She's a doe-eyed, raven-haired little thing when they first meet, outside on the beachside with the water up to their ankles and the smell of salt clinging to the air. It's summer, when it's the worst time to live in District 4 because multicolored Capitol citizens come flocking to the shores with towels and sunscreen and way too much makeup for some "relaxation." It takes him awhile before he finds a free spot to just hang out, and there's still a family of rowdy green people barely nine feet away, screaming and complaining about the sun.
From out of the crowd, she comes stumbling up to him, eyes the color of sea foam and as wide as dinner plates – completely out-of-place amongst them all – as he tries to spear a tiny fish swimming against his feet with his trident.
"Don't!" she yelps, lunging for him. He comes close to spearing her in the head, but thankfully backs up in time. The fish swims out of sight and he whispers a word an eleven-year-old should probably not know. He's about to yell at her, but she looks so scared and so innocent, and he's seen her around before, listened closely enough to know she's "the odd one."
"Uh, hello." he says, nodding cordially and smiling. She just kind of stares at him blankly, not even blinking it seems, until she shyly smiles back.
"I'm Annie." she says, suddenly quiet and composed, her hands clasped behind her back and her head looking at her feet as a blush creeps up on her face. "And you're Finnick."
"That's my name," he says, "don't wear it out." She giggles softly, and it reminds him of the sound wind chimes make when the breeze changes, a blissful, melodic sound.
"You're funny," she says, biting her lip oh-so-coyly, "I like you." And with that she kisses his cheek and runs off without another word, tripping up on the sand and never looking back. If it were any other girl Finnick might scratch his head in confusion, but it's adorable little Annie, so he just hides his own coy smile.
.
He wins the Hunger Games when he's fourteen, and the welcome home party is nothing short of spectacular. People flock to the shore to greet him and say their congrats; he just smiles and nods, refusing to brag when they ask him questions and always staying casual.
But he's really just holding all of it in, because District 4 is a strong district, proud of their Games, and he can't face the reality that he's no longer just the charming apple of everyone's eye – he's a killer, ruthless, blood spilled at his touch, his trident no longer the pure fishing tool it once was.
And despite their pride, everyone else knows it, and they stand a few inches farther away and speak to him less, and he just wants to scream at them because he didn't choose this. It was a slip of paper's fault, a luck of the draw, a cruel trick played on a child.
The only person who's not really afraid to approach him is Annie. She hobbles on up to him, fingers laced together in intricate patterns behind her, hair falling in smooth, wavy lengths down her back. Having spent so many weeks away, he'd forgotten how stunning she could be. Her eyes simply glow, radiant against her tan cheeks, making her cluster of freckles pop out at him.
She goes and sits with him on the pier by their houses, when the navy canvas of the sky is speckled with white stars that glitter like her eyes. They dangle their feet just above the water, and they watch the ripples in their reflections, distorting features and turning their beauty into something abnormal and abstract.
(But he personally likes the way their faces look in the water, how close they are to each other.)
"It didn't look real," she whispers, eyes trained on the constellations above and legs swinging in a very four-year-old manner. "The fighting, killing. It looked more like a movie. It always does." There's a beat of silence he's just about to break, when she continues, "I couldn't imagine you doing any of that. You're just…you wouldn't hurt anybody."
And he's suddenly feeling overwhelmed, because this gentle girl who couldn't eat a fish for fear of hurting it is staring at him with this look of, what is it – love? lust? hope? fear? – and there is no way in hell he deserves her. Not with fresh blood on his hands and the cruel fact that in a few days' time he'll be shipped back to the Capitol to play boy toy to hungry, squeaky women.
"There's plenty of people I could hurt, Annie," he whispers, brushing aside a stray curl so she can see his full face, "but I promise none of them will be you." She looks away from him, but a smile is replacing her frown and she lays her head to rest on his shoulder. He knows it can't last, so he makes sure to savor it.
.
Finnick comes home for Reaping Day. He always does, so he can find the tributes and prep them and take them away to the Capitol to surely die. But even if he didn't have to, he'd come anyway just to make sure certain people are safe – well, a certain person.
It's the regular routine: the fluffy, colorful escort irritates and angers everyone, the video plays, they fake cheer. It's only when they say "Ladies first" that Finnick wakes up. He clenches his fists and closes his eyes, knowing it'll all be over in a minute, hoping it'll be the same way it's been for the past five years –
"Annie Cresta!"
No.
No, no, no, god no.
His eyes flicker open and he watches as she goes pale, shakily walks up the stairs. He desperately prays that someone, anyone, will volunteer, but he knows that's not the case. No one is going to risk themselves for the peculiar Cresta girl.
"Annie…" he finds himself saying, and he lunges forward toward the stage but Mags holds him back.
They call the boy tribute's name, but Finnick doesn't pay attention because Annie looks like a bird with her wings cut off, no chance of flying away now. He thinks how she had only had two more years to go – two more fucking measly years before he could sleep easy.
And now he has to train her to fight to the death, when he knows there's no chance Annie will survive because she doesn't have the ability to hurt people.
(Not like him.)
They board the train after Annie's said her goodbyes to those she can, and he tries to hold himself together because the escort and the other tribute is there and he's supposed to be calm and collected about this sort of thing.
But when the escort leaves to go get some more ice and the boy awkwardly goes to relieve himself, Finnick grabs her and makes her look at him with the intensity of a small child. She looks alarmed as he grips her shoulders and gives her a crazy stare that makes her fear for her life more than she did when her name echoed across the District 4 square.
"Listen to me, Annie," he chokes out, and he finds his throat is closing, "you do whatever you have to, to make it out of there alive. I don't care if you hide up in a tree until the last tribute drops or if you kill everyone who crosses your path: you are going to win. Do you hear me?"
She opens her jaw, closes it, opens again, and finally shuts it before nodding in understanding. He feels the tears at the corner of his eyes as he wraps his arms around her as though his life depends on it (who says it doesn't?), and doesn't let go until he hears the boy clomp back in, and then he leaves them to themselves as he goes to his bedroom and tries to keep the tears inside.
He fails.
.
It takes him awhile to realize she's won.
He's holding his breath as he watches the water subside and hears the announcer say "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the 70th Annual Hunger Games!" Cheers echo around him – Mags softly smiles at him, her wrinkles stretching out. He wants to smile back, to join in their glee, but all he can think is Annie won. Annie's safe. Annie's alive.
It's only when they return her to him, with her skin clean and gleaming and makeup strategically placed on all the scars and rough patches, that he breaks down. He holds her in his arms and strokes her hair and whispers sweet things into her ear, thanks whatever god there is up in the sky that she's here in his arms, safe and sound and –
"Annie?" he says when she pulls away. She's staring at him like a crazy woman, eyes blank and cloudy and huge, but not in that childlike way of hers – she looks scared out of her wits, like he's about to snap her neck.
And then he remembers the sight of the boy's head on the ground, how Annie seemed to change in that single instant.
"Annie – " he tries again, but she squeals, and covers her ears and closes her eyes as she collapses into a heap on the floor, whimpering.
"Oh, that happens," says one of the Capitol men, as nonchalant as ever. "The effects of the Games sometimes make people go a little nuts. Surely, you experienced some of that during your time, didn't you, Mr. Odair?"
His first instinct is to pin that bastard against the wall, scream in his face, hurt him like Annie's been hurt – but Mags' hand on his shoulder tells him to be careful, so he just thanks them and asks them to leave, and when they're all gone he bends down to be level with Annie. She's still in that fetal position, humming some tune that he's never heard and trying to stay calm. He slowly takes the hands off of her ears, and she opens her eyes slightly until they're too sizes too big and she's gaping at him.
"F-F…Finnick? Finnick, is that…you?"
And soon enough she's crying and he's holding her against his chest and even if she's broken, he doesn't want to let her go, because without even realizing it, he has made Annie Cresta his.
.
She's got a little bit of cream frosting on her nose from the cake, but he doesn't tell her because it makes her look so young and carefree, and she needs that after all she's been through in the past few months. He spins her round and round in a dance, the entirety District 13 melting into the background, all white clothes and dark hair. None of them matter – in this moment, all that matters is his Annie and how radiant she is and how much he loves her.
"You're beautiful." he whispers into the shell of the ear, grinning against her neck like a fool as he rests his mouth there for kisses. She lets out a tired giggle, and he feels her hands crawl up into his hair, curiously searching for and seeming to examine each of his hairs. It tickles. He loves it.
"You're more." she says, "You're like the sea. Big and pretty and blue." He chuckles, because he's not quite sure where she gets the "blue" from, but the way she confuses him is one of the reason he loves her, so he just nods along.
His fingertips trail to her stomach, where they rest and await a kick, though it never comes. "If it's a girl, I want her to look like you."
"If it's a boy, I want him to look like you." she says. "I want him to be just like you. I want him to smile like you do and laugh like you do and – and – and – "
"Don't strain yourself." he laughs as he presses a finger to her lips because she has a tendency to work herself up and he doesn't want her to break down today – not today of all days. Today he just wants to squeeze her and dance with her and call her his, and pray that maybe tomorrow it'll all fall into place.
He can only hope.
a/n: please don't favorite without leaving a review :) feedback is always appreciated and encouraged.