Author's Note: Yay, another oneshot! A bit longer this time. Hope its good. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games. I like happy endings to much to have anything to do with it.
Finnick remembers the first time he saw her.
It was two years after his own victory in the Games. He watched with hollow eyes as the people in the district gathered below the stage on which he sat. He didn't want to see this, to see the people whose lives would soon be in danger. To see the two people who would be forced to kill each other in order to spare their own lives. He guessed that he could only count himself lucky that his own district, District 4, was so large. Odds were, likely as not, he wouldn't recognize the faces that matched the name that was written on one of thousands of folded slips of paper in the bowl.
The first tribute to be called was the boy, a thirteen year old boy named Hayden Long. Finnick's family traded the Longs for cloth a couple times a year. He had rosy cheeks and straw-colored hair, with a grim set to his jaw. He was tall for his age, but Finnick noticed that he was trembling slightly as he walked up the stage. It made him look childish despite his height. No one volunteered for him. It was rare, but not unheard of.
The girl tribute, however, barely had her name called before another young woman threw up her hand. "Me! I'll volunteer!" Finnick watched her as she strode up to the stage. Now, this was a tribute he could work with, he thought. She was stunning, just the sort of thing viewers—and sponsors—would love. He hair was a vibrant red, cut to her jawline and curly. Her body was small but seemingly made entirely of compact muscles, displayed in her long stride and exposed arms. Finnick thought he might have once seen her in the races sometimes held for fun out in the ocean. She was about his age.
Her name was Annie Cresta.
When he saw her dressed for opening night ceremonies, he thought his heart might stop.
He had spent a day helping mentor both Annie and Hayden the day before. Whereas Hayden was a constant struggle—he stuttered nearly constantly and often, a blush would creep across his transparent cheeks—Annie was a wonder to work with. She kept her chin high and did everything while surrounded by a self-assured aura. Somehow, though he couldn't quite understand it, she didn't come off as conceited. Rather, she was charismatic and friendly, and Finnick advised her to take advantage of this with the crowd.
That night, she played her part well. Her stylists had done wonderful with her, Finnick noted. She had a blue green stretch of silk wrapped around her waist and knotted on one side. When she moved, it glimmered like the ocean in the light. Otherwise, she was naked. Knowing that it was stupid didn't stop Finnick from drinking the sight of her body in heavily. The soft swell of her breasts contrasted with the hardness of her muscled body, and he had trouble tearing his eyes from them. Swirling, silver designs were sparsely painted onto her tan skin, concentrated only on her forhead and around her eyes. Down her legs and arms, a single line of some turquoise-like rock was glued to her skin. She was barefoot, and her nails and lips were painted with glitter.
As she stood on the chariot next to Hayden (who looked vaguely uncomfortable in his own sparsely clad and sparkling outfit), she waved to the crowd. She smiled to show her teeth, and her eyes crinkled up at the corners. Once, she knelt down to grasp the hands of a woman with pink skin and hair. Near the end of the trail, she seemed to notice eyes on her. She turned and caught Finnick's eyes with her own, and he saw her tremble slightly to hold back a laugh. Finnick blushed. Unhesitatingly, Annie raised both hands to her mouth and blew him a kiss. Someone standing in front of him held up a hand, as if to catch it.
Finnick blushed harder.
He had to excuse himself from watching the day her heart broke.
"I want to keep him alive," she confided softly to Finnick, the last time he saw her before entering the games. Finnick had hardened his heart against her sad eyes and reminded her of her own family, her mother and two little twin sisters who would probably both have to sign up for the tesserae next year if she didn't bring home the victory. Of her little brother, only fourteen, who would be the main source of income if she died. The same little brother he knew Annie saw when she looked at Hayden. "I'll do what I have to do," she replied softly. So he knew it would be bad when he saw the tribute from District 1 kill Hayden. He stepped out into the hallway so he didn't have to see her scream and cry. He heard it, though, through the walls. He knew the Capitol would love it, the tragedy. He broke a cup in his hand.
When she crawled into hiding, refusing to come out for anything, he feared for her life. Would the Gamemakers see it as an act of defiance? Would they kill her? She wouldn't even come out to hunt or gather food. Slowly, he had nothing left from the sponsors to give. No one wasted their money on people that wouldn't win. That last day, he had spent a year's worth of his of victor's winnings to send her food, even though it was exorbitantly expensive. The hurricane saved her life by forcing her into action.
When she was on the operating table afterward, he held her hand and stroke her cheek.
He held her through her nightmares.
Once she woke up screaming, and it scared Finnick to death. Annie's nightmares were usually quiet, signaled by cold sweat beading on her skin and her quivering fram—though they still woke him. In the arena, she had taught herself to be quiet, always quiet. He asked her what was wrong. She told him that she dreamt he was in the arena again. He told her to not be silly (his voice somewhat sharp); he was a victor, he never had to go back there again.
This was the first thing that crossed his mind when the President read out the Quarter Quell.
He remembers when it finally hit him that she was slowly going insane.
She was a little drunk, as she always was now. And she was under a table in her room, eyes spilling over with silent tears. It took him an hour and a half to find her, another ten minutes to coax her out. Hair wild and skin blotchy, she threw herself into his arms and proceeded to cry her heart out onto his shoulder. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. For the cameras benefits—he was sure there were some, somewhere—he whispered to her, "It's okay, Annie—it's your first year mentoring. You'll get used to it. We all lose them sometimes."
But he knew that wasn't what happened. He had walked in on her instructing her tribute, a small girl named Fran, to get into the Cornucopia, the most violent bloodbath of the game. Fran was twelve and slight as a wisp in the wind. Everyone knew she wasn't all the way there. There was know way she could have survived this initial leg of the Games against the other tributes, all smarter, bigger, and stronger. But she had looked up trustingly into her mentor's feverish eyes and promised that, yes, of course she would go in.
Annie threw caution to the wind, though. She shreiked at Finnick, with know regard for their lack of real privacy. "No! I killed her! I KILLED HER!" She paused, gasping, as if suddenly remembering where she was. Still, she was unable to contain herself. She leaned forward, so her mouth was next to Finnick's ear. Her breath was hot and moist. "She's Mia's age, Fin. She's my sister's age. I couldn't let her suffer throught hat. I couldn't? Do you understand? You have to understand!" Now she clutched at him, and he put his hands over hers and assured her that yes, yes, of course he understands.
But he doesn't. And some part of his heart begins to grieve, because he knows he never will again.