Authors Note: Hello everyone and thank you so much for reading my story. A few words first off. Finnick never dies. Ever. It didn't happen, I love him too much. Next, this is the first fanfiction I've written, and honestly the first thing I've written for fun in years. I'm rusty. Don't hate. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Hating is not. And please, if you have the time just review and tell me what you think. And finally, thanks again!

It is early morning. A warm breeze drafts across the ocean, scattering rays of orange-pink light across the waves. Watching the beginnings of the sunrise on the horizon, I prepare to dive into the morning water. For a moment my muscles tense, and then I fly, suspended, above the sea. As I enter the waves, I can't help but feel at home. The tension in my muscles release as I focus on my strokes and rhythm. I flow with the sea. I'm a part of it, just another wave journeying to the shore.

After a while I swim back in, toweling off my permanently salt-encrusted hair. For a few moments I close my eyes, basking in the early morning glow. I listen to the sea gulls cry, flapping their wings on a warm breeze. The normally uninterrupted sounds of nature are broken by a door slamming shut. My brow furrows. Save for the fishermen, it is too early for District 4 to be awake. But, I remember, today isn't a normal day. A few voices register as children run into town, gathering last minute necessities for the festivities. Today is Reaping Day. I don't have long to dwell on its meaning until I am interrupted.

"Good morning"

I open my eyes, registering the voice. Familiar. Friendly. Next to me, a man sits. It alarms me for a moment, that I didn't register his approach, but, soon, I realize that was probably his intention. My eyes readjust slowly to the light, taking in details of the man silhouetted against the sun. Slowly, tanned skin tinted orange and disorderly red hair visualizes. When he turns his head to me, it isn't hard to imagine why so many women are enchanted by his sea-green eyes.

"Morning." I reply. I don't let my shock register on my face. Finnick Odair is the last person I expected to run into this morning.

Before his reaping we were close friends. Inseparable, really. At 12 and 14, we had nothing to do but spend innocent summer days along the beaches of District 4. It was during this time that he taught me to swim. I taught him to knot fishing nets. Neither of us expected the outcome of the reaping that year. I remember watching, anxiously, as he fought for his life in The Hunger Games. When he returned we tried to go back to normal. And for a time, we were the same friends that had once spent hours together. But there was a growing distance. Then one day, not long after he turned 16, Finnick changed. He became reserved, reclusive. Ignored my calls, my knocks on his door in the Victor's Village. He no longer associated with his friends from home. He began taking frequent trips to the Capitol, gone even for weeks at a time. I was hurt, for a while. But eventually I accepted that Finnick had moved on, and chosen the whimsical citizens of the capitol, over the people of his own district.

So, for the past three years, Finnick and I had rarely spoken. I became accustomed to seeing only the cocky demeanor he displayed on television. I can't deny that I felt betrayed by my once friend, but just as he had changed, I had grown. I was no longer the knobby-kneed 14 year old girl who had tried to remain his friend. He was no longer the boy who had teased me and pushed me jokingly into the ocean.

I should be angry with him. But something about this moment keeps me sitting next to him on the beach, like nothing has changed.

A silent few minutes pass, before I look over at him again. There is something different about him, here, in the early morning sun. His usually happy expression is gone. I watch as his eyes scan the horizon. There is no trace of his normal laughing demeanor. No trace of cockiness.

"Are you okay, Finnick?"

Thousands of emotions flick across his face. For a moment I think he might yell, or scream, or cry. I half expect him to simply ignore my question.

So, forgive me for being utterly astounded when I'm confronted with a hysterical, laughing Finnick Odair sprawled across the sand. He laughs for what seems like hours, tears streaming down his face. The sound catches a few glances from people walking by. No sane person laughs like that on reaping day. Finally he catches his breath, and rests his arms under his head. He lays like that for a few moments, simply regarding the sky, and the turns his head, looking up at me.

"I'd say I'm about as far away from okay as you can get, Cresta."

As long as I've known Finnick, he has hardly ever called me by my first name. Always Cresta. Despite its formality, it has never felt anything but casual. Teasing almost, like he could call me that simply because he was older than me. A term of endearment. I don't know how to respond to his statement. He hasn't torn his gaze away from me, and for some reason simply staring at Finnick Odair makes me uncomfortable, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Why?"

I regret it instantly. The smile drains from his face, and even the slightest trace of his laugh sinks into the sand. As the tide rises, he doesn't acknowledge that his dress clothes are becoming soaked in sea water. He looks back out to the sea, and our eyes are locked again on the horizon.

"If I told you, then I'd have to kill you" he says.

I know he means to lighten the mood with the cliché. But as our eyes meet again I notice that his usual teasing demeanor is no longer there. So I simply regard him for a second. His eyes, the color of the sea before a storm, reflect pain. Memories of his own forced entry to the games, and those since him, will be prominent today. He'd been unlucky, on that reaping day. There had been no Career boys willing to step up for the 70th Hunger Games. He hadn't wanted this life.

After a long span of silence, he turns his head back to me. "You know, I've missed this, Cresta." It is all he says. No specification and he doesn't need one. I know he is talking about our forgotten friendship, the easy camaraderie we once shared, and an innocent youth spent swimming.

"Me too." I finally reply. I look down at my feet, suddenly unable to suppress as smile. The slamming of another door sobers me. Reaping Day. Looking at the sun, I realize I have to get home, before my mother throw a fit. I stand, and look down at Finnick. "Be… safe, Finnick." I all I can think to say.

He smiles, and rises. Suddenly that capitol-ized version of Finnick takes over again "Well, may the odds be ever in your favor today." He says teasingly, mocking the Capitol accent. But, as he walks away, I can't help but notice that his smile doesn't reach his eyes.