"Annie! Don't—"
The door slams shut behind her, cutting off whatever else Finnick has to say, which is fine by her. She's done listening to him, at least for now. Running down the stairs from his back porch two at a time, it isn't until her bare feet hit the sand, still warm from the sun, that she realizes she left her shoes in his kitchen. Rather than turn around, Annie keeps going, heading for the beach.
I am not crazy. I'm not!
The last sliver of the sun disappears below the horizon, leaving nothing but a trail of mares' tail clouds turned deep salmon and gold. She stops for a moment to watch the colors just beginning to fade, but, still angry, she starts walking again. She doesn't want to return to her own empty house, nor does she want to talk to anyone, least of all Finnick, so she turns and heads to the end of the cove, slipping and sliding as she stalks through the sand.
You're not going back to the Capitol, Annie, and that's the end of it!
The sound of the surf diminishes as she starts to climb, sea oats and long grasses tickling her bare legs. Annie glances up at a gull out for a late supper, calling as it flies overhead toward the less windy cove. Wrapping her arms around herself, she keeps trudging up the hill toward the other side of the island, her steps slowing as her anger begins to let go in favor of depression and insecurity.
You don't own me, Finnick Odair!
Her vision blurs as she starts down the hill onto the rocky windward side of Victors' Island, and she dashes the tears away. For a few minutes, she's too busy picking her way through rocks and long, tangling grasses to think about their argument. By the time she sits, knees drawn up to her chin, the darkening sky ahead of her blends with the darkness of the water so she can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
Reaping day, the first since Annie came home from the arena, is only a few days away. As it draws closer, Finnick has been treating her more and more like she's some fragile thing that might shatter if he so much as looks at her the wrong way or says the wrong thing. Mags has been doing it, too, to a lesser extent, although it may simply be that she sees less of Mags than she does Finnick. Annie said something to him about it as they walked past Annie's house following supper at Mags', and then she told him she was going back to the Capitol with him after the reaping. That's when the argument started; walking out on him almost certainly hadn't ended it.
A gust of wind off the water sends a chill salt spray over Annie's bare arms and legs into her face and she shivers. The gibbous moon limns the breaking waves in silver light and sets the gulf beyond to sparkling. It's a beautiful sight, one she doesn't see often, one she wishes she could enjoy now, but tears blur her vision once more; this time, she lets them.
Finnick never called her crazy, never used that word or any of the others she heard on her Victory Tour – mad, broken, insane, simple – but it's pretty clear to her now that he must think of her that way. It cuts her to the core to know that he can't trust her to go to the Capitol for the Games, just like any other victor. The newest victor always goes back for the first Games after their victory, but he kept telling her no and that they couldn't risk it. She just wants to be with him, to be there for him if he needs her, but he doesn't want her there. He's probably afraid she'll embarrass him or their district, that she'll disappear inside herself and not come back, or worse, that's she'll snap and attack someone, like they say she did on her Victory Tour. She wishes she could remember.
Staring up at the moon, Annie blinks the tears from her eyes as the wind dries those that have already fallen into sticky tracks on her skin. She watches a long, wispy cloud drift across the moon. If she could go back in time, maybe she would do things differently, maybe she wouldn't volunteer for that girl and she wouldn't be so broken and useless now. But then she would never have met Finnick, and even if he doesn't feel the same way about her as she does about him, being with him now is worth everything that came before. Except maybe he doesn't want her anymore. Maybe he's only with her now because he feels sorry for her or responsible for her. Feeling the tears burn again, Annie drops her head to her knees and hides her face from the moon's cold light.
Finnick's voice drifts to her above the sound of the surf, faintly at first, but growing louder as he comes closer. She doesn't answer, but he finds her anyway, falling silent when he sees her, and not long after he settles to the ground on her left, enough distance between them to prevent any accidental touch, but still close enough she can feel his warmth. Annie doesn't look up. They sit there for several minutes, listening to the waves break on the rocks below and to their own thoughts, until Finnick finally breaks the silence.
"I love you." The words explode out of him as though he tried to hold them back but they were too powerful. Startled, Annie turns her head so she can see him; his position mirrors hers so perfectly she has to wonder if his thoughts and emotions mirror hers, too. But how could they? He's so sure of himself and where he belongs. "I love you, Annie." His eyes glitter in the moonlight, and she realizes he's fighting tears of his own. "Please don't leave me."
Eyes wide, Annie uncurls and turns to face him. "Leave you?" she asks incredulously. "Why would I leave you? I love you!"
"You walked out."
Annie wraps her arms around her knees again. "I was angry." She looks away from him. "And hurt. I didn't want to say anything I couldn't take back." She can feel him watching her, but he says nothing, just watches, and she turns her attention back to the water. It isn't the first time Annie has wished she could just float away on the waves, let them carry her someplace where it doesn't hurt to breathe.
Finnick flops backward, pulling her attention to where he lies on the sand, legs outstretched, one arm covering his eyes and the other flung above his head. Since he can't see her, she shifts to face him more fully, watching the rise and fall of his chest with each breath; the fingers of his left hand, the one over his head, clench into a fist and then relax, over and over. He's so beautiful, a living, breathing work of art painted silver and blue by the moon, and she wants him with an intensity that leaves her shaking and shaken. It hurts to breathe again, but this time it's not because of their argument or the hurt. Guilt washes over her as she realizes the people who use him must look at him in exactly the same way.
He inhales deeply and holds it for a moment, still clenching and unclenching his left hand. "I'm damaged goods, Annie." His voice is steady, detached; only that fist and the tenseness of the arm covering his eyes show just how tightly he's holding himself. "Used hard. Maybe used up. You deserve so much more."
Annie gasps, another surge of guilt almost making her sick. She flings herself at Finnick, grasping his wrist and pulling his arm away from his face. "Don't you say that!" Kneeling beside him now, gritty sand scraping her knees, she twines her fingers with his and peppers his hand with kisses. "You are more!"
When he tries to pull his hand away, she tightens her grip. Leaning forward, her position awkward, she slips a little against his side, trapping his arm and their hands between them as she lands against his chest. He holds her there with his free arm, pressing her close with his hand splayed out between her shoulders, but she barely notices, caught up as she is in peppering kisses to his neck and face instead of his now trapped hand.
"I'm sorry," she says between kisses. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." Sorry for the things all those others have done to him, sorry for the things she's done to him – the same, if unwitting – sorry for hurting him. Waves crash onto the rocky shore below.
"Annie, enough." There's laughter in Finnick's voice, so much better than the almost lifeless sound of before. She moves up a little higher, kissing his nose and eyes and forehead. "Stop!" But she doesn't stop, not until he tightens his arm around her again and rolls them both. Not until he's on top of her, pinning her to the sandy ground with his body, both of her arms above her head and her wrists in his hands. The hands of a fisherman. Of a killer. A musician. Her lover.
She stares up at him, her eyes wide. The moon is so bright she can see a hint of green in his irises, can see the way his eyes darken as the laughter fades. Focusing on her lips, he slants his mouth over hers and her eyelids flutter closed as relief washes through her, quickly replaced by want. Releasing her wrists, Finnick tangles the fingers of one hand in her hair, strokes the other from her breast to her hip. Their tongues slide over each other, teeth clicking together with the intensity of the kiss. The harsh words and hard feelings of before dissolve, dissipate and swirl away like blood in water.
Annie shifts, arching her back and cradling him between her knees as she offers him the smooth column of her throat. First nipping at her lower lip, Finnick grazes his teeth along Annie's jaw line, stopping to suck at the pulse point below the point of her jaw before licking and kissing his way down to the hollow at the base of her throat. Shivering, Annie plucks restlessly at the thin fabric of Finnick's shirt, tugging it up and up, scraping her nails lightly over his skin. Twisting away from her, he yanks the shirt over his head, flinging it away when it snags on his arm.
They push and pull and tug at each others clothes, shifting and rolling until they're finally free, Finnick on his back, staring up at Annie with naked hunger in his beautiful eyes. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Annie lowers herself onto him; he arches his back, digging his fingers into her hips just short of pain. Leaning forward, her nipples brushing feather lightly over his chest, she nips at his chin before covering his mouth once more with hers. Her hair forms a curtain around them as she moves, lifting up, sinking back down, slowly at first, but the pace quickening, faster and faster as he begins to knead her hips like a cat.
As they race toward the welcoming abyss, Annie hums her pleasure, the sound growing louder, more ragged and breathless until Finnick brings her down hard, holds her there as he pulses into her, shouting her name, his voice as ragged as hers. She tightens her muscles around him and he gasps. She collapses onto his chest, the curtain of her hair pooling around them again, and he laughs as he folds her into his arms, holding her close, still deep inside her.
"What were we fighting about again?" he whispers. Annie feels the tattoo of his heartbeat beneath the palms of her hands as she pushes against his chest to reach his mouth; she bites his lower lip.
"No," she tells him. "Don't ruin it." She doesn't want to think about what brought them here, doesn't want to remember their insecurities and fears. There will be time enough to worry about that - and maybe continue their argument with cooler heads - in the morning. "The only thing that matters right now is that I love you."
Bringing a hand up to cup her face, Finnick brushes his thumb across her lip. "I'm yours, Annie Cresta. Only ever yours."