AN: Hi, this is unbeta'd and short. :D

Chapter Three

I Fall to Pieces

I fall to pieces,
Each time someone speaks your name.
I fall to pieces.
Time only adds to the flame. – Patsy Cline


Annie's POV

The dull ache in my shoulder eventually makes me sensible to the morning light seeping in through the curtains. Blue curtains, the ones I picked out when I moved in five years ago. I'm curled up around a feather pillow I've spent the night clutching. The posture leaves me sore, but I don't move. The faded scent of my perfume lingers on the fabric, so I know that it is mine. I'm too afraid to move.

I have no memory of entering the house or lying down in my bed. My reaping dress bunches up around my waist instead of my nightgown. I never sleep in my clothes anymore. Even on bad nights. Finnick always makes sure, waiting on the other side of my bedroom door while I change, when I'm a wreck and couldn't care less what the maid will think of my appearance. He's the only reason I have my dignity left.

My body feels like it's spinning as I grow more and more disoriented. Moisture wells up in my eyes like the frustration I feel. How did I get here? What day is it? Finnick?

The reaping.

I slide the white duvet down to my knees. Keep it together, Annie. We've learned how to deal with this. We. I don't know if I can manage on my own. I'm already falling to pieces.

Look around. Take stock of things. That's what we do when I'm upset. Try to make it one day at a time. Sit up.

The my parents' wedding portrait fell off the nightstand at some point. Last night? Maybe when whoever it was put me in bed?

Feet on the floor. Pick up the portrait. Now what?

Breakfast? I only have five eggs and a quart of milk left in the fridge. Finnick makes breakfast most days.

The mirror over the dresser reveals a grey-faced young woman with alarming hair. She frowns, looking at the tip of her nose rather than see what's reflected in her eyes.

I find clean underwear. My dress falls around my ankles. I step out of it. The maid comes at 10 a.m. to sweep and dust and straighten. The laundry's all over the floor – need to pick that up before she comes. Finnick's plants need watering. I can hire a girl to do that. Not that he'll care – he lets them wilt. Put on my bathrobe. Don't bother cinching it around my waist. Who cares.

In the closet, I reach for the first hanger to connect with my hand. Something to wear later.

Blue Boy jumps onto the covers and mews at me. Mags's grey cat. A stray that adopted her like she adopted us. He's mine now. He arches his back under my hand.

Think of them like they're just down the road. Try to. Show Finn that he doesn't have to worry about you.

Blue Boy follows me downstairs. I will the banister to explain how I made it up these steps yesterday as I smooth my hand down the polished wood. It offers me nothing.

The den is more accommodating. Abel lies spread-eagle on my couch with dirty dishes all around him, and an empty liquor bottle he certainly didn't find in my home. I hastily close my robe and cinch it tight. Blue Boy licks the congealed yellow yolk from a dessert plate. How many eggs are left now?

"Abel?" His name comes out in a rasp and I have to repeat myself and jostle his shoulder before it wakes him. He sits up clumsily, grinding his firsts into his eyeballs.

"Is it afternoon already?" he asks stupidly, despite how he's blinking in the sunlight.

My stomach drops. "What? It's only morning."

He points to the clock over the mantelpiece. "Four o'clock."

I sit down on the loveseat as another dizzy spell set in. I never sleep this long. I've missed breakfast and the maid. She'll be sour-faced when I see her again, banging around the house to let me know that she's had to pick up the laundry off the floor so she could clean.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, messaging my temples.

Abel's head tips to the side. "I brought you home after the reaping. Don't you remember?"

No.

"I helped you into bed and you've been there since yesterday afternoon." He clears his throat. "You were pretty upset, so I stuck around."

He doesn't have to explain any further. It all comes together – the dizzying disorientation, lapses in memory, exhaustion. Shame licks over me like flames, burning me up. I should have held it together yesterday. After all this time, I'm still succumbing to my fears. Walking nightmares, Finnick calls them. I bite my hand to keep the pain somewhere other than my heart.

Finnick's going to worry – I proved how weak and hopeless I still am. And to have to rely on Abel.

Abel, who's looking at me with a mixture of pity and like he's creeped out by me. I have to turn away from him.

Why can't you do better, Annie? Why aren't you over this? Why are you crying, safe at home, when he's going to his death along with Mags?

"Man, sorry about the mess," he says, and gathering the dishes.

I don't care. I just want him out of my house. "I'll clean it up." I pick up the bottle, but he takes it from me.

"I got this," he insists. "I'm here to help."

Help I don't want. "Don't worry about me. You have other things to do."

Abel combs his fingers through his long hair. "Actually, the televised opening ceremony will be on in an hour. Might as well stick around, you know?"

My heart sinks. He's going to stay through the whole thing. I'd much rather be alone. I don't want to share the hour with anyone. The last times I get to see Finnick.

But I suffer it. Abel washes his dishes and makes dinner with groceries he brought from his home, while I shower and change out of my bathrobe.

I barely touch my food. My throat can't seem to take it in. Abel has no problem though and when it's time he turns on the TV like he's waiting for the weather report.

The anthem's already playing and the first chariot leaves the – I shudder and Abel gives me a concerned glance – the stables beneath the Remake Center. I slept through the recap of the other district reapings last night, so I don't know who else is going into the arena. I watch eagerly as each new chariot makes its way toward City Circle to see who Finnick and Mags are up against.

When the fourth chariot pulls out of the bend in the track, the camera pans in for a full view of Mags. My organs lurch as my mind instantly flashes back to the horrible, crushing pain and helplessness my mind's been kept buried all day – first of hearing Finnick's name drawn from the reaping ball and then when Mags took my place. I wish I could pluck her right out of the TV and shake her and hug her.

Then my knuckles turn white as I clutch the couch cushion. What have they done to her?

"Eugh." Abel shudders. "I'll never look at a woman's breasts again."

Serves you right, I chide. But honestly, what was Agrippina thinking? I suppose nostalgia won out over sense when she decided to use Mags's original costume from her Games over sixty years ago. The seashell bra just isn't…her chest has seen better days.

The camera pans out to include Finnick, who's holding Mags up. At first I'm certain that he's naked, but as the camera focuses, I see the gold net knotted low around his waist. I could strangle Agrippina for debasing him in front of the entire country. The screams of the Capitol women drown out any other sound, making my blood boil. And yet, there's an odd, warm coiling feeling in my stomach which has nothing to do with jealousy and everything to with untying that knot…

"What is this? Beach toga party?" Abel gripes. "Like we need to witness any more leering from his fan girls."

The camera zooms in on Finnick's face. The other victors have been solemn, brooding, or blank and confused. But he can't help himself – he smirks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abel's face twist with loathing. But it's gone before I know it, lost behind a sour smile. And even though the black look on his face causes my chest to tighten with anxiety, I am not surprised to see it. It's not the first time.

Finnick believes that I dislike Abel because he's loose and uses what little celebrity he has to lure women. I could never tell Finnick the truth: the degree to which Abel covers up how much he despises Finnick. Their victories came close together, Abels' just two years after. But Finnick is the prodigy. The golden boy. It's Finnick, not Abel, who receives the invitations back to the Capitol, the endless gifts and favors, and the obsessive interest.

Abel's never gotten over the way he's been thrown aside and forgotten, but he does his best to cover it up when he's with Finnick. It's sickening the way he cringes and flatters and wears a mask of friendship. Abel's two-faced behavior makes my skin crawl – especially since it works. Finnick's always so sharp, and yet, when it comes to Abel's jealousy, he's oblivious. I tried to tell him once, but he laughed at me.

The ceremony ends far too soon – with three more days before I see his face again.

Blue Boy dashes over my stomach, waking me up. I see his grey body slip off the mattress and hear him scuttle under the bed.

Abel.

Sure enough, the sound of the front door closing echoes up to the bedroom. Blue Boy doesn't like him much. I can't tell if he picked that up from me or if it's his animal instinct.

"Annie?" he calls. I roll over and try to ignore it, sinking down into the comforting sheets. "Annie! I know you're here."

I should have locked the doors. Finnick would have thought of it. I gently pull the collar of his shirt up to my nose. His scent still lingers on the pillows and sheets and his clothes. Sleeping here, it's the happiest I've been in five days. I wish I had thought of it sooner.

Last night I needed something to bring me closer to Finnick. Despite the documentaries, re-airing old interviews, and the training score announcements on television constantly flashing his face and relaying his voice, I've never felt further away. Five years of Games and tours and invitations have not prepared me for this separation. I feel homesick and I'm the one at home. His home. With a bag of clothes and Blue Boy.

Finnick scored a ten last night and Brutus scored an 11. I can't believe he scored lower than Brutus. The man has to be in his forties, at least. Not old, but not in his prime – not like Finnick. And yet, I remind myself to be grateful. At least he wasn't singled out like poor Katniss and Peeta. 12 – nobody has ever received a perfect score. What did they do to receive them? Perhaps Caeser will comment on it tonight during the interviews?

The bedroom door swings open. Reluctant as I am to see Abel, I don't like the idea of turning my back on him. I roll over to face him. He's wearing board shorts and nothing else. A package is tucked under his arm.

"Annie, I've been looking for you all morning," Abel says irritably. He's been a constant presence all week. Suffocating me. I don't regret inconveniencing him. "Should have known you'd shack up at Odair's."

Abel's puffy eyes take in the room. I'm curled up in Finnick's bed, wearing his shirt, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's speculating on how often I've slept over when Finnick was home. I bristle. It's really none of his business what Finnick and I have or haven't done.

"This was waiting on your porch." He lays the package on the foot of the bed.

I sit up. "I didn't order anything," I tell him. "It must be another gift for Finnick that didn't make it here before the reaping. The postman probably—"

He slides the box closer to me. "Your name's on the label."

So it is. My heart skips a beat when I recognize the penmanship. Finnick's never sent me anything from the Capitol before, and I've never heard of tributes being allowed to mail things. Perhaps victor tributes have more privileges.

Or maybe it's just Finnick.

The tape tears my fingernails in my haste to see what's inside. Abel offers to find scissors, but I ignore him. Eventually I win against the packaging. Lifting the flaps, I see a small, plain envelope resting on top of delicate tissue paper.

I open the envelope and blush – it contains a postcard that must have gone on sale on the streets of the Capitol: Finnick posing against a beach scene in his net costume. I stare at the photo manipulation (they certainly don't have beaches like that in the Capitol) and try not to blush more.

Abel grunts. "That's nice. Pictures of himself."

"It's a joke," I tell him, then flip the card over to the other side.

Take care of this for me, will you? Chin up, Annie.

Until I get home,

Finnick

My throat constricts so tightly with the sudden rush of need that I can hardly breathe. I can't even move to unwrap the thing he wants me to look after.

"That's bold. He's buying things for his victory," Abel says. "Odair hasn't even entered the arena yet."

"Which means Finnick hasn't lost yet," I choke. If he isn't giving up, how can I?

"Of course." He smiles patronizingly. "The odds have always been in his favor, haven't they."

I hate the finality in his voice. But I know Finnick. He won't give up and even though the judges gave him a lower score than Brutus, I know that he's more capable.

"Though I have to wonder why someone who banks on coming home so much would plan to volunteer in the reaping."

"What?" I gasp at the accusation. "Why would Finnick choose to volunteer? We were getting married; he'd never choose to leave me." Abel's eyebrows knit together. We've never told anyone we were engaged, though our relationship is no secret in the district. "I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life."

Abel's face smoothes into a mask of innocence. "But, Annie, he told me himself he'd volunteer if his name wasn't drawn. He said it the day he asked me to watch out for you."

It can't be true, but the blood drains from my face anyway. "I don't believe you," I murmur.

"Annie, why would I lie? I'm not gaining anything by it." His face twists like he's bitten a lemon. "I'm sure Finnick had a good reason. He always liked being the center of attention. I bet it's tough for him to make room in the limelight for those kids from Twelve."

"You don't know Finnick," I say wearily, not wanting to have this discussion with him. "He doesn't care about any of that."

Abel snorts and shakes his head. "If he doesn't like it so much, why does he choose to go back to the Capitol time and time again?"

I'm having trouble focusing and sit on the bed. We're engaged. If Mags volunteered to keep me safe, why would he go out of his way to leave me behind? He wouldn't. He'd try hard to stay so that we could get married.

One poisonous truth stands out. Mags volunteered, Finnick told me she would. They planned that – they could plan for him to do the same. But for what purpose? And why not tell me?

Why, Finnick?

"Maybe he knew you'd take it hard. That's kind of low, though, choosing glory over your girl." Abel's hand rests heavily on my shoulder. "Just remember that I'm here for you, Annie."

I shrug off his hand and fold away the tissue paper in the box. Abel whistles. I lift out a white silk dress. It spills toward the floor and I stand to see it better. The dress is shaped like a lily bent to the ground by dew drops. Beautiful.

"I swear I've seen that before," Abel says, running the fabric between his fingers. I want to yank the dress away from him.

"You have." I swallow, checking the small, white tag sewn into a seam. It has a large, gold C embroidered on it. "On Katniss Everdeen."

Finnick sent me a wedding dress.


TBC

Well, Cinna did have all those dresses left over. ;) Thanks for reading!

List of OCs:

Abel - D4 Victor, won in the years between Finnick and Annie's Games.

Blue Boy – Mags's cat

Agrippina – Stylist, she belongs to Geeky-DMHG-Fan

Colm – Annie's fellow tribute in the 70th Games. He was beheaded – in medea!verse – by a D2 tribute.

Felicia - D2 mentor, whose name seems to elude Finnick

Marina – D4 Victor, mentor who replaced Mags after the stroke. Will continue the post for the Quarter Quell

Lavinia – D4 Escort

Seward – Elderly D4 Victor, retired mentor who will return to the post for the Quart Quell.