He's pretty sweet.
Sweet like a sugar cube and smooth as ice; except around her.
Around her, Finn is clumsy and stumbles and laughs in sudden bursts that always make people turn their heads in annoyance.
He is all limbs with no idea what to do with them. He's twenty-two years old (twenty-three next week and he won't stop pestering her on what she got for him) and he still doesn't know his own body. When they lie together in their bed at night, his feet dangle off the end. He'll try to curl up his legs to get warm but he gets uncomfortable so then he'll flip onto his stomach and spread his legs to opposite side of the bed. He'll let out a big sigh and decide that he needs to just sleep diagonally: his head in the right corner of the bed, his feet ending at the bottom left corner.
She can curl up and snooze wherever he is as long as he is where she is. Her arm over his stomach and legs tuck under his when his feet dangle off. Her body small and in a ball to fit in his, when he curls his legs up. When he settles diagonally, she lies on his back and instantly falls asleep, happy to feel the warm heat he provides.
Mornings where he wakes up on the floor, ("There's more room, Ann!") she is by his side: waken up in the middle of the night, cold and craving him, she'll drag the comforter down next to him and adapt to the hard floor and snuggle into him. She'll wake up to his gaze, steady and loving, and she knows how lucky she is.
Nights where she wakes up in a sweat, eyes wide and anxious, mind working overtime, he is there. He holds her hands, he soothes her cries, and his eyes and soft reminders bring her back to reality.
This is not the games, this is our life, we are in our bed, we love each other, no one can touch us.
Most days are spent at the beach. There, he tries to draw her in the sand. Her face becomes a million grains of white hot wonder. She builds sandcastles with elaborate windows, columns, and moats; castles with four stories and designs embedded in their walls. She can spend hours creating this perfect creation, but she is always content to watch as the tide takes it away. Finn, however, always is angry when the water takes away his hard work.
There's always tomorrow, she says.
Tomorrow he always does it again.
Mags always buys too much food. She buys from every stand in the market, spreading her wealth to all her friends of Four. She gets fish, so much fish, and every vegetable and fruit offered. She buys salt and seasoning, fresh water and day old crab. Then she makes teenagers from town carry it to her house, where she makes Finnick put it all away as she tells Annie all the news.
Annie loves to hear about Robert (who's sweet on Mags) and his three daughters, who all have three daughters now.
Evenings are spent with Mags, in her cozy home with an old record player she found.
When it gets late, Finnick and Annie race to his home, their home, and collapse on top of the bed (loser brings winner cake in bed). They giggle like kids; amazed by how free they can feel at times, how young and silly, and don't feel tired until, all the sudden, Annie's eyelids struggle to remain open and Finnick finds himself too comfortable to take off his socks (which he cannot sleep in because it's way too constricting).
Finn likes to sing. He'll sing when his eyes open in the morning, an offbeat tune about how spectacular the sunrise is and how beautiful you look right now Ann, really, I wish you could see yourself; your hair looks so-o wonderful. He sings in the shower ("I love you, water, I love you, soap! I love you, warmth, you wake me up so well, yeah!"). He sings when he bakes, he sings when he stubs his toe, and he sings when he kisses her goodnight.
He likes big words that are hard to pronounce. He'll spend a whole day thinking of all the different ways one can pronounce a new word. She'll come up with ridiculous definitions to his weird guesses.
He likes her hair, how it's always tangled and how she slaps his hand whenever he pretends to cut it with his fingers. The honey colored strands seem to always fascinate him. He'll idly wrap it around his fingers while they lay reading together in bed. With her head on his stomach, he'll braid small pieces or tie two sections together. He'll run his fingers through it when it lies wet on her back, and brush it away from her face when she cries.
When she cries, she sobs. She can't breathe without crying, can't see through the tears, can only hear if it's his words. The world has been hard, the world has been unkind. The games altogether, reaping to winning, only lasted three weeks, but it's been three years and she still thinks of them every day. She thinks of beheaded district partners, and cool, calculating careers. She thinks of starving for days, and swimming to stay above water for hours. She thinks of tests and doctors and needles and prodding. She remembers Mags, taking her home and Finn holding her close.
When she cries, he is there. He understands. He can empathize, he can love her.
Her mother is gone, she drowned (she was the best swimmer in Four); her father got a rare disease and was dead by morning (a disease known to only be in District Eight). Her older brother disappeared (she saw the blood on the porch).
The games change you? Maybe. Mostly they changed everything around her. They took what she knew, what she loved, and Snow stomped on it all.
Finn put the pieces back together the best he could, and every day, she is thankful.
He is sweet, like a sugar cube; smooth, like ice. Those Capitol women love to have their hands on Finnick Odair, winner of the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games. He is a God among men to them. He smiles, they swoon.
Finnick Odair loves her and everyone in Four knows those Capitol women may put their hands on Finn, but he has always belonged to her.