Author's Note: A quick one-shot because I needed a breather. For more background on Finnick in this, you can check out my whole biopic on him called Salt and Sunshine, which is a companion piece to Sea Glass. You don't have to read either one to understand the other, but if you're confused or intrigued about some details of Finnick's life in this one-shot, go there. Also, the rights to Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins.

Skinny Dipper
by SmurfLuvsCookies

It's the day before the reaping. A beautiful day, with a big bright sun in the blue sky, and a cool breeze coming off the ocean. Not too cold for a swim, not too hot to stay dry—a perfect day. Tomorrow, in the town square, all dressed up in layers with the sun beating down on us and the buildings blocking the wind, we'll roast and get all sweaty on camera. Our Capitol representative says something about it every year, I'm told. But today is perfect.

I spend the morning walking the beach. I was originally looking for my father—he was gone when I woke up this morning, but that's not unusual. He's almost always drunk in a bar, or passed out in an alley. I've given up on tracking him down today. He'll stagger back to the docks and into our boat eventually. No one will keep him overnight, not on the eve before the reaping.

Some of my classmates notice me and wave, but I'm not particularly close to any of them, and no one really feels like talking. Tomorrow is too heavy on our minds. I pass them, pretend like I'm heading somewhere. They don't seem to care.

I stop after a while and let the waves lap at my feet. The water's warm from the summer current. Minnows nibble at my toes, darting around in the clear water like faint shadows. I try to catch one, but I only end up splashing salt water in my eye and scaring them away. I start walking again.

I walk farther and farther from town, until I'm near the restricted areas. They're walled off with heavy black rocks covered in algae and barnacles. Kids come here to play in the tide pools, and teenagers swim under into the grottos to make out. The Peacekeepers are supposed to patrol this area and keep us away, but they're hardly ever here, and when they are, they usually ignore us unless we get to close to the tall concrete wall on the other side. Once, a boy swam close to the concrete on a dare, and got caught in the net that replaces the wall once it hits the ocean. His friends tried to get the Peacekeepers to save him, but the Peacekeepers let him drown. When they pulled his swollen white corpse from the water, they didn't say a word. They just placed him on the sand in front of his friends and walked away. No one has gone near the concrete or the net since.

Today, despite the good weather, there aren't many kids playing on the rocks. I glimpse a Peacekeeper's white uniform near the top, but he doesn't say anything to me, so I keep walking. I wade into the ocean until I'm knee-deep, holding myself steady against the slimy rock, trying to find the tell-tale gap of a grotto. Finally, when I'm up to my waist, my fingers slip under the lip of an opening. I take a deep breath and dive, feeling with my hands. The tunnel is only about a yard long, and just wide enough for me to slip through. When my head pops above the surface, I'm pleased to discover that there's a bit of light coming from the shaft, and that the grotto's shallow enough to keep a few of the rocks dry, in case I want to lay out.

I freeze when I notice that, on one of these rocks, a pile of clothes is resting neatly. Girl's clothes, if the little denim shorts and bright green tank-top is any indication. I wonder if I've come across a couple, but I only see one set of clothes, which, after some contemplation, concerns me.

"Hello?" I whisper. My voice echoes off the rock walls. "Is anyone there?"

There's no reply. I swim deeper into the grotto until my toes can touch the sand. "If you don't say anything, I'm coming in for a swim. Fair warning."

"Wait!" It's a girl's voice, coming from behind a rock near the clothes. She pokes her head out from behind it. She's young—between ten and twelve, I'd say—with long dark hair and a bright red face even in the dimness of the cave. "Don't…don't come any closer. Please."

I raise my eyebrows, glance at the clothes, and then back at her. "Is there anyone in here with you?"

"N-no." The girl's face gets even redder, if that's possible. "I'm just swimming."

"Are those your clothes?"

She doesn't say anything, but I think I see her nod tentatively. It finally clicks. "Oh," I say. I try not to laugh, but it sneaks out through my nose in the form of a snort. "You're skinny dipping."

"It's not weird!" she says, suddenly offended. Her voice is loud in the cavern. "People do it all the time. My clothes get heavy when I try to swim in them."

"I get it," I say, holding my hands up. Still, I can't keep the grin off my face. "I'll leave if you want, but I suggest getting your clothes back on, anyway. The next person who swims in here might not be as understanding."

"You're the only one I've seen up here all day," the girl retorts. She slowly creeps out from behind the rock. "Turn around and close your eyes."

I do as she asks. I can hear her gentle laps in the water, and the splash when she pulls herself out. Her clothes make soft gritty sounds when the wet fabric brushes the rock. When she gives the okay, I turn around and see her sitting on the rock, dipping her feet in the water. "What are you doing here, anyway?" she asks curiously. "All the other kids were scared away by the Peacekeepers."

"Yeah, there's always more of them around reaping day," I remark. "I just wanted a quiet place to think, I guess. I was wandering around."

"Me, too," the girl whispers. She pulls her knees up to her chest. "It's my first reaping."

"Oh." That's tough. I remember my first reaping—it was the most terrifying day of my life. Every reaping is nerve-wracking, but nothing comes close to that first one, when you know, you just know, that this year they're going to pick you, even though it's hardly ever a first-timer.

"My brother says it's all going to be okay—he's a year older than me—but...I don't know, I'm still really nervous. My mom and dad are too, I can tell."

My father is probably too drunk to feel anything, but I don't say that. Instead I say, "It's my third. Your brother's right. The younger ones are safest, because—"

"—their name isn't in the pool as many times, yeah, yeah, I know," she interrupts.

"Just trying to help."

"I know," she says again. She looks at me from over her knees. "Does it get...easier? The reaping, I mean."

I contemplate the question. "Not easier," I admit. "Not even less scary, honestly. It's not as nerve-wracking, I suppose, since you know what to expect when you step into the square. There's just this dread inside you that gets worse every year, because you know exactly how many times your name is in that pool. It goes away after the reaping, though. Like a deflating weather balloon. And you'll feel bad, because you're glad it's not you, but there's nothing you can do about that. A little bit of guilt is better than stepping onto that stage."

"It is dreadful, isn't it?" the girl whispers into her skin. She beseeches me with her eyes, which are a startling shade of green, pregnant with innocence and terror. "This whole thing."

"Yeah, it is. But I wouldn't say that where people can hear. I wouldn't say it at all."

The girl nods, slowly. I think she understands vaguely that her words are treason, but I don't think she grasps what could happen to her and her family if a Peacekeeper or a camera catches them coming from her mouth.

"Why aren't you talking to your brother about this?" I ask her. I don't have any siblings, and the dynamic has always fascinated me.

"He won't let me," she responds with a sigh. "He won't let me say the words, or ask him what will happen to us if one of us gets picked. He won't even let me ask."

"Maybe he's one of those people who think if you say something, it'll come true," I suggest.

The girl shakes her head. "No, not Quincy. He's not superstitious like that, not like a lot of people around here. I think he just doesn't want to answer, so he doesn't let me ask."

"That makes sense." I shrug. "I guess you've just got to believe you won't get picked."

"Can anyone ever really believe that?"

"Sure. I think everyone secretly does. Otherwise why would the tributes always look so surprised when their name is called?"

The girl looks at me incredulously. "Wouldn't you be?"

"I don't know," I say. I take a deep breath and lean back, floating on the surface of the water. There's a crack in the rock, letting in sunshine. "Sometimes I think maybe being a tribute wouldn't be so bad. If you won, you'd be famous and rich."

"But what if you didn't?"

"Then you'd be dead. Everyone dies eventually. But not everyone gets to be a victor."

The girl frowns at me. "But what about your family? Your friends? They'd all be sad if you died like that. They'd have to watch it on television."

"No one would care," I say blandly. "If it was me."

"That's not true!" the girl says violently. Her voice is loud and echoes in the grotto. I glance up and see that she's visibly upset, raised up on her knees with her little hands making fists at her sides. "There's someone who cares about you, whether you believe it or not. I'm always sad when the tributes die, especially when they're from District Four. Sometimes I know them, sometimes I don't, but I'm always sad because dying that way is a horrible thing." She gasps for breath, like the speech has taken something important out of her. Her next words are lower in volume, but louder in my ears. "If you died, I'd care."

By this time I've stood up and I'm staring at her, bemused. Her face is red again, I can see it glowing in the faint light, but I don't know if it's an angry or embarrassed flush. Finally I crack a bit of a smile at her silliness and shake my head. "You're crazy," I say. "You don't even know my name. You have no idea who I am."

"I don't know your name," she says. She climbs down from her rock and splashes into the water, wading toward me until she's standing in front of me. She's got freckles on her nose and a gap between her two front teeth. "But you could tell me. Otherwise, I'm just going to call you Cave Boy."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I reply. "I'm clearly a Cave Man."

The girl rolls her eyes and sticks out her hand. "Fine, Cave Man. It's nice to meet you. I'm—"

"—let me guess. Skinny Dipper?"

The girl gives me a scandalized look and splashes water in my face, filling my eyes, mouth, and nose with sea water. I splash back, but I can't see anything so I think I miss her. When I finally rub the vision back into my eyes, she has disappeared. I look around for her in the grotto, behind the rock where I first saw her, but she's gone.

I'm disappointed because I did want to know her real name, but I suppose the opportunity has passed. There's no telling if I'll see her around District Four—I don't think I've ever seen her before, but then, I haven't been looking for her. Her young freckled face could blend easily into a crowd. If we did cross paths again, she'd more likely pick me out first, with my shaggy mane of dull blonde hair and slouched gait, isolated from the camouflage of other bodies. Maybe she'd call to me—"Hey, Cave Man!"—or maybe she'd ignore me, let me pass by without a word.

I climb on to the rock where she sat and strip off my clothes, watching them hit the crag with a wet smack. Then I jump back into the pool, let the warm summer waters encompass my body, and try ignore the dread that threatens to sink me.