cinna
he's afraid of the water. he's been afraid since he was six, when his mother took him to her work on a sweltering summer day and he played in a big fountain while he waited for her. the fountain was circular and sloped toward a towering bronze statue of the president snow in its center, and littered all across the bottom were silver coins that people had thrown in for good luck.
he stood on the ledge and reached into the shallow waters to pick up the coins and tossed them farther into the fountain, wishing for childish things. he felt distinctly oily under the sun, like he was a turkey buttered up and shoved into the oven, so he slid into the water. it was blissfully cool and smelled of rose petals, and he waded further towards the center of the fountain, fingertips dragging, goosebumps trailing over where his skin was submerged.
and suddenly, he was falling. he had lost his footing and was caught in the current, and he couldn't find the bottom. he searched for air and breathed in mouthfuls of scented water. he reached out for something to hold on to, but the ledge was far behind him and everything he grabbed slipped between his fingers.
the waves finally threw him against the bronze statue, and he held the president snow with all his strength — because he was afraid of being swept away and because even a child knows that there is a drain in every fountain big enough to swallow him whole.
there he stayed, clutching the feet of the statue, until his mother came out at the end of the day and screamed at the sight of him.
.
so, he's afraid of the water. but he's mostly afraid of knowing that there's a bottom he can't reach, which is why he stares at the head designer when she assigns him district four and says blatantly, you must be kidding me.
. . .
finnick
he's afraid of nets, which is ironic for a fisherman's son. he must have gotten choked by one or tangled in one or nearly drowned in one when he was younger, but he can't remember specifically why he hates them so much. perhaps it's just that when he looks at them, he feels like a fish trapped at the end of the game of life.
when he used to fish — before the games — he would use spears. he was deadly accurate, and he liked the feeling of godliness it gave him, even if it only lasted for half a second.
the first designer dresses him in nets, drapes them around him, his legs and neck, and he shivers and screams until she goes away. he claws the nets off of himself and plucks the shells out and flings them across the room.
the second designer that comes in is a thing of gold with eyes that glitter and a mouth that seems to smile incessantly. finnick suddenly feels embarrassed to be naked in front of him.
my name is cinna, says the designer.
finnick.
do you like poseidon? cinna asks.
pardon?
poseidon. the god of the sea. from greek mythology.
finnick shakes his head slowly. no… no. at home we call him neptune.
cinna smiles. neptune it is, then.
he takes finnick's measurements with soft fingers, then says, he's the one with the trident, right?
yes, answers finnick. yes.
. . .
they stand on the sand, their hands slowly coming together. they can't bear to look at each other because then they'll see the glitter of the capitol on the other's face. but the ocean, the ocean they can gaze at forever. because the ocean is normal, and the ocean is a small piece of the world that remains untouched.
you know, murmurs finnick, the ocean has no bottom. it goes on and on, forever and ever.
and cinna wonders how he can always find the right things to say.
you know… he begins tentatively, and he can see finnick turn to him out of the corner of his eye. you know, finnick odair, the waves will only bring you down so far. it's your mind that drowns the rest of you.
. . .
fin