He'd write her a symphony, if he could.

He can't, though. His hands are more suited to the trident than the pen, and they're more often stained with blood then they are with ink.

Some of it's his. But mostly it's the blood of the people he's killed. Both directly and indirectly.

Because Finnick's not stupid (sometimes he wishes he was) and he knows that every time he sends a kid off into the arena, he's signing their death certificate. He knows this.

Annie comes back, though.

She's broken in a thousand different ways, shattered and angry and imprisoned inside of her mind, but she's there.

She's there, but sometimes she's not- sometimes she's back in the arena, only this time she's drowning in the waves her mind created, and she can't outswim those.

And even in this, even in her madness, everything about Annie makes him love her.

If history repeats itself (and deep inside he knows it does) he will fall in love with Annie over and over again. He will always be enraptured with her, interested in her. She will always make him want things he knows he can't have, and shouldn't want.

She will always love the man she doesn't even know is broken, and she will never ask for anything in return.

She will always creep up on him.

Falling in love slowly is a terrible experience. Finnick doesn't recommend it.

When you fall in love slowly, things get complicated. Things get broken. Sometimes you fall too late, and sometimes you fall and there's nobody to catch you at the bottom.

Finnick's lucky. He has Annie.

But he won't, for long.

Because Finnick is a little boy, and he breaks beautiful things, and Annie is already so fragile that when he drops her (he knows he will) she'll scatter onto the wind, and people will tell stories about the girl who was too good to be loved.

That's what she is. Annie is too good, and there are times when he thinks of her and he thinks of Peeta and he can understand why Katniss keeps him at arm's length.

Some things are just too pure to be spoiled.

Finnick's not one of them, but Annie still tries.

Annie doesn't know the truth.

She doesn't know what he does when he goes to the Capitol, suddenly; she doesn't know he's giving bits of himself away on President Snow's orders, and that the fingerprints don't come off with soap anymore and no matter how many sugar cubes he eats the bitter taste doesn't leave his mouth.

She doesn't know why he cries sometimes after he kisses her, why he won't sleep fully underneath a blanket (some part of him has to be outside).

She only knows what he wants her to, only sees him the way he presents himself, and that's how it has to be.

Because to Annie he's a hero, he's someone she can adore, and he likes to fool himself into thinking he's worthy of that.

But Finnick doesn't know some things, too.

He doesn't know where she goes when she drifts away, when her mind imprisons her and she loses control over her body.

He doesn't know that sometimes she's bored so she listens into his phone calls and that sometimes she pretends to be asleep just so she can listen to him talk himself down from a mental ledge. He doesn't know that sometimes she throws kitchen knives at the empty houses in Victor's Village, because she likes the crackthumpfall they make when they shatter, and she likes knowing she can hurt something.

She knows everything he doesn't want her to, and she loves him anyway, and she doesn't want it any other way.

But he loves her because he thinks she's pure and right and she's not. Annie's not an angel, she's not a lamb.

When she dreams, it's of blood, and sometimes she's so filled with hate and anger and rage it takes all she has to keep her distant smile on.

Because to Finnick, she's a goddess, pure and holy, and she wants desperately to believe that can be true.

And the world knows nothing.

The world doesn't know that sometimes Finnick wishes he was mad so he could follow Annie to wherever she goes, and that sometimes Annie wishes he was, too.

The world doesn't know that sometimes Finnick leaves love-marks on Annie, so that he'll see them later and they'll remind him that she is, actually, his.

The world sees Finnick charming women out of their panties, and Annie slowly slipping out of sanity, and the world laughs at them.

Because to the world, Finnick and Annie are mishappen, puzzle pieces with jagged edges, and they'll never smooth themselves out.

Finnick's arrogant and has a shifty moral compass; he's a master of bending the rules, changing the wording, working things around until the square pegs fit into the round holes and everything is mad and perfect.

But Annie doesn't just want him to be a better person. She demands that he be a better person.

Annie forces him to be better.

He still breaks her, eventually.

It's a sea-water day, when he first loves her, and a perfect blue-sky-green-grass day when they get married and there are no words for the day they find out about the baby, but on the day he dies it's graygraygray, and in that moment he's just as mad as she is.

Cause he knows in his heart that this will break Annie, but he also knows that their kid will put her back together, and he hopes feverently, as the mutts howl behind him, he begs the universe that the kid doesn't look like him, doesn't take after him, because Annie doesn't deserve that.

She doesn't deserve reminders.

It's graygraygray when he dies, when his body is ravaged and thrown about, when his blood stains red and his eyes are lifeless, but as he draws his last breath, he tastes sea water.

His name is Manning Killian Odair, and he's born with a full head of hair, and his father's eyes.

Annie sobs when she sees them.

"I'd thought I'd lost them," she says, rocking back and forth, clutching the baby to her breast. "I thought I'd lost his eyes."

He's two weeks shy of his twentieth birthday when they first meet, broad-shouldered and charming. She's sixteen, young and awkward in her own skin.

He sneaks her off of the Reaping Train (which should be impossible but isn't, because he's Finnick Odair, and impossible means nothing to him) and takes her to the beach for a few minutes.

The tide comes in unexpectedly, and it covers them both in sea-water and kelp and he's laughing so hard he doesn't see her tears mixing with the spray.

Later that night, he'll notice her puffy eyes, and he'll ask her why she's crying.

She'll laugh a little, and say, "I'm not crying, Finnick. I'm giving back to the ocean. My mother used to tell me that tears are the ocean inside of you, coming out to join the ocean around you. Making you alive."

"Well, I can't help you there. I'm all dried up," He'll smile at her but she'll be able to tell there's no joy in it. "No more ocean in me."

She'll look at him thoughtfully and pick up his hand, moving his finger to wipe away one of her tears.

"There," she'll say, as it soaks into your skin. "You'll just have to share mine."

Yes, Annie, he thinks as he dies. I'll share your ocean.

he closes his eyes and thinks of waves and salt water skies.

Annie Cresta is ninety-seven when she dies; she's surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren and the only Games there are now are the ones the children play in her front yard.

When they put her in the ground, it rains, and the rain tastes of salt.

"Hey, Finn."

"Yeah?"

"It's lovely here, isn't it?"

"That's because you're here, darling. Your beauty enhances everything."

"Oh, stop it. I meant, this is what we wanted, isn't it? You and me. The ocean. Together. Something we never had before."

"...huh. Something we never had before."

"I love it here, Finn. Promise you won't let me forget that."

"You can't forget it here, Ann. And besides, I've got your ocean in me, remember? You're stuck with me."

"...I think I can learn to live with that."

fin.