The early movement of the clock hanging on the wall is the only thing that occupies Finnick's thoughts.
It's half past one in the afternoon but he feels like he's been sitting here for the whole of the day. He shifts impatiently in his chair, pulls his grey collar from time to time and taps his fingers along the sides of his chair. He takes note of the purple cat clock hanging on the patterned wall, with its wide Cheshire smile, round body and a long striped tail swinging side to side. Johanna deems it her "pussy clock" whenever he asks about the ridiculousness of it in her furnished office.
He glances back across a woman behind a polished wooden desk, her prominent spiky dark hair neatly pulled back and piercing brown eyes squinting behind her black rimmed glasses every now and then at something she had just read. Every time he hears her make the 'tsk' sound (yes he's been counting) he feels a little more hopeless about getting back to literary spotlight that he was hoping to come back to. The time that has passed between those days to know is incredibly long and
He reverts back to a time when he wasn't so miserable, when Mags was still here telling him 'Finnick go water the plants!' and his weekend trips with his sister to the pier. Back then New York seemed like a breath of fresh air instead of something he'd like to cough out any day.
A loud plop! jolts him out of his reverie. Straightening himself up in his chair, he sees his 300+ page manuscript - the one that he had written over the past year after Mags death, lying helplessly on her desk.
"Well?" he prods as she removes her glasses, her eyebrows furrowed as she wipes its lenses clean.
"Shit man. That was fucking depressing" she says,
"That's my point," he counters.
"It's fucking pointless. The guy dies in a war and never sees his wife who's about to give birth to a son he'll never meet, then what? He's labeled as a fucking hero for being an idiot and dying just to protect his family, who by the way isn't really given much closure as you intended to," she points.
"He's a martyr," he explains.
"Yeah that's the problem with today's heroes." She picks up her phone to check her messages; "Everyone's willing to be a martyr for something in return. Selfish idiotic bastards," she says, shaking her head as she diverts her attention from Finnick to her vibrating phone.
There's a long pause as Johanna's fingers swipes through her list of meetings and appointments in her phone whilst drinking her already cold coffee. Finnick ponders on his thoughts before continuing,
"So, you'll publish it?" he asks meekly.
She chokes on her coffee at his absurd question, and grabs a tissue from her desk to wipe her mouth, "No,"
"What?" he asks, disbelief clouding him.
"No," she repeats. This time, her voice firm and proper.
He scoffs, as he leans back in exasperation in his chair. He thinks of all the sleepless nights he's been plagued. Disconnected thoughts of empty beds and Emily leaving and empty rooms and dying flowers in the wake of Mags' funeral. His sister Freddie's muffled sobbing in the middle of the night while he sat in front of his typewriter, sunken eyes and blank pages forcing him to write his grief and frustration.
"Remember when you told me to get a vacation?" He reminds her. He tries not to sound irritated. It was her idea that pushed him to write this and now here she was rejecting it.
"Did I?" she asks, crossing her legs as she takes a sip of coffee from her cup.
"Leave the fucking city Finnick. Go back to California. Find your heart in there. Take some time to grieve, maybe write a little bit. Don't forget to give me something by the end of the year" He quotes her, mimicking her high pitched voice
"Yeah. I guess I did." She agrees, chuckling at the thought. "You did that and then you give me this bullshit."
"Come on Johanna!" he pleads, shifting closer to the table. He will have no failures for this year. No brooding and unpublished works. "Give it a chance,"
"A chance?" she scoffs. "Finnick, I'm willing to publish a book about chicken shit more than publishing your pointless and self-pitying plot,"
"You're willing to publish trashy writings than my pointlessness?" he asks, incredulous and insulted at her jabs.
"What I'm saying is you need a fresh start. No more heroes. No more martyrs. No secret agents. No man gets girl without realistic struggles. None of the ideal bullshit you had fed and still pursuing on feeding these people."
Finnick has had a lot of criticisms in his life, his writings, moving in with Emily after 2 weeks of meeting her, his decision to move to New York, but nothing can top Johanna's harsh criticism, often times, and it's her criticism that pushes him to go beyond the boundaries of his limits in writings. She toughens him as much as he hates it. If her tongue was a knife he would have died from internal bleeding a long time ago.
"You're saying I need to write something happy?" he says carefully.
"I'm not telling you what you should write about but all I'm saying is that you need a different perspective." She argues.
"You don't want me feeding people grief and yet you encourage me to write about it," he retorts. His face in a bursting shade of red, and his mouth grows into a thin line trying not to burst into a frustrated rant and internalized feelings.
"I never told you to expect it to be published." She reasons.
The silence becomes unbearable and the wooden room too small. He stands up abruptly, running his hand through his kept bronzed hair as he paces around trying to think of ways to tell his publicist that this is the only work he'll give out without becoming mad.
He pauses to look outside the window, a gorgeous view of downtown Manhattan. He wonders now if his decision to come back to this city was a good idea as he thought it would be. He breathes in as his hands press down on the railing of the glass.
"Finnick," she starts as he lets out a frustrated sigh.
He turns around to Johanna holding his manuscript, all 300 pages reclining to be toasted to his fireplace tonight.
"A different perspective," she concludes, handing out his manuscript.
"Well, where the hell am I going to get one?" he says irritated, unwilling to accept that for the first time in 3 years, he was not good enough.
"God, Finnick!" she says impatiently, shoving his manuscript back at his hands, her hands motioning for him to leave. He steps back and makes to the door; Her last words echoes around his head as she leads him out.
"You're in New York. Look for it!"
The sound of the local band playing in between flashing lights colors the small club in vibrant doses of crowds decorates the dance floor. It's a masquerade type of party tonight, he observes. The waitresses dressed in skimpy outfits and colored masks offers him strawberry colored drinks as he politely declines and makes his way to the counter. He doesn't even bother putting on a mask; He needs a one way crash back home.
Finnick makes his way in between the crowds, Johanna's words replaying in his mind over and over until it practically hurts. His feet leads him to the bartender with his paunchy belly and a poorly kept mask, whose brooding grey eyes and unkempt hair seem to find his sudden state of misery appealing.
"Need a cure?" the bartender inquires.
"A miracle is more like it," he says, his tired green eyes looking at the glass in front of him. The bartender peers closer, his grey eyes observing him.
Finnick sighs and continues, "I've hit brick wall tonight," his dejected voice and slumped position earning the attention of the bartender.
"A miracle it is," he chuckles as he turns and obliges to his request.
He slumps his head on the counter. There are no ideas. This is a struggle he has finally come to accept. Everything is blank. Nothing but a white wall with no substance. He wants to hit his head repeatedly until his brain pours out a writeable and publishable idea.
"Here ya go," the bartender says as he sets out a glass filled with something golden brown (whiskey he guesses).
"What's this?" he asks, picking up the small glass, observing the golden color and froth.
"It's your miracle," he answers, a devilish mirth in his eyes.
He eyes the bartender suspiciously, his face hidden behind his grotesque plain mask. He nods as if to encourage him.
"If life gives you a chance for miracle boy, take it. You'll never know when it'll be your last," he adds.
Finnick doesn't question further and takes the shot. The sharp burning sensation of whatever miracle he's given him is buzzing inside. The bartender guffaws at his sudden reaction of intake.
He flushes at the strength and despite his tanned skin; his cheeks give out a reddish glint despite the dim lights.
"Holy shit" he grimaces, offering out the empty glass to the bartender, "what the hell was that?"
The bartender merely laughs, and pats him on the shoulder. "You'll appreciate it," as he pours another one on his glass. A motion from the other side of the counter calls him out as he attends to it, leaving Finnick alone to wallow in his thoughts.
He's thinking of getting drunk tonight and possibly booking a ticket away from this city, possibly back home where everything is empty and in need of words.
The sudden motion of the chair besides him jolts him out of his slumped position.
"Hey," greets the person besides him. She smiles politely underneath her glittering red mask.
He eyes her short black dress, her long legs crossed, high heels, flowing dark hair done up and her red glittered mask obscuring her face in the yellow dim lights. He catches her green inquiring eyes observing his state of misery.
"Hey," he greets back, his tone of casual indifference reverting back to the bartender serving a group of young giggling women who points at him, eyeing him every now and then throughout their conversation.
From the front, a crowd starts to yell in excitement as the first act introduces themselves to the crowd. The bartender comes back, noticing the new companion sitting beside Finnick.
"Do you have anything new?" She asks, enthusiastically.
"Well, this good man here just tried out an old Seam recipe for the hopeless," he says, introducing Finnick to the girl besides him. He looks back at him, narrowing his eyes at the comment
She snatches up the glass from his hand to his surprise, and before he could comment about it, she downs it all without much thought. The bartender claps, impressed at her bold act.
"We have another one!" he exclaims, as she grimaces a bit as she places the back of her hand on her lips to keep from throwing up the mixture.
"Close enough," she comments, coughing out a bit at the unpleasant taste. She looks back at the bartender, "Can I have tequila instead?"
The bartender nods at her request and leaves. Her eyes follow his trail as Finnick turns to look at her annoyed at her action, "Lady, that one's not free," he interjects.
She peers at him, bronze hair sticking up, his mouth in a thin straight line and his hands gripping to his glass tightly. She gives him a half-smile which he raises an eyebrow to. The bartender comes back with a glass of her drink a moment later.
"Bad day?" she asks, shifting closer to him as the first act from the stage starts.
"Horrendous" he agrees. He doesn't look back at her and remembers the rolled up manuscript in his small bag crumpled and rolled up in a band.
She nods understanding to his sudden miserable state. There's a comfortable pause between them as she visibly struggles for the words to say while he thinks there's none. Nothing can comfort him from his one year of hard work and seeing it all thrown away and his still stinging feelings from the past.
"Well, if I learned anything about bad days is that you need to distract yourself from thinking too much about it," she comments.
He chuckles darkly at her words; it hasn't been a mere bad day, it's been a bad life, not in the entirety but in the aftermath.
He turns to her innocently taking a sip of her tequila. Green eyes amused at her thought. She giggles at his thoughtful expression as if catching his line of thought.
"Okay then," he starts, "Distract me," his voice gaining the confidence to challenge her. She hums in approval, lightly putting an arm down his. He can smell her flowery perfume and feel the softness of her pale skin in comparison to his rough tanned one.
"How about a dance instead?" she offers, gesturing to the crowd of people near the stage.
"I'm not a dancing type of person," he admits.
He hasn't dance since Emily and that was over a year ago. Come to think of it, he hasn't gotten much since Mags and Emily besides writing that failed novel, moving back to New York and actually convincing himself to get drunk tonight.
"I haven't danced since my last girlfriend," he explains further. He wonders if it's okay to comment about his personal life to a stranger as he takes a drink from his glass.
"She was a real killer on the dance floor," he continues and thinks, it doesn't really matter since his companion was a stranger he'll probably never see again so he adds in an absent thought, "and in handling hearts"
"That's a shame," she sighs, he shrugs in reply, downing another drink.
"Yeah," he agrees.
"Why do you let people make you feel like you can never do anything as simple as dancing by tainting that experience with nothing but memories of what used to be?" she asks.
He stares down at his half empty glass and remembers the hard tapping of their feet on the floor at midnight after the premiere of the film adaptation of his book. He and Emily had stolen some of the wine at the after premiere party and went home to dance over the success of the film. After in a haze of aching feet and drunken laughter, she had admitted that dancing with him was one of the best experiences in life. He didn't know if she said the same thing to her current boyfriend. Come to think of it, he'd rather not know.
"You know what? You and I should go dance," she says interrupting his thoughts. He nearly chokes on his drink at the thought of her offer.
"No,"
"C'mon. Are you really going to get drunk over something as bad as a day?" she pouts.
"I could show you," he offers and smiles lopsidedly which prompts her to shake her head and chuckle.
"Just one song," she promises, "one dance with me just to pay for the disgusting drink you keep drinking and I'll let you go back to your agenda,"
"Fine." He considers before continuing, "Just promise not to bother me again?"
"We'll see," was all she can say.
Three shots later, he lets her lead him to the dance floor. The mass of moving bodies across the dance floors reminds him of the woods he once crossed with, except the hand leading him was soft, firm, the veins from her thin arms visible with each firm squeeze for reassurance, the drums start as it meets the sound of the guitar riffs; the front man sings,
I can't stand to think about a heart so big it hurts like hell
Oh my god I gave my best but for three whole years to end like this
The lyrics dwell too well to him. As the drum beats louder, and the girl in front of him raises an eyebrow at his sudden expression, he shakes his head to ward off the feelings and allows the alcohol to work its way through as she starts to the song,
Well do you want to fall apart? I can't stop if you can't start
Do you want to fall apart? I could if you can try to fix what I've undone
Cause I hate what I've become
The chorus prompts a variation of stomps and chanting and singing as the two them struggle to stay afloat the mass of bodies moving to the beat.
You know me, oh you think you do you just don't seem to see
I've been waiting all this time to be, something I can't define
He joins the music, let's the frustration of his mind express it through the swinging of his steps, the movement of his hips, shoulders knocking in between the beats and the sweat matting his bronze hair,
I've been waiting all this time to be, something I can't define
So let's cause a scene, clap our hands and stomp our feet or something,
yeah something I've just got to get myself over me
and the next thing he knew they were both dancing to the loud music playing, his hands raising above his head, his feet tapping along and for the first time he notices that he's actually having fun since returning to the city. He looks at his partner who's oblivious to his sudden change of demeanor. He watches her long dark hair swaying, red lips mouthing the lyrics of the song, the lace of her dress showing off the cleave of her chest, whilst clinging onto her sweaty body like a second skin and he can't breathe for a minute because the electricity of the music pumping through them was so loud and it's vibrating off her.
I don't want to go out and be on my own,
You know they started something I can't stand
You leave for the city,
Well count me out
'Cause all this time is wasted on everything I've done
and it must have been the alcohol but when she catches him staring at her with deep seated eyes enthralled by her actions, she doesn't hesitate and leans in and kisses him, arms winding up around his neck to pull him close, her mouth parting to let him in.
It's funny. For the first time Finnick doesn't know how to react. His mind is blank but his body reacts on instinct, and he's caught himself kissing her back as he stops dancing, his heart beating rapidly from the sudden intake of breath and adrenaline.
He can taste alcohol on her lips and a certain sweetness in her tongue, her warm breath tickling his skin as they part and crash together again and again, his hands grip tightly on her small hips to hold on and her body achingly close to his, as the song ends. The crowd screams in applause but Finnick hears none of it except her soft moans pulling him closer and closer, her dark hair wild and tangled as his fingers run through it. Her tongue playfully daunting and inviting and it pulls him in even more, until she parts to breathe.
"You're absolutely fun to kiss," he exclaims, his words ending in a slur brought about by the alcohol. He chuckles lightly as and holds on to her to prevent himself from staggering.
"Is your place spacious enough?" she starts.
"Why?" he asks.
The crowd goes wild at the next act and he can feel his own sweat sticking to his shirt in between the flashing lights and shifting bodies.
"Because you're obviously very miserable right now and you seem to need a bed to crash into," she whispers innocently, her fingers playing with his hair.
"Are you sure? You're not drunk or anything?" he asks.
She laughs at his question and in answer, she kisses him again, presses her body against him one hand wrapped around his neck and the other fisting his gray shirt.
"Jesus," he pants, his hands finding the small of her back. He can feel his arousal growing from the heat of their bodies close together.
"I should be asking you that question," she giggles
"Unless you're a not hooking up type of person?" she asks innocently. He plants small kisses in the crook of her neck, finding delight in her little movements before he whispers seductively in her ear,
"I'll make an exception tonight," he winks.
She chuckles, green eyes crinkling, lips smudged with her lipstick as she places his hands on her hips as the next song starts.
Their walk back home was riddled with sudden bursts of laughter every now and then, Finnick walking over at a trash can due to his inebriation, She accompanies him with her heels getting stuck in the pavement that he almost considered giving her a piggyback ride back to his apartment.
"You can't even walk down the street without tripping," she says.
"Sure I can," he counters. He crouches down to her level but catches himself off-balance as he does so, rolling her eyes at the offer. She helps him back to his feet when he points out the stray cats sitting across.
"I haven't seen a lot of cats much in this side of the town. My agent has this furry cat she brings to her office and it practically hates me," he tells. She follows his stare at a black cat sitting in front of a local thrift shop staring at them with its green eyes.
"There's only one cat," she corrects.
He squints at the cat trying to see if he's wrong after hearing her comment and laughs when he sees it looking back with its pair of green eyes, "I'm getting old"
She sighs as his boisterous laughter echoes at the street as they reach a tall blue apartment. It's at least 5 floors up with an iron gate down at the front to which he drunkenly opens with. She helps him walk over and it's four floors up to his apartment and maybe this wasn't a good idea as they reach the elevator. Her arms crossed as she watches the numbers change.
"You're not gonna take off your mask?" he asks, staring at the bright red mask covering her face.
"I like a bit of mystery in me," she says. The elevator opens as they both step inside and she surprises him by kissing him as she corners him on the side his hands gripping the handles as their lips crash together and her body achingly close to his. He tries to take the upper hand by hungrily kissing her back, his hands caressing through her back and hips, indecisive of their position as she moans through their crashing lips, her body pressing close to his.
The sound of the elevator doors opening parts them both for breath as she walks out first, the swing of her hips catching his attention as he follows. The halls are long and wide with the occasional painting of abstracts and potted flowers.
They reach his apartment numbered #65 embedded in shining gold as he leads her in the dark room and she doesn't waste time pulling him inside, continuing their interrupted act. He moans mercilessly as he drops his keys to the side and scrambles to lock the door before carrying her into the bedroom.
She removes her heels, feeling the carpet on her feet. She helps him remove his jacket and unbutton his shirt, feeling his tanned skin underneath her fingers. He takes a sharp intake of breath before they share a light kiss which in the haze of his inebriation, is cut off when he steps behind the sheet on the floor as he falls down on the mattress bringing her with him.
They burst into a fit of laughter before she takes off her mask and peers into his eyes. Even in the darkness of his room with only the moonlight highlighting the shadows, she could see the green of his eyes and it's gorgeous. Something that reminds her of the seas she had taken shots of and swam into back when she was little.
"I never got your name Miss," he whispers, his palm touching her cheek, marveling at her stature. The darkness give them the comfort of mystery and even in his inebriation, she feels beautiful.
"Annie," she states after a moment.
"Annie," he marvels at the sound of it on his tongue. Simple as the name 'Emily' and 'Hannah'. "That's a pretty name," he continues, placing a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"Not as pretty as you," she counters. She presses her palms on his shoulders pinning him to the bed, her mouth leaning close to his as she watches his half lidded eyes in awe.
"Mine's Finnick" he says, before she kisses him chastely. His fingers find their way underneath the hem of her dress as they part their lips to breathe and she continuously unbuttons his shirt, finding delight every time her fingers run through his warm skin. Her breath hitches when his hands winds their way up through her backside, his palms cupping her ass underneath her dress.
"That's an odd name," she comments, as she pulls her dress out of her body and throwing it across the room. She hovers over him his eyes watching her as the cold air producing an arousing effect on her bare skin.
"Mmhhm, my parents were in the least," he starts. He cups her breasts in his hands, his mouth parting to take her in again. He starts to moan as she fumbles with his belt, taking note of his erection digging through the cloth.
Her lips leaves his as they trail through his jaw, peppering along his neck and collarbone as he struggles through with his hands sliding in between her skin. He moans out her name as she bites his ear lobe before turning back to his face and complimenting,
"You have a lovely profile," she hovers on top of him eagerly studying him underneath. He opens his eyes to peer at her, his finger touching her lips, caressing her face in answer.
"You have a good way of distracting the misery out of me," he returns, before rolling them over so he could be on top. She squeals in surprise, as his lips catches hers drowning out her laughter; his hands find their way onto her lace panties waiting for a signal, a sign that there is no turning back.
She looks back at him biting her lower lip, and places her hands on his helping him remove the garment. He delights in the smoothness of her skin, and the sounds the she makes every time he peppers kisses along her stomach, her thighs and in between.
Her fingers tangle through his hair, running through his scalp, pulling every once in a while as he works his way through her finding the spot that makes her moan his name out loud enough to pull him in, he resists though, instead he alternates between kissing and licking and touching her over and over; and when she breaks apart under his tongue he can taste the sea.
He breathes in her scent before kissing her thighs, as she goes limp underneath as he trails his mouth along her. He hovers over her, and despite the drunken haze that damned drink gave him he can still pull himself through to pleasure another girl, who isn't Emily. He notices her underneath him, flushed skin, heaving breasts, legs spread and her parted mouth and crooked little teeth. She opens his eyes to look back at him, its sea green waves drowning her.
"For someone who's drunk, you sure know how to…"she bites her lips playfully when he nuzzles the crook of her neck. His breath hot on her skin.
"How to….?" He continues trailing his fingers on her sides.
"Distract me," she says earning them both a laugh. She squirms underneath him, her hands finding him straining inside his boxers, before she helps him out of them, his warm breath hitching through her neck when she lightly touches his member. She holds it firmly, running up and down his length, while her other arm encircles around his neck.
She pulls him close to kiss him, delighting in the taste of his drunken mouth as she squeezes him earning him a sharp moan. He's close and he doesn't want to…no, not yet. He catches her other hand and pins it to the side with his, her eyes riddled with lust mirroring his at the act, his fingers grasping hers as pushes inside.
It's a sudden fluid motion and he takes the time to stay still and adjust to his length, when she squirms underneath and damn it, she feels so insanely good. She sets the sail and he follows. They part and meet and part and meet again until they find a steady rhythm, their mouths crashing in disjointed kisses, her legs wrap around his hips tightly pushing him deeper and her lets out a moan in between when her nails dig into the skin on his back.
And she clings to him when they're close to shore, her mouth part open, eyes closed as she breaks apart underneath, chest rising, legs tightening and he follows with his harsh breath and straining body his hands gripping hers tightly as he can feel her entire being everywhere, around and inside her; he falls harshly into pieces on top of her, slick skin and matted hair. His breath cascading through the skin on top of her breasts as his hazed mind finally takes over, continuously pounding as he tries to catch himself.
It is the sound of the quiet night that greets them after coupled with their heaving breaths. She can feel her heart finally slowing down to its normal pace as wraps her arms around this handsome, yet sad stranger.
She can feel his mouth form into a frown on her skin. Her voice filled with concern,
"You okay?"
He nods without word, relaxing into her arms. She thinks about the time passing and wonders if her friends are out looking for her. They'd probably sent someone out to look for her considering she hasn't seen any of them at the party
"Are you going to stay?" he asks quietly.
She ponders as he lifts himself up and looks at her, his fingers caressing her skin, she could feel his eyes studying her face obscured by the darkness in the room and she's thankful for it because she doesn't want this to lead into a trap she had unwittingly woven into.
"Why?" she asks, her hands cupping his cheek. He looks down, suddenly feeling ashamed and finding the absurdity of asking this wonderful stranger's companionship for the night after sex. He gives in to the full blast effect of the alcohol and he shakes the absurd question he had asked, wordlessly smiling back before he kisses her and falls into the space besides her.
"Finnick?" he hears his name echoing in the dark room and he mumbles an unintelligible answer that sounds like a "good night," his words drowning in a slumber of nodding and silences before sleep invites him.
She lies awake confusion ebbing at her. All she wanted for the night was a bit of fun and sex. Cecelia and the company had encouraged her to attend the party and he was the only thing that she found interesting. He looked miserable at the party earlier and she had wished that she had at least brought her camera for the night because he had a touch of sadness in him that he exhumed and she wanted to capture it and show him. Instead she found herself immersing with him and being careless with him.
She ponders on this. He was a jolly good man when his walls departed a bit and it was probably the alcohol that wore it down. She props herself up to study him besides her, pushing back his damp bronze hair and tracing her fingers along his nose and jawline. Touching him was better than looking, she thought.
'And it's been a good while', she chuckles softly to herself, dealing with unsatisfying and misleading men asking for compromise; somehow it was a fresh of breath air to kiss someone just for the sake of kissing. She listens to his soft snores and lies down on his chest; his heart beat descending into a slow and steady rhythm and she found it comfortable in the moment.
The morning after, he finds himself in the middle of the bed, tangled in his sheets. He squints at the burst of sunlight passing through his wide windows; he rolls over to an even wider space in his bed.
He lets out a yawn and stretches a bit, trying to shake off the remnants of alcohol from last night, and his head aching from whatever miracle he drunk last night. He could've sworn he brought a girl home last night.
It's the sound of his voicemail echoing throughout his apartment that breaks the silence, as Gloss's voice greets him,
"Finnick? Are you awake? Ah who am I kidding, you're probably sleeping your ass off. Anyway, I want to see you tonight at the Capitol gala. Your names' on the list, they want to ask you about your upcoming novel, which I clearly pointed out is in the works, well at least I hope it is."
He pauses, "Don't bitch out on me. Give me a call when you're done throwing up later,"
"Shit," he groans and tries not to feel a little bit dismayed at tonight's events. If there's anything he hated more, its prodding people. He doesn't know what to tell them asides from the fact that Johanna's scrapped his past work.
He stares at the clock blinking back 10:50 in the morning. The sun has long since risen. And he greets it by burying his face in the pillow which still smells like her.
Although the aching in his body, his apparent nakedness jolts him back the passionate tryst with the girl in the short black dress from last night. The side of the bed still smells like her. He props up, disappointed that he didn't get to see her face in the darkness last night. All he knows is that she's got the gorgeous set of green eyes he's ever seen. He could remember the way her long legs tangled in between his after and the way her fingers raced against his skin. She was electrifying and he still gets aftershocks just thinking about it.
The sudden sound of his vibrating phone in the dresser prompts him to get up. He walks over to his dresser where 10 new messages from Gloss and Johanna and a recent new one from his younger sister.
[10:55 am]
From: Odair # 2
Hello Odair #1! Seeing as u'll prob still be asleep at this hour, I have decided to tell u that I have met this gorgeous specimen in this desert country two months ago & we are planning on visiting you in New York (considering if you're STILL in New York) sometime in the next 2 weeks. Still not sure when, though. Work can be a bitch. I'll let u know soon. Hope u're doing splendidly fine and dandy as ever. Let me know how u're doing. [heartemoji]
"Oh Freddie," he says, shaking his head in amusement. Frederica Odair was 4 years younger than him but seems to handle things quite better than he could. She had a passion for traveling and making plans and events for festivals and parties, hence her job takes her out of the country from time to time. She had more temper in her than he could. Mags used to have them both come home for the holidays just to give them time to breathe through their jobs but after she passed, they rarely see each other besides the occasional text and phone call.
Finnick did not know what to say. Freddie hadn't been to New York since his last book signing and she had arranged a surprise after party for him. Mags even flew to support him. It was one of those moments that made New York breathable and bright.
Looking around his room with its plain white walls and messy bed and unopened drawers, he sighs. What is he supposed to tell her? 'I'm miserable in this city, I'm still upset over Emily and I miss Mags. I miss you. Everything's shit right now and Johanna rejected the book. I feel like I'm the most incompetent person in this goddamn world and this girl I met and hooked up with last night since god knows when disappeared and I can't remember her name?' He types,
[11:01 am]
To: Odair #2
Things are great here. Just finished my manuscript for the book I've been writing. Remember that? The one where I told you about writing something out of a tragedy? Well, I'm about to submit it to Jo so she could have a read/look on it. Fingers crossed she'll get it published. I hope to see you (and potential person I may or may not feel inclined to threaten if he breaks your heart) soon. Eagerly waiting for you arrival. Try not to bring home something freakish this time. XX
He puts down his phone to clean up his bed, picking up his crumpled clothes along, where they are carelessly lying on the floor: a belt, his crumpled grey shirt near the foot of his bed, his pants and boxers.
Opening up the curtains to let the light in his room, he turns to find a glittering light reflecting back near the corner of the foot of his bed; he walks over and picks it up. The bright red mask staring back at him with its exquisite tiny smooth stones and patterned lines. She had left her mask and he smiles in spite of himself. He could still remember her inquiring green eyes and feel the skin underneath him and her full mouth. He also liked kissing her the most, even though kissing strangers weren't his sort of thing.
He places the mask on his dresser and heads on to the shower, where after a calm recollection of last night with the help of the hot water, he tries his best to remember her name. It was a simple name; he recalls it was somewhere near the tip of his tongue as he scrubs his hair.
Aly, Amy, Alice….his thoughts run through pairing each with a detail from last night. Soft hands, flowing dark hair, slender body, pale skin, small lips…. The loud bursting of his ringtone echoing in the room jolts him out of his head as he fumbles on a towel and runs to his dresser, to answer the call.
It's Johanna's high pitched voice that greets him, "You planning on attending tonight?" Finnick pats his hair with a towel as he mulls it over.
"Good morning to you too Johanna," he greets sarcastically, he opens the windows to the small view of East Village Manhattan with its red bricks and colorful streets paved with the local musicians filling the morning air with the sound of their guitars and undergrads rushing through.
"Probably," he answers, eyeing the somewhat busy street remembering the hours he had spent watching Johanna read through his manuscript. He's still not over with her rejecting his book.
"Listen," she starts, "there are a few people who want to meet you, critics and tv personalities." He rolls his eyes at the thought.
"I heard a new photographer is in town to start a project" she continues, "and she's looking for someone with a good profile. So I suggested she'd come tonight to the gala to meet some new faces for her project."
"When you meant a different perspective, did you mean modeling for some photos to hang on to walls to be ogled at?" he jokes.
"Hey," she reprimands, "Don't be such a pretentious shit about it. I've seen her work. She's pretty good." Finnick decides to put her on speaker so he could open his drawers to dress for the day.
"As much as that's interesting," he starts as he puts one foot onto his pants, "I'm not really down to meet everyone eager to know my 'upcoming work' tonight after you rejected it yesterday"
"Oh please," she says, "you know how to make up stories, it's not that hard to fool these bunch of jerks out," The sound of a cat's loud 'meow!' echoes through the other line followed by the sound of milk pouring onto a bowl.
"I don't know," he doubts, as he pulls on his shirt over his head.
"C'mon. Don't be such a killjoy, everyone loves a good party," he sighs at her words glancing at the mask on his dresser, remembering the headache he had woken to earlier, "You don't say?"
"Mhmm. Dancing, booze, classic music…if you're into those kinds of things," she continues, there's a small pause as Finnick shuffles through his knitted patterned socks in the drawers,
"Hold on, I just got a text from Cressida saying that Annie's agreed on coming to meet everyone," she announces. The sound of the name catching his immediate attention.
"Wait," he pauses and stares at the phone, his memory clearing in, "did you say Annie?"
"Annie Cresta. Yes." She confirms, "The photographer. She's been traveling all over the world and working with different people…" the sound of glass breaking follows coupled with Johanna cursing interrupts their conversation.
"Annie Cresta," he repeats. He rolls her name along his tongue, the memories of last night flooding in, with her flowing dark hair and black dress. He walks over to his dresser where the mask stands and runs his fingers along its edges.
"Do you know her?" Johanna continues.
"No," he chuckles an idea forming in his head. What a lovely name. Like it's sprung from the local folklore he used to read about in his childhood.
He turns and starts to open his cabinet where in its lined shelves and dress suits hung, he stared and thought of something nice to wear for the night. He smiles as he runs over a blue dress shirt before continuing, "not at all,"
AN: I posted an outtake/excerpt of this story a year ago, under the title "Snow Drops" which was put on hold due to the numerous demands of college life. Now that I am free of its strings, I decided to rewrite the idea again instead of scrapping it. So voila! I sure hope my fingers still flexes out the words without any disappointment. Let me know what you think about it!
The lyrics are from the Format's "The First Single".