A/N: So kind of an old piece, but I thought I might as well post it. Set after Annie's games and before the Third Quarter Quell. I wanted to capture one of the peaceful, lovely, moments that Finnick and Annie got to have together, before Susan Collins decided to oh, I dunno, kill him off. Not that I'm bitter or anything.
Enjoy the fic!
(Oh, and see that neat little review box at the end? If you leave a review, it'll shoot glitter and rainbows out of your computer screen. Seriously. You should try it.)
He supposed that it's his own fault that they are in the position they are in right now. After all, it was him who had carried her up to bed when she said that she was tired and it was him who had given her a lingering good night kiss. But one had melted into two, and now he found himself frozen, with Annie's words still lingering in the air.
Will you love me? He skitters away from her when she repeats her question, but she stays where she is, her eyes large and simply observing him.
She knows everything.
He turns away, and he looks down to see his hands trembling. What he has with Annie is beauty in its purest form, bliss, sea and sunshine and salt, hope. What he knows of making love is lying in bed with a detached mind to take away the pain, it is showering for hours to wash the feeling of filth from his skin, it is waking up trembling from dreams of women like demons.
He won't spoil her. He won't ruin her. He loves her, so he will not hurt her.
No. He shakes his head frantically, and he still can't stop his shaking. I'm bad for you Annie, I'm – he takes in a shaky breath and lets it out – bad for you. The words are jagged and jarring, and he angles his body away from her, casting his face in shadow to hide his shame.
A cool hand under his chin lifts his face, and he looks at her reluctantly. She is beautiful. Moonlight pours over her like water and it sets her skin glowing like the milky luminescence of pearls. Her face is framed by dark curls tangled by the sea wind and salt water, but all Finnick can really see are her eyes, wide and clear, the color of the sea.
I love you, she says simply, as if that statement is enough to erase all of his faults. As if her words are the sea and his soul is the shore, marred by only wandering footprints and the lone sea star, thrown onto the sand. But he is dirty and unclean and acid wouldn't be strong enough to burn away the scars that cross his skin.
He drops his gaze and traces the way light slants over the sheets to avoid her eyes. Love isn't always enough. He says the words roughly, to hide the broken shards of faith jutting out of him, the piece he had long decided were irreparable.
She touches his cheek again, even more softly, looking at him with her fathomless eyes, luminous in the moonlight. They are the color of the sea in the cove, frail, fragile, and beautiful, an unearthly shade of haunting green. She smiles at him gently. But sometimes Finn, she whispers. Sometimes it is.
Finnick looks into her eyes and lets himself drown in their history. They are the eyes of a girl who is slightly mad but never crazy, who listens to music he cannot hear and dances with ghosts he cannot see. He thinks about when he realized he loved her with every aching cell in his shell of a body and how she pushed him away, and he thinks about sun-drenched days spent with her on the shore wandering the border of the sea.
He thinks about trust.
He leans towards Annie and falls in bed next to her, wrapping himself around her frame and running a thumb across her cheek as she kisses her. Her robe slips to the floor as she kisses him back, and he marvels at the feel of her skin, as smooth as the inside curve of a shell. As the moon spills silver onto their entwined limbs, he gives into the bliss of her tender touch and lets himself drown in her eyes.
They love.
.
.
.
Afterwards, with the sea whispering outside the open window and moonlight etching delicate shadows onto their skin, Finnick lies in bed with Annie nestled in his arms, watching white curtains waft in the salty breeze and listening to the tattoo of her heart next to his.
As the night sighs all around them, Finnick turns his head and brushes a kiss against her dark head. Her hair smells like the ocean. He touches her cheek, and though she is asleep, she instinctively turns her face into his touch, and her hand comes up to brush his lips.
He surrenders his heart.
With Annie in his arms, he falls asleep.
.
.
.