could be on her death bed and she'd still wake up energetic, ready to take on a whole list of things for the day. It took so much for that woman to cry. I never did see it, not until you were reaped. It broke my heart. She cried on my shoulder every single day the entire time you were gone. I didn't go out on my boat once, partly because I was worried for you and partly because I was worried for your sister. And she loved you, Annie. I know you know that, but it has to be said again. When I first told Jim—one of her ex-boyfriends from a while back, remember? The one who wore the white cap all the time?—I wanted to date Cora, he thought I just wanted to date her for the same reasons he did. When I told him I wanted to be with her, really be with her, his response was that I'd have to get you to love me long before she'd even consider it. I thought that would be difficult, but it wasn't, because you were so sweet and loving. The real chore with Cora was getting her to rest. Something always had to be done. Even when we were just friends I remember she was always doing at least three things at once, and even then she had about ten different things on her mind. She never did things halfway, ever."

He stops talking abruptly, and when he sniffs, I am certain that could anything touch me, I'd be crying too.

He continues, his voice shaking and filled with sadness so deep I don't doubt for a minute that he's been drowning in it for the past five years.

"I fell in love with her on our tenth date, when she dropped off to sleep right in the middle of our conversation. She was appalled with herself. She kept apologizing and she even blushed, but I thought it was adorable. Later she told me she'd never felt like she could do that around anyone else. No one else made her feel like it would be okay to sleep, that if she were to rest for a moment things wouldn't pile up and overtake her, because they'd make sure they didn't. I always tried to do that for her. I always tried to help her rest. She was beautiful, strong, and brave. Smartest person I ever knew. And she didn't deserve to die."

Marv cries and I try to fight against whatever has me under, but it's no use. I scrape at the ceiling keeping my heart from myself, but I can't even make a scratch in it.

A long time passes before Marv speaks up again.

"Am I doing the right thing, Annie?" he questions quietly, his voice guilt-ridden and confused. "Is this what Cora would have done? Or would she have done what Henry did? I don't know. I always promised her I would take care of you and Arnav if anything happened to her. I just wish I would have asked her how to do that in the first place."

I drift off to sleep sometime after he trails off, dizzy and certain I'm half-dead, because Finn could be gone and I can't feel anything at all.

I jerk awake what feels like hours later, my heart racing and my muscles still tense and my heart aching. I feel like I need to run, but I don't know why and I don't know what to. I panic for a moment, unsure where I am because everything is soft, but when I am able to lift my eyelids open I see I'm lying upstairs in Finn's bed. Poseidon is curled up beside me, his eyes and ears alert like he's keeping watch.

"Annie! Annie!"

But then I understand what pulled me from my drug-induced sleep. It was the only thing that ever could, and I'm fighting through the haze I'm in and sitting up, peering around the room in a panic, because that's Finn's voice and he's trying to get back to me just like I'm trying to get back to him and where is he? Where is he? I fling the blankets off me quickly and it's so quiet except for Finnick's screams that I can hear the crisp sound they make when I do. I climb out of bed and spin around on my feet, lightheaded and weak, but I don't see him anywhere.

"Annie!" he shrieks again, and his voice is so terrified that I'm crying.

"Finn!" I scream. My legs give out and I fall to the floor, and that's when I remember the Games and I'm reaching up, grabbing hold of the edge of the mattress, and pulling myself upright. I bolt out of the room and down the stairs. My legs give out once more halfway down the staircase and I go tumbling down, banging up my back and knees, but then I'm climbing back to my feet once more.

"Annie!"

I burst into the living room, sick and gasping, and when I look at the television I'm so relieved to see him alive that I fall to the ground again. He's circling a tree, his skin paler than I have ever seen and his face stricken. I feel Marv's hand on my back but I can't turn around, I can't talk to anyone, because how much did I miss of these Games? I could have missed the last time I'll ever see him. I could have been sleeping when he died. He could have told me goodbye and I would have never known.

The pain and anger that was hovering just above me when I was drugged up is now sinking down inside of me and I'm pulling at my hair. I force myself to breathe deeply because I didn't miss Finn. He is still alive, and he's staring at a dead bird, and he looks like he wishes he was dead, and I have no idea why he was screaming my name.

I sit down in front of the television and pull my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I'm not sure if my breathing is so shallow in response to whatever is still working its way out of my system or my panic. Either way, I keep seeing black spots in front of my eyes.

Finnick picks up the dead bird, heartbroken and horrified.

"It's all right, Finnick. It's just a jabberjay. They're playing a trick on us. It's not real. It's not your…Annie," Katniss tries to say. It's very odd to hear someone I've only ever seen on TV say my name. Even stranger to hear her refer to me as Finnick's Annie, because that's a title I chose for myself a long time ago. Her voice is comforting, but I can tell it isn't reaching Finnick. When something calms him the lines on his forehead smooth out and his face regains color and neither of those things are happening. He sways a bit on his feet and drops the bird to the ground. I'm not sure what is going on, so I glance helplessly at Marv. He's sitting on the floor beside me.

"Those birds. They were screaming with your voice," he fills in gently.

I look back at the television. Finn looks like he believes that I'm actually being tortured somewhere. Of course Snow would find a way to make the Games even worse for Finnick than they had to be. Of course he would play with him like this, knowing all Finnick's ever done was try to protect me.

"No, it's not Annie. But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear. Where did they get those screams, Katniss?" Finnick questions desperately. He's staring at the bird, and when he meets Katniss's eyes, she backs up a bit, her face almost as pale as his.

"Oh, Finnick, you don't think they…" she trails off, the words sticking in the back of her throat and her eyes wide with fear.

"Yes. I do. That's exactly what I think," Finnick replies, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"But they're not!" I scream out loud, and I know it's pointless, but I can't help it. "I'm fine! I'm fine!"

The Capitol hasn't touched me and they never will, all thanks to Finnick. How could they do this to him? How could they make him believe that I'm being tortured when he's already in an arena being forced to kill his friends? I wonder if the day will ever come when I stop being surprised by the atrocious acts of the Capitol.

Finnick and Katniss decide to get away from the birds. They make their way out of the trees, running as fast as they can to escape the cruel weapon. Marv brings me a large glass of water and forces me to drink it. It weighs heavily on my stomach and I get a sick feeling like I'm being dragged under, but I keep drinking anyway, my heart trying to reach Finnick's to tell him that I'm fine. And I'm sorry for missing so much. I never should have taken those pills. I never should have. It's not Henry's fault; it's mine.

I yell out when Finnick runs straight into some sort of invisible wall. His nose cracks and blood pours down his face. I stare at it in horror, my mind snapping and pools of blood overtaking me for a few long moments, but I can still hear Finnick's voice screaming my name in fear and it scares me enough to grab onto my self and pull my mind out of it.

Then all I can hear is screaming. It fills the entire house, and it's a lot of different people, and I'm not sure which is supposed to be me. I don't know what I sound like when I scream. But Finnick does. He immediately crumbles and falls to the ground, pressing his hands so hard over his ears that I'm worried he's hurting himself. His face is locked in a grimace so painful that I'm reaching for him, only to feel glass where his skin should be.

Caesar Flickerman and Cladius Templesmith are on screen then. They talk about the jabberjays and how "ingenious" of a weapon it is. They assure the audience that everyone back home is fine and then they take a break to play the final eight interviews, as if to show proof of this fact. And I don't know why I'm surprised that they've rounded up three of Finnick's Capitol lovers to speak about him, but I am. It's the kind of shock that leaves my stomach pummeling to my toes and my mouth hanging open. All three of them brag that his poem was really about them. They talk about how he's "tough" and a "real warrior" and how he's going to win without a doubt. One of them with neon pink skin describes Finnick as "serious and extravagant", and I'm appalled, because they don't know him at all. This was the chance for people to hear what Finnick was really like, and instead, they're getting the Capitol mask of him. I guess these interviews were filmed earlier this morning because neither of them comments on the fact that they weren't who the Capitol chose to use against Finnick to hurt him most. No, she's at home, and she's pulling at her new bandages because she can't handle her lover's pain. Not without pain of her own.

The program switches back to the arena. The hour must have passed, because Peeta, Johanna, and Beetee are there and they're attempting to reassure Katniss and Finnick.

"When did Johanna and Beetee join them?" I ask Marv, my eyes never straying from Finnick's face.

"Earlier this morning. Beetee's district partner was with them, but she died," he replies.

Wiress. Mags. My eyes burn but I won't let myself cry. I've been blurry enough today. I've missed enough.

"Do you believe it, Finnick?" Katniss asks him. She's looking at him like she might die if he doesn't give her the right answer.

Finnick looks torn and tormented. He glances from Peeta to Beetee and then to Katniss.

"It could be true. I don't know. Could they do that, Beetee? Take someone's regular voice and make it…"

He trails off, swallowing drily. He blinks rapidly and it makes my entire body ache because I know that's what he does when his eyes are burning with tears. But there's no need to cry. I'm fine. I'm here. I just have no way of telling him that.

"Oh, yes. It's not even that difficult, Finnick. Our children learn a similar technique in school," Beetee says.

I catch a glimpse of Finnick's face, relief slowly taking over it, and then Johanna starts to speak and the camera cuts away choppily and suddenly, switching to an area of the jungle that's seemingly empty.

"That's odd," Marv comments.

It's over just as abruptly as it happened. The cameras turn back to Finnick and his group just in time to hear Johanna claiming there's no reason for her not to go back into the jungle, because there is no one left she loves.

I think they'll follow Johanna, but the camera stays on Katniss and Peeta. Finnick disappears into the waves, swimming like he's trying to run away from something, which I know he probably is. I'm trying to ignore Katniss and Peeta and keep my eyes on Finnick when I hear my name.

"Who'd they use against Finnick?"

"Somebody named Annie."

I look towards them then, moving my eyes from the upper right corner of the screen to the center where Peeta and Katniss are. I feel very uncomfortable then. I wait for them to cut away, perhaps go back to the uninhabited jungle, because this is a secret, remember? I'm a secret. Finnick's love for me is a secret. Why aren't they cutting this out?

"Must be Annie Cresta," Peeta says.

I can feel Marv's eyes on me and I know it's dumb, but I'm shocked that Peeta even knows my name. I won the Games, sure, but I'm the victor people forget about most often. Probably because I was the most boring. I didn't do anything remarkable in my Games beyond freak out and lose my mind. And that just doesn't make great entertainment. Not when you have victors like Enobaria who can bite the throats out of their victims.

"Who?" Katniss asks, and for some reason that makes me want to laugh. I guess because it fits in with how I was sure the public perceived me: invisible for the most part, and mad when they are forced to see me.

"Annie Cresta," Peeta repeats. "She was the girl Mags volunteered for. She won about five years ago."

Katniss peers thoughtfully at him, her eyebrows pulled down.

"I don't remember those Games much," she finally says. "Was that the earthquake year?"

Yes yes yes. Earthquakes, water, blood. Stitches and knives. Caves and blood thinners. That year, that Games. My Games.

"Yeah. Annie's the one who went mad when her district partner got beheaded. Ran off by herself and hid. But an earthquake broke a dam and most of the arena got flooded. She won because she was the best swimmer."

I press my face into my knees, trying my hardest to not see visuals of all he's saying, because I don't want to go back to my Games. I don't want to see it. How does Peeta Mellark even remember that much about such a nondescript Games?

"Did she get better after? I mean, her mind?"

The air in the living room is suddenly thick with what might be awkwardness if I wasn't so past caring. No, I didn't. Marv knows this. I know this. It's almost agonizing to hear Peeta's pause.

"I don't know. I don't remember ever seeing her at the Games again. But she didn't look too stable during the reaping this year."

That's because they took my Finnick, and Mags took my place, and now Mags is dead and Finnick will be too. How do you stay stable during something like that? I don't know, and I almost don't want to.

I look back up at the television finally, and Katniss is peering at Finnick with a strange expression on her face, like he just turned into something completely different than what she expected.

I'm deeply concerned then, because why did the Capitol allow this mini-explanation on who I am? They could have played it off like "Annie" was someone in the Capitol. Perhaps maybe there is even a woman named Annie who lives there that was Finnick's lover at some point. (And the thought tears at my skin, but I have to admit that even if I don't like the idea, it is vaguely possible). Why would they allow this when Snow spent so long making sure Finnick's true feelings for me never got out?

I can only settle on one answer. They don't plan on him coming out of this. There's no reason to protect their source of income because he won't ever be doing anything for them again. They're going to make sure he doesn't win.

I don't know what the side effects of the drug are, or if they're still in my system, but when I start crying I literally cannot stop. I cry and cry and cry, but no matter what, the pain inside of me doesn't ebb and it never will because Mags is gone and Finnick is going to follow her and I want to follow them, too. They swore they'd always be with me. They promised me that. But I promised Finnick I'd be strong. I just forgot that I'm not strong at all. I made a promise I cannot possibly keep.

I realize that Marv's got a hold of my hand a few hours later.

"This is just like the fish hook, Annie. We'll get it out. It'll be okay," he soothes.

And I don't know why it calms me, but it does. I feel my hysterics slowing and my tears drying and then I'm breathing normally again. Maybe it's calming because it reminds me of who I used to be. Maybe it's calming because I immediately remember how deep that pain was and it helps me control myself. Or maybe it's just calming because it's nice to know I'm not alone. Either way, it helps, and I'm grateful.

Once my tears have finally slowed, and Finnick and his allies are safe on the beach getting ready to sleep, I turn to Marv. I am finally able to get the words out that I've needed to say for a very long time, but just haven't been able to.

"I'm sorry for hitting you," I tell him.

He laughs weakly, like he can't believe I'm saying that at a time like this. He gifts me a kind smile.

"It's fine, Annie. I'm sorry for messing up the funerals," he apologizes.

I press the heel of my hand against my eye and sniff, willing myself to handle this conversation because it's a conversation that should have been handled a long time ago. I take a deep, shaky breath and continue.

"It was my fault. I should have been there to help you. That was my job, too. I left you all alone to deal with that and it was selfish of me."

They're words that I haven't appreciated just how much I've needed to get off my chest until I actually set them free. I feel like breathing is easier once they are gone. I carry so much guilt over so many things that sometimes I can't even realize when I am.

Marv shakes his head immediately.

"No. Don't blame yourself for that. You had just gotten back; you weren't well as it was. You couldn't help it. It wasn't your fault, either," he says.

He smiles and I find myself smiling back. His words make me feel a bit better, too. Even if I still don't completely buy it as the truth.

I turn back to the television and watch Finnick settle down in the sand for a few moments, but then I'm looking back over at Marv. He's examining the screen, his short red hair sticking up in the back like he hasn't brushed it in a while. Which he probably hasn't, because he's been here, taking care of me. My throat aches.

"Hey Marv?" I ask.

He turns, his pale blue eyes tired like I've never seen.

"Yeah?"

I wanted to say thank you, but suddenly I'm sure that isn't what he needs to hear most.

"Cora would be so thankful for all you're doing for me."

He blinks and then nods, swallowing what must be tears.

"I'm sorry about Henry," he mumbles a few moments later, after he looks like he's gotten control of his tears.

I find myself shrugging. The regret of all I missed still clings to my bones, but there is nothing I can do about it now. And honestly, it might be better that I missed whatever happened. He's still alive, and that's what matters.

"Henry wasn't trying to hurt me, you know. He's not a bad guy," I say.

Marv grimaces at this.

"He really is, though. You're too forgiving to see it. Cora couldn't stand that boy and I always tried to get her to cut him some slack, but after being around him myself I completely understand it. He's foolish and selfish."

Maybe he is, but he did come out of his way to help me. I won't forget that. He can screw up as many times as he wants, but he was here when I needed him most. I tell Marv this, and when I do, he just looks sad.

"That's the point, Annie. He knows you won't ever forget it."

I don't understand what Marv is getting at, but before I can even find the energy to try, I hear Finn say my name again. I look back at the television immediately, and what I see breaks my heart. He's asleep but he must be having a nightmare, because his face is worried and he keeps mumbling my name.

"He does love me. Henry was wrong."

The words are out of my mouth before I even realize I want to speak them. But they're true, and I want Marv to know that. I don't want him thinking even for a moment that Finnick is the kind of man Henry makes him out to be. I wrap my arms around my middle and stare at Finnick's face in the moonlight. The pale light puddles underneath his cheekbone and he's beautiful and it hurts. It all hurts. It hurts that he's hurting because of me, again.

"I know. I never doubted it," Marv replies calmly.

The screen focuses solely on Katniss and Peeta and I turn back towards Marv, my interest in the Games waning now that Finnick's not in sight.

"Sometimes I wonder what Cora would think about me. About Finn. About everything," I admit slowly. It's been so long since I've talked about my sister. I talk about her to Finnick sometimes, but it's different, because he never knew her. When I talk about her it's just like sharing stories, never actually having a discussion about a topic we both know the same about.

Marv knows her, though. He's the only person who knows her as well as I do.

"I wonder about that a lot, too. It's strange because she's gone, but sometimes it's hard to remember that she is. I still find myself walking the path to your old house. I still sometimes wait in the mornings before setting sail, thinking she's just running late and she's going to jump on board any moment, a blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. She never does, though." He stops abruptly, turning his face to the wall and clenching his fists. "And then sometimes I'm just glad that she's gone. The world is worse. It's crueler."

He stops again, turning to look at me, a strange look on his face.

"Or maybe it just feels crueler because she's no longer here."

I reach out and touch the back of his hand and he turns to look at me, his eyes damp and his nose red.

"She really was amazing," I tell him, and then my eyes are wet, too.

He laughs and it sounds so empty and painful that it leaves me wincing.

"She was," he agrees. He looks back up at me, his eyes meeting mine. "I miss her so much, Annie. I miss her still. It's been five years, and still the thought of moving on is too painful to think about."

I bite my lip as the pressure inside of me pushes out tears, and then Marv's grabbing onto my hand like he's about to fall off a cliff.

"I miss her, too," I whisper. And it's true. I miss her all the time. "But you know she would tell us to suck it up. She'd want us to move on."

He smiles at that, but his smile looks watered down.

"Well that's just too damn bad for Cora, isn't it? Because I don't think we'll ever be able to just "suck it up"."

"No, I don't think so either," I agree quietly. "She was too important."

When I start to sob, he hugs me tightly and succumbs, too. We cry for a while for my older sister who deserved to live and live well. Who could take charge of any situation, who could make something wonderful out of any mess, who took care of everyone. Who cut off all her hair and dropped the "L" just to escape the persona she'd built for herself while in school. Who smiled at people who said awful things about her but smacked them in the mouth when they said anything about her friends or family. Who loved Marv, who loved me, who loved Arnav. Who loved with a strength I will never possess.

"I miss you, Cora," I tell her, turning away from the laundry basket and glancing over at the couch where she's perched.

She looks up, her hair mused and her expression one of utter stress. She's been trying to untangle a net for a long time, but I can't remember why it's important. She could just get another one.

Her eyes meet mine and she looks befuddled.

"I see you every day, Seashell," she tells me, laughing at bit and peering at me strangely.

I look back down at the laundry, sniffing and holding Delia's tiny socks tightly.

"I know. But I do. And I will never stop. Marv misses you, too. I don't think he's ever going to stop, either," I mutter.

She sets the net down at that, looking up at me analytically.

"Well, missing someone is pointless if they're here and even more pointless if they're gone. Don't trouble yourselves," she finally says. She picks the net back up, but I have something to say and I need her to listen. I cross the room and pull the net from her hands. She looks up at me.

"You are an amazing person, Cora. And an even better sister. You always took care of me." I gently set the net back into her lap, because I remember suddenly why it's important. It's the net my mother and father had draped over them for their wedding vows. For someone who says missing someone is pointless, she sure does it a lot. "I never want you to doubt that."

Because somewhere she died without knowing that. Somewhere she drowned and I never got the chance to make her believe it, and Marv didn't, either. Somewhere she died before she understood just how much she would be missed. But that somewhere isn't here, and it never will be, because I am going to make sure she knows. That I can do. I can do that for her, for me, for Marv.

"No one will ever be as strong as you were. But I will never stop trying to be."

There's a heap of reasons to give up and die. Reasons that are aching and deep and awful. But on the other side, there's Cora and Finnick. The two strongest people I know, the people who love me the most, the people I miss the most, the people who believe in me the most. The people who need me the most.

I think it's obvious which side weighs more.

Cora opens her mouth to say something else, but I'm still lost and I have somewhere I have to go.

"I'll be back, Cora," I tell her.

The wind is freezing as it smacks into my skin. I shove my hands into my pockets and run two houses down. The metal doorknob on Mags' door is icy when I touch it, but her home is warm when I swing the door open.

I follow the soothing clicks of her knitting needles, and when I stop in the doorway, she's sitting in the living room knitting just as she always does. I cross over to her and sit at her feet like I did a long time ago, and she smiles at me.

I reach for her hand and hold it to my face. When my tears drip onto her skin, she hums soothingly and gently pulls her hand away, setting it on top of my head instead.

"Everyone dies," she reminds me gently. I can hear the smile in her voice, but I'm not smiling, because that was never supposed to include her. She wasn't supposed to die. I need her. Finnick needs her.

"I miss you," I tell her. She pats my back while I cry and I can't help but wonder what she's knitting. She reaches down and sets her fingers under my chin, redirecting my gaze so I'm looking at her.

"I know. But you know what, sweet girl? You're lucky."

I cry harder at that.

"How?" I demand a few moments later, my voice thick with tears and disbelief.

She pushes my hair out of my face and smiles.

"Because you're here with me now. All the people who leave you don't really go," she leans forward a bit and taps my temple. "They're here."

It's not the first time I've realized my madness could actually be a blessing in disguise. But it is the first time I've realized that maybe they really are still here. Not in reality, but this is as much reality in its own way. They're here just as I remember them, and for the first time, that's enough.

She continues, her voice dropping off into a warning tone.

"But don't think about giving up on the real world, Annie. There's still someone there that needs you. And there always will be," she promises.

I suppose that's where my promise comes in.

Beetee and Finnick and their allies plan something with a wire.

Marv places bandages on fresh wounds on my arms.

We sit in the kitchen, the early morning sun warming our skin, and I apologize over and over. It was my dream that caused it, I guess, because I woke up bleeding once more. I don't even remember what I dreamed, but I'm sure it was something to do with Finnick and his head.

Three flashbacks and ten bandages later and we're back in front of the television. Marv's been unsuccessful at getting me to eat anything, but he doesn't force me like the Capitol doctors did. That helps. We drink tea and pretend my hands aren't shaking.

"What am I going to do if he dies?" I ask Marv, fear causing my voice to quake just as much as my body is.

Marv frowns and doesn't take his eyes from the screen. We observe Finnick and Beetee examining the tree that the lightning strikes in the arena for a while.

"Whatever you can," Marv finally replies.

Poseidon pounces up on the couch then, and I can't help but feel like he's agreeing with Marv. He curls up in my lap and I stroke the fur on his head.

"I'm sorry it's been so hectic," I whisper to him. He's been hiding in Finn's bed for the majority of the past two days and I don't blame him. I press a kiss to his head and he purrs loudly. I like to think he's forgiving me.

I curl up under the blue blanket for the rest of the afternoon and cling to any glimpses of Finnick I can get. Poseidon sits on my lap the entire time. I'm almost happy when Finnick gets to spend a while showing the others how to fish. They have a great meal, all of them together, and if it is to be their last, I think it's safe to say it was a good one.

As the hours pass, I realize I'm angrier with myself than I thought. Each time I see Finnick I realize it's one less time I will ever get to. I can't help but think of all the smiles I might have missed when I was asleep, knocked out by those pills. Snow will never hate me as much as I hate myself.

The whimpering starts around nine o'clock. I can't do anything about it and Marv is nice enough to pretend it's not happening. Finnick and his allies begin hiking to the lightning tree. I know something bad is about to happen, because it's been a while since someone died. I ask Marv just to make sure I didn't miss anything, but he says I didn't. Someone will be killed soon, and I don't want it to be my Finnick.

Everything feels like a nightmare now. Everything is slow and dark and painful. I don't even have to dig into my legs anymore because the pain that I feel when I think that I might never see Finnick again is more than painful enough. It's agonizing.

I won't be able to do anything if he dies. That much I know is true.

Finnick helps Beetee wind the wire around the tree, and I'm mesmerized by the pattern they create. It's a beautiful web of different size triangles that overlap and shine gold in the moonlight. I can't tear my eyes away from it for anything, because the way it's shining, it reminds me so much of Finnick's hair.

The tree is gone then, though. Katniss and Johanna are making their way through the jungle, unrolling a giant spoil of the wire as they go. When the wire is suddenly cut by someone I can't see and it tangles around them, I'm mesmerized by the shine of it once more. It isn't until blood leaks over the wire that I'm able to snap out of whatever trance I was in and take in the entire scene. I'm immediately panicking, trying to understand what's just occurred, because Johanna is digging her blade into Katniss's arm. They were allies! If Johanna is turning on Katniss, what is happening with Finnick, Peeta, and Beetee? Are they attacking each other, too?

I'm off the couch and in front of the television again, my chest heaving and the world tilting dangerously to the right.

"Marv, I don't understand!" I find myself screaming. I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe and Finn is going to die and I can't have that happen. I can't. I can't.

"I don't either," he tells me, his voice just as stressed as mine must be.

District 2 appears suddenly, and they take in Katniss lying bloody on the ground and decide she's either dead or about to be. They take off and the camera follows them, weaving in and out of trees. I can hear Finnick's voice in the distance, calling loudly for Johanna and Katniss. The tributes from 2 turn immediately and take off in his direction.

I'm on the floor, pulling at my hair, trying my hardest to fight against my mind because I can hear a child laughing and I know it's Delia but Delia doesn't exist and that world doesn't exist and I'm not going there! I'm not! I'm not going away, not now, not when they are after my Finnick and I need to be here, I need to help him, but I can't and I don't know how.

The cameras switch again. Beetee's lying on the jungle floor, blood leaking from him, and Katniss is shaking him frantically, asking him question after question. He's so sick though. I know she's not going to get anything out of him.

Peeta screams out for her and she turns around, her eyes wide and her face pale, screaming back. But he sounds like he's far away.

Suddenly Finnick and Enobaria burst through the trees. I'm pulling myself back up into a sitting position, and I have no idea what is going on anywhere else, because I'm keeping my eyes on Finnick's face and Finnick's face only. There's the green of his eyes, still green even this far away and in the moonlight. And his jawline that feels just as strong as it looks. There's his lips, that almost always taste like sugar cubes, that feel so right against mine that nothing else could ever compare. And his hair that I've stroked my fingers through so many times I couldn't even begin to count. His hands, his neck, his shoulders. Everything. Finnick. I don't want to see him die. I want to remember him like this, alive, alive, alive.

His eyes look so hopeless and

It

Is

Excruciating.

I'm screaming and crying, because he is going to die, and he knows it, and I know it, and Katniss is going to kill him, and I'm going to have to see it, and never again will he hold my hand, never will I sleep beside him, never will he ever laugh or smile or sing in the shower. He will be gone just like that.

When a sudden boom fills the living room and a blinding, blue light sears my eyes, I'm certain that it's because Finnick has died. He has died and I was right. Life doesn't go on beyond that. But then the screen goes black and the Capitol seal flashes before us, and Marv is jumping up.

"Annie, stand up," he tells me, his voice urgent.

I'm gasping and trying so hard to understand, but I can't.

"Marv—" I choke, but he cuts me off.

"Get up, Annie!" he demands, his voice hard. He reaches down and grasps my arm tightly.

"Where's Finn? What happened? Is he alive? Marv, what happened?" I shriek, allowing him to yank me to my feet. I sway and fall against him, my legs unable to hold me up. I am so scared I can't even cry or blink or do anything. "What happened? Marv, please! WHAT HAPPENED?"

He lifts me into his arms suddenly.

"I don't know. I don't know what happened. But I have a very bad feeling about it," he replies.

I don't know where he's taking me. I don't have the energy to fight. We're walking towards the kitchen door when it flies open and Henry is standing there, his face white.

"Did you see?" he demands.

"Yes. I think they broke the arena. I think it was the plan all along—"

"The wire," Henry interrupts, his expression worried and horrified.

"Yes. I think something bad is about to happen," Marv continues.

Henry's thinking deeply.

"Your boat," he tells Marv, looking back up at him suddenly.

Marv's arms slacken a bit and then he slowly sets me down.

"I think that's the best we can do. You stay here with Annie. Pack a bag. I'm going to go run down to it. Meet me there as soon as you can," he orders.

Henry's never listened to an order a day in his life I'm sure, but he nods immediately. When Marv leaves, I'm screaming again.

"I don't understand!" I tell Henry, because I don't. I don't understand what is happening. The arena was broken? How do you break the arena? And why do we have to go on a boat? I don't want to go on a boat. I don't want to. My family died on a boat.

Henry stoops down in front of me.

"Finnick told Marv right before he left that if anything happened out of the ordinary to get you out of here. He told him where to take you."

I'm crying and shaking my head because that doesn't make any sense. That makes it sound like Finnick knew this was going to happen. But he didn't, because he would have told me. He told me I'm his wife. Why would he leave me here and not tell me what was going to happen? Why would he tell Marv? I don't understand!

I'm about to ask Henry where we're going when a sharp knock interrupts my choked up sentence.

Henry freezes and stares at me for a few long moments before slowly rising. He walks over to the door and opens it.

"Could you come out here please, sir?" the voice questions politely. I've heard the voice somewhere before, but I can't place it. I don't like it though.

Henry turns around and looks at me once more, and his eyes almost look sad. He turns back around.

"Of course," he says, his voice feeble.

He steps outside and the door shuts. I wait to hear what they're saying, but I don't hear anything at all. It's completely silent.

I grasp the seat of the chair and push myself up. I'm walking over to the kitchen door when it suddenly opens on its own.

Two Peacekeepers walk in casually, like this is their home, like they aren't intruding. I just stare at them. Henry went outside and now he's not there. Peacekeepers are in my house. Finnick was in the arena, but then there was blue light, and they said the arena is broken. Finnick told them that if anything happened they needed to get me out. I don't know where Finnick is. Marv is starting up his boat.

"I don't understand," I say out loud, and it's then that I realize I'm losing it. I can hear Finnick talking but it's leaking through from my other world. I can't hold on much longer, and if Finnick wanted me to fight against these Peacekeepers, it won't happen.

"Miss Cresta, I know you must be scared," one of the Peacekeepers says. I can only stare at him though, because he has yellow snakes tattooed around his eyes. He's the one I danced with on my Victory Tour. My skin crawls as the memory resurfaces.

"Finnick Odair is safe in the Capitol. He's injured, though, and he's refusing treatment until you're there with him. We need you to come with us as quickly as possible," he continues, his voice soft and pleading, like Finnick means a lot to him, too.

Henry is gone, the arena is gone, Marv's at his boat. Finnick's in the Capitol? Finnick is refusing help unless I'm brought to the Capitol? I can't imagine Finnick ever wanting me to be taken to the Capitol. He's never wanted me there, ever, period. He'd want to get better as quickly as possible and then come back here to me. He'd never want me to come there.

"I don't believe you," I find myself admitting, my voice shaking and weak. "Where's Henry?"

I try to look around them, but I can't see him anywhere.

"There's no time to not believe us. He is going to die if you don't come right now. He's scared and he wants you there. He's afraid that you'll injure yourself here alone if you think he's dead."

That does sound like Finnick. Worrying that I'll hurt myself. But still this feels wrong, and where is Henry, and when is Marv coming back?

"I should wait for Marv," I try again, tears beginning to fill my eyes. I back up a bit, and my heart sinks when they both edge towards me as I do.

Oh, what have you done, Finnick? What has happened? What did you get yourself into? Where are you? Are you okay?

The man with the snakes walks forward quickly and then sets his hand on my arm.

"You're coming with us, Annie," he says.

I'm opening my mouth to say something else, but then I feel something sharp prick my arm. I register the deep brown of his eyes and the victory in them, and then I'm looking down, wondering why I'm not surprised to see a needle being pulled out of my arm.

Of course. I'm mad mad mad, remember? I'm unstable, I'm frightening not in strength but in unpredictability. Of course they'll need me unconscious.

I double over, wondering why it hurts, because what they normally use to knock me out doesn't hurt at all.

"Don't worry. You'll see him soon," someone whispers, and I can't figure out why it's full of mirth, like the person who said it just told a hilarious joke.

The last thing I think of before everything goes black is that Poseidon is going to be left all alone. And then nothing exists once more.

Chapter Text

I regain consciousness on a hovercraft and Finnick is not with me. I am not going to the arena. I am not coming out of the arena. I wake up on a hovercraft, and why am I here?

I panic at first. I'm in a seat and my entire body aches. I try to stand, to figure out where I am and what's going on, but either my body has given up from going so long without food and proper sleep or whatever they injected into me is still affecting me, because my legs give out almost immediately. I fall back down into the plush seat, fear creeping up along my arms and down my spine and through my heart. I'm in some small holding area and no one else is in here. There's not even a window. The only door in the entire metal room is right in front of me, but I'm sure if I were to try and push it open, it'd be locked.

I decide to try it anyway, because what do you do when you can't do anything at all? You do whatever you can. My head is spinning and my eyes are burning and I don't understand. I'm not this dangerous. I'm not mean. There's no reason for them to knock me out and put me back in this cell-like area. All I want is to see Finnick. That's all I care about. As long as they aren't hurting him, I'll do whatever they want. I don't care.

I grip onto the arms of the chair and slowly hoist myself up. My legs begin shaking almost immediately and my knees lock up, but I take a few slow, careful steps forward and I'm able to walk. I take three steps to the left so I'm leaning against the wall and use it as support as I walk towards the door. The steel of it is freezing when I set my palm against it. I grip the handle and give it a shake, but just as I already knew, it's firmly locked and no amount of shaking will change that.

I carefully make my way back to the seat, and when I'm in it, the panic sets in full force. I pull my legs up into the chair and wrap my arms around them tightly, my breathing coming in short, strangled gasps. I hate hovercrafts I hate the Capitol I hate Peacekeepers I hate whatever they injected into me that makes me feel like a train has slammed into my body I hate that they have Finn I hate that Poseidon is all alone I hate that I'm too weak to fight any of these things that I hate. I'm wheezing and sure I'm about to have one of the worst panic attacks I've ever had when a loud click fills the room. Just that one noise fills me with dread and I find myself cowering back into the seat, because I don't know who this is, and I don't know what they're going to do to me. I'm suddenly hit with the realization that perhaps Finnick isn't the only thing I should be worried about. Perhaps I should be worried about the fact that they have me here and essentially they can do anything they want to me because I can't protect myself. I should, but I can't. My worry for Finn and my blind fear are taking up every ounce of energy I have left.

The handle lifts and then the door is pushed open. I hadn't realized it was dim in this holding area until natural sunlight begins leaking inside of it, and now my eyes are burning burning burning with the sudden brightness. I wince and turn my head to the right, grimacing even more when I hear the door close after whoever just entered.

I stay with my face turned away and my eyes shut for a few long moments, gripping my legs even tighter to my chest, trying to ignore the heavy breathing I can hear. Suddenly I don't want to look, I don't want to know who is in here. I just want to stay like this: arms around myself, eyes squeezed shut, mind rocking and liable to disappear off into another world at any moment.

However, my visitor must not want the same thing, because I can hear the smack his heavy boots make against the floor as he approaches me. I lift my eyelids a bit, just enough to peak past the dark web of my eyelashes, and I know it's the man with the snakes by the awful white Peacekeeper pants he's wearing and the metal-toed boots. The smell of cologne is overwhelming and I don't know why he even bothers with cologne when his job is to "maintain peace". I'm sure everyone in District 4 will sleep better tonight knowing that the Head Peacekeeper flew personally from the Capitol to take away The Mad Girl. Peace has been restored.

He walks so close to me I'm edgy and trying my hardest to not scream or jump up and run away. His stomach is right in front of my ducked and turned head and averted eyes, and I'm sure if I even turned my head a centimeter, it'd slam right into it. If I were stronger I could maybe headbutt him and try and make a run for it, but then what? I'm in a hovercraft. I know this from the gliding sensation and the seat I'm in. What would I do—jump out of it? I suppose I could, and if I thought they were just taking me prisoner, I probably would. But they might have Finn (and I hate myself, but I'm starting to believe they do) and how would it help him if I was a bloody pulp on the ground? It wouldn't. If I were Johanna Mason or Katniss Everdeen maybe I could try to take on the people in the hovercraft singlehandedly. I could see them getting away with something like that. I could see them taking over the aircraft and turning it back around and returning to their homes.

I'm not Katniss or Johanna, though. I'm Annie. And so I sit here perfectly still, my head turned and my stomach rolling, trying to keep my eyes shut as if that will make all of this disappear. That's all I can do. This is all I have the ability to do.

A few seconds tick by, and then the Peacekeeper's hand barely ghosts over my skull. I flinch visibly and I can't help it. The combination of his hand on my head, his body practically imprisoning mine, and his cologne clogging my entire head makes me sure I'm going to panic and start kicking him at the very least.

His hand tightens suddenly in my hair and then he's pulling fiercely, yanking my head so it's lifted and I'm facing forward. My scalp is burning and I'm gasping—more out of shock than pain—when he calmly extracts his hand from my hair and looks down at me. The snakes appear to be moving, but I think that's just because I'm dizzy.

"There now. That's better. I prefer to talk face to face," he says, a smile that I just can't trust on his face. Maybe it's that it doesn't look like a smile at all; it looks like a tool, a leering trap to earn my trust. Or maybe it's just that when he smiles the snake tattooed on his face opens its mouth wider.

I purse my lips, sure that if I say anything at all it will either be a cry or scream. He peers down at me, the smile trickling off his face so quickly I'm suddenly doubting it was there at all. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head slowly and sadly while peering down at me. My heart is practically beating out of my chest and I'm trying my hardest to take deep breaths, but it's just not working.

He reaches out again and I move further back instinctively, shying away from his hands. I haven't forgotten how slimy they were on my Victory Tour. His hand freezes midair when I do, his eyes hardening, and then he's got his hand rooted in my hair once more. He gathers it in his fist and tips my head up so his face is right above it, and I never wanted my face this close to his ever. I can see each scale on his tattoo and every different shade of brown in his eyes and his breath is hot and sticky as it fans out across my face. I keep my lips pulled together tightly and peer nervously around the room, terrified to meet his eyes, because he's terrifying.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he demands, his nails suddenly digging sharply into my scalp.

Is this how every victor who has to be taken to the Capitol is treated? I'm unsure. Am I treated like this because I'm mad, because I'm me? Did I do something wrong? I didn't resist getting taken. Not really. But still I'm here and he's treating me like I'm a prisoner but what would I have done to be arrested? I don't do anything beyond loving Finn, talking with Mags, piecing together puzzles, gardening, and reading. What is wrong with those things? What is wrong with me?

My eyes are swimming when I finally move them slowly to meet his. He smiles when I do, his nails retracting from my scalp and his hand lowering. He straightens up a bit, but he's still too close for my liking. I'm afraid to move, afraid that it will make him angry, so I stay just like that: my head tipped back against the seat so I'm peering up, my hands clutching my legs so tightly my fingers are white, my muscles shaking.

"There we go," he says softly, his eyes dancing over my face and down my body and then around the room. For someone who was insistent that I make eye contact, he seems to not care too much about keeping it. His eyes fall back on mine a few moments later. "We're almost to the Capitol. We're going to take you straight to Finnick Odair. Don't fight with us or we'll have to knock you out again, and I have to warn you: it feels even worse the second time."

The way he says this—regretful and almost kindly—makes it sound like I started fighting venomously the first time they tried to take me and they were forced to knock me out. My head throbs as I try to discern whether or not that is possible. I remember being in the kitchen. I remember Henry disappearing—where is Henry?

I look around the small room as if I think maybe he's in here too, but of course he isn't.

"Where's Henry?" I question, my voice feeble and cracking.

The Peacekeeper smiles and he is a predator. The snakes only reinforce that image.

"Henry had something to attend to in District 4," he says calmly. He continues, returning us back to our previous topic. "Do you understand?"

I open my mouth, the next question about Henry's whereabouts perched on my lips, but then he reaches forward and grips my chin tightly. The bones in his fingers press so powerfully and painfully into my jaw that I am honestly afraid he's going to break my face.

"Do you understand?" he asks again, his voice low and dangerous.

I nod my head as much as I can with his hand gripping my face. He lowers his hands and my entire jaw is throbbing with pain. I worry then that he's left bruises, bruises that Finn will see, bruises that will make him furious. Isn't Head Peacekeeper Dougal frightened of Finnick? I suppose maybe he would be if Finn wasn't on his death bed right now.

That thought puts things back into perspective. The Peacekeeper's rough handling doesn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, it's miniscule. What matters is that Finnick is hurt and we're almost to the Capitol and I can't be without him. He can't die.

Peacekeeper Dougal smiles that same leering smile and all I can do is breathe in relief when he finally walks out of the room, locking the door back behind him. I lower my legs and press my palms into my thighs, leaning forward and breathing like I've just run a mile. My heart is pounding like I have. I feel sick and I hate this. I'm scared. I'm scared for Finn, and now I'm scared for myself, too.

I don't resist in the least when the hovercraft lands and they come to retrieve me. Two other Peacekeepers grab on tightly to my upper arms and I let them drag me through the hovercraft. I don't even look up for fear of enticing someone's anger with my eye contact. I stare at my socked feet as they stumble over the carpeted floors of the hovercraft, over the slick metal of the ramp, over the warm concrete, over the threshold to a building, over glittering tile that looks like it's mopped three times a day, over and down steep and black granite steps. Finally we come to a stop. I'm standing on white, dingy tiles, and when I raise my head to take in the rest of the room, my heart is immediately jumping up my throat, because there's Johanna! And Peeta! And Enobaria! And they were with Finn, so Finn is here, too!

The Peacekeepers drop my arms and I hear a door shut loudly behind them as they leave and another lock turn. But I don't care, because my Finnick is here somewhere. It wasn't a lie. I peer around the room and take in the dirty white walls and floors, the metal benches secured with concrete to the floor, the yellow, flickering lights that line the ceiling, and I'm suddenly confused. This doesn't look like a hospital waiting room at all. It's too dirty. And the sparkling tiles I walked over before descending down the stairs didn't look like the floors to a hospital, either. They were too nice, too expensive. They looked more like floors to a ballroom or fancy government building.

Johanna is sitting by herself on a bench furthest from the door. Her back is to us and she's hunched over and I slide on my socked feet in my rush to run over to her. I stop running immediately, teetering and almost slipping and falling down to the ground, but then a hand reaches out and grabs onto my arm to steady me. I stop my rush to Johanna and turn. My eyes meet Peeta Mellark's. He's seated on his own bench, too, and he looks forlorn and downcasted. Where's Katniss? I examine his eyes more, and suddenly I understand. He's sad because Katniss is hurt, too. She must be hurt like Finnick.

Peeta lets go of my arm and doesn't say anything, and I can't say anything to him, either. So I continue making my way to Johanna, but slower this time. I'm halfway to her when I begin to register just how cold it is. It's July so there's no reason it should be so cold. The floors are especially frigid and I can feel the bone-aching chill through my socks.

"Johanna!" I cry when I reach the bench she's sitting on.

She lifts her head immediately and turns towards my voice, her eyes wide. Her gaze lands on me and she curses loudly, flinging her hands up in the air.

"Oh, lovely! They've got Annie! Just fantastic." She lowers her head once again and rests it in her hands, mumbling things under her breath. I catch Finnick's name twice.

I stop moving completely, staring at her, feeling fear once again because I don't understand. I haven't understood anything since the blue light and I still don't. What is she talking about?

Maybe she just doesn't like me. I always thought she didn't, but maybe she dislikes me more than I originally thought. Perhaps her outburst was just her distaste at being stuck here with me. Whatever, that's fine, I don't care. I want to know where Finnick is, though.

"Where's Finnick?" I ask her. My voice is shivering when I do, and it's then I realize that this isn't right. This isn't right because she looks like she might cry and she mumbled Finnick's name and Peeta looked so sad and no one is taking me to Finnick when supposedly he was refusing urgent treatment until I was there. If he was on the brink of death, wouldn't they take me to him immediately so he could get treatment?

Johanna looks up again and her eyes look dejected when they meet mine and I'm reeling back immediately, crashing to the ground and gasping, because he's dead. Finnick's dead already. He died and it's probably my fault. I should have left with the Peacekeepers immediately. I should have walked outside the minute they knocked on the door. He died without seeing me ever again. He died waiting for me. And I'm going to die. I can feel the salt of my tears burning on my face and I'm going to be sick. I want to die. This can't be happening, this can't be, this is just a hallucination, it's just—

"Where is he?" I demand again, my voice hysterical and choked when it flies out of me. Johanna turns a bit on the bench so she's facing me, and her face is hard and unemotional once again.

"Not here. And you shouldn't be here, either," she replies shortly. She curses again after that, averting her gaze and glaring at the dirty white walls.

Her words make no sense to me. I'm digging my nails into my arms and trying to take this entire situation apart piece by piece so I can re-piece it in the right order again like a puzzle so I can see what it makes, so I can see what it is. Finnick told Marv to get me out if something odd happened. Marv tried to take me away on the boat after the arena was destroyed. Peacekeepers arrived. Peacekeepers did something with Henry. Peacekeepers said they had Finn and he needed me. Peacekeepers said Finn wanted me in the Capitol, but Finn never wants me in the Capitol. Peacekeepers knocked me out and took me here and locked the door. Johanna and Peeta and Enobaria are here. They look sad. I don't see Finn anywhere. It's cold and dirty and it almost looks like a prison.

Why would Finnick want me out if something strange happened? To protect me. But to protect me from what?

I see someone walk up beside me from my peripheral vision. I turn a bit, my eyes blurred by tears, and Peeta Mellark extends his hand. My own quakes as I reach up hesitantly and take it. He pulls me to my feet, his hand steady, but how is he so steady when Finnick might be dead? How is he so steady when Katniss might be, too?

He helps me sit on the bench beside Johanna and he sits on the other side of me.

"Annie Cresta, right?" he asks.

I nod and wipe at my tears, trying to clear my vision enough to try and see what other pieces of evidence I can gather from Peeta's expression.

"We're in the Capitol. We're being held prisoner. Finnick and Katniss weren't picked up from the arena with us," he starts carefully. His blue eyes hold mine as he talks, and I can hear a slight quiver in his voice. His words chill me.

"Where is he, then?" I demand, frightened because the only thing scarier than what Peeta is saying is the knowledge that Finnick and I are separated, that he's somewhere that isn't with me, that it might always be that way.

Peeta looks across me at Johanna, and his expression is almost accusatory. She won't meet his gaze. She stays looking at her knees, her expression an odd mixture of anger and sorrow.

"That's all I know," Peeta says finally, looking back at me.

That can't be all he knows, because that still doesn't make sense. If they weren't picked up from the arena, are they still in the arena? Why would they leave them in the arena? Finnick and Katniss aren't disposable victors. I'm a disposable victor, but yet I'm here. So that must mean that the valuable victors are somewhere else. They got picked up by someone else. But who else would there be to pick them up? There's the Capitol and then there's rebels, but are there rebels? I didn't know rebels existed any longer.

I'm confused and things aren't making any sense. Things hardly ever make sense, but they especially don't now.

"I don't understand," I say, turning to Johanna this time and pleading with her with my expression as much as I can. I need to know where Finnick is and if he's safe. Peeta looked at her, so she must know. She must know what we don't.

She finally meets my gaze.

"All you need to know, Crazy, is that Finnick's a hell of a lot safer right now than you are," she snaps.

Oddly, her words calm me. I can breathe easier and my nausea wanes. Finnick is safe. Finnick is somewhere away from me, but he is safer than me, so that's a good thing. Our separation is good because I'm here as a prisoner and he's not.

A few minutes pass in silence as I focus on regaining a normal breathing pattern. Once I feel less dizzy and less liable to burst into violent sobs, I turn back to Peeta.

"Why am I being held prisoner?" I ask him. "What did I do?"

His eyes hold mine and he sighs a bit, looking unsure how to answer that.

"Nothing," he finally says. "None of us did anything."

He speaks kindly and it reassures me although I'm not sure why. His kindness doesn't change the fact that I'm here, being punished for something I don't yet know. It does help to know that kind people still exist, though. That always helps.

The pieces still don't fit and I'm about to throw the puzzle. I can't stand this.

"Then why are we here if we didn't do anything wrong?" I inquire, desperate for answers that I don't even know if Peeta can give me.

Peeta falters and Johanna laughs bitterly.

"Oh boy," Johanna mutters under her breath. "This is going to be extra tough for you, Crazy."

I don't get what was so odd about my question. Don't they wonder that, too? There has to be a reason we're being held here. You don't just get taken prisoner just because. So I did something bad, something I shouldn't have done, though I'm not sure what. I've done a lot of bad things (killing Twine, letting Chiron die, causing my family to die, and on and on and on), but I can't see the Capitol caring about those things. The Capitol caused a lot of those things.

Perhaps I'm in trouble for loving Finnick. One of the only right things I've ever done, and I'm getting punished for it.

"They don't need a reason, do they? It's the Capitol. We're victors. That's reason enough," Peeta tells me, sharing what him and Johanna already know, that I used to know but suddenly I don't any longer. The knowledge that there is no balance, there is no right and wrong, and fairness doesn't exist. Those things belong in the world of children and I'm an adult now. I know because I'm in my nightgown and socks in a dingy room on a metal bench and Finnick is somewhere I don't know.

But he's right. We're victors. Our crime is living, our punishment is having to do whatever the Capitol wants us to do, and that includes being held prisoner.

It's quiet for a few more minutes, and then Johanna speaks up again.

"Your crime is being precious to Finnick Odair."

I turn to look at her and she won't meet my eyes. If Finnick isn't here, why would I be punished for meaning a lot to him? Or maybe that's it. Maybe I'm here because Finnick isn't and I mean something to him. Maybe I'm here so he will be here, like bait, like a trap.

Johanna speaks up again, and her voice almost sounds apologetic.

"And you're going to be punished for it."

So no, not a trap. Half of the pieces fit now, and the picture they make is hideous. I'm here just for the purpose of hurting Finnick. I'm here to be used against him, and isn't that what Johanna said would happen in that faux lighthouse a few years ago? She said she'd rather her loved ones die than be held against her. Maybe she was right after all.

Peeta speaks up a while later.

"What do you think they're going to do to us, Johanna?" he asks her.

She laughs humorlessly.

"Torture us for information we don't have. Hurt you two for the purpose of hurting Finnick and Katniss. It's safe to say we're in for a shit time."

This revelation weighs heavily on all of us for a while. I try to imagine what is going to happen to me, but all I can picture is Osmium beheading Chiron. I'm sick again.

"But they're safe, right?" Peeta asks a while later, his voice desperate. I turn to look at him and I know what he is feeling so well. He wants Katniss safe just like I want Finnick safe, and it doesn't matter what they do to us here as long as they don't touch them.

Johanna turns to meet his gaze.

"Until they come storming the Capitol like a bunch of idiots, yes. They're safe," she says.

Her words make me panic. Storm the Capitol? What does she mean? If he's safe, he needs to stay safe. He needs to stay there, wherever there might be. But I'm realizing what Johanna says next at the same moment it's leaving her mouth.

"Don't look so surprised. They guaranteed that Finnick and Katniss would come here the minute they took you and Crazy over here. What, did you just think Katniss was going to sit back and fight a rebellion while you were being tortured? And sure, say you could make yourself believe that, but did you really think Finnick would rest for a moment knowing they have his precious Annie?"

Johanna's bitter words wash over us and we know they're true. I look at Peeta and he looks at me and we both know that we have just become the most dangerous things to the ones we love most. I hope they kill me. I hope they kill me and I hope that they tell Finnick that they did. Then he will stay safe and my pain can't hurt him anymore. And did Johanna say rebellion?

I'm mulling over that word and what it means and how that ties in with the arena breaking, and I've almost got the pieces all pieced together when the door opens. Enobaria speaks up for the first time since I've entered the room.

"Can I go now?" she demands crossly.

Whoever it is ignores her. Johanna and Peeta turn around to look but I can't. I'm on the hovercraft again, frozen in fear, peeking out from underneath my eyelashes and feeling fear prick my skin.

"Up. Let's go," a deep voice commands.

I can't rise from my feet. Johanna and Peeta stand and I only find the strength when Peeta gestures for me to follow. I grip the seat of the bench and rise slowly and unsteadily. A Peacekeeper stands stoically in the doorway, unmoved by everything, his hands on a gun. Enobaria walks up to him and waits, an annoyed look on her face like she can't believe she's here. Johanna, Peeta, and I join them a few seconds later.

The Peacekeeper turns wordlessly and leads us out of the large room and back into the stairwell. I look around now for the first time, since before I kept my eyes on the floor. The walls are the same black granite as the steps. We wind down and down and with each flight I get the distinct impression that we're falling down into the earth. The blackness of the stairwell—only lit by small lights on the wall every few feet—makes me nervous and even more frightened. I have to grip onto the walls after only three minutes of winding down the stairs because my legs are shaking so badly.

We finally come to a stop in front of a steel door. I stare at the Peacekeeper's badge in the dim, flickering yellow light, wishing he'd just shoot me now, trying to think of ways to get him to do just that. But something tells me there's nothing I could do to get him to shoot me. I'm here to be tortured and that's what's going to happen. I exist now just to hurt Finn. I have never hated myself more. I hate myself for being a seashell so easy and simple to snatch up, one that has value simply because it belongs to Finnick Odair. One that's broken fragments are going to cut him until he bleeds to death.

The Peacekeeper presses the pad of his index finger into a small hole in the wall and a red light flashes, and then the doors are sliding open. It's damp and cool down here. We walk through the doors and into what appears to be a dungeon. We've all seen them in storybooks. The prison in District 4 looks a lot like this as well, only it's above ground and it has windows. This is unique in its dedication to the image. It has stone floors and stone walls and a domed, stone ceiling. We're standing at the head of a long hallway with what must be individual cells lining it. Each cell has one heavy steel door with a small window only big enough for someone's arm to fit through. Three vertical bars are set in each window, although I have no idea why. It's not like anyone could fit through them. As far as I can see, the only light is a small one on the ceiling right in the middle of the hallway. It's so shadowy down here that there could be people hiding in the corners of the hallway and I would never know.

We're all silent, peering around us carefully. I know then that the purpose of this dungeon is to do what it is doing now. It was created to look like this just to scare, to frighten, to make people get this distinct feeling that they're no longer in the Capitol or even in Panem at all anymore. If they'd taken us to cells with white walls and bright florescent lights at least we'd know we're in the Capitol. It'd be familiar somehow. This is alien and terrifying, with cool stones and almost no light at all.

The Peacekeeper walks forward, but we don't follow. He stands in the middle of the hallway and turns to face us, peering down at a handheld computer in his hands.

"Peeta Mellark," he says.

Peeta looks up and we all follow his gaze as the man points at a door to his left. It's the second cell on the left. Peeta swallows and then takes a deep breath, walking forward bravely. The Peacekeeper presses his finger into another hole—this time in the stone—and the same red light flashes. The door to Peeta's cell clicks open and I was right. There's no light in there that I can see.

He steps in and he's only just met my eyes when the door shuts loudly.

"I'm not going in there," Enobaria speaks up.

The Peacekeeper looks up at her with a bored expression. He looks at his screen and presses a few buttons, and then he glances back up.

"No, you'll be coming with me," he tells her.

She smiles smugly at all of us, her pointed teeth glinting in the sparse light. I can't help but move closer to Johanna, even though I don't think Johanna would even step in if Enobaria decided she wanted to attack me.

I might be wrong though, because Johanna senses my presence and then turns around, glaring at Enobaria.

"Put your disgusting teeth away, it's making me sick. We'll see how smug you are in a few months."

Her words don't make much sense to me, but Enobaria snarls at her.

"Johanna Mason," the Peacekeeper continues dully.

He opens the door to the cell right beside Peeta's. Johanna storms past all of us, stepping into the cell with a huff. She glares at the Peacekeeper as the door slams shut after her.

I'm fighting a blackness that I believe is separate from this hallway. It's inside of me and it's threatening to take me under. It's pointless, I know, but I'm terrified. It's dark and cold and I'm alone and they're going to do things to me, things I can't even imagine because all I can see is my district partner's head being removed and it makes me sick and I'm sure I'm going to pass out right here.

"Annie Cresta."

I look up and the Peacekeeper opens the cell that's second on the right side of the hallway, right across from Peeta's. I just stare at him for a few moments, and then I somehow find the strength or sense to move forward. I step slowly through the threshold, and I've just had enough time to think to myself that it's freezing, and then the door slams shut and I'm in almost complete darkness.

I blink against the blackness, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the dark, but no matter what I do I can't see much. There's the small, dim square of light from the tiny window near the top of the door, but that's it. I can't even see how large the cell is. I want to travel around the room and explore it with my hands, but I'm afraid. How do I know I'm alone in here?

I slide down to the floor instead and lean with my back against the door. My legs are cold cold cold against the stones and I hate that I'm in this nightgown. I only ever changed out of the layers of Finn's clothing because I needed access to my legs so I could dig my nails into my skin. I shouldn't have done that, though, because I can register how sore my injuries are and I'm worried they're becoming infected. That paired with my lack of food and sleep and I make the ideal prisoner already. I'm always too weak to fight, but now I'm almost too weak to even stay conscious.

I pull my legs up once more and hide my face in my knees, keeping my eyes shut and trying to keep myself calm. I must be channeling my mother and sister because all I can think is that a panic attack is pointless and useless. It won't change the fact that I'm stuck here. It will just make me feel worse. But I've had anxiety problems my entire life and they aren't something you can just whisk away with logic.

I succumb a few moments later. I lie down on the stone floor and try to fight against the weight pressing my chest, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, my nails pressing into my arms. I'm gasping and I miss Finn. I miss Mags. I miss Poseidon. I miss Marv. How did I get to this point, locked in a cell, suffocating on the cold, stone floor? How does one even get to a place like this? What did I do to deserve it?

The cold from the floor is seeping into my cheekbone when suddenly I'm not there anymore.

I'm in the snow. That's why it's so cold. It's snowing in District 4 for the first time since the winter after my Victory Tour.

Finnick's gloved hand is wrapped tightly around mine and it's the only part of me that's warm. We must have been making snow angels, because we're sitting on the ground and I can feel melting snow sliding down my back and seeping through my coat. Finnick's laughing and when I turn to look at him, I'm laughing too.

"Your snow angel looks absolutely beautiful," he tells me with a wink. "I'm a fan of your shape."

I blush and it makes my face feel strange, like it's numb almost. The heat from my cheeks and the cold that was already there don't mix well.

"Flirt," I accuse him, dropping my eyes and looking down at our joined hands. Mags knitted us these gloves and I remember that we never thought we'd get to use them because it doesn't get cold enough, but then it randomly snowed, and Mags claimed she did it herself. That happened this morning so I don't know why I forgot.

He moves a bit to his left and then slides over to where I am. I watch him curiously as he climbs over into my snow angel with me. He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tightly, pressing a kiss to the frozen tip of my nose.

"You ruined my snow angel," I tell him, tipping my head back and grinning up at him. His cheeks are flushed and beautiful and all this white makes his eyes look ever greener.

He pulls me back against him and sneaks a freezing hand up my shirt and coat, laughing as I cry out in protest and try to squirm away. He ducks his head and his lips are warm as he kisses my cold neck.

"You're my snow angel," he coos. I groan at his cheesy comment and reach up, setting my hand on the back of his head. He rubs his cold nose against my neck playfully and then laughs against my skin, his breath warm as it travels over me.

It occurs to me then that we're sitting in snow, but it's warm, because he's here. I think about how cold it would be if he wasn't here at all, and then I am in so much pain and so scared and I don't know why. I'm so scared I immediately tense up and Finnick raises his head, peering at me in concern. He reaches up and straightens the hat I'm wearing, a frown on his face.

"What's wrong? Are you going away?" he asks.

I'm shaking and he thinks I'm cold so he begins unzipping his jacket. I shake my head, my teeth chattering, because I am cold but it's not something his jacket could fix. He pulls it off anyway though and pushes my arms into it, zipping it up over my own.

He rises from the snow and pulls me up to my feet, dusting snow off his jacket and my pants once I'm standing.

"Let's get you inside where it's warm," he says, his mouth still turned down in concern.

I'm nearing hyperventilation as we enter his home and I can't let go of his hand. He goes to step back but my grip is almost painful. He stops trying to leave and instead moves closer, looking at me in worry.

"What's going on, Ann?" he asks. He waits patiently for me to answer, his eyes studying mine. He busies himself with removing my steel blue cap (also knitted by Mags) and pulling my hair out of its bun, as if he thinks I'm still cold and that will warm me. I find the words as he's unzipping both jackets.

"I miss you, Finn. I miss you so much and I'm scared that I'm going to die without seeing you ever again," I gasp.

My tears are burning as they drip down my face. Finn quickly removes the jackets and then pulls me close, pressing his mouth to the side of my head and kissing me once for every word that makes up the only truth we know: I love you.

His lips tickle my ear as he whispers reassurances, his arms secure around me.

"I miss you too. I always miss you, even when you're here with me. But I'm here and I'm not going anywhere and I'm never going to leave you."

I shake my head, lowering my face and hiding it against his shoulder, because they took me away and I will never see him again and I will never hold him like this and he is going to die violently from the inside as they kill me slowly from the outside.

"I'm sorry, Finn. I'm so sorry," I weep. The collar of his shirt is wet with melted snow that must have slid underneath his jacket. The chill of it bites into my cheekbone.

And then my arms are empty again and I'm in the dark.

Peeta says something loudly as I cry, but I can't make out exactly what it is. He talks a bit with Johanna, their voices traveling from the small windows, but I can't hear anything over the pounding in my head.

I don't stop crying until the door to my cell suddenly swings open. I lift my head and sit up, scrambling back away from it immediately because nothing is safe anymore. Everything is a threat.

I can just make out Snow in the dim light from the hallway. He walks further into the cell and then pokes at the wall, and then there's that brief flash of red light, and the entire cell is illuminated. I shut my eyes immediately against the light, but a few seconds later I'm slowly opening them back up and blinking rapidly against the change in lighting. It turns out there are lights in here. Long, bright ones that line the ceiling. Only I guess you have to have the right fingerprints to use them.

I can see what I couldn't see before. I wish that I couldn't now, or ever. There are only two things in this room: a metal chair that Snow occupies and a flat metal table with restraints welded into it. I can't tear my eyes away from it. It's for torture, and that's why I'm here, isn't it? So why am I so shocked and repulsed to see it?

Snow clears his throat a few times before I finally rip my gaze away from the table. He's peering at me thoughtfully, a frown on his face.

"I'm sorry we have to meet again like this, Miss Cresta," he starts.

His voice does hold regret, but I highly doubt it's regret over this. It must be regret over that word Johanna said earlier. Rebellion.

I just stare at him, huddled on the floor, my eyes sore from my tears.

"I must admit this was not what I wanted, nor was it ever in my plans. But it seems that your beloved along with other victors have decided to change my plans for the worst." He shakes his head slowly, mockingly. "A very poor decision on their part."

"Where's Finnick?"

I don't even recognize my own voice at first as it bounces around the room. It's small and meek and terrified, but really I should have no problem recognizing it, because that's why I am, too.

Snow peers idly down at the cufflinks on his shirt, his expression one of mild interest even though I know he must be burning inside.

"He is with the other rebels. He was part of a plan to overthrow the Capitol, along with the other victors who went into the Quarter Quell. A foolish plan. As far as I've found out thus far, all the rebels are in District 13—which is very much alive, don't trouble yourself with the specifics—and their plans to get everyone out of the arena didn't go quite as planned. But they have Katniss Everdeen, the person they wanted all along, the person they all agreed to die to let live. And I suspect they are doing with her whatever they can to rally support for their misguided and wicked cause."

My initial shock is shock at the fact that Snow is telling me any of this. People don't typically tell me things of importance. Even Finnick is bad about doing that sometimes, but he does it to protect me and everyone else does it because they think I'm too mad to understand. Snow seems determined that I know this though, and I can't understand why. It's not difficult to accept that District 13 still exists, maybe because I have an entire other world that exists. It is difficult to believe that Finnick was part of this plan, though. But the more I think about it, the more I know it must be true. Him allying with Katniss and Peeta, Mags sacrificing herself for Katniss. Both those things don't make sense unless I take into consideration that he was part of it. He didn't tell me. That hurts me, even though I know he would have only kept it from me to protect me. But now that I'm sitting here in this cold cell with President Snow's eyes on me, I feel like perhaps it was more for the cause's protection than my own, because I'm here and I'm going to be tortured for information I don't have anyway.

Snow is smiling and I can't understand why. He looks like I've just given him something he really wanted, or perhaps walked into a trap he laid.

His voice is falsely kind when he speaks next.

"I know you don't know anything, Miss Cresta. You were just as confused by all of this as I was."

I just stare at him, because of course I don't know anything. I think I was more confused than anyone by all of this.

Snow sighs almost dramatically, his eyes filled with fake sadness. I know it's fake because he looks like he could laugh in glee at any moment.

"He always lies to you, doesn't he? Poor, mad girl. He uses you and you don't deserve that," Snow mutters, his voice dripping with a pity that makes my eyes burn. That's not true. That's not true. Finnick loves me. Finnick wouldn't lie to me, not unless he had to. He never lied to me about these Games. He doesn't lie to me.

But then I'm feeling even more upset, because actually, he did lie. Not to hurt me, but he did. He told me he would come home, all the while knowing he was planning on dying if need be for Katniss, for the cause. He looked me in the face and swore he would come back to me but it was a lie and he didn't and now I will never see him ever again.

Snow's smile widens at the sight of my tears and I think I would hate him if I didn't feel so empty.

"He loves me," I whisper, but my words come out sounding just as pathetic as I must seem.

Snow's smile disappears and when he speaks next, it feels like a slap to the face.

"He abandoned you. He left you alone to be arrested and tortured on his behalf. He doesn't care about you at all. He's safe in District 13 and you're here. You don't have to be sane to realize what that must mean."

No. No, that isn't right, because he told me he loves me and he was going to marry me and he kisses me like I mean more to him than his own life. Memories keep resurfacing, memories like the night he told me he was scared for the very first time. What was it he said to me? He said he was scared for me, that things wouldn't go the way he planned, that I would get hurt. And then he kissed my hand and apologized ten times. I am realizing now that he was apologizing for lying, for telling me he was going to come back to me when really he knew he would die in that arena. He was scared for this reason; scared I guess that no one would get to me before the Capitol did. But the important thing is that he was scared. You aren't scared for someone unless you love someone.

"He would never try to hurt me," I tell Snow, and my voice sounds much more confident this time.

Snow just sneers at me.

"And yet you're here."

I don't know what to say to that.

Snow doesn't seem bothered by my silence. He continues, his eyes locked on mine and cold as ever.

"You've been living a life of lies with Finnick Odair. As the first part of your punishment, we're going to help you see the truth. The Capitol takes care of their victors after all."

His eyes are laughing at me and I can't stand them. I look away and when the next words drip from my lips, he's laughing.

"What am I being punished for?"

"Finnick Odair's stupidity," he answers coolly, after his laughter has died down. He rises from the chair then, pausing to look down at me. He crosses the room and sets his hand down on my shoulder and I'm clenching my fists to keep from moving away. He smells like blood like always.

"Poor Annie Cresta. You don't have much longer until you break, do you?" he asks.

I can't meet his eyes. His words make me aware of all the tiny cracks running along under my skin, the cracks that Finnick only ever held together, the cracks that I am sure are going to completely shatter and make me fall to pieces on the floor.

"I bet you wish you would have a long time ago," he says, and I do, I do. I wished that the moment I was pulled from that arena. I've always wished to be all the way mad. How blissful that would be, how free. But then Finnick loved me and I loved him and I no longer wanted to be mad, because we had each other.

And now I'm alone again, freezing, mad mad mad (but not enough for my liking) and worthless.

The door seals behind Snow and the lights go out. He pauses outside of my door and says one last thing to me.

"Get a good night's rest. The life Finnick left for you begins at sunrise."

Not real. Not true. Finnick didn't leave this for me. Snow did. This is all Snow's doing.

I curl back up on the floor and try to exit this world, but I can't get myself to do it on demand. After a few minutes of trying, I'm crying again, and this time it's loud enough that it's echoing and bouncing around the walls and slamming back into me.

"Annie."

Peeta's voice is faint. I can't find the energy to get up.

"Crazy!" Johanna yells a few minutes later.

Something about that gets me to rise. Maybe because I feel more like a Crazy than I do an Annie right now. I climb to my feet and walk over to the door, rising on my tiptoes to peer out the small window.

I can make out Peeta and Johanna doing the same in the faint light. Johanna looks tired and Peeta looks worried.

"He said those same things to me about Katniss. Don't believe him." Peeta tells me.

"Yeah, he's just trying to hurt you in any way he can. I tried to tell him that even you aren't crazy enough to buy that Finnick wants to hurt you, but he just ignored me. Slimy bastard." Johanna sneers.

I can't say anything because that's not why I'm crying. I don't think that Finnick wanted to hurt me. I'm crying because I'm afraid my other world is lost to me and that's the only defense I have now. That's the only way I'll ever see Finn again. That's the only place the people I love exist. I can't tell them this, though, so I force a watery smile and thank them for the reassurance.

I sink back down to the floor and Johanna and Peeta talk for a while longer, speculating what sunrise might bring. Johanna makes weak jokes and Peeta talks lightheartedly as well, but I can tell they're both scared out of their minds. I am, too. What did Snow mean by show me the lies I've been living? It sounds like I am going to endure something psychological, and that has me even more frightened than before. All I have left is a small amount of sanity. Not enough to be messed with. I don't have the ability to even begin to worry about the fact that he said the first part of my punishment.

I fall into a fitful sleep that's filled with nightmares. I'm not the only one. Peeta and Johanna wake with sudden cries all night as well. By the time the hallway door is sliding open, I'm shaking and we're all silent.

The footsteps are ominous. There have to be at least ten people. For some reason the multitude frightens me. What do they need this many people for? We're only three.

When footsteps stop outside of my door, I'm backing up into the corner of my cell. I crouch behind the metal table, wedged between it and the wall, even though I know that won't help anything at all.

The door swings open and I watch two sets of heavy black boots walk into the room. They're both facing me, so I know they see me. They push in some sort of black metal cart with a television on top and another cart with a small, orange box. They turn the lights on after that.

I watch the feet of one as he crosses over and then he's standing right in front of me, peering down. I look up at him and I only have a few seconds to take in his curly black hair before he's reaching down and gripping my arms tightly. He yanks me up and sets me down on the metal table like I'm some sort of rag doll. I close my eyes and lock my arms around myself, because I'm not here, I'm not here. Really I'm on the beach with Finn. Why can't I hear waves? All I hear are the wheels of that cart against the stone floor. Why can't I hear his voice? All I hear are their voices mumbling to one another. Why can't I feel the sand against my skin? All I feel are their hands as they force me down on my back and the restraints as they lock tightly around my wrists and ankles.

I'm fighting against them almost immediately, hysteria rising and rising and rising until I'm screaming. The other Peacekeeper—this one has a gold hoop in his nose—slaps a hand over my mouth.

"Shut up," he orders.

I fall silent almost immediately; encouraged to do so by the hateful way he's looking at me. My heart is pounding in my chest and I know I'm going to be sick. It's going to happen. I'm going to die.

Peacekeeper 1 with the curly hair walks over to the carts and I'm helpless to do anything but watch and try to guess what they're going to do to me. He pushes the cart across the floor until it's right in front of the table and then crosses back over, grabbing the other cart and dragging it behind him as he makes his way over to me. He fiddles with a lock on the orange box and then he lifts the lid. I'm cringing away immediately. The box is full of what must be at least twenty needles and syringes, all shining and new, and rows and rows of glass vials filled with things I don't know, things I don't recognize, things I don't want to understand.

Peacekeeper 2 with the golden hoop leaves my side, pulling his hand off my mouth, and walks over to the door of the cell. He mumbles something to someone outside and then grabs a large glass of a thick, blue liquid. He crosses back over to me and reaches onto the cart, grabbing what's essentially a long straw. He sticks it into the glass and then holds it, pushing the straw between my lips. I keep my teeth locked, but then he reaches down and sets a hand on my stomach and presses down with all his weight, his eyes angry, and I'm gasping out in pain and opening my mouth fully. He lets up the pressure on my stomach and I'm left feeling like something important has been crushed.

I want to ask him what it is, but there's no point. Wasted words, my mom used to call them. These would be wasted words. Because it won't kill me (I wish it would) and if it's going to cause me immense misery, there's nothing I can do to avoid it.

I begin drinking it and I'm surprised to find it doesn't taste bad. It's sweet, almost sickly sweet, and all I can think to compare it to would be milkshakes if they were hot instead of cold. It's got the same consistency, but it burns the back of my throat going down.

When I've drained the glass, I feel sick and heavy. He moves the glass away and mutters something to Peacekeeper 1.

"Caloric needs met for day one. Mark it down."

I guess starving myself isn't an option either then.

Peacekeeper 1 has what looks like a hair clipper in his hands and he's walking towards me, but the other Peacekeeper stops him.

"No, that's not on the list," he tells him.

The other Peacekeeper frowns. "That's always on the list. You shave the prisoner's head at the beginning of every session. They're shaving Johanna Mason's right now."

Sure enough, you can make out the faint sounds of the electric buzzer and Johanna's snide comments.

Peacekeeper 2 shakes his head and points at the screen of a handheld computer attached to his wrist like a watch.

"Not Peeta Mellark or Annie Cresta," he tells him.

Somehow this terrifies me. I'm not relieved in the least that I get to keep my hair, because why do they need it? They would only keep it if they needed it. Why do Peeta and I need our hair while no one else does?

"Fine. Get it out of the way then," he snaps. He sets the buzzer back down while Peacekeeper 2 gathers my hair with some sort of string.

I catch his eyes as he drops his hands from my hair, and something he sees makes him look away, a frown on his face. I want to ask him to not do this, or maybe at least tell me what he's doing, or why I have to keep my hair, but Peacekeeper 1 is reaching into the orange box before I get the chance.

He pulls a needle out and then peers at the screen of his small computer, humming as if he's reading something very peculiar.

"She's lucky she's not getting what Mellark's getting," he tells the other Peacekeeper.

He looks at him and then at the vial he's just picked up.

"I don't know about that, Nigel."

Nigel—Peacekeeper 1—laughs at that, nodding along like the other Peacekeeper's just brought up a good point. My throat and lips are too dry to ask them what they're doing to Peeta. I can only remember how kind he was to me and it makes me want to cry to think that he's being tortured right now.

I hadn't considered that I'd have to hear anyone else being tortured. That thought doesn't cross my mind until I hear Johanna's shrieks, muffled a bit by the stone walls, but loud enough to make out with ease.

Nigel winces, reaching into his pocket and pulling out small foam balls. He then reaches up and sticks them into his ears. He pulls two more out of his pocket and turns to the other Peacekeeper.

"Here, Gene."

"Thanks."

Gene takes the earplugs gratefully and sticks them into his ears and I'm crying because I can't understand this. They're listening to shrieks of pain and misery, and instead of helping, they're just muffling the sounds. Doesn't this hurt them at all? How can they stand to hurt another person? How can they do it?

The vial in Nigel's hand is filled with cloudy liquid. I watch as he attaches a long needle to a syringe and then sticks the syringe into the vial. He fills it, carefully eyeing the line already marked on it. I have to wonder then whose job that was. Who was given my age and weight and told to mark every single syringe with the correct dosage just for me? Did they know what I was being given? Did they care? I would have cared. I would have.

Nigel holds the syringe while Gene pulls a triangle of solid foam, not unlike a pillow, off the bottom of the cart that had the orange box. He walks over and lifts my head, setting the foam underneath it so I'm partially propped up. It's very uncomfortable with my neck stretched up and my wrists and ankles secured down. But as Nigel approaches me, I know it's only going to get more uncomfortable.

My vision is swimming and suddenly I can hear my sister's voice.

"Breathe. This won't kill you. Breathe through it. You can do this," she whispers.

I don't go away, though. I'm still here, and Gene is messing with the television, and Nigel is rubbing something on the inside of my elbow.

I'm gasping for air, fear weighing me down, when he sticks the needle into my vein and presses the plunger down.

Immediately, forceful, fiery pain fills my arm. I flinch wildly, most likely bruising my wrists as I fight against the restraints, but there's no point. The burning travels and travels and soon I am certain I am burning alive. I'm unable to move a minute later. I don't know if that's a side effect or if I'm just in so much pain I can't. It is unlike anything I have ever felt and I am sure I'm going to die. It feels like I've pressed my skin against a burner, but inside, every organ, every muscle, every vein, and then someone's attacked that burned, raw area with sandpaper, rubbing back and forth back and forth until every bit of skin is rubbed off and raw and bleeding, but still they keep rubbing until it's just down to bone. I'm sure it's happening, I'm sure, but then my eyelids are pulled open and tapped up and I can see clearer than I've ever seen before, and no one is burning or sanding me down. It's just my quivering body, pale and small and chained. It's in my veins and it's making everything sharp and my mind is present and I can see the screen clearly.

When I realize exactly what is on the screen, I'm trying to pull my eyelids down, to fight against this, but I can't. Whatever they've used to tape them open is strong and all I manage to do is make the muscles around my eyes ache.

I can hear Gene and Nigel's comments clearly.

"How much did Dougal say he had to pay to get this one?" Gene asks.

Nigel snickers. "Enough that the woman could buy a new apartment."

She doesn't need a new apartment, though. Her apartment is just fine. Especially her bed. It's a water bed and it moves like the waves and she's got her hands all over Finnick. She's got her nails in his skin, and her lips on his neck, and I can't go away. I can't because whatever is burning me right now is keeping my mind so sharply in focus that I am sure I was never even this present before I went mad. I don't know but I think the pain is there for the purpose of keeping my mind anchored, or perhaps they're both separate tortures paired together just for the purpose of causing me misery. I'm screaming screaming screaming, but it doesn't help the pain I'm in at all. I want to thrash around because I think maybe it could help, maybe I could push away the layers of sandpaper rubbing away on my skin, inside of me, everywhere, but I can't because I can't get my muscles to cooperate.

The foam keeps my head facing forward and I can't look away. The horror flowing through me is just as awful as the pain, but I can't turn, not when she's saying awful things to him, not when he's inside of her, not when she's locking her legs around him, not ever.

I think it can't get worse than this—chained, burning alive, watching my lover essentially raped while two men sit beside me and watch too—when they start talking. At first I think they're talking to each other, but then I realize they're talking to me, really.

"That's who he really loves. Would he be doing that to her if he didn't love her?"

"Listen to how he says her name."

Not real not real not real. Not true. Not true. He doesn't love her. I can't look away. I want her to get off him. She doesn't love him. He doesn't love her. This isn't Finnick. Finnick doesn't touch me like that, ever. He is gentle, kind, loving. This isn't loving, and so Gene and Nigel are wrong. They are wrong. He grabs her hair and pulls it. They're wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong and I want to die, I want to die, why can't I die?

"Breathe."

My sister's voice comes back to me again and it's reminding me to do something so pointless and I'm writhing in pain and anger now too because how will that help me? How will breathing help me? How? How?

I listen to her, though, as I always do. I inhale as deeply as I can and then exhale, and it does help a bit with the pain. I find that if I focus on breathing in and out and counting how long I hold each breathe, I'm just staring blankly at the upper corner of the screen, I'm not taking in what's happening, I'm not having to see that, it isn't happening, it never happened, it won't ever happen again, it's not true, Finnick doesn't love her, he loves me, and that's not love, that's not love, that's not love.

"She's beautiful. I don't know why you'd ever think he'd love something as mad and plain as you."

I don't either, but he does. He does. It's true I know it's true and they don't know because they don't know Finn. They are lying to hurt me, lying to make me think he doesn't love me, but he does.

"Breathe."

In and out. Minute by minute. How long will this last? In and out. Minute by minute.

Johanna is still screaming and Peeta is screaming too, but his screams are different. He's yelling things, like he's hallucinating. The longer I listen, the surer I am that that's exactly what's happening.

How odd. They're making him see things that aren't real and they're making sure that the only things I see are real.

When the tape finally ends, I'm sure it's over. I think they see that on my face, because Nigel grins.

"Don't worry, you and your friends have us reserved for six whole hours."

Six hours to lie here, burning, listening to their words and wet moans and sudden shrieks and Johanna and Peeta's screams. I will not live through this. I will not.

"You're fine, Shell. It's just now. It will all be over eventually. Breathe."

Cora won't stop talking to me, but she won't take me away, so maybe she doesn't love me at all. If she really loved me she would let me go into my other world. And I know it's not her fault, but I've never felt pain like this, and my heart has never felt pain like this, either. I'm stuck in reality for once and reality is atrocious.

And who would have guessed that in the end, the worst possible torture would be forced sanity.

Chapter Text

By hour four, I was convinced that nothing could be worse than the screaming.

It filled my entire head: my screams, Johanna's screams, Peeta's screams, the Capitol client's screams. It echoed off the stone walls and rebounded against my skull and filled me with an agony that almost matched the agony of whatever was scorching through me.

But when the sixth hour fell, and the screams stopped completely, I learned there was something much more painful: silence.

Silence is a close friend and so I never expected it to betray me this way. It's been a comfort for the most part, only stinging me when it was Finnick's silence and Finnick's absence. But the silence that falls over the dungeon a few minutes after the torturing seizes is one of a unique and horrifying nature. It's an all-consuming silence on the part of the prisoners, one that echoes with utmost pain and misery and shock, and a comfortable silence on the Peacekeeper's parts as they pack up their stuff and make small talk like they didn't just give three people one of the worst memories they will ever have.

They lift the restraints and leave, taking their carts with them, and I can't move at all. Whatever was pumping through my veins is gone I'm sure, because the pain has subsided, but it's left something else in its place, something psychological in its nature but just as physically crippling: terror. When something horrible happens to you, you hold on and try to get through it thinking to yourself that it will all be over soon. But lying there, staring up at the ceiling, I know that this will never be over. This is the rest of my life. And what could be more terrorizing than that thought?

It's not her fault, but when an Avox enters my cell, I get so scared I scamper off the table and huddle in the corner between the table and wall. She looks heartbroken at this and stands still in the doorway for a full minute, watching me carefully, holding her empty hands up to signify that she isn't going to harm me. It's not her fault at all that I thought that she was a Peacekeeper coming back for more, so I hate myself for making that guilty look show up on her face.

She's young, maybe seventeen. Her hands shake as she lowers them and she hesitantly walks into the room, closing the door behind her. She walks slowly towards me, her eyes wide and her face pale, and when she stops in front of me we just observe each other. She's unable to talk and I'm unwilling. I'm not sure I could even if I did want to, though. My entire body aches from writhing in pain for hours and my heart is torn. I have no words to give her just as she has none for me.

And yet we are communicating. She communicates by hesitantly extending her small hand, palm up, and I communicate by leaning forward bit by bit and then gently setting mine in it. She helps me stand, her face still pale as mine must be, and then she drops her sweaty palm back to her side. My eyes are burning in retaliation to her simple gesture, because for a moment I think I honestly forgot that you can touch another person without bringing them harm. There is helpful touching, too.

I lean against the metal table, exhausted and sore, and she keeps her eyes on me as she reaches into a bag tied around her waist. I have to repeat she's kind, she's kind, she's kind over and over in my head to keep from shaking in fear as she does this. She's not reaching for a needle. She's kind.

I'm right for once. She pulls out white fabric that's folded tightly. As she unfolds it, I see it's a loose shirt and shorts, made of a cheap cotton material. She lays it out neatly on the table and turns around politely, and I take from that that I'm supposed to wear it. I wasn't given any kind of undergarments, but I'm too exhausted to ask, and I'm sure it wasn't a mistake. We're prisoners after all. That's a luxury that we won't be afforded.

It takes me a while to pull off my nightgown because my arms are so sore. I can't lift them very high without wincing and slowly lowering them back down. After a few minutes I'm dressed in the prison clothes and leaning once more against the table, my knees shaking and my stomach churning. I keep hearing Johanna and Peeta's screams. I don't think they will ever fade from my mind. The silence won't let them, and it scares me. I haven't heard anything from Peeta or Johanna since the screaming stopped. What if they're dead?

The thought terrifies me and I banish it quickly because they can't be dead. Snow would never allow it.

The Avox turns back around and then walks over, gradually lifting her hand and touching my hair. Her gaze is questioning and I understand what she's asking, but I don't know. I have no idea why I kept my hair. I have no idea, and it scares me.

But upon further inspection of her face, I realize that she doesn't look too questioning after all. She's looking at me almost with pity, like something horrible is going to happen, and if I could get the words to come I would beg her to tell me somehow what it means. She knows what it means, and I don't, and no one would tell me anyway. No one tells me anything.

She touches the back of my hand kindly and offers me a small, compassionate smile. It's all I will get and oddly, it's enough. I feel like I'm breaking when I smile back.

She sets a tall bottle of water on the metal table and then leaves, shooting one last glance behind her before she shuts the door. The lights stay on, and I spend a few seconds wondering if that was a mistake or a gift, but then the door is opening once more.

The flash of white has me flinching back into the corner once more, but it's not the Peacekeepers. This man is in a white coat, but it's a medical coat. His face is devoid of all emotion as he walks in, clicking away at a familiar computer on his wrist. He looks up and nods towards the table. He doesn't have to ask me twice. I'm up and on the table quickly, fear of how I may be punished if I lag for even a moment or try to argue with him coursing through me.

I lay down and watch him as he approaches me. I close my eyes tightly and hold my breath as his cold, gloved hands press down on my neck. He prods and then pulls down the top of my shirt, pressing something cool and metal over my heart. Seconds tick by and then he grabs my finger tightly. From the sharp, brief pain, I know he's pricked it.

I lie there quietly while he stretches my arms and legs and prods at the muscles. After what could have been anywhere from five to ten minutes, he's speaking. I suppose he's talking either to someone outside of the door or into a receiver, because I can tell by the polite tone that the words aren't for me.

"She's stable. How many sessions is she down for weekly?"

I can't hear a response, so I assume he's talking into a headpiece of some sort.

"No, she can't do seven, unless you want her to die. Five at the most, but I don't recommend that. The drug you're using is causing stress to her heart. I'd recommend four for prolonged stays."

Four. Four like four words. Like please don't leave me. Like I am coming back. I don't think I like four.

He argues a bit more with whomever he's talking to, but in the end, they decide on four. I guess that means I have three more six hour "sessions" this week. I'm relieved when he leaves, because I can't hold the tears back any longer. When I cry it makes me hurt even worse because all I can think is that I'm being wasteful again. There's no point in crying, Annie. None at all. There's no point in crying, Mad Girl. They're going to do this and I can't stop them. I barely lived through the first it feels like, but it won't be over. Not until I'm dead, and they aren't going to let that happen any time soon.

It's quite easy to stop crying, really. It's easy to slip back into that state of blind horror and catatonic terror. Easy as loving Finnick.

I wait and wait for my mind to drift. I wait and stare at the wall. I wait and wonder why the light is still on, why I can't hear Johanna or Peeta, why I have my hair. I wait and wonder what Finnick is doing now, who he's with, if he's happy. I wait and wonder if he misses me at all. I wait and wonder wonder wonder if maybe Snow was telling me the truth. I wait and wonder if I'm delusional, I wait and wonder if Finnick really did want to sleep with those people he slept with, if he really enjoyed the things he did to them and the things they did to him, if he was only with me because we ended up doing some of those same things, too.

And then I just wonder at what point I lost it completely, because I'd have to be more than mad to even wonder these things. I'd have to be a moron.

These are the things I know:

One: I'm mad.
Two: I'm stupid.
Three: Finnick Odair loves me and I love him too.
Four: Snow is trying to take that away from me.
Five: I'm letting him every time I wonder.

So I stop wondering. If there's one thing I'm familiar with it's distinguishing the real from the not real. So I think back until I find real moments, moments that could not have been fake because I can remember them vividly. Memories like washing that strange skin ink of our bodies in the shower and how cold the water was when we first jumped in. Like how soft Finnick's lips were the very first time I kissed him. Or how deep and sleepy his voice is first thing in the morning when he greets me. Or how warm his hands are when they pull me from a flashback or my other world. These are all things that are real without a doubt. And they are all things that I know Finnick did while loving me.

The not real things are Snow's words and those videos and the things those Peacekeepers were telling me. They're wrong. They are the mad ones and I'm the sane one, this time.

It's almost as if this realization was what my mind was waiting for, because I can hear Finnick singing in the shower suddenly. The relief I experience knowing I'm about to go away is so intense I'm crying, and the louder my other world gets, the better I feel. That's not healthy, I know, but what about any of this is?

I'm sitting on our bed, not the metal table, and a change has never been more welcome.

A few seconds of sitting there and I'm confused and I feel like I've just forgotten what I was about to do. I don't understand why I feel so happy I could cry, or why I'm looking down at my body and examining myself like there's something special I should be looking for. There's nothing. It's just me and a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I'm relieved that this is what I see, only I don't really know why, because what else was I expecting?

Finnick's singing still when he opens the bathroom door, a cloud of steam following him. I watch it slowly drift into the room and then seemingly disappear and I want suddenly to be in the bathroom with the door shut and the mirrors fogged and the air heavy and hazy. I want to hide in the warmth because I feel like I've just gotten back from somewhere cold, somewhere awful, somewhere where warmth doesn't exist at all.

Finnick's gripping a towel around his waist and he's smiling at me.

"There you are! I wondered where you got off to," he says.

To say I am confused would be an understatement. Does he mean physically or mentally? I'm pondering over this, and my heart lightens as I come to a realization. Maybe I'm confused because I was away. Maybe I went away into another world, but it was somewhere cold and dark and scary, but now I'm back and I'll never have to go there ever again. Maybe, please.

Finnick's talking about something as he rummages through his dresser drawers. He drops his towel and pulls on a ridiculous pair of underwear that never fails to make me giggle. They're bright gold and outrageous, and Finnick hates them, but sometimes he wears them just because they crack me up. He turns around to look at me, an expectant smile on his face, and I don't know why it takes me longer than usual to laugh, but it does. It's like there's a wall inside of me, holding back positive feelings for reasons unknown. But his excited expression shatters it and I'm giggling immediately, covering my eyes with my hand. I hear the drawer shut and then suddenly the weight on the bed shifts and Finn's pressing me down into the mattress, his arms pinned on either side of me and his face pressed into my neck.

"They say Finnick Odair's body was handcrafted out of gold, you know," he mutters, laughing a bit himself.

I press my face against the top of his head, shuddering a bit at how cold his wet hair is. The smell of his shampoo is so vivid that I know then I was right before. I'm here to stay forever.

"Really now?" I ask. My voice comes out muffled, but I don't care. I get the sudden feeling that someone wants us apart and I'm not going to let that happen.

He kisses underneath my right ear, his laughter skidding across my skin in bursts of warm breath.

"Oh yes."

When I begin shaking I initially think it's because of his wet hair. But I don't feel cold at all, so I don't understand. If anything I'm stifling, wedged between Finnick and the mattress. A few moments of shaking and Finnick registers it. He rolls off me and onto his back and then reaches out, pulling me against him so I'm lying halfway on top of him. Just like I had to sleep those nights when I had nightmares of him getting beheaded. When was that? I can't place it, but I remember this. I remember. It helps now, too, but I don't think I'm shaking because I've had a nightmare. I cling to him and he to me and he doesn't ask me what's wrong. He merely kisses my temple and then begins speaking, his voice soothing.

"There's a beautiful place out there for you and me. It's always seventy five degrees and it never rains. When you make a sandcastle, it stays there permanently and the tide never washes it away. The sunrise is always that pink color you love and the sunset is golden and there's always the right amount of sugarcubes in your coffee. The most painful thing is skinning your knee and even that can be fixed quickly. No one hurts anyone else purposefully and everyone dreams of deep sea diving with bright fish every night." His sentence trails off and he kisses me once more. "And you want to know the best part?"

I lift my head and look at him, surprised to find he's blurry and I'm crying and I don't know why. I sit up, driven by a fear and sorrow that has enough strength to make me do whatever it wants.

"What?" I ask.

He smiles and reaches up, sliding the pad of his thumb across my cheek and pushing away tears.

"We are together always," he tells me.

I sniff and then blink until the tears fall and my vision clears and I can see his green eyes. Does he know how badly I need this place? I don't even know how badly I do. I just know that I do, I do, I do.

"Where is it?" I ask him.

He lifts his hand again and traces his fingertips over my collarbone and then down to my heart. He rests his hand over it and looks at me seriously.

"Right here," he says.

It takes a few studies of his eyes, but then I understand what he's saying. Our love is our paradise and there's no other way to put it. It's where we run to, it's where we relax, it's where we are happiest. It's our home, and it's perfect.

I cover his hand with mine and a question begins eating away at me.

"What happens if someone tries to take it away?" I ask, desperate to know although I don't know why. My eyes burn but I keep thinking to myself that they don't burn like I've burned before. There's a burning that's worse than any burning I've ever known and it exists in a place that isn't this, in a place that I never want to be again.

He moves his hand between my shoulder blades and gently pulls me back down against him. I stretch my legs out and grip him and I don't want to go, I don't want to go, I don't want to go. I miss him. I miss him. I miss his smile and his laugh and his eyes and his voice and I miss everything about him.

"That's what's so beautiful, Annie. They can't," he whispers.

Can't can't can't. Can't is a beautiful word. Did you know that?

I'm in my cell and nothing has ever felt worse.

The door has opened and that's what's dragged me back, kicking and screaming inside but completely blank outside.

When I see the Peacekeepers, I'm desperately trying to count minutes and hours, because surely I wasn't gone that long. Surely it isn't time for the needle and videos again. I should have a whole day free from that.

It's not Gene or Nigel, though. It's a Peacekeeper I've never seen and he gestures for me to stand and follow him. I'm resting a hand over my heart as I rise to my feet and shuffle towards him, because they can't have it, they can't. Finnick said so and Finnick doesn't lie except when he lied to me about coming home.

I wish he wouldn't have done that.

I follow the Peacekeeper out into the hallway, and when I see Johanna and Peeta, I'm fighting an urge to run towards them and embrace them. They're alive, but not fine. Johanna is bald, bruised, and bloody. She's shaking and her eyes keep rolling back into her head every few moments. She has to aggressively shake her head to keep consciousness. Peeta's in some sort of daze, wincing every few moments. His skin is clammy and green. I want to tell them I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous, so I stay quiet.

The Peacekeeper leads us further down the hallway. We've never been this far and I have to wonder why there are so many cells. Exactly who did they think would be down here?

We reach the end of the hallway and there are two doors. The Peacekeeper nods at Peeta and points to the door on the right and then looks at Johanna and I and points at the left.

She's too exhausted to question it as well, and that makes me sad. Johanna has never been too tired for a sassy comment before.

She drags behind as I walk forward, pushing the door open, surprised to find we're in a bathroom. I haven't even thought about the bathroom at all. It seems odd then to be some place so ordinary.

Johanna cries out in pain when she accidentally walks into the stall door. I think she must still be fighting to stay conscious. My heart is aching for her and I try to help her walk in, but she violently pulls away from me, her chest heaving and her eyes wide. I lower my hands immediately, swallowing tears.

"It's just me," I mutter.

She relaxes a bit at that and blinks a few times. She then turns, heading into the stall and closing the door.

I use the restroom and then cross over to the sink on the far wall. Johanna watches me with a strange look on her face as I put soap on my hands and then go about washing them.

"How can you do that?" she finally asks, her voice hoarse and quiet.

I look up from the bubbles in the sink and find her eyes, unsure exactly what she's referring to.

"What?" I ask. Pain shoots through me immediately and my voice is just as hoarse as hers.

"How can you wash your hands like nothing is happening. Like this is normal," Johanna clarifies, her voice emotionless. I look back down at my hands, feeling suddenly that I've been caught doing something weird. Under the layer of bubbles my skin looks alien to me. I glance back up at her. I'm about to tell her about the place Finnick told me about and how somewhere, none of this is happening, but I know that's not an answer she wants to hear. I don't know what she's looking for, but her gaze is almost begging, and so I give her the only other answer I have.

"Because when you're trapped and lost, you have to do whatever you can do. Anything or everything. Whatever. Poseidon taught me that."

My throat aches even from that small amount of speaking. She's gazing at me oddly, her eyebrows lowering in confusion.

"Poseidon? What the hell kind of name is that?" I think she might smile for a moment, but her mouth stays firmly locked in a grimace.

I finish washing my hands and turn the water off, looking around me for a towel or something, but there's none to be seen. I turn back to her and wipe my hands on my shirt.

"He's my kitten. He—"

I stop immediately, eyeing the strange look she's giving me. What? Is the name Poseidon really that strange? Anyway, I didn't name him. Poseidon is Finnick's go-to cat name.

"Your cat talks to you?" she questions slowly, and then it happens so suddenly that I almost miss it. Her face breaks out into a smile and she laughs loudly. It's over quickly as her smile fades back into a look of pain, but it was there, and I'm smiling because it was.

I back step and try to figure out how to unknot the mess I've made of this conversation, but I find I don't particularly care. She can think Poseidon speaks to me if it makes her feel better. I don't mind being laughed at as long as she's laughing.

The smile is back for a moment as she slowly makes her way over to the sink. I watch her push the faucet up and stick her hands under the spray. The water runs copper momentarily as the dry blood washes off her hands. I look away immediately, my stomach turning, hoping very much that I don't have a flashback.

"You really are a basket case, Cresta," she mutters a few moments later, turning the water off and wiping her own hands on the front of her shirt. It's the first time she's called me by my name.

I try not to worry so much when a Peacekeeper sticks his head in and hands me a toothbrush with toothpaste already applied. I try not to notice that he doesn't give Johanna one. I try not to notice that all my torturing has been done internally as to not show visible scars like Johanna's will. I try not to wonder why they're trying to keep me looking healthy, because I decided I'm not going to wonder anymore. I try excessively, but I don't get very far.

We meet Peeta out in the hallway, and I try not to notice that they're doing the same to him. But I notice, and he notices, and Johanna definitely notices. When the Peacekeepers place us back in our cells and shut our lights off and leave, questions are flying past Johanna's lips and I can't get mine to move at all.

"Did they give you a toothbrush, Peeta?" Johanna demands.

"Yeah," he mumbles, but he sounds so forlorn that I'm sure it's a bad thing. I rise on my toes and grip the bars tightly and peer at him, trying to discern what is going on and why we're breaking the mold.

"Why?" I ask him.

He runs a hand through his messy and dirty hair, his face pale still from whatever they tortured him with.

"They told me I have to go on the air and call for a ceasefire," he tells me. "Which is why they're trying to keep me looking presentable, I guess."

Yes, that explains why they're treating Peeta the way they're treating him, but what about me? They'd have to be idiots to put me on camera. After all my butchered interviews there is absolutely no way they'd even consider it. When I meet Johanna's eyes and then Peeta's, I can see they know that, too.

A silence falls over us, but it's a silence that isn't very silent at all. I can still hear the echoes of their screams in the back of my mind.

"Are you guys okay?" I find myself asking. But it's a stupid question. The dumbest. I wince after asking it, and they both just look at me like I'm madder than they ever thought.

"Well, seeing as though we just got tortured for six hours, I'd say not." Johanna replies harshly. There's a pause and then she adds something. "What did they do to you?"

Peeta turns to look at her, his face shocked that she's asking something like that. Maybe there's some secret etiquette for torture victims, etiquette that dictates that you aren't supposed to ask how someone was tortured. But Johanna's never listened to any sort of etiquette a day in her life I'm sure, so I don't understand why Peeta looks so scandalized.

I can only stare at her for a few moments, my eyes burning.

"I don't really want to talk about it," I finally say. I can still see all those hands on Finnick and I can still remember the burning and I don't want to relive it any more than I already have to.

She presses on, her eyes studying mine.

"Something to do with Finnick, then, definitely," she says.

"Leave it, Johanna," Peeta says suddenly.

She glances to the left where he would be if she could meet his eyes.

"Well, they shocked me and beat me, if anyone's curious."

No one has anything to say to that. All I could say would be an apology, and I know that's not something Johanna wants to hear.

I rest my forehead against the bars and close my eyes. I'm exhausted suddenly, but I'm scared to move from where I am. I'm afraid to be further away from Peeta and Johanna. As harsh as Johanna is, I trust her. I trust her to tell the truth. I'm going to need the truth.

It's quiet for a while. When Peeta suddenly speaks up, I open my eyes and I'm surprised to find both of them are leaning against the doors, too. Maybe they are frightened also.

"Did Katniss really try to kill me with that tracker jacker nest in our Games?" he asks.

He's got a strange look on his face. He looks confused and angry, like he's mad at himself for being confused. I wonder then what they gave him. They're obviously doing something similar to him that they're doing to me, but the Peacekeepers said it was different, and he was definitely having violent delusions of some sort. Whatever they are doing to him is worse, that much I'm certain of. I know this because they are succeeding in making him doubt Katniss's love for him. Johanna catches my eye and she looks concerned.

"Why would you ask that?"

Peeta's pale and shaking. He grips the bars tighter and swallows nervously.

"They showed me something, I think. On a screen. And Katniss tried to drop that nest on me. Why would she do that? They said that she hates me, that she wants to kill me, but I know that's not true. I just don't understand why she did that."

He locks eyes with me and he looks desperate for answers. It's painful that I can't give them to him.

"I don't know, Peeta. I didn't watch," I admit softly.

"I think you had a plan with her, didn't you? That's what it looked like, anyway. She wasn't trying to kill you," Johanna answers. Her voice sounds impatient but underneath that I sense a tone of worry.

They want me to think Finnick never loved me and they want Peeta to think Katniss doesn't love him either. But more than that, they want him to think she's trying to hurt him, that she's a threat to his wellbeing. Why? Why go so far as to do that?

Peeta's eyebrows furrow as he thinks. He drops his eyes and blinks a few times.

"I don't know. I guess," he finally says, but he sounds extremely uncertain.

I don't sleep that night. Peeta has nightmares and he screams out Katniss's name in a panic multiple times. Johanna cries in her sleep. I stand at the door with my hands on the bars, telling myself to try and get some sleep every few minutes, but never moving from where I'm standing. I'm unsure as to why I can't get myself to move, but after a particularly bloodcurdling scream is heard from Peeta's cell, I understand. There's a quiet part of me that is determined to stand witness to this, determined to hold Snow accountable for these hours of suffering Peeta and Johanna are enduring. If I went to sleep, who would know Johanna cried or Peeta screamed in pain? No one. No one would know, and so it wouldn't matter. But it does matter. They're in pain, and that matters. And I won't ignore it and I won't pretend like it isn't happening, because it is.

I end up being extremely grateful that I stayed awake all night. It turns out Peeta and Johanna are still slated for seven sessions a week. I'm so exhausted by the time the torturing starts that I am able to drift off to sleep, even amongst their screams. That fact is unsettling.

I wake up to Johanna and Peeta talking.

I stay on the floor—it's warmer than the metal table and safer too—and listen for a few moments, trying to determine what time it is. I hope it's not near morning.

"You can't trust anything they say, Peeta," Johanna's saying.

"It looked real though."

"A lot of things look real that aren't. Think about those jabberjays in the arena. Annie!"

I sit up when I hear my name. I don't think Johanna's ever called me that before, ever. If I was shocked to hear her call me by my last name it's nothing like the shock I feel to hear her use my first name. It sounds odd. I rise and reach for the bars again. When I peek out, Peeta looks green and weak. He's gripping onto the bars of his door like it's the only option he has to keep vertical. Johanna's eye is black and she's got a long slice on her cheek that's still oozing blood.

"Did they torture you to get your screams?" Johanna asks me, intent on proving a point.

I shake my head.

"No, I was home the whole time," I reply.

"See? The Capitol is trying to confuse you. They're trying to make you hate her. Don't let them," Johanna says fiercely. Her tone reminds me so much of Cora then. Demanding and certain. I miss her.

Peeta still looks unconvinced. He rests his forehead against the bars and his face is doing something odd. His nose scrunches up and then—oh. He's crying.

That hits me hard and I find my wrist slipping between the bars, my hand reaching out to comfort him, but of course that's as far as I can go. He sees my sudden movement and raises his head, peering at me through a veil of tears. I'm scrambling for a way to help him. He's confused over Katniss. He doesn't know what's real and what's not. How do I always tell what's real? I ask Finnick. What do I do if I don't have Finnick to ask? I try to remember something solid, something that is real without a doubt, and then I hold onto that.

"Tell me about her," I tell Peeta gently.

He blinks and a few tears roll down his cheeks.

"About Katniss?" he asks, a timid tone in his voice.

I nod.

"Yes. Tell me a memory you have with her that is very strong, or something about her that's very striking. Something you could never forget. Something you hold onto when you're sad."

He stares for a few moments and then takes a deep, shaking breath. He reaches up and rubs a hand over his face and then he meets my eyes again.

"There was one time. She fell and broke her foot, and I carried her up to her room. And when I went to leave…she didn't want me to. I mean she honestly sounded like she wanted me there, she wanted me beside her. Like she needed me there."

Everything about him relaxes as he says this. His shoulders fall a bit and his grip on the bars lessens and the lines on his forehead smooth.

"Do you remember any details? Like temperatures or textures or a beautiful color or something like that?" I press.

He nods slowly, and his constant gaze makes me feel like this is all that's keeping him together, like maybe I'm actually helping for once. He's looking at me like I am.

"My mouth tasted like peppermints. Katniss's hand was warm," he offers.

I smile and it's lovely when he smiles back. I realize then that Peeta's just one of those people you never want to see sad. He's so kind and he doesn't deserve it.

"Remember those things when you start doubting what's real. They are real. Anything that doesn't fit with that memory is fake."

It's not that simple, but he knows that already.

Things only get more complicated come the next morning.

The drug and the videos are especially painful this time. I don't know if it hurts more because they've changed the dosage or because I went a day without it, but it's agonizing. Perhaps I just forgot how painful it really was. The videos are horrid because I know exactly when they were filmed. Finnick's with every one of the people I saw him sneaking off with on my Tour. It hurts even more because I remember how awful he looked afterwards, and I understand why now. I understand and I never wanted to.

By the time we're getting escorted to the bathroom for our daily restroom break, I'm unable to stand without my legs caving in. I have to hold onto the walls. Johanna's no better. Her nose is gushing blood at an alarming rate. We're quiet on the walk there and the silence isn't broken until I approach Johanna in the bathroom.

She's leaning against the wall, her face white and the blood still sliding down over her lips and dripping off her chin. The only reason I'm not drifting or having a flashback is because the pain in my body is more intense than even my memories. I reach out and touch the back of her hand lightly and she immediately flinches away. A second later I'm reaching out and gently pressing a bit of tissue to her face to try and staunch the flow of blood. I expect her to fight me on this, but either she's too tired or in too much pain, because she just stands there. I mop up a lot of the blood and then give her a new wad of paper to hold to her face. She watches me as I walk over to the trash can and throw away the blood soaked tissue, my hands shaking. I'm overcome with vertigo a second later and I have to lean against the sink. It digs painfully into my hipbone.

"I get it," she declares. Her voice comes out muffled and nasally as she's pinching her nostrils shut with the toilet paper.

"Get what?" I inquire.

"Why Finnick loves you." 

She turns and walks out of the bathroom, and for some reason, her words make me want to cry. I guess because I don't get it. And every time I see him with women prettier than me, braver than me, stronger than me, saner than me, I get just a little bit more confused. And every time I'm told I'm not worthy of him I get that much more discouraged. I may never understand anything ever again.

I feel like my heart's been dug out as I walk back into my cell. I want to sleep because I can't stand to be here any longer, and there's no way I'm going to be able to drift away. I'm still in way too much pain. But Peeta needs Johanna and I. I know he does even if he doesn't say it.

I cross back over to the bars. The ring that's still on my left hand makes a soft and high pitched sound as it clangs against the metal bars. It's all I have left now. I know they're going to take it away any day now. They're going to realize that it's a reminder that Finnick loves me and not the Capitol women and they're going to take it away. I think that day might be the day that I finally break.

Peeta's already at the small window. He's in a panic, his eyes darting around and his breathing quick.

"Peppermints, Peeta," I remind him carefully.

He nods tensely and then squeezes his eyes shut, his face pained.

"Katniss loves you. She loves you. She loves you."

I repeat this to him until he slowly opens his eyes, his breathing evening out and his face relaxing. He nods once.

"And I love her," He finishes.

"Righto, genius!" Johanna exclaims. Her voice is threaded with pain but still full of as much attitude as always.

The first week passes, and at the beginning of my second week there, my torture changes. They start asking me questions at the end. Questions like "Who does Finnick Odair love?". The answer they want is "not me". The only answer I can give them is "Annie". They ask this in a multitude of ways, but still no matter how much they inject into me or how many videos I have to watch, my answer is always the same.

Snow comes by and I overhear him talking to the Peacekeepers who have been torturing me.

He wants to know why it isn't working.

I know exactly why it isn't working. They tried to get me to doubt Finnick, but all they managed to do was get me to doubt myself. They can't get me to doubt that he loves me. They thought by telling me I'm worthless and plain and crazy that I'd doubt his love for me. No, I just doubt my worthiness for this love. I just doubt that I'm worth anything at all. It doesn't change how I feel about Finnick or the truth that I know about us at all. I stopped letting myself wonder and I haven't since then. I won't. And when I drift to my other world, I don't have to, because Finnick is the same there as in my memories and he loves me and I love him and that's the only thing that's real.

Peeta, on the other hand, is deteriorating rapidly. He gets more and more confused as each day passes. I'm usually able to get him to reach the end conclusion ("And I love her") in thirty minutes maximum, but last night it took two hours before he could say the words and mean them. Every night I've asked him for a strong memory and he's given me one, but lately he gets confused halfway through telling the memory. I am sure that the only things keeping his head straight are Johanna and I. It's amazing that they're letting us talk to him at all, because we're keeping them from doing what they set out to do. I know it's only a matter of time before they do something about us, and I'm terrified of what's going to happen to Peeta when they do.

When Snow walks into my cell, I can't find it in me to react in any special way at all. I've been numb for the past three days. There gets to be a point when you're in so much pain you just can't do anything anymore. Your world narrows to Pain and Waiting for Pain. Pain is when I'm being tortured and Waiting for Pain is the brief reprieves I have in which I try to gather the mental strength needed to handle Pain. Either way, my entire world is hurtful, and so I'm so emotionally exhausted I can't feel much of anything half the time. I know I miss Finn. I cry on his shoulder for hours every time I see him in my other world. I even cried on Cora's shoulder last night, weeping over how badly I miss his smile, his laugh, his eyes. She told me to get a hold of myself. I told her there's nothing to hold any longer.

Johanna and Peeta didn't really understand it, but one of the hardest parts for me is the knowledge that there will never be another six hours that are longer in my life. Even if I somehow escaped and lived a joy filled life, never will time pass as slowly again. These six hour "sessions" will always be the longest and most painful hours I ever live, and I can't help but feel like they stole something from me somehow. I would have wanted the longest hours of my life to be something good. But I guess time passes by quickly when you're happy and slowly when you're suffering, so that was always impossible. I just wish my longest six hours weren't spent like this.

Snow sits down in the chair as he did the first time he was in here. He stares at me for a few minutes and I stare at my hands, too tired and too sick to meet his glance. Finally, he speaks up.

"Who does Finnick Odair love?" he asks me, a sickly sweet tone in his voice like he's talking to a small child.

I can't meet his eyes and I can't speak.

"Miss Cresta. Who does Finnick Odair love?" President Snow demands, his voice rising to a louder tone.

My neck aches as I raise it and look at him. My voice shakes as much as my hands when I finally answer.

"Annie Cresta," I whisper. I won't lie. I won't lie about something as important as this. I won't let them take this away. I press my palm over my heart and keep my eyes on Snow's. They can't take this away.

He sighs and then rises to his feet.

"I can see we're not going to get very far with you, are we?" he asks.

He's getting no more words out of me.

He shakes his head. "Well, no use postponing the next part of your punishment then. In all honesty, I knew this method was a shot in the dark. You're too delusional, too mad. Not like Peeta. He's taken very well to his punishment. No, the real punishment for you is what comes next. It's something that we just know will "absolutely destroy" Mr. Odair."

Snow smiles and watches as his words sink in. What does he mean? Destroy Finnick? He's said the phrase "absolutely destroy him" like he's quoting someone. The words are too vague to ring any bells for me, but they have me terrified because I don't want him to destroy Finnick. I never want them to destroy him.

Snow makes his way towards the door. He stops, his back to me and his hand outstretched to open the door, and then he turns back around and walks over to me. He reaches down and grasps my left hand, and I feel like I'm falling when he pulls the ring off my finger. He sticks it into his pocket, and his eyes are explanation enough. They're practically screaming: there's no need for that anymore.

"After all," he continues, his voice indifferent, "what destroys a person more than knowing that the one thing they've tried the hardest to avoid for years has happened despite their best efforts? This punishment will begin tonight. You'll be leaving in a few minutes."

The door slams shut tightly after him, emerging me in darkness once more, and I'm left empty and wondering why I'm not panicking. I'm going somewhere, but where? What else are they going to do to me? I don't know. I miss Finnick. I miss Poseidon. I'm tired. I'm tired of being confused. I'm tired of not knowing.

I'm drifting off to sleep when the lights flicker on once more. I sit up so I'm leaning against the wall and I feel a brief flash of surprise to see my prep team standing before me. They're quiet as they walk over to me, the familiar silk bags full of beauty supplies in their hands.

"Come on."

I stand and follow them blindly. Johanna yells after us as we walk down the hallway, demanding to know where they're taking me. They say nothing, not even when Peeta asks, too.

What would destroy Finnick?

Maybe they're going to kill me. Maybe I'm walking to some sort of execution room. The thought fills me with hope, and with this hope I realize that there's no way that's what's happening. Finnick would wish me dead, too. He would rather I be dead than tortured almost daily. They're not going to give him what he wants.

I can't climb the black steps.

My foot fails to rise high enough halfway up the first flight and I go flying forward, landing hard on my knees. I sit there for a few moments, pain radiating through me, and I'm done. I'm done. I'm not moving, I'm not cooperating. I'm done with this. I'm done with all of this.

My prep team tells me to get up, but I'm not, and I won't.

Eventually they call a Peacekeeper. He kicks my side so hard I almost vomit and he pulls my hair, but I'm not budging. I don't care anymore. I don't care. They aren't going to hurt Finnick. I won't let them. They're going to have to kill me first.

The Peacekeeper ends up picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder. I hang limply and watch the blur of the stairs as he climbs up and up and up. When I see glittering tile I think maybe I'm going back into a hovercraft. But I don't see pavement. Instead, I'm lead through a door and into a room that has thick, plush, red carpet.

The Peacekeeper drops me to the floor. The carpet is so thick and soft. I haven't felt anything this comfortable in what feels like months but I know hasn't been that long at all. I curl up into myself and lie there, thinking maybe they'll shoot me right here, and my blood will blend right into the carpet, and all of this will be over.

That doesn't happen, though. The Peacekeeper yanks me up and hands me over to my prep team. They lead me into a sparkling private bathroom attached to the room. They pull my clothes off and run a bath and then set me in it and when they do, something snaps into place inside of me.

I'm in the arena, of course, but this time they're holding Finnick underwater and they're letting him bleed out. I'm weak and tired and trapped in my own mind and I can't feel anything at all and he's crying but his salt tears only add to the salt water and I'm drowning and he's drowning too and maybe we're going to drown together and—

Why are they washing me? Why are they washing my hair?

The feel of their fingers massaging shampoo into my scalp startles me so much I'm back here and the arena is fading. I'm crying and I want to die I want to die I want to die because I don't understand anything. I'm tired. Don't they understand that I'm tired? Why are they washing my hair?

They don't have to pull me out of the tub. The minute the soaps and conditioners are off my body, I'm jumping up and out, pulling a towel from their hands and desperately trying to dry the water off my body. They lead me back into the room with the red carpet after that, and all I can do is stare. It's got gold walls and a huge bed that takes up almost a third of the room. The bed strikes me as odd though, because it has no pillows or blankets on it. The entire room is filled with things that must be extremely expensive—a white leather sofa, solid oak furniture, a crystal chandelier—but they couldn't afford a blanket?

I stare at it the entire time they paint my face and file my nails and dry my hair. I'm still staring as they run a brush through my hair and meticulously curl it.

"Good, your freckles have faded," one of them says gratefully.

And then I'm just staring at her.

They lead me to a mirror when they're done. It's not Annie Cresta or The Mad Girl. I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be. My lips are burgundy and my entire body has been freed of every blemish. I don't look like I've been imprisoned at all. I guess that's what they were going for all along, though, wasn't it?

They say things to me as they leave, but I don't catch any of it. I want to tell her that my freckles are gone because I've been imprisoned, and I want to ask how that's a good thing, but the words won't come. I'm not really here. I'm not.

There's a small voice in the back of my head that's yelling at me.

She's already put the pieces together. She's got the completed puzzle in front of her. And she's distraught with what it made.

She's whispering things to me, things like: it's easy, Annie. One plus one equals two. They're prettying you up and leaving you in a bedroom and they're going to destroy Finnick. Together those lead to—

But I'm not listening. Her words are making no impact on me. I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I'm not here, remember? This isn't real.

When the door opens and the young Avox walks in, she's got tears in her eyes.

I watch the tear drip over her bottom eyelid and cling to her eyelashes, shining in the light from the chandelier. She sniffs and walks over, a silver tray in her hands and her hands shaking. Her eyes roam around the room and she's obviously uncomfortable that I'm naked. I think I would be too.

She sets the tray down on the table in front of the white sofa. When she lifts the lid, I see a tray laden with food. Real food, not the strange liquid drink I've been getting every day. Fruit and bread and vegetables.

She nods at it.

Well, are you going to eat it, Annie?

No, I don't think I am. I don't think so.

She reaches into the bag at her waist and pulls out a syringe. I'm immediately leaping back, fear shooting through me. I don't want the drug again. I don't want it. I thought this was a new kind of punishment? Why would I get this, too? I don't want to burn again.

She sees my expression and immediately begins shaking her head. She sets the syringe down beside the tray and lifts her hands up, showing me that she has innocent intentions. Then she points at the syringe and then mimes locking her lips shut. I can only take from that that I'm not supposed to have whatever is in the syringe. I take one look at her eyes—desperate and sad—and decide that if it's something the Capitol doesn't want me to have and she does, it's got to be safe and beneficial.

I edge back towards her and she's sniffing as she sticks it into my arm. She misses my vein five times, looking angrier and angrier at herself each time. Finally she hits it and when she injects whatever it is, it feels so strange because it doesn't hurt at all. I don't feel anything.

She puts it back into her bag and then reaches out slowly, taking my hand in hers. She gives it a gentle squeeze, and I feel terribly for her. She's so young and she has to see prisoners tortured. She has to take a part in it. They're destroying her.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to her.

She just shakes her head at that.

She leaves me alone with that voice in the back of my head that's screaming things at me. She shoves piece after piece in my face, trying to get me to take the time to understand, but I won't. For someone who is sick of being confused, I seem awful determined to stay that way. It's the same instinct that drove me to run away from the Cornucopia at my Games that's insisting I stay in the dark. I'm going to listen.

I try and force myself to eat some of the food, but after one grape, I feel sick and then I'm darting to the bathroom and vomiting. Somewhere the whole picture is making me unwell.

I curl up in the middle of the bed. The sheets are the softest I have ever felt. I run my hands over them and try to decide what kind of material they are. Not silk. Not cotton. I don't know. Soft, though. The softest I've ever felt.

The voice in my mind shuts up finally when the door opens.

I sit up automatically, pulling my knees to my chest and crossing my ankles and trying to hide as much of my body as I can. I'm suddenly aware of just how bare I am. Why am I naked? Johanna isn't naked. Peeta isn't naked. Why do I have to be like this?

Peacekeeper Dougal has that leering grin on again. I don't like it. I think I might be sick once more.

"It pays to be the Head Peacekeeper." He's saying. He closes the door and walks in further. "You get first privileges."

I don't know what he means.

Yes you do.

I don't know what he means.

When he takes a step towards me, I'm sliding back quickly. This makes him unhappy, like it did on the hovercraft. His eyes turn hard and my heart is beating so quickly and all I can remember is how sticky his hands were on my Victory Tour when he touched me and said I'm sure we'll see each other again, Annie Cresta.

He's kicking off his boots and I don't know why. Is he planning on staying for a long time? I hope not. I don't like his company. I'm going to be sick.

I'm lightheaded and sick and my skin is crawling and why do Peacekeeper uniforms have zippers instead of buttons? It seems unpractical. It's too quick. Why is that unpractical in my mind when really it should be practical? And why is he here and why is he unzipping his jacket—it's not hot. I would know. I'm naked.

Suddenly, I can hear a ticking of a clock that wasn't here before.

I close my eyes tightly and focus on that sound, because I know what it means. I lock my hands over my ears and ignore any other sound. Especially any other sound that would sound like footsteps nearing me or clothes hitting the floor.

And then Finnick is in front of me and we're sitting on the floor in his living room.

He's crying so hard he can't catch his breath.

My heart is pounding and I think I'm going to pass out.

"Finn?" I inquire desperately.

He reaches out and pulls me into his arms, clutching me tightly to him, tears falling onto the top of my head. He looks absolutely destroyed, only I don't know why.

"My sweet Annie," he whispers, his voice thick with sorrow and distress. I rub his back, bewildered at his agony and my own feelings of anguish.

Suddenly I can feel my mind drifting, and something is pulling me away, but I don't want to go away.

Finnick notices this. He leans back and grips my upper arms tightly to the point of pain.

"Don't leave," he tells me, his eyes pleading.

I can't feel much of anything then. I stare over his shoulder at the wall, certain I'm going to be sick. I feel like something awful has just happened, or is happening, or is about to happen, but I don't know what, and Finnick is begging me not to go.

I'm in a daze as I bring my eyes back to Finnick's.

"I don't know…" my sentence trails off, my voice dying in the back of my throat as tears begin burning my eyes. I don't know if I can stay.

He's more urgent than I've ever seen him. His face is white and when I reach out and set a hand over his heart, it's beating like it's going to explode.

"Don't go back there, Annie. Don't go back. Please, please, please. Stay here. Stay here with me. Don't go back," he begs, his voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry, my darling. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

His tears drown me and I can't breathe.

I'm gasping for air and crying harder.

"They can't take it away, right, Finnick?" I ask him. I apply pressure to my hand that's still settled over his heart. "They can't?"

He shakes his head back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

"No. No, Annie, they can't. They are going to take a lot of things, but they can't take that," he promises. Is he lying to me?

Finnick doesn't lie, remember?

No, no, no. I don't.

I gasp out loud and I'm in pain but I don't know why and then my mind is spinning once more, but Finnick promised me once that he wasn't going to leave me, and he means it now. He means it, because he's not letting me go back there, and I'm glad because I don't want to.

"Can I stay here for good now?" I ask him, my entire body aching and my heart sad sad sad.

His arms are tight around me when he replies.

"Until it's safe, you aren't leaving my side. I promise."

I'm mad and I'm a fool and I believe him.

Who does Finnick Odair love?

Me. Me. Me.

Chapter Text

Finnick holds onto my mind tightly.

He grips onto me and pleads and cries when I start to drift, and almost every time, it successfully pulls me back. His pain is greater than whatever pain is occurring in my other world and his eyes are clearer than the Capitol has ever been. He's insistent that I stay, and I want to, but somehow it's difficult. Somehow it's almost impossible.

The one time his crying and pleading doesn't work, my mind slips back with a snap so quick and painful that it reminds me of a rubber band breaking.

There is a man lying beside me on the sheets, but he isn't Finnick, he's the Head Peacekeeper, and he's sweaty, and I'm screaming because he's naked. He shouldn't be naked.

I'm back with Finnick almost immediately, my skin prickling and my stomach rolling and my heart breaking.

I know.

No, you don't know.

I know.

Finnick strokes my hair back from my forehead and Cora fuses over me, spreading a blanket over my legs and shooting angry looks at Finn. I don't know why she's angry at him. Finnick whispers lovely things to me. He describes beautiful islands in the middle of the sea and underwater caves and fields full of my favorite flowers. His words are smooth and whatever panic had taken over my spine ebbs out and I relax against the cushions, keeping my eyes on his because I have this distinct feeling that if I let myself aware of anything but him I'm going to fade away, far away, back to a place where I'm—

No. No, don't think it. Don't acknowledge it. Nothing is happening. You don't know what is happening. You're fine.

Cora finally tires of obsessively smoothing the blanket.

"Finnick, you can't just pretend nothing is happening," she tells him, her voice thin and tight with stress and anger and maybe even sadness. Her face is pale and her eyes dart nervously over to mine, but I can't look away from Finn's. When he turns to glance at her, I feel like something is breaking me apart. My hand automatically rises and reaches for him at the same moment a gasp of pain escapes from my mouth. He turns back immediately, his eyes filled with a concern that is leaking free.

He keeps his eyes on me and his hands linked with mine as he replies to Cora.

"What exactly would you rather I do, Coral?" he inquires. "Scream it at her? Do you think knowing would make this any easier?"

His words are soft but somehow they are so loud they make my head ache. I pull my hands free from his and press my hands over my ears, because it hurts, it's not loud but it hurts and it echoes around my head. Finnick shoots a pointed look at Cora, who merely frowns deeper. Their voices sound far away when Cora responds.

"Denial isn't helpful. It's cowardly and Annie's not a coward. We need to be helping her come to peace with what—

"Come to peace? Take it from someone who has been there. There's no coming to peace with something like this!" Finnick replies incredulously. My eyes are wide as his fill with tears. "They're using her body, and—

The rest of his sentence is muffled. I press the heels of my hands so hard over my ears that all I hear is an echoing.

Finnick is a liar, did you know that?

He must be. He has to be. He's lying. He's lying, because that's not happening. It can't be. There's another reason that the Head Peacekeeper is there. All of this can be explained some other way. I'm not. They're not. They can't.

Stupid stupid stupid. Of course they can. You're stupid.

Cora's eyes soften immediately.

"I know, I'm sorry, that isn't what I meant. I didn't mean to undermine what you've been through. I just meant that we need to help her while we can, while she's here with us. There's no telling what the trauma of this will do to her mind. We might never get the chance again." She stops abruptly and peers at Finnick with almost a desperate look. She is searching for something, and when she asks her next question, I know it is answers. "How can they do that to her? She's not even there mentally. How can they just throw her down and—"

Her voice is strangled at the end of her sentence. She runs a hand through her short blonde hair and turns her head, blinking rapidly for a few moments. Cora doesn't cry. Cora won't cry.

Cora is crying.

Cora is throwing things.

Why is Cora so angry?

Finnick's restraining her hands.

She's yelling at him.

She's pushing against his chest.

I'm screaming.

"Stop! Stop!" I shriek.

Cora lowers her hands and Finnick steps back from her, both their faces flushed and obviously upset. They are breaking me too because they are the ones I love most and they are fighting fighting fighting. I can't stand it.

I'm crying then and reaching out for them. They both join me on the couch, Cora on my right and Finnick on my left, and Cora wraps her arm around my shoulder while Finnick wraps his around my waist. Immediately things are better and I feel whole again. I feel okay. I don't feel guilty and I'm not in pain and I'm not hazy.

"I don't want to know," I tell them.

"You don't have to," Finnick promises immediately, pressing his lips against my temple.

But Cora has no patience for white lies or soft love.

"Don't lie to her. You'll have to soon, Annie. You'll realize it. But we will be here for you," Cora says.

It's foolish, but I much prefer Finnick's blind lie to Cora's well-intentioned truth.

They keep a tight hold of me and I'm fine for a while. I sense that whatever was happening in my other world has ceased. Finnick knows this somehow, too. At first I'm befuddled as to how, but then I remember that this isn't real. He knows everything I know. Cora does, too. In a way, they are my subconscious, echoing back all the things I don't want to know or need to know.

"You need to go back now," Finnick tells me gently.

I'm immediately pulling myself out of their grasps and standing. I face them and feel my heart pounding in my head.

"No. No. I will know. No."

Cora glares at Finnick, obviously convinced he's made this worse somehow. She tries to pave over what he's said, her voice hesitant and careful.

"You're going to know soon enough anyway, Shell," she reminds me.

But that's not true. I can keep ignoring it. I can keep pushing that knowledge to the corners of my mind. I don't want it. I don't want to know what happened when I was away.

Finnick rises from the couch and sets his hands on my shoulders. He peers seriously at me.

"You need to go back and drink something, eat a little bit, and get some sleep. It will be safe for a while. When it's not safe anymore, you'll come right back here to me and your sister. You can do this."

"You have to do this," Cora adds.

My skin is already crawling and that's how I know I'm beginning to drift back. I claw at it and Finn reaches forward and takes my hands.

"Don't scrub your skin too hard in the shower, okay? Someone beautiful and smart once told me something that I need you to remember: you aren't dirty."

He's wrong, though.

When I'm back on those sheets (that used to be soft but now feel ickier than anything), I feel like I've got those ants from my arena creeping all over my body.

I'm alone again. There's no Peacekeeper, no shoes, no clothes. But my body hurts and I can't ignore it. I can't. I try so hard to pretend that it doesn't, and to pretend that walking to the bathroom isn't painful, but it is it is it is.

Take me back, Finn.

I can't do this.

Cora, please come back.

My cries have escaped from my mind and entered this world and I'm hitting the wall with my fists and screaming these pleas out loud. I'm desperate for them to hear them, I'm hopeless, I'm scared, I'm in pain, I'm dirty, and now I'm in the shower and I can't remember what Finnick told me.

The water is so hot I can't stop gasping, but I need it like this. I remember Finnick's scalding showers and I understand. I get it. I get it. He never wanted me to get this. The burning water and the obsessive scrubbing was the part of him he never wanted me to understand, but I do, and if he knew that it would kill him. He told me someone beautiful and smart gave him advice, but it had to have been someone else, because I'm neither beautiful nor smart. I'm a mad, broken girl and I'm sitting on the floor of the shower crying and watching blood drift towards the drain but now I'm back in the 70th Annual Hunger Games and I'm stitching up Kaya's leg but then Twine is stabbing her and then he's stabbing me repeatedly in the abdomen and I can't do anything, all I can do is stare as my skin is ripped open and my muscles torn and my organs punctures and blood is everywhere and then it fills the arena and floods and kills everyone, even my family.

Who does Finnick love?

I think it's me and I'm so sorry that it is.

I stay on the floor of the shower until the water turns pink and then, finally, clear. I pull myself out and I'm not too surprised to find that there aren't any towels. Of course not. I'm not allowed to have anything to cover my body up with.

I won't get on the bed again and the couch looks cold, so I curl up on the red carpet, wondering how many others might have bled out right here. Wondering if maybe Finnick was in here before. Wondering what I did to deserve any of this. Wondering why I live in a world where I could have done nothing but still be punished for it.

There is a word for what just happened to me.

It was never a spelling word and no one ever talked about it growing up.

It happens in District 4, sometimes. The girls are typically blamed. It's never their fault, but it's almost always influential men like Peacekeepers who do it, so who would believe them?

I would. I would believe them.

But who would believe me?

I'm mad.

Who would care?

I'm just another victor being sold like I'm Snow's property.

There is a word for what just happened to me.

We never used it in a spelling bee. We never had it on a spelling test.

I don't know how to spell it. I shouldn't know how to spell it. I am afraid to spell it because I am afraid that if I do, it will become part of me.

And I'm terrified.

Of everything.

I'm frightened that this will happen again. I'm frightened that I won't be able to go away when it does. I'm frightened of what they are going to do to me. I'm frightened that somehow Finnick will find out. I'm frightened that he already knows. I'm frightened that he's suffering because of it. I'm frightened that if I ever see Finnick again, he won't love me anymore, because I'm dirty. I'm afraid that I'm afraid of that.

It's Finnick's eyes that I'm thinking of as I pull myself up and walk over to the silver tray. I don't know how long I was gone, but most the fruit is brown and the vegetables are soggy. I pick at the bread though. I eat as much as I can, but after living on a liquid diet for so long, that's not very much. I drink water until I think I might throw up. What did Finn tell me to do? Eat, drink, sleep.

I go back into the bathroom and try to find a toothbrush. Maybe they thought I'd somehow use it against someone, because there's not one to be found. That makes me unnecessarily upset. It tips me over the edge, and I'm sobbing again. I keep my wits long enough to use the restroom and then try and run my fingers through my wet, tangled hair, but then I'm back on the floor, weeping so hard I can't catch my breath.

I guess my body is at least listening to the basic instructions I was given, because I drift off to sleep without even realizing it. I'm awoken by a harsh shake to my shoulder, and when I find myself looking up at President Snow's face, I'm fighting an urge to vomit. I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet.

Being naked in front of him is humiliating. It's humiliating because he can invade my privacy in every way possible. He's probably listened to many private conversations, he can let men I don't even know enter my body without my permission or even my mental presence, and he can stand here above me while I'm naked. And I can't do anything about it at all.

This is what being powerless truly feels like.

He's smiling like he's had a great day. I can only picture the blood in the shower.

"Well, you're definitely not as good of an actor as your fiancée was. But luckily for you and for the Capitol, beautiful and overtly submissive is a type."

Did you know there's a word for what you're having done to me, President Snow?

I have no energy to talk to him. I have no energy to do anything at all but stare up at him in hatred. I can only convey my deep sense of anger through this one look and so I'm going to make sure he sees the depth of my fury in it. It is a fury so deep that it feels more like a crippling sadness.

"Of course Mr. Odair knows this is what we are doing to you. He would have known that the minute we took you. I'm sure he's thought that's what we've been doing to you the entire time. This is what I've always held over his head. I've told him that if he didn't listen to my commands, we'd put his mad girl to use in the Capitol. So he did what I asked to keep that from happening. However, he stopped doing what I asked when he took part in a full scale rebellion against the Capitol, and so this is his punishment. We didn't even have to have this happen to you. He already knew it was. I like to be thorough, though. That's what everyone likes in a president, right? Trustworthiness. Thoroughness. Competency."

Snow's smiling. I'm having trouble breathing.

"I wonder just how distraught he is right now. What do you think?" Snow asks lightly.

Oh, Finn. I know Snow is telling the truth, because that's what Finnick's said he's held over his head for all this time, too. What's a better way to punish him than do what Finnick has tried his hardest to avoid? Now that I'm thinking this way, I can't think of any other logical thing they would have done to me in the Capitol, and I know Finn can't either. I can only hope that he is okay, that he isn't too upset over this. It's not fair and it's wrong, but it's not worth him being deeply distraught over. He tried everything he could for years to keep this from happening so it's not his fault. But I know Finnick like I know nothing else, so I know that he is blaming himself just like I know that he's probably falling to pieces.

"Just think about it. If he wouldn't have gotten involved with this rebellion, you'd be safe in District 4 right now."

I close my hands over my ears and the rest of Snow's visit is lost to me.

I don't lower them until the Avox is back and she's changing the sheets to the bed. I think about begging her for a blanket, or perhaps even a knife to end this, but she's already done enough for me. I don't know what she injected into me, but it was helpful somehow. Maybe it had a part in helping my mind drift away. Maybe it's the same shot they give Finnick when he comes to the Capitol. Either way, I am indebted.

I don't ask, but she tucks a flat sheet onto the bed after changing the fitted sheet. Her eyes say the words her mouth no longer can as she leaves: I'm sorry.

I pull the loose sheet from the bed and cross over to the sofa. When I'm wrapping it around me, I feel instantly safer, even though I know I will never be safe ever again. It's nice, though, to have some sort of barrier between me and everything around me. I lie down on the sofa and try not to think about what was done to me. I don't get very far. I gasp for air, my mind reeling and my stomach rocking. I throw the sheet off me and race to the bathroom, gripping the toilet seat as I vomit. I'm shaky and weak afterwards as I rest my face against the cold tiled floor.

Look at all the ways they can break a person. Look at all the shit humans can endure. Look at the shit humans can do to one another.

Rape.

That's the word.

I can spell it after all.

No one comes the next day.

I sit in the corner, the sheet clutched around me so tightly my fingers lose circulation after a while and my knuckles turn white, but no one comes. I shake and cry and flinch back into the wall every time food and water is brought to me, but no one touches me again.

I don't drift. I spend my time distancing my mind from what happened to me. It happened, yes, but I wasn't there. So really it's like something that happened to me in a different world. I wasn't there. I'm allowed to be hurt over it, but I wasn't there. I will be okay. I will be okay.

I've almost gotten myself to believe this on the third day.

But then the door opens, and a different Peacekeeper walks in.

I am still hopeful and naïve to my core, because my first thought is that he's going to take me back down to the underground prison.

But then he starts undressing. And then he's got his hands around my arms and he's lifting me up and pulling the sheet away. And he's taking me to the bed. And I'm closing my eyes tightly and waiting and—

Finnick and my sister are back.

They spend a while trying to get me to come back to them. I have been taken away by someone or something. I can only stare at the wall, sorrow heavy on my skin. In moments I am halfway with them and halfway back in the other world. Now that I know what is happening, I can't block it out completely.

Finnick won't look at Cora.

"I know her better than you do now. You made a mistake. She shouldn't have known," he tells her.

The only person who made a mistake was me. I should have run towards the Cornucopia after all.

I can sense when it's over. I can breathe easier and I feel less like there's a weight on top of me. I look at Finnick and Cora with a shuttering breath and then I'm blinking against tears and peering up at Finn.

"Please don't stop loving me," I find myself pleading. I double over and fight against a wave of dizziness. I start to cry when Finnick gently pushes my hair over my shoulder so he can rub my back.

"That would never happen. I'd stop breathing before it would," he comforts me, his voice sure but a bit confused. "Where is this coming from?" 

I reach up for his hand and he places it in mine. I can't see due to my tears as I bring his hand down and hold it to my face. It's warm and soft and he is the only person I ever wanted to hold me or touch me. It was something that I shared with him because I love him, and he loves me. Now that is taken from me.

"You're my one and only, but I can't stop them," I whisper into his palm. "I'm not strong enough."

I weep and he weeps, too. He pulls his hand away and takes a step back from me, and I think that means he doesn't love me anymore, so I'm crying even harder. It isn't until Cora's gripping me tightly and demanding that I listen to her that I stop.

"Finnick is upset because they have made you think that he'll stop loving you. He still loves you," she tells me.

I find Finnick in the kitchen. He's sitting at the table, his face white and tear streaked. I sit down beside him and he pulls me against him, his arm shaking as it covers my shoulders.

"I was supposed to protect you," he whispers.

I look up at him and the dark circles under his eyes are painful.

"You've always protected me."

"Not well enough. Not enough. Because look what is happening." His voice is shaky.

I reach up and grasp his hand securely.

"It's not your fault," I promise.

He pulls his hand from mine and removes his arm from my shoulders. He turns in the chair so he's facing me and reaches out, setting both his hands on my forearms and peering at me intently.

"And it's not at all your fault, either. I don't think any less of you for this. I never would, I never could. All this does is make me want to kill President Snow more than I already did."

I'm thinking of the way Snow peered down at me, when I was soaked down with tears and pain on that red carpet, and I find myself agreeing.

"Me too."

Finnick, Cora, and I go down to the beach. I'd almost forgotten the way the sand tries to suck you under as you stand in the tide or the noise seagulls make as they fly ahead. I'd almost forgotten the sea even exists. Finnick holds my hand and stands on the shore with me while Cora dives looking for pretty seashells. I grip onto his body as the waves slowly get higher and higher each time they crash into us, and eventually we're standing up to our knees and I'm afraid the power of the waves are going to suck us in. But for the first time, I don't care. If I die in this world, will I die in my other world?

Finnick somehow senses my line of thought. He gently pulls me back to the sand with him, his hand firm and decided. I won't be dying any time soon.

We sit down in the sand and watch the flash of Cora's head as it breaks the surface of the waves every few moments. Finnick pulls me against him and kisses my cheek.

"What is happening to you is real, but it's not," he starts quietly. He presses his nose against the side of my face and caresses it down to my jawline and I find myself smiling despite everything. He kisses the corner of my smile and holds me safely against him and I'm sure no one will ever take me away.

He continues.

"It happened, but it didn't. You weren't there when it did. So in a way, it's a horrible nightmare. Painful and horrible, but you will wake up one day, and it will all be over. Then it will be just another bad memory to forget."

I doubt there's a strong likelihood that this will ever end.

Finnick pulls back and examines my face, the corners of his mouth quivering, and I don't want him to cry. I feel like if he cries, I might die somehow. I've seen him cry too much already. I hate that this is hurting him. I hate that Snow is probably right and that this is harming him somewhere real. I despise having him in pain anywhere at all.

He takes my face in his hands and kisses my nose like he's done so many other times. For some reason, this time, it makes my eyes burn and I feel I might cry.

"I swear to you that we'll be together again. You won't be there forever. I don't know how much longer, but this will end."

These are the words I needed but didn't know that I did. I needed some reassurance that my entire life won't be that room and that bed. I needed to know that I would be back with Finn again somehow, because just that knowledge can make me do things I never thought I could. My love for Finnick helps me to withstand sorrow I never thought I could and pain I never thought I'd have to. I can get through this if I have him. I can get through anything if I have him. I can come out of this disaster with my mind enough intact that Finnick still knows me and I still know him. I will do that for Finn, because I would do anything for him. I would do anything to be with him again.

I crawl into his lap so I'm facing him and wrap my arms around his middle and hold him to me, because he's here now. Despite all Snow has done, Finnick is still here, and he still loves me. Perhaps I am a rebel after all.

My face is damp when I raise it from his neck and look at him.

"How do I get through this? How can I still be Annie when this is over?" I ask him. Because he would know. He is the only one who would know.

He smiles softly and pulls his fingers slowly through my hair. It's soothing and I know enough to know that no matter what those people are doing to me, they will never touch me in any way like Finnick does. They will never do anything to me that's anything like something Finnick has ever done. Because he loves me and he cherishes me and he respects me. I know this from the simple gesture of gently pulling the tangles from my hair and the look on his face when he gazes at me. I am Finnick's, no matter what. They can't have me in any way that runs deep.

"You remember that you are always Annie to me," he says simply. "You're going to feel awful. You're going to feel like another person. But for me, knowing that I was the same Finn in your eyes no matter what I did helped me to realize that I wasn't changed by what was done to me or what I was forced to do. I was always yours, plain and simple. You loved me regardless of it all. I love you the same."

He presses his palms against my back and pulls me back down against him. He moves my hair over my shoulder and his lips are warm as they brush just under my ear as he speaks next.

"They can never take that away. They can never change the way that I see you. They can try to change the way that you see yourself, but they can't even dent how beautiful and perfect you are to me. Cling to that. Know that when you are with me again, you will be able to see yourself how I see you, and it will remind you of who you really are."

I am clinging to it already. I have stolen these words and compressed them against my heart in a way akin to how people press flowers between book pages. But they are more crucial, more important. They are keeping my heart beating.

Cora appears beside us a few moments later, water dripping from her and landing in small circles on the sand. She sits down beside us and says nothing about our close embrace when typically she would. She merely reaches behind Finnick and touches one of my hands that's wrapped tightly around the fabric of his shirt. She pries my fingers off and then I clutch her hand as tightly as she's clutching mine. She gives me a gift of words, too.

"You take it moment by moment, like you do any other bad thing. Breathe. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Breathe." She tells me. That's Cora. Always has an idea in her head of what to do. Always has instructions to give me. They're always right, too.

She is confident where I am not when she replies next.

"You are strong enough to handle this. You are strong enough to handle it all."

When I slip painfully back into the real world, I can breathe easier, because for the first time I do feel strong enough to handle this. I feel better with advice on what to do and how to handle this. I feel better remembering both Finn and Cora, who love and loved me, even at times when I didn't deserve it. Especially then.

These words are with me always, and they do help, but as time drags on it's harder to remember them. I am certain that if Snow would just keep people away for at least two days I would gather both the emotional and mental strength to handle this better and my body would heal fully and I would be in much less pain. He is certain of this too though, I'm sure. And so he keeps a steady flow coming, at least one every day. Peacekeeper Dougal comes three times a week. He is the worst. I start to actually feel relieved when I see someone else come through the door. Even if it's the Peacekeeper so blonde his hair looks white. He leaves strange bruises on my body that hurt, but something about Dougal is the worst. Perhaps because I knew him before this started. Perhaps because he keeps coming. Anyone who can enjoy what they are doing to me at all is sick and evil, but if they can enjoy it to the extent he does, they are the source of evil in my opinion.

They arrive and I leave and then they leave and I arrive. I cry in the shower for hours and feel like I am disgusting, like I have done something to feel guilty for, like I am no longer Annie Cresta. But then I have to remember that Finnick will love me regardless, that he will still see the same girl in me that he always did. That none of this is my fault. And so I keep that in mind and do what Cora told me to do. I breathe and take it moment by moment. I eat when I can and drink water when I can't. I huddle in the corner with the sheet because I feel safest there. I remind myself that this is a nightmare and it will be over soon. I try not to hyperventilate or vomit due to the horror of the life I'm living now. I do what I can. I do my best. And somehow, I am still alive.

The only time I come back to reality too early is one day three weeks into this disaster.

I was watching some stupid show with my sister and Finn, but then suddenly I'm pinned underneath the heavy weight of Dougal. His shirt is still on so I know it hasn't happened quite yet, but it's about to. I try to slip away, but for some reason I can't. He whispered words to me and they keep spinning around in my mind, keeping me here. It takes a few moments of squirming underneath him and trying to push him off and trying not to be sick, but then I am able to locate them.

They're bombing 13. Your lover is going to die.

It's those words that break me. I scream and jerk my knee up, kneeing him hard in the thigh. I am not that strong, but I have the benefit of a surprise attack on my side. He curses in pain but he doesn't roll off me. He only glares. He starts mumbling things like there's no point in fighting but doesn't he get it? I'm not fighting him to stop what he's going to do to me. He will do that anyway. I'm fighting because he said Finnick is going to die and I need to know what he means.

I slide my hand down between our bodies and grab at his stomach. His shirt is hanging open so I dig my nails deep into his flesh and I feel sick but I won't stop pressing harder and harder until he finally hisses in pain and rolls off me. He falls onto his back and raises up on his elbows, peering down at the five bloody halfmoons on his stomach.

"Bitch!" he screams, and then he's trying to move to smack me, but he has to lie back down because he's in pain.

I want to claw his eyes out because he knows nothing about pain.

I don't even hate myself at all as I reach over and press back down over the same spot. I'm a monster and I'm hurting someone, but for once I don't care, because he has been hurting me for weeks. And he's enjoyed it. Maybe he'll enjoy this.

"What do you mean?" I demand, and my voice scares me. It's dark and furious and it's only then that I can register the amount of anger running through me. The anger at this man, at Snow, at the Capitol. Anger over what they are doing to me, and by extension, what they are doing to Finn. Angry that they might kill him when all that's been keeping me going is the thought that I might one day see his smile again. It's with that thought and that fury that I'm pressing down even harder. "TELL ME!"

He's peering at me with a pained and shocked face. He glances down at my hand and then grabs my wrist tightly. It doesn't take much at all for him to pull my hand off. But the damage has been done. He slaps me hard across the face, and I know I'm going to suffer for what I've done, but I don't care right now.

He seems to take a special enjoyment as he grips my face tightly.

"Look who's a fighter after all," he growls. "Your whore of a boyfriend is going to die, along with Katniss Everdeen and anyone else holed up there. We're dropping bombs on them. Right now."

He leaves to get his stomach fixed. I think he won't return, but of course he will. I am able to slip away by the time he walks back in, anger on his face and his stomach healed. But it's not enough. Because right now, Finnick could be dying. There is nothing that can save me from that knowledge.

I am inconsolable in my other world. Finnick and Cora don't know what to do. But that's crazy, because Cora always knows what to do always, and Finnick always knows what to do when it comes to me. But they don't know, because I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, and I can't stop.

The screaming doesn't cease until I'm tossed back into the real world.

Dougal's gone. I wish I was gone, too.

I make it off the bed but I can't go any further. I stay curled up on the carpet, crying so hard I'm seeing black spots swimming in front of my eyes. It is there, on the bloody carpet, that I realize I am at my lowest. This is the worst I have ever felt, the worst I could ever feel. The worst I will ever feel. I am certain of it, because I am rising to my feet and searching the room for something to hurt myself with. Something to end this with, because I can't live the rest of my life this way. I was holding on for my Finnick, but he's probably dead, and so I want to be dead, too. I am in the highest level of pain in every way a person can be in pain and it isn't fair for me to have to live. No one would expect that of me at this point. They would want me to end it all. Finnick especially. If he loves me the way I love him, he would rather have me dead than enduring the things that I am currently enduring. I would have endured them for him, though, and I was. But if there's no Finnick, there's no reason. No one else needs me. No one else cares. I don't need me. I don't care. So I should die.

The Avox always comes each night, and tonight is no different. She pulls the sheets off the bed. Looks at me in concern when she sees the blood. Says nothing, because she can't. Puts new sheets on. Crosses over to me. Sits down in front of me. Says nothing, because she can't.

"Please kill me," I whisper. "Leave a knife in the tray next time. No one has to know. Slip some sort of medicine into my food. Please."

She stares at me for a long while, her face heartbroken. I am asking her to kill me. I am being as selfish as I ever will be. But I can't do it anymore. My sister was wrong.

After what feels like hours, she nods slowly, her eyes wet and her hands shaking.

I watch her stand, but she's blurry from the tears building in my eyes.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," I tell her.

I can't be certain, but I think if she could talk, she would tell me that's what she would want, too.

Wouldn't everyone?

Wouldn't you?

Cora is furious and Finnick is distraught.

"No! Annie, I didn't raise you to run away from pain!" Cora's yelling. She's throwing anything she can get her hands on. Finnick's got his face buried in his hands.

"Please don't go, Ann," Finnick murmurs, his voice muffled and filled with tears.

Maybe they don't love me after all.

Cora stops her rage abruptly. She crosses over to me and grabs my shoulders.

"If they kill you, you might never see me ever again. Is that what you want? Is that what you want, Shell?"

Something snaps with a force so violent it actually hurts.

"NO!" I scream so loudly my throat aches afterwards. I'm so angry I'm shaking and I can't even stand. I walk a few steps to the left and sink down into an arm chair. I pull at my hair, horrified that they would even try and keep this one escape from me. "That isn't what I want! Do you know what I wanted, Cora? I wanted my family to live. I wanted to marry Finnick. I wanted to be home in District 4, not here in the Capitol. I wanted to be safe, not tortured every single day! I didn't want to be raped and I didn't want Finnick to die and I didn't want to have to make this decision! But I tried! I tried to live, I did. I held on. But it's not right of you to ask me to hold on any longer. There's no light at the end of this. Don't make me walk alone into the dark and don't make me live in it. Please. Just stop. Please."

I lean forward until I'm pressing my face into my legs and I stay that way. My burst of anger and energy has faded. Maybe it's because I've admitted out loud what's been happening to me for the first time, but the horror feels newer, the pain sharper.

"If no one comes to take you to 13 by the end of the week, I want you to do it," Finnick speaks up.

His voice is as tired and pain-filled as I feel.

He's asking for one week too many.

I look up at him and he's shattered. That's the only word I can think of. He looks like he's been broken, too.

"Finnick!" Cora screams angrily, spinning on her heel to glare at him.

He doesn't even spare her a glance. He keeps his eyes on mine, and his are filled with tears. He rises unsteadily and crosses over to me, taking my hand in his.

I'm as broken as him when he begins speaking.

"If I don't ever see you again, know there was nothing that I loved as much as I loved you. Know that I always will love you this way. Know that you saved my life."

I am not strong enough for Finnick's goodbyes.

That is something I never will be strong enough for.

A small white pill shows up underneath my plate two days later.

I have it to my lips when I know I cannot do it. I have to wait a week for Finnick. I can give him one more week. After all he's given me, I can give him that.

Someone I've never seen before comes five days later. He wears a suit, so I assume he must be some high class government official. He touches my hair and somehow that's worse than him touching my body. He weaves his fingers through it and tugs on it and tangles it and it makes me want to cry. I'm beginning to panic, thinking I'm not going to drift away this time, when he suddenly rolls off me and fumbles for a telephone-like device on the nightstand.

I'm fighting against an overwhelming wave of nausea as he speaks into the phone. I'm thinking about trying to knock him out. But then I hear what he's saying.

"A bomb? In the court house? Yes. Yes. I'm coming."

He jumps off the bed and yanks his suit back on with urgent hands. He leaves the room in a sprint, and I'm left wondering why someone would bomb a government building in the Capitol. If the rebels can get here, why aren't they trying to rescue us? I know the answer, of course. We don't really matter. Still, it's hard to acknowledge when we're all in so much pain. I wonder how Peeta and Johanna are doing.

I cross the room to flip the lights on, but nothing happens when I do. I turn them on and off a few times before I register the lack of the humming of a heater or air conditioner. The power is off, then. I guess in response to whatever is happening with bombing. Good. Let them bomb here. I can die like Finnick probably did.

It's eerily quiet. Sometimes I can hear people walking back and forth outside the room I'm in. Sometimes I can hear their voices. I can always hear the large television implanted in the wall at least faintly. I still have no idea what kind of building this is, but I've decided the whole thing must be a prison. The above ground floor I'm on is fancy, but perhaps it's only fancy for reasons like these. Perhaps the prisoners that are put up here are placed here for the comfort of those abusing them. I wouldn't put it past the Capitol. They'd never expect someone to go to the dank world that is the underground prison unless they're actually being held there. Let them abuse people in comfort.

I huddle in the corner and stay there, my heart beating quickly, waiting for a bomb to fall. It doesn't happen though. I try not to be disappointed, because two more days and I'm done anyway. Two more days and I am free.

I expect another person, and for a while, I think no one will come. The power switches on so I think it's only a matter of time, but the room is strangely empty of visitors. I assume that whatever is going on outside of this room is so intense that I'm the last thing on anyone's mind. I'm wrong, though, because the door opens suddenly. I flinch back into the corner, automatically squeezing my eyes shut and locking my hands over my ears, because I almost didn't slip away last time. What if I don't this time? I wish I had my sheet, but Dougal took that a way a while ago when I hurt him.

I hear footsteps. Not just one pair, though. Many.

"Grab her. Hurry. We have three minutes to clear out of here and make it to the hovercraft."

The words are muffled but they break through to me. I drop my hands and open my eyes, and I don't recognize most of the men, but I do recognize the two lifeless bodies flung over two of their shoulders. Johanna and Peeta. They look terrible, especially Johanna. She's thin like they haven't been feeding her at all and she's got oozing cuts and dark bruises.

The eldest man and the obvious leader has gray hair, but he's not that old at all. He's walking towards me, like he's going to grab me, but I'm recoiling. I'm trying to tell myself that it's safe, but my body won't listen. It's trained to be frightened. I remind myself that they said hovercraft and that they have Peeta and Johanna, but when he reaches out again, a whimper comes forth from my mouth.

He lowers his hands immediately, his face pained. He turns and looks at another man—a handsome, tall boy probably around my own age that shares the same hair and skin color as Katniss Everdeen—and then he backs up.

"We're here to take you to Finnick, Annie," he tries again. "We don't have long. We have to leave now."

At first I'm remembering the last time someone told me they were taking me to Finnick, but I don't have time to doubt him. No where is worse than here. There is nothing he can do to me that is worse than what has already been done. So I rise to my feet immediately.

The leader turns and starts walking towards the door, but the handsome man lags behind.

"Hawthorne! I want you in front with me!"

"One second!" Hawthorne says. He walks over to the bed and I watch as he rips the fitted sheet off the mattress. He walks over to me and hands it to me with his eyes averted. I had forgotten I was naked. I'm touched by this gesture and I pull it around me, light headed and confused and hoping so much they will kill me if they were lying about taking me to Finnick.

He darts to the front with the leader and I'm lifted up into the arms of another soldier. I don't fight. I couldn't even if I wanted to.

I close my eyes as the group runs. I wish I was far away when I hear yells and gunshots, but for some reason, Finnick and Cora aren't rescuing me this time. Maybe because something big is about to happen. Either I am going to die, or I'm going to see Finnick. It's too good to be true.

I don't let myself open my eyes. Not when we're climbing up something, not when I'm being set down in a seat, not when I feel us rise into the air. The only thing that does make me open my eyes is the sharp scent of blood.

We're in a hovercraft very unlike the Capitol's. It's stripped of all the pointless amenities the Capitol furnishes theirs with. It has hard plastic chairs and that is pretty much it. Peeta is still passed out in one chair and Johanna is resting in another. Her head is leaning against his shoulder. I turn to locate the leader of the group, because I want to know what happened to them, but instead I'm shocked to see that the soldier who gave me the sheet was shot. He's gritting his teeth and there's blood soaking half his uniform. The leader of the group is pressing something onto where the bullet must have hit. I watch blood blossoming, and then I'm sick.

I sit quietly for a few moments, take deep, small breaths through my mouth and trying to calm myself. Someone begins talking and it takes me moment to realize they're talking to me.

"Are you okay?"

I look at the soldier who was shot and can't find the words to tell him that it's me that should be asking him that. He is the one bleeding profusely. I just stare at him. I turn to look again at Peeta and Johanna and then I look back.

"What's wrong with them?" I ask.

He looks towards them as well.

"Knockout gas. The underground part of the prison has its own ventilation system, so they all inhaled it," he replies.

I assume this was part of the plan to get us out, so I don't ask any more questions about that. I am wondering a lot of things, though. Like why they got us out and how they did and where we're going. But the question I need to know the most can't be quieted. It flies from my lips urgently, and I can hear my own broken desperation clinging to each syllable.

"Is Finnick okay?"

The gray haired man looks up from Soldier Hawthorne's shoulder. He glances at me and his blue eyes remind me of my father's.

"He will be once he has you back," he replies.

His words make me unnecessarily worried.

"What do you mean?" I press.

Soldier Hawthorne is inspecting his wound as he replies.

"Finnick's been a mess. He can hardly function. He's unconscious half of the time. Everyone's going to be glad to see him come back to himself."

He even sounds glad, although I can't imagine why it would matter to him or any of these other people. I will be glad to see him happy again, though. So happy that the idea of how happy he's going to be makes me happy, and then I'm imaging how happy I'm going to be, and I am even happier. Finnick. I am going to see Finnick again. How many times did I think that that would never happen again? Too many to count. Part of me has been certain I will never see his face ever again, and now that I know that I am, I'm practically jumping up and down in restlessness inside my mind. I can't wait to see him. I can't wait. Hope has risen inside of me once again and it is swelling my heart and making me crazier than normal.

I'm still on the outside, though. I sit quietly and watch the way Johanna's breath blows strands of Peeta's hair back. Listen to the soldiers' conversations. Listen to the radio as some woman talks to them.

When the craft lands, I'm in a daze. The world is a dark blur as we descend downward. It's nighttime now and I'm not sure how or when that happened. We're ushered into an elevator that moves sideways as well as up and down. I don't understand it, and my mind drifts from thinking about Finnick to thinking about how they made that work for the remainder of the ride.

I know we're near a hospital ward by the sharp smell of antiseptic that hits my nose the minute the doors open. We're in a hallway with benches lining the side and heavy metal doors in front of us. The minute the elevator doors shut after us, the doors at the end of the hall are thrown open and gurneys are being pushed out by doctors yelling orders. Johanna and Peeta are each secured on one, and someone is talking to me and telling me to get on it, but I'm looking around for Finnick.

A nurse grabs my arm tightly and we're all rushed through the doors and into what must be the hospital. There's hallways lined with doors that must lead to private rooms. The tension is high as doctors converge on the group of us. Someone grabs Soldier Hawthorne and pulls him into a room to examine his arm. Johanna and Peeta are being wheeled to their own rooms. People are talking to me but I can't focus on them. I can't focus on anything. Where is my Finnick? They told me he was alive. That he was here. So where is he? This isn't another lie. This can't be another lie.

I can smell the blood from Soldier Hawthorne's room. The door is still open. I move back away from it automatically, backing up towards the wall. I'm just about to freak out and reach hysterics when I hear Katniss Everdeen's voice.

"Gale!" she screams.

She's walking quickly towards the room with Soldier Hawthorne. A nurse pushes her back and she almost knocks into—Finn! That's Finnick, I know Finnick anywhere, and he's alive! His hair is disheveled and his eyes tired and his face pale and he's alive.

I don't know what is happening inside of me, but I'm gently pushing back the nurses who are still trying to do things like take my pulse and get me to sit in a wheelchair.

"Finnick!" I shriek.

My heart is pounding in my chest and I can feel my eyes burning and everything is a blur and I'm running running running. Finnick is alive. Finnick is here, I'm going to see him again. I didn't die without seeing his smile again. He didn't die. He wasn't buried under rubble. I survived, and this is what I survived for.

He turns immediately, his head swiveling at the sound of my voice.

"Finnick!" I yell again.

And it's like we're those magnets once more, because he's running, too, and when we run right into each other, my arms are automatically winding tightly around him as his wind around me. We're gripping each other so desperately that we fall to the right and hit the wall beside Finn. We stay leaning against it, my hands gripping tightly to the gray shirt he's wearing and his hands pressing firmly against my back like he thinks someone's going to try and take me away again. His body feels the same as it always has against mine: familiar and safe and this is home. This is my home. Wrapped up in Finnick's arms, with his face pressed into my hair. I always knew it but now I know it more than ever, because suddenly everything I have ever suffered through has been worth it. I don't regret forcing myself to live through it. It was worth fighting through it for this moment.

I'm crying and holding onto him so tightly my arms ache and I think he might be crying too. He keeps kissing my head and telling me he's sorry, but it's not his fault. It's not his fault.

A doctor approaches us and tries to get me to come with him, but neither Finnick nor I give him the time of day. We aren't ready to let go of each other and maybe we never will be. The very thought has me terrified and gripping his shirt even tighter in my hands. I rest my forehead against his shoulder and kiss wherever I can reach and tell him that I missed him, but I don't know if he hears me because he's mumbling into my hair that he missed me at the same time. I'm fearing the moment we have to part, but of course it comes. The third time a doctor approaches us, they're adamant and they're slowly pulling Finnick back away from me.

He steps back as they order, but he takes my hand a moment later. I've never held a hand tighter in my life and I'm sure I never will. I'm ushered into a room with a hospital bed and some machines and they try to push Finnick out, but I scream out in protest at the same time he shoots a glare at them, and so they relent. I won't be without them again.

I'm shaking as I climb up onto the hospital bed. I would ordinarily squeeze my eyes shut, but every moment of seeing Finnick's eyes is worth more than I can say, and so I keep my eyes open and on his. He gently strokes my hair back from my forehead, his eyes watery but never straying from mine.

The doctor leaves when we hear screaming and commotion from the hallway. I feel my muscles tense as I start to rise, part of me convinced I need to run, but Finnick shakes his head and carefully pushes me back down.

"It's okay, Ann. You're safe," he promises.

The sound of his voice is a promise all on its own.

There's the sound of quick footsteps, but Finnick doesn't look bothered or concerned at all. He gazes at me like he can't decide whether he wants to cry or smile, his eyes tender and his lips rising into a small smile only to fall into a frown a few moments later. All the while he's stroking my hair back, his fingers quaking a bit. I just examine his face, and it's that right there that fully calms me. I couldn't care less what is going on outside that door. The curve of Finnick's lips and the color of his cheeks and the shade of his eyes are all that matter. It's true. It's true.

Who does Finnick Odair love?

Me.

And who am I?

Annie Cresta. His Annie. Not the Capitol's body to purchase. Not The Mad Girl. Just Annie.

It is the best thing I have ever been.

A nurse enters the room a while later, her expression shaken. She doesn't say anything, though. She merely takes my blood pressure, pulse, and blood. She makes notes on a clipboard every now and then. She's about to leave—to get a head doctor, she says—when the gray haired man is standing in the doorway. He's cradling his fist like it's injured, but I don't remember him doing that before.

"Nurse, I need to talk to you," he says gravely.

At first I think it's about whatever commotion was going on, but then his eyes keep drifting to look at me, like it's something amount me. Something he doesn't want me to hear.

Finnick's rising at the same moment I realize this. I reach out and grab onto his hand, desperation rising within me. At first I think it's just that I don't want him to leave my side, and I don't, but I realize a moment later the real reason I don't want him going out there. I know what the gray haired man is going to tell the nurse. He had to have known what they were doing to me, because he knew where to find me. I don't want Finn to know. I'm sure he already suspects, because I'm sure he has been suspecting it the entire time, and me showing up naked doesn't help that, but I don't want him to know for sure.

He turns back to me and presses an apologetic kiss to my hand before he pries it off his.

"I'll be right back," he promises me.

He steps out into the hallway with the other man and the nurse.

"Boggs, I have a right to be here, and you know it!" he says angrily.

I can make out Boggs' voice but not the words he's saying. The nurse makes a few comments, and then Finnick is rushing back into the room. I can't look at his face, because suddenly I'm struck with the same fear that he won't love me anymore. It's stupid and ridiculous but I hate myself now and I wouldn't be surprised if he hated me, too. The feeling of surety and the feeling of being his Annie fades.

When something horrible happens to you, and you are with people who don't know, you can pretend that it didn't happen. They don't know. And so you can act like you don't know, either. But when they know, you know they know, and you can see it when they look at you. I can see the pity in the nurse's eyes. And I know if I looked at Finnick's face, I'd see the pain in his. I don't want them to know.

Finnick gently takes my left arm and turns it over. He lightly trails his fingertips over blue veins on the inside of my elbow and then lightly taps the small pink circle where the Avox injected something into me. He touches and looks at it like it's familiar to him, as familiar as his own name, and I know he's not looking at it that way because it's my arm and he's familiar with every inch of me. He's looking it like that because my second guess must have been right. This must be something akin to what they give him.

I think he might be sick. He presses the back of his hand over his mouth and turns his head, taking deep breaths through his nose. His pain is so heavy in the room I almost can't breathe. His eyes drift shut and he just breathes deeply for a few moments, and then he turns back to look at me.

"Did they give you the shot before or after?" he asks me. Each word is forced, like he had to physically force them out and even then it was a bloody struggle. He's still shaking.

I reach out for him hesitantly, half of me terrified he's going to flinch away from me. But he takes my hand like he has wanted to the entire time and holds it tightly.

"Before," I whisper finally. The word hurts. This conversation hurts.

He turns and looks at the nurse who is watching us from the corner. He nods once and she jots something down.

"We'll do a full blood work panel anyway, just in case. I'll send in a doctor to examine her."

Finnick lets go of my hand long enough to pull a chair from the corner up to the side of the bed. He sits down and grabs my hand once again. I don't say anything to him and he doesn't say anything, either. I know he is seconds away from breaking and he's trying to hold on.

When a male doctor enters the room and tries to take the sheet away, I panic. I grip it tighter around me and turn on my side so I'm facing Finnick. I can taste my tears and I hear Finnick telling him to leave over the roaring in my head. They get into a brief but intense argument, and then the nurse is back. Her hair is the color of wet sand and I find myself staring at it for a while. She pulls my sheet away and suddenly I'm terrified of Finnick seeing me naked. It's ridiculous, because he's seen me naked countless times, but my skin feels different now. I feel different in it. I feel worthless, I feel gross, I feel ugly. I feel destroyed.

Maybe he knows this, or maybe he's afraid he might see evidence of what happened to me, because he keeps his eyes locked with mine the entire examination. He kisses the back of my hand every few moments and keeps telling me he loves me and he's sorry. I whisper to him that it's not his fault, but he merely shakes his head, a tortured expression on his face.

The nurse tells me I'm going to be just fine. I'm not sure if I believe her. She helps me dress in a hospital gown and then leaves. When Finnick leans over me and gently kisses my forehead, I believe her words suddenly. I forgot what it was like to be kissed like I'm special, like I mean something to someone. Like I mean everything to someone. When he pulls back and looks at me, I can see it in his eyes just how much he loves me. He loves me still.

He is very cautious with me. He extends his hands slowly before touching me and is hesitant with everything he says. He tells me a bit about District 13, but it's obvious what he needs to talk to me about. It's also obvious that neither of us want to talk about it at all. We put it off too long, though, because an hour later a psychologist is entering the room.

She asks me questions that make me lock my hands over my ears and make Finnick pale. Finnick tells her to be quiet, that I'm not going to talk to her, but she won't listen. He explains all the other therapy sessions I've been forced into and how they haven't worked, but she doesn't listen to that either.

The third time she asks me about the sexual abuse, I know I have to say something. She's throwing around words that are making me sick and making Finnick very upset. He's pulling at his hair and fighting back tears and her strongly worded and blunt inquiries aren't helping either of us handle this situation.

"I wasn't there," I whisper.

She stops talking, surprised that I've responded to her somehow.

"Weren't there? When you were being raped?"

Finnick lowers his head into his hands at that word. I stare at the light reflecting off his bronze hair until I have the strength to answer, the strength to acknowledge that word.

"Yes."

She's impatient. "Now of course you were there, Annie. The door was locked from the outside." 

But Finnick gets what I'm saying. He raises his head, a bit of hope shining in his eyes. He squeezes my hand tighter, looking relieved.

"Not for any of it?" he asks.

It's a while before I can answer.

"No. Well. The beginning. No," I reply.

Finnick exhales heavily in relief and closes his eyes briefly. The psychologist is confused. But she isn't getting any more out of me. I don't want to talk about this. I just want to forget it ever happened. I just want to put it behind me.

Finnick tells her things similar to this, and finally, she leaves. I will have to see her again, though. But that's something I will deal with when the time comes.

The nurse comes back and says my blood work was mostly normal, and that I didn't suffer any serious damage from what they did to me. That's a lie, but it's okay. She was right that my blood probably didn't have any abnormalities.

Finnick talks for a few minutes to someone who he calls Mrs. Everdeen a while later. I assume it's Katniss's mother, and that she's a doctor. He convinces her to get me moved into the hospital room he's been occupying on and off since he's been in 13, at least until I'm discharged. I don't like the idea that he's had to be in the hospital a lot, but I do like the idea of not being separated from him. She doesn't take much convincing at all before she wheels me down a hallway and into another room identical to the one I was just in. The only difference is a length of rope lying knotted on top of the rumbled bed sheets of another bed.

It doesn't take long at all for us to end up on the same bed, our arms wrapped around each other. He asks me twice if this is okay, if it's scaring me at all to be on the bed with him, but he finally seems convinced of my answer when he goes to pull back and I start shaking. If ever I needed his arms around me, it is now. I will never be scared to be in Finnick's arms. I would never be scared of Finnick. What happened to me in the Capitol lives in an entirely different compartment of my brain, a compartment far away from anywhere Finnick lives.

We both know we're going to have to talk about what we've been through without each other, but that time is not now. Now is time to hold each other and appreciate the fact that we can, that we're here together, that somehow, despite all the odds, we made it back to each other.

"Forgive me?" Finnick whispers a while later, his voice heavy with a sorrow that hasn't left him since Boggs's news. He's been running his fingers slowly through my hair for a while, and I'm certain it's neater than it's been for weeks. My lips brush his neck when I reply.

"There is nothing to forgive."

He sniffs and his foot caresses mindlessly down my calf. He drops his hands from my hair and hugs me tighter.

"Please, Annie," he begs.

I know that nothing I say will ever convince him that this isn't his fault. Snow wanted him to blame himself. Snow has programmed him to think that if I'm hurt, it's his fault, when in reality it's Snow's. I can't change that, but I can ease his guilt.

"I forgive you," I murmur. He presses his face into my hair and I'm sure he's crying.

"Do you forgive me for lying to you, too?" He asks. His breath is hot against my scalp and his words are hard to make out at first.

I kiss underneath his jaw and give him the words he needs.

"Of course," I promise.

This promise must be more than enough, because tension that he's been carrying in his muscles relaxes almost immediately. It's then that I realize he's been worried that I had stopped loving him the entire time I was worried that he had stopped loving me. I was fretting he wouldn't want me because of what was done to me in the Capitol, and he was fretting that I wouldn't want him because of all the things Snow has done. Snow's still trying to break us apart and he doesn't even have control over us anymore.

I pull back and rest my head on the pillow and examine Finnick's face in the dull light. The gray clothes he's in only make him look even more beautiful as the color of his hair and eyes shines brighter in comparison. I'm smiling without knowing I even am, and then he's smiling too.

"I love you, Finn. I love you always. I have never stopped, and I never will," I swear.

His smile only widens at these words.

"I love you more, my darling," he tells me seriously.

My madness is a blessing suddenly, because despite of all that's happened, I'm finding myself giggling because I'm happy and it's bursting from my skin. It feels wonderful, but even more, it feels like a miracle when Finnick begins to chuckle along, his expression happy but bewildered.

"Well, I love you the most," I argue lightly, because I do.

He sighs contently and strokes his finger down the bridge of my nose in a familiar and comforting move that never loses its endearing quality.

"They'll never take the fight out of my Annie Cresta," he says affectionately.

Lying here with him, smiling and laughing when just twenty four hours ago I was suffering so much I wanted to kill myself, I am inclined to believe him. Knowing, of course, that the exception to this statement would be if they took away my Finnick Odair.

Chapter Text

I wake to find my hands gripping so tightly to the back of Finn's shirt that my nails are digging into my palm through the fabric.

I don't know how it happened, but somehow during our sleep he ended up on his stomach and I ended up sprawled across his back. I lie with my face resting between his shoulder blades for a few long moments, unsure if I could even unclench my fingers if I tried, trying to wrap my head around everything. But it doesn't take too long. I'm with Finnick again, and then I'm sure I'm going to cry. I kiss the spot I was resting my head before attempting to pull myself up into a sitting position on the bed, but I only make it halfway up before I'm lying back down again. I feel sick suddenly, and deeply upset, although I don't know why. I lie that way for a few more minutes, my heart aching and my throat tight and my hands sore, before I am able to determine what it is that's upsetting me: I'm afraid to be away from him. I'm afraid even to sit up beside him. I'm afraid that I'm really back in the Capitol, that this is a brief moment of madness, that yesterday never happened, that I'll wake up to reality and reality will be a strange man in my bed. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't take it.

I can tell when Finnick starts to wake. The muscles in his back shift a bit and a yawn escapes his mouth. I'm working on controlling my fear when I feel his arm rise. He reaches behind him and hesitantly touches my shoulder, his fingers shaking, and I wonder if he thinks this is fake, too.

"Annie?" he asks hesitantly.

Only a desire to see his face could have ever made me move, I'm sure of it. I unclench my fingers suddenly and drop his now sweaty and wrinkled shirt and slide off him, rolling over onto my side and resting my head beside his on the pillow. He's got his head turned towards me as well and when he sees me, his face lights up in a way that mine must be as well. He has me in his arms so suddenly that I don't even remember seeing him sit up to do it. He's horizontal one moment and vertical the next, pulling me up into his arms and hugging me so tightly that I feel like he's squeezing the pain that's taken root in my heart out.

And for the first time, Finnick asks me the question.

"Is this real?"

I stare at the gray wall with my face resting on his shoulder and try to decide if it is or isn't. He's normally the one I ask. I remember suddenly what Gale Hawthorne said in the hovercraft, about Finnick being unconscious half the time. I worry then that he's been unconscious in the way that I'm unconscious half the time as well. I worry that he's been seeing things that aren't real, too. Wouldn't that just be a treat for Snow? He drives me mad and sells Finnick only to drive Finn mad and sell me. He did say he liked to be thorough.

"I hope so," I finally reply.

Finnick's grip tightens on me, and it's then that I understand just how extremely unwell he has been. It's then that I understand that maybe he needs me to be the strong one for once. Maybe he's suffering more than I am.

I lift my head and lean back a bit, examining his face. His eyes are desperate and sad and they shouldn't be. We're together again. They should be happy.

I take his face in my hands and find a smile inside of myself. He smiles back almost immediately, his eyebrows unfurrowing and his face brightening. Nothing was ever more beautiful. Nothing in the world, and I have seen very beautiful things. Sunsets and sunrises and crystal clear water and bright pink starfish and blue coral. I've seen lovely things, but nothing is as lovely as this.

"This is real, Finn," I promise him.

You know what's crazy? He believes me.

His grin widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling and my heart swelling. I want to kiss him then, and I don't let myself think about anything beyond that overwhelming desire. I slide my hands back through his hair so they're cupping the back of his head and lean forward, pressing my lips to his with an almost hesitant slowness. I feel the curve of his smile slowly melt underneath my mouth and his hands rise to thread in my hair as well. I kiss him and the world is dark behind my closed eyelids but somehow safe and beautiful at the same time. I pull back and then, like we're magnetized again, he leans forward and kisses me once more and it's just like our first kiss, but with a practiced affection lurking underneath each breath. He presses his forehead to mine when he pulls back and I'm afraid to open my eyes. I'm afraid to risk breaking the way I feel now: safe and warm and loved. I haven't felt any of those things in what feels like years. I had almost forgotten they existed. I had forgotten a lot of things. Things like how loving a touch can be, or how sweet a kiss could taste. Things like Finnick's eyes becoming greener when he laughs. The important things.

I don't know when I got good at fighting back my tears, but I don't let even one slip past my eyelids. Finnick pulls us down so we're lying on our sides, face to face, and I don't open my eyes until he takes my hands securely in his and I feel confident that I will stay warm and safe. The world comes back to me in a blur of gray walls and clothes and my favorite colors. I wonder if everyone in 13 can see just how radiant Finnick is. They must. They have to. He's the only colorful thing here.

He lets go of my right hand and reaches up, tracing his fingers over my cheekbones and down my nose and over my lips. At first I think he's just mindlessly doing it, but then his smile is gone and his lips are pursed and his hand is shaking. I'm unsure what upset him. My heart sinks and his fingers freeze on my mouth as I feel it pull down into a frown. He stares at me, his eyes sad, and the sadness of that look only makes me think of why he's sad. And thinking of that makes me think of the nightmare I was living, and that make me feel sick.

"I am going to kill him for what he did to you, Annie," Finnick tells me softly. His words sound like a promise and a warning all at once. "I am going to make sure he dies, and I won't be sorry."

He's peering at me like he's sorry that he won't be sorry, like he thinks that makes him a horrible person, or that I'd think terribly of him for it. I can only think that he is the best person I know, and that we're so beyond being sorry for whatever we do to retaliate to those monsters. It's with this thought that I know despite how strongly I wish it weren't true, I have been changed by what they have done to me.

"Well, I took a chunk of skin out of the Head Peacekeeper, and I'm not sorry for that. We can just be not sorry together," I find myself replying, and I don't understand how my voice is so steady or so unemotional, because I feel like dying remembering it. Not because I feel bad for it, though. Just because remembering it makes me remember the lie he told me and the things he did to me afterwards.

The corners of Finnick's mouth quiver a bit as he stares at me.

"Annie—" he starts.

"I'm fine," I immediately reply. That strange tone of voice hasn't left, and I don't like it. It reminds me too much of my catatonic fits, but I don't feel catatonic. I feel awful.

He frowns deeply at me and I'm seeing my nails digging into the Head Peacekeeper's flesh again and the look of pain on his face. It replays over and over again and I find I'm trying to see if I do feel anything at all. I think my acknowledgement that this has changed me has upset me. I am afraid that maybe I was right about not being sorry. It's easy to be angry and bitter and throw a fit over it. It's easy to stomp my foot and scream I DON'T CARE ANYMORE and throw vases. But in the end, I always hope that I don't really mean that. In the end I'm always afraid that I do.

It takes a few long moments filled with Finnick's pain-filled gaze and the scene replaying in my mind before I acknowledge that I really did mean what I said. I can picture the pain on his face all I want, but I can't get myself to feel bad for what I did. All I can see is my blood running down the drain. I felt guilty for killing Twine, who treated Kaya so horribly, but I don't feel bad about this? I always find guilt making a bed in my heart. It curls up there, because it's warm, because I let it live there even when its rent is way past due. And I let it stay because it has become part of the structure. It's become the way I hold onto my humanity, my compassion, the things I've sworn I'd never let them take away. I am just unsure whether or not they have yet. I'm angry inside my bones over what they have done to me, and I feel nothing, so maybe they have taken it after all.

"Please don't lie to me," Finnick whispers, his eyes searching my face.

My entire body is shaking when I find the strength to reply.

"I'm not lying. I'm really not sorry. I'm really not," I mutter, and that's when I have to look away from him, because my eyes are burning and my throat is tightening and I'm going to cry but I can't cry. I hate myself then. I hate myself for my lack of confidence in myself, for my lack of surety in my identity, for my panic when I find that I really don't know myself as well as I thought I did. For the way that my entire foundation can be shaken simply by a committed act of violence on my part.

Finnick's hands slip from mine and ghost over my face instead, gently grasping it and turning it back to look at him. He keeps it cradled in his hands, and his hands are the warmest thing. I let mine drift shut and I focus on keeping myself together. I don't let the knots slip or loosen. I'm not going to break. I have broken enough times.

"That isn't what I meant. I meant don't lie and tell me you're okay," he murmurs.

With my eyes shut and the world narrowing to Finnick's voice and hands, it's easy to feel like I can keep control. But when I admit what I admit next, my voice breaks and my mind splinters and my heart shatters.

"I'm not okay because I'm not sorry that I hurt someone and I think that Annie would have been and I'm afraid that they took Annie with them."

The words are rushed and heavy and I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter when they're in the open air, because they're ugly and they're true and I didn't want Finnick to have them because they might hurt him like they hurt me. He sweeps his thumbs back and forth over my cheeks in a comforting rhythm and doesn't say anything for a while. I hope he's not crying. I can't open my eyes to see. I can't know. I am supposed to be strong for him. I don't feel very strong.

I can sense Finnick's nearer moments before I feel his lips press gently between my eyebrows. My face relaxes automatically afterwards and I'm reaching out for him as he presses kiss after kiss to my face, the tip of his nose cold but his lips warm. I grip his shirt as I was when I woke up this morning and think to myself that no one is going to take him away again. I will lose it. I won't let them.

The air is colder when he pulls back, but a moment later his words are warming it and he's taking my hands back in his.

"Anything you did was self-defense. You would never hurt anyone on purpose. I don't have to be there to know that, baby. What they did to you—"

"Finnick, I don't—"

"What they did to you was atrocious. And if he played a part in organizing it, he deserved what he got," Finnick finishes, his voice louder but somehow weaker as he pushes through my complaints. He seems determined to get this through to me, and somehow his words make me feel a lot better, because he doesn't even know the half of it. He speaks like he's confident to the death in the fact that me even hurting the Peacekeeper because he was organizing it would be okay. But the Peacekeeper wasn't only organizing it. He was doing it. The entire concept of self-defense has been lost to me, stolen by the whispered words of those Peacekeepers as they told me just how awful and undeserving of Finnick I really was. When I have it back, I feel better, I feel like I can breathe easier. Like maybe I am not a shell of myself. When someone takes everything you have, you're desperate to recognize yourself in any way you can. You're desperate to hold onto whatever silly, small thing you can that will make you feel like you weren't destroyed, that your life isn't over, that you as a person can pull through whatever it was and live. All I can hold onto is Finnick, but he is holding onto Annie, and so maybe I don't need to. He is reminding me of who I am when I can't remember.

Finnick's quiet for a few moments, and when I finally open my eyes again, I see his are watery. I backup then, trying to account for the length of my silence and my facial expressions, because somehow I must have told him what I didn't really want him to know.

"The Peacekeeper. He was one of them?" he finally asks. He asks it like he's not really sure he wants to know, and I don't think he is.

I stare at him for a while, certain that I don't want to have this conversation, but equally certain that I need to. Finnick and I share a life, and what happens in mine affects him just as what happens in his affects me. He hasn't wanted to talk about a lot of things he's told me, but he has anyway. And I am glad he did, because how else would I have known how to help him? Lying and keeping things from each other doesn't get us very far at all.

My head spins when I nod. Finnick nods too, his gaze drifting to the wall. He swallows and I give his hands a comforting squeeze, because I know this is just as hard for him as it is for me. He's quiet, and I know then that the sooner we have this conversation, the sooner we'll never have to again. And so I'm taking deep breaths and gripping his hands tightly and opening my mouth to speak.

"They kept us underground, first. Peeta and Johanna and I. They injected something into Peeta and I. His made him hallucinate. Mine just hurt badly and kept my mind in focus. They told me things. Things like I wasn't even worthy to be in your presence, that you didn't really love me..." I stop then, feeling out of breath suddenly and like I'm being crushed under the weight of memories. It takes a few minutes, but I regain strength to push through. I leave out part of it, though. He doesn't need to know what they showed me. I will take that to my grave. "After what was probably a week, they took me upstairs to this really nice room."

I get caught up staring at the way the light reflects on Finnick's hair and I let my sentence drop. I stare at it for a while, wondering if that's the real color of gold, trying to remember the last time I've seen gold with my own eyes. I think Dougal had a gold watch. Yes, he did, I remember it now and how cold it was. But it didn't shine anything like this.

Finnick's telling me that I don't have to talk about it, that he understands how much it hurts to talk about it, that we can try and pretend it never happened. But it did happen. I know it did because it lurks in the corners of my mind like a haunting nightmare does. I won't ever get it to go away unless I accept it and then slowly find the strength to overcome it. And I don't want Finnick guessing what happened in the Capitol. He probably has a mental image of what happened that's so much worse than what actually did. If I tell him what did happen, he knows, and I know, and no one else has to.

"They were mostly Peacekeepers and men in suits. They came once every day, sometimes more if Snow wanted to prove a point."

Finnick blinks and a few tears roll down his cheek and it hurts worse than anything.

"I slipped away in my mind every time. I wasn't there even once. I knew what happened when I came back—"

I stop then, overcome once more by memories that are so dark and pain-filled that I think I'm going to cry, too. I sniff and fight against it, but I'm tired, and talking about this is making me tired, and so I let it go. The first sob is violent only because it's been held back for so long. I want to go back to emotionlessly lying and telling him I'm fine. I want to go back to pretending that I am. But that was a lie, and since when do I lie to Finnick? I don't. That's a lie I am going to tell other people.

Finnick drops my hands and slowly pulls me into his arms, rolling over onto his back so he's holding me against his chest. I can hide my face in his shirt and I gain a bit more strength from that. He holds me tightly and it takes a while, but I finally get the strength to finish and regain control over my tears. I turn my head so I'm facing the gray wall so that my words won't be muffled into his chest.

"That went on for a while. An Avox gave me the shot, but she wasn't supposed to. She did it just to be nice. She was going to—"

I halt again, sure that I don't want to tell him that I was going to kill myself.

"She was really kind. The rescue team came and now I'm back with you, and you know what?"

Finnick's hand is warm on the back of my neck. He pauses in tracing shapes and his voice is thick when he responds.

"What?"

"It was worth going through all of that just to be here with you."

I turn my head and kiss over his heart and find myself repeating something he told me once in a world that never was and never will be.

"They took a lot, but they can never take the way we feel about each other."

He slowly pulls his fingers through my hair again like he did yesterday, and I wish I could tell him how comforting that is without sounding mad. It's just that I can remember vividly the way it felt to have other men's hands in my hair, pulling and tangling it and leaving it in a knotted mess, and I feel almost like Finnick is erasing all of that when he pulls every knot free with his hands. It's mad, but I'm mad, so I suppose it's only fitting.

"But you know they were lying, right? The things they told you were lies. Because you are the only one I love, and truthfully, it's me who doesn't deserve you."

I lie still for a few moments and let his words seep in, and then I nod.

"I know you love me," I clarify, because I don't for a second think he's right about not deserving me. And I do know they were lying. I have known it all along, except for brief moments of panic and insecurity. Finnick loves me and I love him. That's just that.

"We don't ever have to talk about this again, but I need you to promise that you will come to me when you're upset. I know how it feels to feel awful all the time, and I don't want you feeling that way. We will help each other as we always do. You don't have to do this alone," Finnick says.

This is a promise I can easily make. I have no desire to push Finnick away. If anything, I want to grip him to me and never let go. I never want to be alone again.

"I promise."

"Thank you," he replies, his voice filled with relief and gratitude.

I slowly sit up, folding my legs underneath me and sitting beside Finn. His hands fall to his side as they slip from my hair and he still looks worried. I brush his hair out of his face and smile, hoping that it will make him smile, and it does. That makes things easier to handle.

"I'll be okay, Finnick. What I need to know is if you're going to be okay."

It's true and I know it then. I'll be just fine. Better than fine. I'm going to be happy again. Really, deeply happy. Because I have Finnick and he has me and there was never a better reason to be happy. I just have to know that Finn can be deeply happy again, too.

He looks confused, but it almost looks like a forced expression of bewilderment. Like when someone asks you if you did something you weren't supposed to do and you feign innocent confusion by acting like you didn't even know that happened at all.

"Of course I'm going to be okay. Why wouldn't I be?" he asks, his voice measured.

I lift his hand and kiss his knuckles and keep my eyes on his. He sighs and I know he knows I am aware of how difficult things have been for him.

I echo his earlier words. "Please don't lie to me."

He sits up and leans forward, pulling his hand from mine and kissing me full on the mouth. When he pulls back, he's smiling.

"And did your informant tell you why I was such a mess?" he questions.

"Because I was gone?"

"Right. Because you were gone," he responds. "But you're back now, so I'm better than okay."

I scoot forward a bit because close is never close enough and wrap my arms around his middle. With my head resting over his heart, I can breathe. His arms wrap around me and he holds me just as tightly.

"Surprise: I can't live without you," Finnick says. It comes out as a joke, but I can hear the residual sadness underneath the words.

"Surprise: I can't either," I whisper back.

"Guess we'll just have to be together forever then, huh?"

I smile into his shirt and I don't have to look up to know he's smiling, too.

"Looks like it," I respond.

A nurse brings in dinner a few minutes later. Since Finnick and I didn't go to sleep until the early hours of the morning, we slept well into the afternoon. She checks my temperature and pulse again, but I guess she didn't find anything out of the ordinary because she leaves without further comment.

Finnick wants me to eat, but I just want to take a shower. The small bathroom in the room was lost to me until the nurse entered and walked right past the door. Now I'm overwhelmed with a desire to wash the Capitol off of me completely so I can start over. I need a fresh start and this feels like it would be one.

Finnick helps me off the bed and seems scared of something.

"Will you be okay?" he asks.

A flash of raw skin and bleeding hands flies past my eyes, and I know why he's worried. Because he's been here a million times. He's lived in my shoes for years.

"I'll be fine."

I think it's the truth, anyway. I close the bathroom door and pull the hospital gown off, and I'm scared to do it, but I look in the mirror anyway. I inspect myself for a few moments, a slow relief filling me, because I don't look different at all. This is my body and I recognize it. It doesn't look changed or different. I still have a birthmark under my left ribs and I don't see any strange bruises. My body is mine again.

I'm in the shower for what could only be five minute before I'm anxious. Not for myself, but for Finn. I'm worried that when I get out, he'll be gone. I wash the soap from my body and hair quickly and then throw the hospital gown back on right after I jump out, not even bothering to dry myself. I open the bathroom door, and when Finn looks up from the same place he was when I left, I grip the doorframe and exhale in relief.

He rises immediately and hurries over, gripping my upper arms and peering down at my face in worry.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

I nod a few times before moving into his arms and resting my head on his shoulder. He hugs me securely, not seeming to notice that my hair is soaking his clothes. It takes me a few moments to catch my breath and I wonder if I will always live like this: terrified that any second someone will take Finn away. Terrified that I'll wake up in a different world only to find that it was the real one after all.

My legs feel boneless as Finnick helps me back over to the bed. I sit beside him on the edge, leaning my body against his. I close my eyes and wait until the panic has completely disembarked from my heart to reopen them.

"I don't like being without you. It scares me. Even for a few minutes," I admit.

"It scares me, too," he says.

With Finnick's hand around my hand and his body against me, I'm able to eat way more than I could in the Capitol. The food is bland but I don't mind. I'm just glad I don't feel nauseous. As we eat, Finnick tells me about District 13. The odd schedules, the strict regulation of food, the way they cherish children, the waste not, want not philosophy. He tells me that President Coin is hard to swallow, but that I shouldn't question her or say anything negative about her, even if I see her do something that I don't understand. I don't like that he has to tell me this, and I worry that she's just another Snow, but I have to remember that the very fact that I'm here with Finnick proves that she isn't. That's good enough for me.

There is something hanging over our heads that we've yet to talk about, something that I'm more reluctant to speak of than I was my torturing in the Capitol. Something that I push away and try not to remember. We meet eyes after the trays have been taken away, and I know he's thinking of it, too.

"She was part of the rebellion, you know. She agreed to die for Katniss. It was what she wanted," Finnick tells me softly.

I look down at my hands and nod.

"I know."

I can't say it was what I wanted, though.

I still miss her. Especially now, in times like these, when I know she would have known exactly what to say to me to make me feel better. But I'm almost glad she wasn't alive to see all this happen.

"She told me to tell you something the night before the Games when I saw you next," he starts.

I look up at him, fighting against a quivering that's starting in my lips.

"What was it?" I ask.

"She said to take care of me and to let me take care of you, too. And that she loves you."

It feels long overdue when we both start crying. I know Mags would yell at us and tell us that she's not worth crying over, but she is. At least she'd be glad that we're crying together. Us being together was what she wanted all along.

I'm worn out when our tears dry. I'm so used to living primarily in my other world that it's extremely exhausting to stay here. I don't want to go back, though, because I will miss Finn. He probably won't be in my other world if he's here with me. It's typically one or the other.

A nurse comes in again to check on us, and I drift off momentarily as she's talking to Finnick. I can't make out what he's saying, but the tone and sound of his voice is soothing enough on its own. He keeps the conversation going as he helps me lie down, and I wish he would lie down beside me.

I think I fall asleep for a bit, because I have no recollection of much until Finnick is pulling me into his arms. He kisses my cheek and I intertwine my legs with his, curling closer to him.

"Finn?" I ask. My voice is slurred with sleepiness and I doubt he even made out what I said.

"Yes?" 

"When they took me, I left Poseidon all alone." He's probably dead now. He can't live on his own. He's just a little kitten.

"Marv will take care of him. Poseidon was part of the deal I made with him, too. He'll be just fine, I promise." 

I swallow my oncoming tears and nod, replaying his words in my mind and trying to make sense of them. My brain feels heavy, but I trust Finnick, so I decide these words must be the truth. Poseidon is fine, and Finnick is fine, and I'm fine. Maybe somewhere Mags and my family are fine, too.

"Thank you for the poems. They helped so much."

My words become more and more garbled each time I speak, and I hear Finnick chuckle a bit above me. He ducks his head and kisses my shoulder and it's one of those kisses that I can just feel the affection leaking from. It fills my heart.

"I'm glad they did. I know how much you love a puzzle," he laughs.

"Thank you for Poseidon, too. He kept me going," I try and continue, but I'm certain he must have missed all of that.

I'm halfway asleep again when Finnick responds, his voice amused.

"Go to sleep, Ann. We can talk more when you wake up. I promise I won't leave."

I think Finnick's promises are what pump through my heart.

When I wake, I expect the first thing I see to be Finn, but it's not. It's Haymitch Abernathy. He's sitting in a chair beside the bed and Finnick's sitting on the edge, and I can tell by the way Finnick's muscles are tense that they aren't talking about anything good.

I sit up slowly and they both turn to look at me. Finnick smiles.

"Morning!" he tells me.

There are no windows to confirm that I've actually slept that long, but my body feels sore like I haven't moved for hours, so I take that as confirmation enough.

"What's wrong?" I ask immediately. Haymitch has dark circles under his eyes and his mouth is pulled down in a frown and I don't get what's happened. What could have possibly happened? I pull the blanket up and around my shoulders and hold it there, hoping it will deter any shaking.

"Nothing's wrong," Finnick says quickly.

Haymitch catches my eye.

"I wanted to ask you some stuff. Johanna's out still, and Peeta's doctors need more information on what his state was like during the torture."

I guess this means Peeta's torture had long term effects, just like Snow wanted. That thought makes the anger return.

"Are they okay?" I ask.

"Johanna will be fine. Peeta…he's going to survive," Haymitch finishes. But he doesn't sound pleased about that, which confuses me. I know all mentors don't have the same kind of relationship as Finnick and I did when I was in my Games, but I'm certain they care about each other at least a little bit.

The sadness in his eyes tells me that he does care. He cares so much that he wishes that maybe Peeta wouldn't. Which means whatever has been done to him has made his life unlivable.

I look at Finnick for reassurance, and when he reaches for my hand, I turn back to Haymitch.

"Peeta was across from me. The screams were loud and awful and—"

I stop, my mind wavering, but then Finnick gently squeezes my hand and I take a shuddering breath and continue.

"He was across from me," I start over, speaking slower this time. "They were injecting something into him. They said it was worse than what they were giving me. He screamed a lot. He screamed things."

There's a long pause and I'd forgotten how difficult talking to people is. It wasn't difficult talking to Peeta and Johanna when we were imprisoned, because none of us were in the right mind. But Haymitch is sane and he doesn't know me very well and so I'm struggling.

I look up at Finnick and he smiles.

"What kind of things?" Finn asks gently, bridging my story from where I stopped building to where it needed to go.

"Things about Katniss towards the end. We were helping. I mean, we were helping him. They were telling him things, and showing him things,"

I don't want to remember what they showed me, but it comes back of course, and it carries all the screamed words of those Peacekeepers with it. But they lied. They lied. Who does Finnick love? Me. That's who he loves.

"They wanted him to think that Katniss didn't love him," I say.

Haymitch nods.

"We figured it was something like that."

"Snow told me that," I continue.

Finnick turns to look at me this time, and I remember I didn't tell him about Snow's visits.

"Snow visited you?" Haymitch pushes.

"Yes. Three times. He visited all of us. He was telling me that Finnick didn't love me, and he was trying to get me to believe it, but he said it wasn't working for me like it was for Peeta."

Haymitch nods slowly and Finnick's hand falls from mine. I look at him in confusion for a moment, but I realize he only dropped it to wrap his arm around my shoulder and move closer, and I feel better then.

"You said you were helping him?" Finnick guides.

"Yes. Helping him tell real from not real. Peeta got worse as time went on because at first it only took half an hour to get him to say it, but right before they took me away, it took hours and even then he sounded like he didn't know." 

Haymitch nods slowly, his eyes on me like he's waiting for more, but I don't know what he's waiting for so I just stare back.

"What were you trying to get Peeta to say?" Finnick questions a few moments later.

Oh. I feel dumb then, but I just have to remind myself that on top of the problems I already have with articulating what I need to say, I've been locked away for a very long time. I have to try and not be so hard on myself. So I push forward and continue, a slight blush rising to my cheeks.

"Sorry. I was trying to get him to say that he loves Katniss. He would tell me about a strong and happy memory he had with her, and then he'd say he loved her, but he just got more and more confused. I think after they took me they probably made it so Johanna couldn't talk to him, either. That probably made it worse. To not have someone there to talk to. I think it would make it worse."

Haymitch nods solemnly and then rises, but I'm remembering something else suddenly.

"It wasn't just that they wanted him to think that she didn't love him. They wanted him to think that she was going to hurt him."

Although I can't be certain why. I still don't know why.

I understand quickly, though.

"They succeeded. Peeta tried to kill Katniss when they reunited. I guess that was Snow's plan all along."

I stare at Haymitch as he leaves and then the door when it closes. I don't know why I'm shocked to hear this. Probably because the boy I met, who helped me up off the floor and spoke of Katniss with such love, never could have hurt anyone. Much less the girl he loves. I guess they took that boy away like they wanted. Poor Peeta. Poor Katniss. Peeta will have to live with himself knowing he did that his entire life. But I guess if he really hates her now, that won't bother him much.

"I want to see Peeta," I tell Finnick suddenly.

I don't know what I think it will accomplish, because I can't undo weeks of torture. But I can't stand the thought of leaving him alone, either. We all went through a lot together and nothing will ever change that.

"He's in lockdown right now. They aren't letting anyone who might remind him of bad memories see him."

That's all Finn has to say. I understand. I would remind him of bad memories because the only place he's ever seen me was in the Capitol.

"Is Katniss okay?" I ask.

I wouldn't be okay if Finnick tried to kill me. I'd be way less than okay.

Finnick shrugs.

"I'd imagine not, but she's strong. She'll be okay eventually."

Sometimes eventually feels like it's very far away, so far that you'll never reach it. I don't know Katniss, but I will never forget how she helped Finnick in the arena, so I hope for her sake that eventually is soon.

My heart is in my throat as I look at Finnick and realize just how lucky we are. Lucky that they could never take away the way we feel about each other. I move over into Finnick's lap and kiss his neck and wrap my arms so tightly around him that his ribs dig into my arms. I feel like something heavy is sitting on my chest when I speak my thoughts into his skin.

"We're lucky, Finn."

He rubs my back and then lightly pulls on a piece of my hair so I'll look up at him. When I lock eyes, he leans forward and his lips meet mine and then part, warm and familiar.

"The luckiest," he agrees moments later.

A nurse comes by about an hour later bearing lunch. She checks up on me once more, and then gives me news that is unpleasant.

"You're to see the head doctor later today. She will see you alone, and then if you're declared stable enough, you'll be discharged from the hospital and assigned a compartment."

I frown and glance at Finnick.

"Can Finnick stay with me when I talk to her?" I inquire nervously. I don't think I can do it without him. Not well enough to get the label of "stable" anyway.

She shakes her head and sets her hands on her hips.

"The purpose of meeting individually is to determine if you're capable of living on your own," she explains.

Finnick's using his persuasive, sugary voice when he speaks up.

"With all due respect, Annie's not living on her own, anyway. If she moves out I want her to move into my compartment."

Nurses in the Capitol would have melted under Finnick Odair's glance, but this nurse just looks at him like she doesn't have time for this.

"Well, that's great, Finnick, but you still have to be deemed stable, too."

She starts to leave, but Finnick's persistent.

"So have them deem our stability together. If we're living together, that's what makes sense, anyway," he argues.

I start to tell him that it's okay, to let it go, that I'll find a way to handle the meeting alone, but suddenly I wonder if maybe he feels like he needs me there to get a good score as well.

The nurse signs heavily and turns back around, appraising Finnick.

"That's a living arrangement that will have to be cleared by Coin, first of all. Second of all, you'll have to talk to the head doctor about this. I don't make the decisions in that department."

She walks out quickly once the words have left her mouth, before Finnick could get another word in.

He huffs.

"Honestly, you'd think I don't have any charm anymore," he grumbles.

That's probably one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard.

"You've still got massive amounts of charm," I reassure him. He turns and looks at me and grins, his cheeks pinking a bit.

"You think so?"

"Yeah. You're adorable," I tell him, just because I know it drives him crazy.

He sighs heavily.

"I'm not adorable!" he demands. He crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm Finnick Odair. I'm sexy."

There's no denying that, but there's also no denying the fact that he is adorable, even if only for me.

"The sexiest person in the world," I agree. He grins wider. "But also the most adorable."

He ponders over this.

"I can live with that, I think. That just means I have double the charm," he winks.

Double the charm doesn't turn out to be enough, unfortunately. We're herded into separate rooms to see two different psychologists.

The "head doctor" as they call them here that I'm introduced to is not the same one that asked me those horrifying questions after I arrived in 13. This doctor introduces herself as Dr. Malone, and she has skin the prettiest shade of brown that I've ever seen. She's probably in her mid-thirties, and she has one of those voices that makes you feel reassured.

"How are you?" she asks me, once I've sat down in the chair across from the small desk she's sitting behind. She's peering calmly at me, like she's in no hurry, and it's so different from every other doctor I've spoken to. The doctors in the Capitol act like they've got ten different places to be and I'm wasting their time, but she just patiently waits until I figure out how to answer her question. I like people who give me time to answer things. The longer I have to sort through the question and my answer, the less jumbled or strange it sounds coming out.

"Good," I finally reply.

She smiles at that, jotting something down on a clipboard in front of her.

"It's nice to be back with Finnick, huh?" she asks knowingly. She looks up from the clipboard and her smile is still in place. I nod and find myself smiling back.

"I'm sure it helps extensively to be free from the Capitol as well," she continues.

My smile slips then, and I worry that we're going to have to get into that. I don't want to talk about what happened in the Capitol.

She notices this, and her smile fades away as well.

"Do you feel ready to talk about the Capitol?" she asks me.

I just stare at her for a few moments, because a doctor has never asked me if I've felt ready to talk about something before. They've just demanded it and then punished me when I didn't.

"No." Not to her, anyway. I drop my eyes from hers and look instead at the crack on the front of her desk. I wonder how it got there. I wonder if someone hit it with something. I don't know why they would, because a desk can't do anything to hurt anyone, but I can't do anything to hurt anyone, either, and people still hurt me.

"Okay. Coin has ordered that my colleagues and I meet with all those pulled from the Capitol daily, and I know that you don't want to, but I have a deal for you, if you're interested." She sets the pen down and looks at me until I meet her gaze. "Would you like to hear it?"

I nod, my mind racing with guesses on what the deal could be. I hope it's a deal that lets Finnick be in here. That's the deal that I want.

"We won't talk about anything that you don't want to talk about after the first two minutes of the sessions. There are a handful of basic questions we all have to ask our patients at the start of each session, but after that, we can talk about whatever you want to talk about. That means we won't talk about the Capitol unless you want to, and we won't talk about your Games unless you want to. But only on one condition."

She pauses for a second, I guess waiting to see if I'm still focusing on what she's saying. I fidget with the hem of the hospital gown and then she continues.

"You talk to me. I want us to have an open dialogue. Maybe we could even be friends. Like I said, it doesn't matter what we talk about, as long as we do. Do we have a deal?"

I stare at the metal on the clipboard and the way it shines in the light as I think about what she's saying. Before I answer, I have to make sure there's not an alternative.

"Could Finnick come in with me?" I ask.

I meet her eyes and she's shaking her head.

"No, and I'm sorry about that. Coin doesn't want it, and honestly, I think it would be better for you if we talked alone. I know you don't think so now, but one day you might agree with me," she responds.

I nod slowly and return to mulling over her deal. I suppose I don't really have a choice but to take it, and it's not that bad of a deal, anyway. If I refused they'd just make me see another doctor, one that probably wouldn't be nice and would force me to talk about the Capitol.

"Deal," I say.

She beams and then picks her pen back up.

"Well, then, Annie. Let's get to the basic questions and get them out of the way, okay?"

I nod apprehensively. What if a basic question is "what did they do to you in the Capitol?" Somehow I trust that it isn't, though. I don't think she would trick me like that.

My trust is not misplaced.

"How would you rate your level of coherency today?" she reads off the clipboard.

It's not a bad question. It's a cookie-cutter question, in fact. One they give to everyone. But it's very hard and painful for me to answer, because my judgment of coherency is so much different than everyone else's. My days of excellent coherency are probably days of terrible coherency for sane people.

I think over it for what must be five minutes, trying to discern how to answer it. It's upsetting me unnecessarily, and I know Finnick would know how to answer this for me. But he's not here, so I have to do my best on my own.

"I feel very coherent," I answer finally. Because she did say my level of coherency. And compared with the fact that I've been in my other world for weeks, I do feel very coherent today.

She nods and jots that down. I expect her to question me on my pause, but she doesn't.

"Have you had any suicidal thoughts in the past three weeks?" she inquires.

Flashes of red carpets and white pills and bloody showers. I close my eyes and grip the arms of the chair and fight against whatever flashback was just triggered. I spell word after word in my head until I'm focusing solely on the letters and everything else falls away. When I've regained control, I open my eyes and manage a nod, feeling almost proud of myself for not succumbing to the dark wave that almost pulled me under.

Again, I expect her to question me further, but true to her word, she doesn't. She merely makes a note on her clipboard and continues.

"Have you been feeling out of the ordinary in terms of emotional or physical health?"

I've felt happy. But I don't think that's what she means.

"No, not really," I hedge.

"Have you had any thoughts of harming another person?"

"No." That one is easier to answer.

She looks up from the clipboard and smiles.

"Great! That's all of them. We have twenty more minutes scheduled. Is there anything you would like to talk about?"

There are a lot of things I'd like to talk about, but I think I want to talk to Finnick about them. I shake my head.

"Then, if you don't mind, I have an idea for something we could talk about," she suggests.

"Okay," I tell her.

She leans back in her chair and jots a few more things down on the paper in front of her, and then she looks back up at me.

"Tell me about yourself. Anything you can think of. Keep talking until I stop you, and it's okay if you have to stop and think for a while. Do you think you can do that?"

I don't know what that will accomplish, or why she cares, but I think I could probably at least try. She's been very kind, the least I can do is try what she asks.

"I can try," I tell her.

She grins again.

"That's a good attitude to have! You can start whenever you'd like."

She holds the pencil ready to write and waits, but I feel suffocated. I think and think, trying to decide what she's looking for, but after a few moments of fretting over this, it occurs to me that maybe she isn't looking for anything at all. Maybe she honestly meant what she said about opening a dialogue. It probably would help me to practice talking, too. So I just start saying the first things I can think of.

"My name is Annie Cresta," I start slowly. "Everybody says I'm mad. Finnick says I'm not. I think I am."

Her eyes flicker to mine with those words, but she doesn't stop me. She merely looks back down and starts writing.

I pull at the hem of the hospital gown again and take a deep breath.

"I'm from District 4. I used to love to swim. I used to swim with my big sister, Cora. She's dead. My whole family is dead. I can't swim anymore. I won the 70th Hunger Games, but it was a fluke, I shouldn't have won."

I stop for a few moments, my head spinning with a sudden burst of words and thoughts. It seems I do have words to say, after all. I stare at the crack on the desk and ponder and she writes away, the scratch of the pen oddly soothing.

"Finnick was my mentor. I fell in love with him suddenly and I don't even remember exactly when it happened. I feel like I've always loved him. He understands me. He understood me before my Games, too. He was my friend then and now he's my…well, really he's everything. I know it sounds dumb but it's true."

I look up when her pen stops suddenly. She's frowning at me.

"It's not dumb," she assures me. "Nothing that you feel is ever dumb. Don't ever let someone tell you that something you feel or think is wrong or stupid, because it's not. It's unique to you, and it's important. Just because they don't understand it doesn't mean it's wrong."

For someone whose thoughts and concerns are dismissed frequently because I'm "mad", this statement means a lot. I replay her words over and over again in my mind until I'm sure I've memorized them, because they are nice words, words that make me feel less mad and less misunderstood.

She goes back to writing, and I take that to mean I should go back to talking. I decide to keep talking about Finnick, because that's the easiest thing to talk about. The words come easily without thought.

"He loves me, too. We were going to get married. He writes amazing poetry, only no one really knows it because he's only known for being a sex symbol in the Capitol. He tried to save stray cats when he was younger. He bought me a kitten and named it Poseidon."

I stop suddenly, realizing with a burst of guilt that I'm not doing what she told me to do. I'm not talking about myself, I'm talking about Finnick. It's just that it's easier to talk about him. I know him better than I know myself.

"I'm sorry, I'm doing this wrong," I mutter. I pull at my hair and avoid her glance.

"No, you're not. Even when you're talking about Finnick you're telling me about yourself. Do you know what I learned about you from that? I learned that you love him more than you love yourself."

Well, it's true.

She continues.

"Everything a person says tells who they are in small ways."

It is reassuring to know that I can't screw this up. A few more minutes of silence trickles in, but then I'm finding new things to add.

"I used to make jewelry. I used sea glass and pearls. Sometimes I would even dye them. I haven't done it in years, though. Not since my Games. I really like gardening and puzzles now. I like picnics, too, but only when there aren't a lot of people out because they stare. I really like fruit and I can cook a few things well. Warm weather is my favorite and I like mornings the best. I trust people too easily and I'm naïve. It's hard to be without my sister, even five years after she died. It's even harder to be without Finnick, though."

I stop. Exhaustion is taking over my body as rapidly as my mind. I feel like I might slip away into my other world at any moment, so I know I need to stop.

"I'm tired," I tell her.

She finishes writing something and then sets the clipboard and pen down.

"Perfect timing. Our time is up in about a minute, anyway. Thank you for being so open to my deal and I'll see you later in the week, okay?"

She pulls the papers off the clipboard and goes about filing them, but I'm not moving.

"What about the compartment?" I ask. She hasn't told me yet if I'm stable or not.

She smacks her forehead.

"Right! Sorry, slipped my mind. I wrote the recommendation during the session. I'm telling Coin I think it would be best for you to move into a compartment with Finnick. I've talked to his head doctor and we both think it would be best for the mental health of both of you."

I decide that I like Dr. Malone.

When I walk out of the room, Finnick's walking out from the door beside mine. I don't even have control over myself as I start running towards him. He pulls me into a hug and lifts me from the ground, pressing a kiss to my face and laughing gleefully.

"We're domestic again!" he celebrates.

I catch myself giggling at his words, and then he's laughing, too. It probably doesn't look too stable, the both of us doubled over with hysterical laughter in the mental ward, but I don't care.

It isn't until we're walking hand in hand to ask about when we'll be discharged that I start to understand why Dr. Malone might have had me talk about myself. By asking me to do that, she's made me remember all the things about myself that I've forgotten or felt were stolen away. When I'm remembering them, I'm remembering my memories, and I feel like myself. I feel like Annie. I don't feel like the girl I felt like when I was locked in that room. That feels far away now.

Finnick and I go back to his hospital room to wait for our compartment assignment. Finnick kisses me in that slow way that makes my heart beat so quickly I feel dizzy, and then he pulls back, peering at me with a look familiar but still powerful. It's the look that screams I love you louder than actually saying it ever could.

"You know what this means, right?" he asks lightly.

I brush my fingers over his flushed cheeks and smile.

"What?"

"We should probably get married. You know, just to complete the domestic image," he says matter-of-factly. "I'm positive we could have wedding here that's at least close to the District 4 tradition, so, you know. Might as well."

I bite back a grin and nod with mock seriousness.

"I think you're right. We probably should. To complete the image, like you said."

We look at each other for a few moments, fighting laughter, and then his grin breaks free and takes over his entire face, lighting it up and making him almost glow.

"A real wedding. Me and you. Married," he says, an air of disbelief in his voice that is almost stronger than the excitement, but not quite.

I grin back, my face aching already from it.

"Nets. Salt water. Vows," I continue, that same tone creeping into my voice as well.

He bounces a bit, grabbing my hands excitedly.

"Kisses and cake and dancing!" he exclaims.

"The wedding song!" I add.

"You'll be my wife." He beams.

"You'll be my husband."

"I can rub it in everyone's face how much I love you!" he says delightedly.

"And I'll be Annie Odair!" I reply elatedly.

Finnick leans forward suddenly and pulls me down onto the bed, rolling us over so he's on his back and I'm lying on top of him. He hugs me tightly and lifts his head a bit, kissing me over and over and trying to say things between each kiss, but I can't really make out what he's saying.

He finally pulls away, out of breath and smiling and happier than I've ever seen. He rests his head back on the bed and looks up at me.

"I love you so much," he tells me.

"I love you just as much." And we are lucky, but most of all, we're strong. After all we've been through, we're still here together, loving and being loved, and no one can take that away.

Yeah, I'm going to be just fine.

Chapter Text

The first night Finnick and I move into our compartment, I have a nightmare for the very first time that I can remember since the Capitol.

It's a confusing blur of bright colors: deep greens, bright reds, blacks, whites, rich blues. I get the sense that I'm suffocating, and the entire dream I feel like I'm being crushed, but I can't see anything or anyone. It's just these colors flashing in front of my eyes and a feeling that my world has been shattered.

I'm pulled from my sleep, and at first I'm panicking because someone is screaming, and I don't know what's happening, and what if I'm back in the Capitol after all? But then in the dim light I see Finnick's worried face, and I realize it's me that's screaming. It dies almost immediately, my throat sore and a strange and almost chilling silence filling the compartment.

Finnick reaches out to me, and I don't know why, but I jump back automatically. I'm shaking and then he's shaking, too. I cover my mouth with my hand and I don't know if I'm crying or just choking. Either way, I can't seem to breathe, and I think I just upset Finnick but I didn't mean to.

Finnick quickly edges off the bed, taking from my flinch that his close proximity is upsetting me, but I don't want him to be away from me. I don't really know what I want. I'm confused, and I keep seeing flashes of those bright colors and feeling like I can't breathe, and I don't know what to do. I don't know don't know don't know.

Finnick doesn't, either. He stands helplessly beside the bed, wringing his hands nervously, peering down at me in the dim light. I hide my face in my hands and struggle to inhale fully. This isn't fair. This isn't fair. I don't even know what isn't fair, but that's all I can think. None of this is fair.

I'm in the midst of a full blown panic attack before I can do anything about it. I lie back down on the bed and curl up on my side, dizzy and nauseous and trying so hard to take a full breath but failing miserably. My heart is pounding so quickly I can feel it throbbing in my head and I feel hot and cold all at once and I can't control anything at all. I'm helpless to control anything that happens to me or anything that happens to Finnick and I'm even helpless to control what's happening in my head right now. I couldn't stop them from killing my family and I couldn't stop them from selling Finnick and I couldn't stop them from touching me and I can't stop anything, they can do whatever they want to me. I have lived my whole life under the control of other people and I will never escape that.

I keep seeing Finnick extend his hand from the corner of my eye, only to pull it back a few moments later, an agonized expression on his face. I'm remembering how it feels to be in his place suddenly. Wanting so badly to help, but not knowing how, not knowing if you will just make it worse. It feels helpless and maybe Finnick feels like I do now, too. Out of control and pained.

I will be okay. I will be okay. I will be okay.

Am I a liar? Am I lying to myself?

I don't think so. I don't think I am. I am going to be okay, one day, eventually. Eventually is very far, did you know that?

My vision is swimming and my head feels strangely light from a lack of air. I fear suddenly that this is going to kill me. My chest hurts like I'm having a heart attack. I don't want this to kill me. I don't want to die. Even now, I don't. I don't. I want to be with Finnick. That's what I want, that's what I've always wanted.

I'm drowning under the colors and I don't know how to break the surface. Finnick starts to speak suddenly, and I can't make out what he's saying, but his words are strong enough to give me the strength to swim closer and closer to the surface. His words are above the colors and if I can reach them, I will be free, I'm sure of it.

It takes a few dark moments of gasping, but finally I can hear his words and see the gray of the room and feel the chill of the air.

I realize he's reciting poems, but I don't think I've ever heard this one before. I listen until I'm crying, and once I start to cry, the wild gasping stops.

Finnick sets his hand on the edge of the mattress as he keeps talking, his face pained but his voice one of practiced steadiness and comfort. I listen until I can breathe normally, until my tears finally stop, until my mind becomes suddenly clearer. When I'm calm, I stretch my hand slowly across the mattress and settle it over his.

His eyes meet mine and he gently grasps my hand.

"Do I need to move back to the other bed?" he asks me.

I shake my head immediately, his question somehow upsetting me once more.

He persists, though.

"Annie, if you need me to sleep over there, I will do it. Please, please just tell me. I don't want you to ever be uncomfortable around me and I don't ever want to trigger anything. Know that I love you, and if you never feel comfortable sleeping together in any form of the phrase ever again, I will love you all the same. I just want you to be happy."

My tears return because that's not it at all. He doesn't know that my brain is tired, that I've been fighting with my other world too much while talking about traumatizing things too much. I have no control over my mind during my sleep, and with my brain already exhausted, of course the things that I don't want to think about are going to haunt me. Only now they're haunting Finnick, too.

I can't make decisions suddenly and I can't speak. I guess because I don't know what to do, really. Life is scary after a traumatizing nightmare, and my nightmare is coming back in forms of actual nightmares. Nightmares on nightmares on nightmares, and I don't know how I am supposed to move on with it haunting my brain like this. Things were easier before. I was certain that I was leaving all of it behind. But of course not. Suddenly it's like I'm standing in our kitchen in District 4 again, and it's right after Finn got back from the 73rd Games, when things were very difficult for him. He looked at the table and said: "Sometimes I feel like I take three steps forward only to be shoved ten feet back."

Is that what this is going to be like, then? Thinking I'm doing well, thinking I have the strength to push forward, only to have a gut wrenching nightmare that sends me backwards? I don't know, and our situations are different anyway. I think his had to be arguably worse, because he was present for the entire thing, and it happened so many times I am sure he cannot count. I'm overwhelmed then by a confusion and disbelief so great I don't know what to do with it. How is he okay? How does he handle it? I don't know.

"How do you do it, Finnick?" I finally ask.

I don't have to clarify for him. He almost always gets my gist.

"It's the same old drill you've been doing for years, Ann. You learn what your triggers are. You breathe through flashbacks. You find things that make you happy and you cling to them. You remind yourself that it's over and no matter how much it hurt then, you lived through it. You came out of the other side and you're stronger for it."

I nod and then I can't stop. I'm stuck looking at Finn and nodding over and over, like I can convince myself that I can handle this if only I nod enough times. Eventually I stop, tears piercing my eyes once more.

"I hate them," I tell Finnick. "I do, I hate them. I hate them. I hate them!"

My voice rises to a shout near the end, and then I hide my face in my hands again, because what good does screaming at the top of my lungs do, anyway? They won't hear it. They won't care, either. If they cared what I thought about them, they never would have entered that room in the first place.

"If only you knew how much I hate them too," Finnick whispers.

My episode has left me exhausted, but I'm terrified to sleep. If I drift off and I have that nightmare again, I don't know what I'll do. I stare forward, shaking my head back and forth each time I start to drift off, and then I feel Finnick's thumb brush over the back of my hand. I look down at him.

"You can go to sleep, baby. I'm going to stay here, and I promise that I will wake you up the minute you look upset," he promises.

At first I start to protest, but then I see the pain in his eyes, and I know that he needs this. I remember how desperate I always felt to help him when he'd have episodes like this. I would have done the same in a heartbeat. I would have done anything to feel like I was helping.

"Will you come back up here? I promise it wasn't you. The nightmare was just because my mind is tired." 

He looks at me for a few long moments, studying my eyes, but eventually I see that he believes me. He rises to his feet and carefully climbs back up on the bed. I lay down slowly, nervous that I'll have a nightmare and Finnick won't even be able to tell, but I know he will. He knows me like I know him.

He sits beside me and I reach out for him. He complies, lying down beside me and opening his arm so I can lay my head on it and curl up against his body like I always used to do. At first my muscles are tense, and I don't know why, but then I relax bit by bit and I feel a lot better.

"I don't want you to sleep anywhere else," I tell him.

I don't know much else, but I do know that. I don't know what my mind will be like in the morning. I don't know what to expect at all, because I didn't expect this nightmare. I need to be more careful, I think. Careful with how much I exert myself mentally, careful with triggers, careful with knowing how to handle it should a nightmare happen again. And Finnick is right in a way, because it's like the first few weeks right after my Games all over again. This was a different kind of trauma, but trauma all the same, and so my mind is reacting just as it always does. I worry about myself. I worry that next time I go to kiss Finnick I'll feel upset, or that I'll never, ever be able to make love to him ever again without thinking of what happened in the Capitol, and that thought makes me unnecessarily upset and angry. I won't let them take that away from us. I have to believe that I will be okay, because my mind blocked it all out. It happened but it didn't, remember, Annie? I have no recollection of anyone else's lips ever being on mine except for Henry's and Finnick's, and I didn't have any problem kissing him. So I can only hope that the same would go for sex. I don't remember ever doing anything remotely like that with anyone but Finnick, so I have to believe that the only thing it would remind me of would be times with him. I don't know, though. I don't know. These are things I need to ask Finnick. He would know.

I'm too tired to keep stressing. Finnick's arm is warm and the warmth of his gesture to stay awake and make sure I don't have another nightmare is even warmer. It's there, curled up against him, that I believe it again. I will be okay. I will.

Mags is in my dream. She brushes my hair and I'm in the room with the pink quilt in her house again. I cry and ask her what to do, but she doesn't ever reply. She just brushes my hair calmly, humming under her breath. I snap. I turn around and scratch at my face, wild and pained and lost and needing my mother, and Mags has been my mother for a very long time.

"I need help," I plead.

She smiles and shakes her head.

"You don't need help, sweet girl. You are strong."

She goes back to brushing my hair, but I grab the brush from her hands.

"I'm not! I'm not!" I argue.

"You are," she counters.

I never have time to argue again. I'm pulled from the dream and back to reality. I register the security of Finnick's body beside mine first, and then little things follow. The sound of footsteps past the door. Finnick's breathing. The rustling of the blankets.

When I open my eyes and glance up at him, Finnick looks exhausted. In the light of day, I feel much more coherent as Dr. Malone would put it, and I feel terribly for making him do this.

"I'm sorry, Finn," I whisper. I reach up and brush the circles under his eyes lightly. His eyes drift shut automatically.

"No, don't be. It was what I needed."

I lower my hand and his eyes open once more.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks me gently.

I start to say no, but I realize I do want to. I feel that same grit-your-teeth kind of resilience I've felt the entire time I've been here, the desire to push through what hurts because I know it will make me feel better. What Mags must have thought was strength is probably actually just desperation.

"I had a nightmare. It wasn't of anything, really. Just colors and I felt like I couldn't breathe. And then I felt like I was out of control of everything: myself, my life, your safety. It made me panic and I didn't know what to do. I remember I used to feel something akin to this a lot after my Games, but that feels like such a long time ago. I feel like a different person, now. I don't know what to do."

The words are hard to get out, but I feel lighter after they are. It is such a relief to not have to lock those feelings inside, because they're too powerful, too overwhelming. Too harmful. I can't handle them alone.

He ducks his head and kisses my forehead, only to freeze after that like he's done something wrong. It's fine, though. He's fine. He looks at me and I find a smile somewhere inside of me. He's deeply relieved to see it.

"It's awful to feel that way. But you just have to remember that it's all over. You're in control of yourself now. You can choose to do whatever you want. You could choose to leave this compartment and never talk to me ever again. You could choose to run through the halls screaming. You are free. I promise to do whatever I can to make sure you stay that way, too." Finnick replies.

"I'd never want to leave you."

"I know. But you could. That's in your power," Finnick says.

He does have a point about that. I lie still for a few more moments, pushing away any bad memory that tries to creep up on me and instead thinking of Finnick. Finnick who stayed awake all night to make sure I didn't have another nightmare, who told me that all he wanted was for me to be happy and who meant it.

"You're the best person in the whole world," I tell him softly. I look up at him and meet his eyes, so he can see just how extremely I believe in what I'm saying. "You're my best friend."

He smiles and it looks happy. I like when he looks happy. He reaches his hand up into my hair, and he doesn't do it hesitantly like he's afraid of hurting me. I like that he doesn't, because being treated like I'm fragile makes me feel fragile, and because he's never hurting me. He runs his fingers through it and I'm hit once more with how soothing this gesture is. Residual panic had been lurking in my muscles, but almost immediately it's melting away and things are clear and hopeful again.

"You're my best friend, too. And the smartest person I know. And the kindest. And the most beautiful woman in the entire world." Finnick tells me. He says it seriously, with no joking tone to his voice, and that makes me sure he's aware of just how much I needed to hear that right now. I didn't even know I did until I heard it, and then I feel even more like a weight was lifted from my shoulders.

"I'm going to be okay, right?" I ask him suddenly. He's got my heart in his hands. He's got everything in his hands. Does he know just how much I rely on him? He must.

"Absolutely," he says. He sounds sure. "You're already showing so much strength, Ann. If you could only see yourself from my eyes."

I believe in nothing like I believe in him, so I have to believe this.

"I don't want this coming between us," I confide suddenly. "I don't want you to be afraid to touch me for the rest of our lives. I don't want to be unable to do any more than kiss you in fear of a flashback."

Finnick's eyes examine mine for a few moments, his hand never stilling in my hair.

"It won't forever. If your mind has associated intimacy with the pain and trauma of what those bastards did, it might take a while to work through that. Remember that it took me a while. But it is possible to overcome it. There's also a chance that, because you weren't there for any of it, your brain hasn't connected the memories of times we've spent together to what happened in the Capitol. There is such thing as touch memory, but I think you'd have to have some recollection of the sensory detail to even experience that." He stops talking suddenly, his expression miserable, and I know that this is difficult for him. I think he hates talking about what happened in the Capitol as much as I do. "Just remember that I only want what will make you happiest. I will help you with whatever it is you need help with, but only if it's what you want."

There are two things that reassure me almost immediately: the knowledge that I have no memory of the assaults at all, and that even if I did, there's no way they touched me like they love me, and that's the only way Finnick ever does. And secondly, I do have control. I remember this suddenly, because I have control over Finnick, just like he has control over me. I don't mean that in a controlling, manipulative kind of way. I mean it in the way that he cares what happens to me, and I care what happens to him. We would do anything for each other. We are bound together and what directly affects us affects each other's existence. There is something empowering and safe about being someone's one and only. There's something reassuring about knowing you're not alone.

I turn and wrap my arms around Finnick as best as I can in our horizontal position. I hug him tightly and it takes me a few moments to find the words, but when I do, they leave my mouth easily.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I murmur. "Thank you for loving me. Thank you for answering my questions honestly. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for staying awake last night. Thank you for pulling the knots from my hair. Thank you for everything you've ever done for me, because I wouldn't be here without you."

There is darkness but it will never be stronger than the light Finnick brings. I know this for a fact, because I've curled up in dark corners of my mind countless times. But no matter how dark and damp and dreadful it was, Finnick always came for me in the end.

Here's the thing: it's okay to be a different person now than you were when you started out.

This realization hits me as Finnick and I walk to my therapy session hand in hand. I catch sight of two girls running down the hallway in the opposite direction full speed, and I think about myself at their age, and I realize that it feels like it wasn't me at all. Normally this realization would make me panic, but today, it doesn't. I think about memories and find that I think of them in the same way I remember stories I've read in books. The memories are well known, but they don't feel like mine. The only memories that feel like mine are those that I have months after my family's funeral.

It's okay to change. It's okay if I wake up one morning and find that I'm not Annie Cresta any longer. Because Annie Cresta has lived many different lives. Everyone lives different lives. I've been trying too hard to fit into my pre-Games shoes, thinking that if I didn't, it meant the Games changed me. Well, they did change me. Because time and life changes you, no matter what happens. Even if I wasn't reaped and I wasn't thrown into the arena, I would have eventually changed. My likes and dislikes would have morphed on their own even if I didn't have trauma forcing them to. My appearance would change. My views on life would change. And it's fine, it's okay.

We stop in front of the door to Dr. Malone's office, and I can only think that I'm so ready to be Annie Odair. Because truthfully, that's who I've been for a very long time. Annie Cresta died when her mother died, but then she was reborn into someone else, but then that person died in the arena, and then Annie Odair slowly rose from the ashes, but I've been trying so hard—too hard—to shove Annie Odair into Annie Cresta's shoes. I've been having identity crises and panic over this for years, but there's nothing wrong with being Annie Odair. It's okay for her to be different from the girl who went into the arena. It's okay for her to not be sorry for hurting someone who hurt her. Maybe that just means she's stronger. I've got to let go of the control I've been trying to have over myself, over change, over the natural process of growing up. I've got to or it's going to drag me down forever.

"Are you okay?" Finnick asks me.

His voice pulls me from my thoughts, and it's surprisingly easy to smile at him.

"I'm fine," I tell him, and I know it's the truth, because I feel like I just discovered something beautiful where something dangerous should have been. Relieved, pleased.

He smiles back.

"Good. I will be back in the room when you get done, okay? Come find me and we'll go to lunch."

I'm a bit nervous about being around other people suddenly, but I push away that fear. I nod.

"Okay."

He kisses my palm and drops my hands.

"Good luck," he tells me.

Dr. Malone's office is warmer this time around, or maybe I'm just warmer because I'm in the regulation outfit everyone here wears instead of the hospital gown. The clothes irritated me so much the first two hours I had them on. I'm not used to clothes after weeks of not having any at all. I pulled at the pants and scratched my skin raw under my collar, but eventually Finnick took to telling me stories about his childhood to take my mind off it, and somewhere during this I grew accustomed to them. They still feel odd on me, but I don't feel overly uncomfortable.

Dr. Malone greets me and starts our session with the same questions as last time. I answer them all truthfully. This is only my third session, but already I think I have the questions memorized.

"How are you today? Are you glad to be out of the hospital?" Dr. Malone asks.

After our first session three days ago, Finnick and I had to wait another full day until we were assigned a compartment. We got the assignment yesterday.

"Yes," I tell her.

I don't even notice that I've avoided her first question. She does, though.

"You look tired. Rough night?" she guesses.

I expect myself to deny it, but I find my head nodding. I am letting myself be new and maybe this new person trusts doctors.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she offers.

She looks like she's expecting me to say no. She looks openly surprised when I nod once more.

"I had a nightmare," I explain.

She jots something down, nodding her head understandingly.

"They're awful. Was it about the Capitol?" she questions.

It takes me a few moments to answer. I pull at the clothes, suddenly irritated by them once more, and then look back up at her.

"I think. It was a blur of colors and a feeling of being crushed. I think."

She nods. The scratching of her pen is becoming almost a therapeutic sound, although I'm not sure why. Perhaps because it reminds me of all the nice afternoons Finnick and I would lie in bed and I'd listen to his pen make those same sounds as he wrote. Or maybe it's because I actually trust her to help me. It only took two sessions for me to feel this way, and I know I shouldn't, but I do. Both times I've consistently felt better after leaving this room, and I think she is a positive influence on my mental health opposed to a negative one. The scratching of the pen is hopeful.

"How did you react upon waking?" she continues.

I have to take a few moments to take deep breaths as I start to remember vividly just how I felt. I regain control after a few tense moments.

"I was screaming. I was really upset. I felt like I couldn't breathe. Finnick tried to help me, and I flinched away from him, but I don't know why. He's held me almost constantly since we've reunited."

I stop, feeling upset and guilty over my reaction once more.

"How does it make you feel now, when you think about that?" she asks me. I think she must be able to read it on my face, because how else did she know to ask that question?

"Guilty," I reply.

She doesn't even write down anything. This time she puts the pen down and looks at me like she's got something hugely important to say.

"Guilt is something you feel a lot, isn't it?" 

I don't know why my eyes burn.

"Yes," I admit quietly.

"What kind of things make you guilty?" 

I have to think about this for a while. At first I think it's all kinds of things, but then I'm able to discern the pattern.

"Hurting other people, or not feeling guilty for hurting other people," I respond. I think I'm done, but then I find something to add. "When I was a little girl, I was raised as the sweet and gentle one. And now I am sweet and gentle. I was thinking about this earlier. When I don't feel like I act in a way that fits that mold I've accepted for myself, it makes me feel guilty and anxious. I was thinking today that I need to stop thinking of myself in terms of black and white, because people aren't like that, are they?"

I look at her in question.

"No, they aren't," she replies.

"I think I need to stop thinking so much." 

She laughs at that, but it's not a mean laugh at my expense. She laughs like she finds my comment genuinely funny.

"I think if you could get yourself to stop thinking, it'd be a miracle. That seems to be a part of you that will stay forever." She's only known me for three days, but I think she's probably right. "You know yourself deep down, Annie. You have to have faith in yourself."

It sounds easy when you say it like that.

"Back to the nightmare," she continues. "I know you feel guilty about flinching away from Finnick, but considering what he's been through, I bet you he understands completely."

I stare at her with wide eyes for a few moments, unsure how she knows what he's been through. Head doctors aren't allowed to tell other head doctors about stuff like that, are they?

She sees my expression.

"Oh, you were in the Capitol," she mumbles, more to herself than me. "Finnick did a broadcast during the rescue to help distract those in the Capitol. He talked about what they've been doing to him for years. He told a lot of important people's secrets."

This news leaves my mind reeling. Finnick didn't tell me that. I frown, thinking about how hard that must have been for him to do. He can hardly even talk to me about it sometimes.

Dr. Malone pushes forward.

"Your mind was very vulnerable at the moment as well, so it's to be expected. What did you do after that?"