The morning of the Quarter Quell announcement, Finnick is very, very drunk.
Normally, he would try to avoid the bottle... but it was a long, particularly miserable night. He's in the Capitol on 'special assignment:' A woman he's had the misfortune to meet many times before. The sort of woman who uses up every inch of him, takes everything he has, the sort of woman who has a special gift for making his life a living hell.
Finnick is a good actor. He always, always fools them... lets them think he enjoys it. It's his one small way of keeping control. But even he can only play this sick game of Let's Pretend for so long... it's too much, even for the great Finnick Odair. So when the sun rises and he finally gets away, when his head keeps swirling and he still feels sick and his skin feels dirty and won't stop crawling no matter how long he tries to get clean in the shower- when everything is finally more than he can stand- he calls for an Avox and orders a drink. And when it doesn't help, another. And another.
He shouldn't. He can picture Mags frowning at him, looking worried as he lifts the bottle to his lips. But Finnick doesn't care. He can't stand it one more minute, he can't do this anymore, can't be himself anymore. He just needs to get away.
At some point, Finnick finds himself sitting on the floor of the sumptuous apartment they've given him, wearing only underwear, clutching an empty bottle in one hand and a ringing phone in the other.
"What do you want, Odair?" snaps a hard female voice when the ringing stops.
"Johanna-" Finnick starts- then his voice breaks and he's sobbing; the phone slips from his grasp, landing on the plush carpet.
"Oh shit." Johanna's voice is muffled. "Finnick? What happened? Shit, they broke him. Those bastards... Finnick- are you there? Shut up and talk to me!"
His head is swimming, but somehow he manages to locate the phone again, guided by her angry voice.
"Hey," he slurs, holding the phone too close.
"I didn't know you drank." Johanna seems determined to keep the conversation in calm waters, even though her voice sounds furious. Or maybe she's just being her. Finnick can't always tell even when he's sober.
"I... uh... I don'. 'M not broken. Just had a- a- bad night." Bile rises in his throat as the memories resurface.
She swears again. "Right. You're wasted. How much have you had to drink today?"
"Dunno." Another tear leaks out of his eye. "I... Jo, I can't do this anymore. I can't... I can't... I can't do it."
"Shut up, Finnick!" she hisses back. "You know he's listening. We can't talk about this over the phone."
"I don't c-care. I don't care... bout any of it. I'm done. I'll tell 'im myself..." he tries to take another drink and finds the bottle empty.
Johanna gives a short sigh on the other end of the phone. If he had his wits about him, Finnick would feel bad for putting her in this position. She hates it, she's told him more than once she's not the comforting type. But he needs someone who understands, and she's the only one who really comes close. He needs someone to tell him what he can't bear to say to himself right now.
"You know how this ends, Finnick." There's a note of hatred in Johanna's voice, so clear Finnick can't miss it even in his alcohol-drenched state, but he doesn't know if it's directed towards him, or herself, or someone else entirely. "What happens if you refuse?"
"Snow... kills someone... s-someone I love." Annie. Snow will kill her, and Finnick will die. Or Finnick will continue to give in, and Snow will spare her, and Finnick will still die.
"It's your choice, Finnick. Nobody can make that call but you," Johanna says, like she always does. "Sober you."
"It's not a choice, Johanna," Finnick says, like he always does. He doesn't even trip over the words- he'd said them so many times. To her, to Mags... to himself, each time he enters a stranger's bedroom. No, it's not a choice... at least not for him.
"Johanna?"
"Hmm?"
"How did you do it?" He's never asked her this before, but today he just can't hold back.
There's a long pause. For a moment Finnick wonders if she's hung up. "Never ask me that again, Finnick," she says finally. Her voice is cold as ice. "Never."
There's a click and she's gone. The phone slips again through his fingers; he tries again to drink from the bottle and again finds it empty. He shouldn't have asked... in a way, he knows the answer already. She made her choice because choosing the opposite would have killed her. He made his for the same reason.
Strange how you can understand a person so well and yet not understand at all.
Needing something else to distract himself, Finnick lunges drunkenly for the remote and powers on the huge television screen filling the opposite wall. His mind is too dull to be surprised by what he sees: photo after photo of Katniss Everdeen, the District 12 Victor, all dolled up in pretty white wedding dresses for the cameras. That's right... she's engaged to the boy, what was his name... Peeta.
"Marryin' him won't save ya from them, sweetheart," Finnick says to the screen, forgetting that they young Victor can't hear him. "Buy a little time... maybe... nah, it won' save you." She was too pretty, too young, too strong. Finnick knew many men and women in the Capitol who would take pleasure in breaking her.
"Shouldnta had a sister, Katniss," he mumbles, trying to explain it to her. "Tha's how they get ya, but really... just shouldnta survived. Shoulda just died in the arena... sometimes I wish we all coulda just died... wish I just let them kill me."
And within a few minutes, like, magic, Finnick finds his wish being granted...
"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."
All is silent for a moment. Then Finnick bursts out laughing. He laughs and laughs, then his stomach heaves and he leans over and vomits onto the rich carpet.
"Be careful what you wish for, Finnick."