Here is a question that I am unsure how to answer: When you make a person your home, where do you go when they are gone? What shelters you from the wind and rain? Where do you go at the end of the day when you're exhausted and on the edge of tears?
I'm not sure, and for the first week Finnick is gone, I can't even find it in me to search for an answer. Every morning I slide my hand across the open expanse of the bed and then have a panic attack when I realize it's empty. By the fourth day I stop forgetting he's gone in those early moments and simply drift away. I don't leave his bed—no, our bed, he said that before he left, didn't he?—for a week. Mags comes by at the end of that week, deeply concerned and determined to get me up and active. I try very hard to keep her company, but I'm a mess. I watch the Opening Ceremonies and catch glimpses of him as well as brief sights at the interviews the night before the Games begin, but I can't watch the Games themselves. Mags tells me not to even try, but I do because as awful as it is I can't seem to look away. I am able to look away once I encounter flashbacks so intense I'm sprinting to the bathroom, bile rising in my throat and blackness swirling in front of my eyes.
We keep the TV tuned to the Games because it's required, but I work on the puzzle Finnick got me instead. I finish it once, twice, three times, and yet the Games still go on and on. And so I slowly pull each piece apart from the others over and over, intent on doing this until Finnick is back and can sit down beside me and make silly comments.
I'm having trouble eating, and Mags keeps telling me she's worried about me. I am sorry once more for my madness, for my weakness, for my instability. There is a girl on the Games, and sometimes I find myself wishing I could be more like her. She has neither weakness nor madness. She is from District 7 like Twine and Kaya. She started out gentle and scared, and I felt bad for her because I know how that feels. I know how it feels to shake so hard out of fear that it's hard to even keep from passing out. But what I don't know is what it feels like to suddenly wake up one morning, completely okay, and systematically decapitate and otherwise murder six people in one day. More than anything I am repulsed by the thoughtless and callous killing, but a part of me does envy the way it all seems to roll off of her. She can make wisecracks at people and then kill them three seconds later and have time to clean the blood off her ax calmly before bed. I bet she would never be as lost as I feel now.
Mags doesn't like her. I press pieces together and listen to the commentary on the television that's background noise for Mags' vehement annotations. I drift away a lot, but from what I gather, Mags dislikes her because she pretended to be frail and defenseless and that's nothing to joke about. I wonder if this would have bothered her before me. I don't think so.
I've got blisters from my obsessive piecing and pulling apart and piecing and pulling apart. Mags gently asks me if I want to go on a walk one day, reaching forward to move the puzzle away, but then I'm looking up at her and begging her as much as I can with my eyes not to, and she immediately withdraws her hands. I can't explain it to her, but I need this. This keeps me calm. It's relaxing like tying and untying knots, but I haven't done that since I tied knots with Finnick over a year ago now, and I am afraid that it would remind me too much of Cora as well as make me miss him even more.
I don't eat for three days in a row, and Mags tells me that if Finnick knew it would hurt him very much. She says this as kindly as she can, because she knows that once she does I'll be forced to eat, but I can still hear the disappointment in her voice. I know I'm being selfish. I never forget that. But it's difficult.
"It will get better each time he leaves. I promise." She tells me as I force a spoonful of soup past my lips. I have to squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to swallow, and even then it's heavy in my stomach and makes me feel ill.
I am reminded for the hundredth time that I am not better. I am only better with him. And unfortunately, there is a difference. A huge one.
The District 4 tributes die a few weeks in. They lasted much longer than I thought they would, as tributes from the district whose tribute won the previous Games usually never even make it past the Cornucopia. They die at the hands of the District 7 girl, who I am sure is going to win. I don't think you can defeat someone who looks so much like she has absolutely nothing to lose.
I worry about him constantly, because I know what he's doing while Johanna Mason is murdering her way back home to District 7. He's with strange Capitol people and he is coming home every night to an empty room that simply echoes back his troubled thoughts. I try to close my eyes and tell him the things I want him to know as often as I redo the puzzle. I scream it as loudly as I can in my head, but I know no matter how loudly I scream, even if I screamed it outloud, he wouldn't hear it.
It's nearing the one month mark when Johanna Mason is declared the winner of the 71st Annual Hunger Games.
When the anthem plays and she's pulled into the sky, I cry, because this means Finnick is finally coming home.
I know I can't go to the train station to meet him when he arrives, because I don't know how I'm going to react but I'm certain it won't be in a way that is acceptable for Panem to see. Mags leaves to wait there for him, and I pace and pace and pace his kitchen with my eyes flitting to the clock every five minutes. The train's late, so I clean the faucet and stovetop, unable to stand still. An hour passes, and then another, and I'm getting frightened. I carry the puzzle into the kitchen, my breaths coming out short and shallow, and begin piecing it together once more.
I'm intently grasping a piece that makes up the corner of a slightly wrinkled beach towel, narrowing my world so I only focus on this—the colors, the shapes, the pieces that fit and the pieces that don't— in order to keep myself here, when a voice mixes easily in with my captivated concentration.
"I think that goes a little to the left."
I'm dropping my focus and taking in the kitchen—Mags at the door with a huge smile on her face, the clock on the wall above the door, the shiny faucet, the leftover lunch wrapped in tin foil on the counter, and Finnick, Finnick, Finnick, leaning over the table across from me, still in Capitol clothes and smelling strangely but smiling like always and his eyes green green green—and I can only stare for a few extended moments, my face aching from a smile that's slid up on it without my acknowledgement. And I can feel my heart swelling and my stomach jumping and then I'm rising to my feet and perching on the edge of the table so quickly I go sliding across it a bit, knocking a few puzzle pieces to the floor, and I've got my arms around Finnick tightly. I press my face into his shoulder so hard his collarbone bites into the bridge of my nose, but I don't care, and I think my nails must be pressing into his back from my tight clutch, but I don't think I could loosen my grip even if he asked me to.
He wraps his arms around me just as securely and kisses the top of my head, pressing his cheek there afterwards and rubbing a hand down my back. We don't say anything, and I don't let go, and neither does he. We end up sitting together, on top of his kitchen table, our arms tightly wound around each other for what could be anywhere between fifteen minutes and half an hour. I don't know when Mags leaves, but when I finally glance up, the kitchen is empty.
"So you didn't forget about me?" He jokes after a while, his fingers playing with the ends of my hair.
I press my face against his neck and I can't even answer his question because that is such a ridiculous thing to joke about. As if I would ever forget him. As if I could ever go back to how I was before I loved him. He's imprinted himself so deeply into my heart and skin that I can hardly function without him. It's too late too late too late to even hope of there being a life without or beyond him, and I don't even want there to be. I don't care if that makes me weak. I've always been weak. The arena can't change you that much.
And yet after a few minutes I feel my old self rising from underneath the bricks I had her buried under.
"I very obviously married another man while you were away. We're expecting." I mumble. I mean for it to come out sarcastically, but I'm surprised to hear I'm teary. Sure enough, I can feel tears spilling over from my eyes and landing on Finnick's neck. Happy or sad happy or sad happy or sad happy or sad?
Finnick pulls back for the first time since I slid towards him and presses his nose to mine, a teasing smile on his face.
Happy.
"Really, now? I bet you had the time of your life free from me." He mutters, his eyes intent on mine. Our eyes are doing a familiar dance, drifting down to each other's lips and then back up to look at each other and then back down again in a never-ending loop.
"It was heaven." I lie, but my voice breaks on the last word, because it was hell.
His eyes drift shut for a brief moment, almost as if he's in pain, and then he looks back at me.
"For me, too." He says.
His eyes drift down once more, and the air feels strangely heavy, like it's something solid you could touch. My breathing hitches a bit and my heart begins to pound and honestly, you'd think he had never kissed me before, because when he turns his head slightly and presses his lips to mine I'm clutching him tightly against me and kissing him like I never have and I never will again. I've got the Capitol suit jacket, made from some material so expensive I'm sure it could feed a family of six here for a month, balled up tightly in my hands as I grip him to me and his hands are equally greedy as they bury themselves in my hair. And after a few minutes my lungs are screaming and burning burning burning for oxygen but I don't care and it's just like being underwater in every way except for the fear.
I'm gasping for air when we pull apart. I lower my arms and press a hand over my beating heart.
"You shouldn't kiss other men's wives." I joke, still out of breath and blushing.
He's gazing at me fondly and smiling softly, his hands reaching out to take mine. When he speaks, his voice is full of confidence.
"I'm sure my future self won't mind."
It takes me a while to figure out what he's saying. I go upstairs with him up and help him unpack his suitcase, the words bouncing around my mind and slipping from my fingers the moment I think I've grasped them long enough to make sense of them. When I finally decipher what he's saying, I just turn and look at him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes and socks off, looking exhausted beyond belief. It's difficult to breathe sometimes because I love him so. I love him in a way that makes me unsure what to do with the affection rising like the tide inside of me, sweeping everything under and flooding me. I don't know what could have happened in the month we were apart that made him certain that one day we will be able to marry, but his surety is contagious, and when I walk over and find my hands automatically loosening his tie for him, his eyes meeting mine with a look so concrete in its love that I can't help but smile, I know that one day he will be my husband, and it will be perfect, and we won't have to hide inside these mansions, and finally there will be a word strong enough to explain what he is to me.
After a reunion dinner with Mags we're back in bed and it's like he was never gone at all. It occurs to me then that you never know where life is going to take you. If someone would have told me two years ago that I'd be in bed with Finnick Odair (and not in the way that I would have assumed they meant back then), I wouldn't have believed it for a second. I like to think that in five years I can look back to the moments I've been certain Finnick and I will never get to be anything but secrets and laugh, because I had no idea where I would end up. I had no idea the good things that were waiting just around the corner to creep up and make all our suffering worth it.
It must be the part of me that comes from my mother that whispers a dark reminder to me just before I drift off to sleep: bad things can creep up on you, too. I never would have expected two years ago that my entire family would be dead, or that I'd have killed someone, either. Good and bad good and bad good and bad. They are always together, weaving in and out in and out in and out. I think we've had enough bad things happen to us, though. Why couldn't there be some sort of invisible quota every person has that dictates how much suffering they need in an average lifespan? I think ours have overrun with darkness and tears and blood. I think it's safe for us now.
Of course, I thought that very same thing after my Games.
I thought I'd be free from the stinging skin and scented soaps my prep team subject me to after my Victory Tour, but it seems that a victor's prep team is part of the entire post-Games package. They show up at my house the day before Johanna Mason is due in District 4, arms laden with silk bags full of lotions and lipsticks and powders. I don't mind it so much anymore, but it was rather nerve-wracking to wake up to them worriedly banging on Finn's front door, saying I was "missing". He told them I was taking a walk on the beach and I slid out the back door, running full speed to the beach long enough to cover my legs in a layer of sand. Luckily they were so distressed over my sea-breeze tousled hair and freckled nose that they didn't even question the fact that I was wearing a man's shirt.
I get lecture after lecture on how bad the sun is for my skin (the main offense being freckles, which are an atrocity in their opinions), and then it's quiet for the rest of the prep session. Mauve is allowed to pick my dress once again, so I am clothed in a periwinkle dress that reaches my knees instead of a frightening skintight garment like before. She pulls my hair back in a series of complicated twists that intertwine together and then knot at the base of my skull, but for once I feel like I can handle that. Finnick will be at this party with me and he doesn't have to sleep with anyone at all. That knowledge protects me.
We head over to Finnick's house after I'm fully dressed. His prep team is done with him already and they are all sitting in his kitchen laughing at some rumor about a Capitol citizen. My prep team seems oblivious to any type of bond between Finnick and I as they proceed to give me a verbal tour of his home under their breath once we enter, obviously trying to show off the fact that they've been in here before. I smile and nod and look humbled at the right moments, because they aren't allowed to know that I live here. And so I'm shocked to hear that the tea set in the glass cabinet was the same price as President Snow's hovercraft (It wasn't, actually. Finnick's mother was a potter and made it the year he was born), and I'm very interested to hear more about how the "antique" curtains in the kitchen were given to him from a very affluent lover in the Capitol who purchased them from a museum (especially since I was with Finnick when Mags gave them to him, insisting he finally hang some up). I can tell Finnick has one ear in his conversation with his prep team and the other on my team's words because he looks like he's fighting laughter just as much as I am. My favorite part of their "tour" is when they start talking in whispers amongst themselves about all the passionate things that must go on upstairs in Finnick Odair's bedroom. They look up at the ceiling of the kitchen as if they could see through the floor and into said room, and all I can think about is how Finnick and I spent two hours yesterday sitting on his bed drawing ridiculous things onto each other with strange skin inking markers someone sent in the mail. Unfortunately, we didn't read the package all the way until we were already inked, so we didn't know that anything drawn with the markers that sits on skin for three hours becomes permanent for up to 3000 washes. We sprinted full speed into his bathroom and jumped into the shower fully clothed, breathing heavy sighs of relief when the ink washed off us and down the drain in streams of gold, magenta, and cerulean. We laughed so hard we slipped in the soapy water beneath our feet and fell hard to the floor of the shower in a tangle of wet clothes and limbs, earning us a couple of bruises. That taught us not to play around with the odd cosmetics his Capitol lovers send in the mail, no matter how much fun it is to draw cat whiskers on Finnick's face, or how adorably he laughs when he discovers just how much it tickles me when he presses the cool tip of the marker to my stomach.
So I nod innocently in agreement as they go on about the steamy nights women must have right above our very heads, because I guess technically the hot water in the shower was steamy.
Finnick walks over a few minutes later with the pretense of adjusting my necklace. His voice is humored when he mutters something only loud enough for me to pick up.
"They just have no idea." He snickers.
I bite back a smile.
"None at all." I agree. That's the Capitol for you.
He lowers his hands and almost looks regretful. He says one last thing before joining his prep team back at the table.
"Just the way Old Snow likes it."
But not the way we do. We are doomed to a life of performances. We put on a show where I'm The Mad Girl and he's a prostitute by choice and no one sees anything odd in the mentor/victor relationship we have. We put on a show where these Capitol people have to tell me what all these things in his home mean and where he takes girl after girl upstairs and where I sit and stare out the window all day. Sometimes I want to call Snow and say "Forgive me for asking, but this isn't a very interesting show is it?". But I know the answer before I ask. It's not supposed to be interesting. I am supposed to disappear as much as I can without actually becoming invisible. Judging by the way people talk about me like I'm not in the room, I have succeeded.
Capitol cars escort all of the victors to the venue. I hate the entire ride and I am dizzy and nauseous by the time we pull up to the building. Finnick was shuffled into a different car so I don't see him when I step out onto the stone sidewalk. The Justice Building doors are propped open and I can hear the roar of hundreds of people chattering. Important citizens in fine clothing are exiting cars and exchanging brief words with the Peacekeepers scattered everywhere. "Non-important" District 4 citizens are dressed in the nicest things they have, tiredly walking through the doors to hear yet another victory speech from the person who killed their children. I can't locate Finnick, so I decide his car must have already arrived. I walk up the stone steps and a rush of warm air slams into me the minute I enter the building.
Mags finds me and we stand in the audience, waiting patiently for Johanna Mason to arrive and accept her plaque. Finnick slides up beside me a few moments before she walks on stage. She is very pretty, but very intimidating. Her face is sharp and she talks like someone who not only knows what they want, but will do whatever it takes to get it. She doesn't say anything mean, but there's a few times in her speech where she talks as if she was going to say something else but was advised not to. Bitter. She even shoots a glare backstage, presumably at her mentor and/or escort.
There is always a special dinner with dancing and music after the presentation of the plaque, and since I am a victor this year, my presence is mandatory. I'm already tired after the ceremony and I wish for the thousandth time that I weren't a victor. I have been around more people today than I have since my own Victory Tour.
Finnick gets pulled away immediately once we walk back into the lobby and Mags gets separated from me somehow in the flood of bodies. I walk forward into the ballroom where the dinner will be held, immediately wishing I hadn't because red is the color they have gone with this year. Red glass bowls filled with rolls settled on red satin tablecloths beside red trays with slices of red meat and red cake. Red banners and red streamers and red wine glasses filled with red wine and red ribbons and red lobster and red lighting. I'm worried I'm going to have a flashback, but then a familiar hand is around mine.
"Ugly dinner." Finnick observes lowly, his voice almost impossible to make out above the sounds of the band. I look up at him and he isn't red. He's green eyes and bronze hair and pink lips and a navy suit.
"Hate the red." I agree, just as quietly.
His hand reluctantly drops mine. I know it is necessary, but I hate it all the same. My hand feels very cold without his. I look back at him and his mouth is pulled into a line.
We're seated as far apart from each other at the table as possible, and I just know Snow had to be responsible for it. Johanna Mason is on the other end with Finnick, although it doesn't look like either of them have interest in talking to one another judging by the fact they don't even spare a glance the other's way. Or it could just be because the mayor holds a practically one sided conversation with Johanna the entire time. She looks bored out of her mind, picking at her meal with her chin resting in her hand and her elbow on the table. Her eyes are even glazed over. I think Annora would have been in tears by now.
People slowly begin to rise from the dinner table after the third course, dispersing around the room. Some dance and some simply amble around, talking and drinking. Finnick excuses himself and "accidentally" knocks into my chair on his way across the room. I wait a few moments, because a kind lady on my right has been making painful effort to talk to me the entire dinner. She's currently attempting to pry information about my own Games out of me. I politely tell her I can't talk about it, excuse myself, and then I'm crossing the room to the corner where Finnick is standing.
His fingertips barely graze my palm before he catches himself and shoves his hand into his pocket.
"How long will this last?" I ask him, desperate to be out of this dress and back home. I scan the room, making sure no one is paying any special attention to us.
His eyes are following mine, sweeping over the room and its inhabitants.
"Probably another three hours. Let's not pretend to be strangers. Let's just try to act like we're friends."
I turn my eyes to him and he turns his also. We stare at each other for a moment and I can tell that we both doubt our abilities to act platonically towards each other, but I can also see that we have no desire to go back to acting like we don't know each other at all like we did on my Tour. Not even for three hours.
We drift apart only to drift back together. We keep our hands off each other, but I don't know how to hide the smile that always consumes my face when he is with me again, and he doesn't either. I keep hoping the dinner attendees will continue pouring alcohol into their mouths at as constant of a pace as they have been so they won't care how Finnick and I look at each other.
I'm standing at the wall and examining a framed picture when a man who smells strongly of alcohol asks me to dance. I could probably refuse his offer, because this isn't my Tour anymore, but Annora must have succeeded in brainwashing me at least a little bit because I say yes without even thinking about it. He leads me to the dance floor and he's very nice. He rambles on and on about his little girl, and he's not creepy like the man with the snakes, but he is unintentionally sloppy with his hand placement (most likely due to his inebriation). Finnick appears after only a few moments of discomfort and smoothly slides in, joking that I've owed him a dance since my own Tour, and the man guffaws like Finnick's told a hysterical joke. He passes me to Finn good-naturedly.
And then I feel like crying, because I'm Finnick's arms and he's twirling me around the dance floor, but I can't really be in his arms. That isn't allowed. He's keeping a modest distance between our bodies, but I feel like it's a wasted effort due to the way he's looking at me, love and longing obvious in his expression. I know I should try to tell him to stop, but I can't look away from him, either. His hands are warm on my waist and my hands feel right splayed across his shoulders and we're spinning spinning spinning. The world is a red blur except for Finnick and we're laughing and smiling and I know he wants to kiss me like I want to kiss him. I just hope no one else can tell that.
The song ends and we immediately separate. I'm worried when I notice we have attracted quite a few curious and suspicious glances. We walk indifferently with a safe distance between our hands to a table that's practically bowing under trays and trays of finger foods and small desserts, trying to play it off like that meant nothing at all. Because it isn't allowed to mean anything.
We've got our backs to everyone when we finally turn our heads and meet each other's eyes. We're both frowning, worried and regretful. I'm about to say something when I see someone sidle up beside us from the corner of my eye.
Johanna Mason stands beside me with her back to the dance floor just as we are standing, casually piling cakes and snacks onto her plate.
"You did a great job hiding that one." She says sarcastically. She continues examining the foods. "That was so disgusting I almost puked all over the mayor's shoes." She turns around, leaning back against the table and observing the crowds of people wandering around the room. She gestures thoughtfully with a pretzel stick dipped in chocolate. "Although it probably would have been an improvement. And it would have given him at least one interesting story to tell."
I turn and glance up at Finnick, deeply concerned now because surely this means we're going to be in a lot of trouble. He seems intent on keeping a blank face, though. He reaches over me and pulls a small cake from her plate, smirking a bit at the hostile glare she gives him. She smacks his hand hard and pulls it free from his clutches, biting into it herself.
He continues like nothing ever happened.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." He says coolly. He turns to me and grasps my hand. "Let's go, Annie."
We're only a few feet away when she yells something after us.
"I'm not an idiot like everyone else here, you know."
Finnick stops and I think he swears under his breath. He turns and walks back over to her, pulling me with him. He stands beside her where I was standing previously, glaring at her.
"What's it to you, anyway?" He demands.
She pokes a finger at a pastry on her plate, grimacing when dark red jelly oozes out. She picks it up and then drops it to the floor carelessly. She turns back to her plate.
"Believe it or not, I couldn't care less about Finnick Odair's love life, unlike the rest of these shallow imbeciles. I do, however, care about why every victor I meet seems to be hiding something." She looks up at Finnick then, her eyebrows raised and her tone challenging.
I'm uncomfortable and scared by her brash statement. My hands rise suddenly to cover my ears, as if if I don't hear what she just said, Snow can't either and no one will be punished for it. She just doesn't understand. She can't just say things like that in a place like this. You just don't do it. She has no idea what can happen if you aren't careful. She has no idea what Snow is capable of.
Her eyes turn to appraise me, and I feel a bit like prey when she is looking at me. I bet everyone does under her glance.
"Except for you, Crazy. You're just as mad as they say you are, aren't you?" She laughs.
I can sense Finnick's anger before he says anything. His back stiffens and he clenches his fists.
"Watch it, Johanna. Just because you made it out of the arena alive doesn't mean you'll make it out of here alive." He threatens. He turns to me and takes my hand briefly, giving it a gentle squeeze. I slowly lower my hands, remembering with his touch that Snow can still hear things that I can't. That gesture was for naught.
Johanna grins.
"Is that supposed to be a threat, Odair? I don't see any pretty ladies or men around to give you a trident."
Her words make me frown, because she has no idea what she's talking about, but Finnick is smiling amiably at her.
"No need. I can kill you with my bare hands."
His words are chilling and even more so when they come from such a seemingly friendly smile. Johanna laughs again, not the least bit troubled by Finnick's anger when she really should be.
"I'd have loved for you to be in the arena with me, pretty boy." She says. "Now that would be a real challenge."
He is smiling back still, but his eyes are hard.
"Don't say things like that to Annie, and don't question the Capitol." I can hear the rest of the sentence he leaves off. Don't question the Capitol in places like this.
She seems almost angry for once. She crossly tosses another jam-filled pastry onto the floor. I watch it land and burst, sending sprays of red jelly in every direction. I turn away, sick and faint.
"I won their Games; I'll question whatever I like!" She cries. "I don't like the way all you victors act, like he's got you on some sort of chain. I think it's pathetic."
I want to tell her that her chain will come, and that she'll understand once it's tied to her that it's better to stay on it than risk the alternative, but I can't I can't I can't. I want to beg her to shut up, to close her mouth long enough to realize what Finnick and I are trying to tell her with our expressions, because I don't want someone else's innocent little brother to drown for no reason at all. Needless deaths are everywhere and they are buried underneath my skin, heavy and burning, and I can't handle any more. I have an urge to scratch at my arms again now, but I lock my hands together behind my back to keep from acting on it. The last thing this room needs is to be redder.
Finnick's visibly uneasy and I wish we could just walk away from this right now.
"Don't talk about things you don't understand." He warns carefully.
I'm staring at her and pleading with her to stop stop stop because she is going to get us all in trouble and I have had enough trouble and I want to go home with Finnick tonight like I always do but if she keeps going on and on and on about this Snow is going to do something bad he is always doing something bad always always always and he's going to hurt her and her family and then probably Finnick and then probably me and I am panicking and breathing is difficult and I hate all the red all around and why can't she just be quiet be quiet be quiet?
Finnick's arm slides around my waist and it's an anchor. I feel my panic ebbing away slightly. Johanna's frowning again. She turns to me.
"What's he doing to you all? What is he going to do to me?" She demands.
I can't tell you. I can't. I can't because Arnav is buried in a suit and my sister left Marv all alone and my father will never hold my hand ever again. I can't because Finnick is responsible for the sun rising and setting and it will be so cold without the sun.
Finnick drops his arm from my waist then and grabs her arm roughly, yanking her towards the exit of the ballroom. I keep my eye on everyone as we walk out, but they are too drunk to care about anything at this point. Mags has fallen prey to the mayor's awful stories and is nodding off while he talks.
I slip out of the door and Finnick pushes Johanna through a doorway that leads to a winding staircase. She's cursing at him vehemently as we climb and climb and climb. I walk ahead of them and open the door at the very top.
We climb up, suddenly at the very top of District 4. The Justice Building has a fake lighthouse attached to it, and we've climbed up into it. The walls are huge, glass windows that overlook everything: the Square and shops on the ground straight ahead, the coastline running along the left of the district, the marshlands on the right.
It's drafty and chilly up here. Finnick pulls the door we climbed up through shut and turns around, glaring once more at Johanna.
She's walking slowly around the room, observing the windows.
"Is this dramatic enough of a setting for you?" She asks him finally, turning to him with an irritated expression.
I feel words bubbling inside of me.
"It's not that!" I exclaim. "It's not safe to talk down there! You can't just say things like that! You can't!"
Johanna looks mildly shocked. I feel bad for my outburst almost immediately.
"And why not?" She demands.
"Because people get hurt." Finnick says, finishing my thought.
She turns back to me, her eyes trying to pull answers from me.
"Like your family?" She asks.
I know she's not saying it to be mean, I know she's just asking, but it feels like I've been slapped in the face. Finnick yells at her again, but I'm feeling mentally shaky once more. Yes, like my family. Yes.
"Snow is going to give you an order one day soon. I don't know what it is, and I don't know when exactly, but when he does, you have two choices: you give into the demands, or he kills everyone you love." Finnick whispers quickly and urgently.
She's thinking deeply, her eyes glancing between us once more.
"He ordered you two to pretend like you aren't lovers? Why?" She's confused and impatient, demanding demanding demanding answers that I don't want Finnick to have to endanger himself to give.
He falters a bit.
"That's part of it. We all have our own demands." He hedges.
She scowls. "Well, thanks for that. Very helpful."
Finnick is sneering back. "No problem."
She laughs again, but it sounds empty this time.
"Well, I for one didn't win his damn Games only to be pulled into another one. You two might put up with that, but I did my job. I won the Games and I'm done playing. So when he comes to me with his "demand", I'm going to tell him to shove it up his ass because I'm free from his control now."
Her voice is dark and I know she means every word she's saying.
"But he will do it. He will kill them. He really will." I find myself whispering to her, frantic for her to understand the full extent of the repercussions if she does decide to do what she's saying.
She's grinding her teeth then, furious and frustrated. Finally she turns back to us, her eyes narrowed.
"Let him. Let him destroy the only way he has to control me. He won't get what he wants by doing that, so he won't." She decides.
No. She still doesn't get it; she still hasn't reached the full understanding of what life is as a victor. She just doesn't get it.
"It's not like that. If he thinks he won't get what he wants from you, he is going to punish you. That won't—" Finnick tries.
"Whatever!" She yells, throwing her hands up in the air. "If he kills them, good for them. They're better off dead. Better than being kept alive only to be used against someone."
She turns and she's a blur of orange silk as she throws the door open, climbing back down to the staircase. We stay up there listening to the clicks of her heels against the stone steps. I turn and look at him.
"Do you think she really means that?" I ask him.
Finnick pulls me to him and hugs me tightly and I needed it. His voice is irritated when he finally speaks.
"Don't worry about her. We did more than enough by trying to warn her. If she's not going to listen to us, it's on her loved ones' heads."
His words make me sick and shaky and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight against the images I can feel creeping up on me. He inhales sharply, pulling back to look at me. I can feel his hands grasping my upper arms but it's supposed to be dark when I close my eyes but it isn't. There's Chiron in a familiar scene, but it's Johanna who has the blade, and when she stabs it down into his neck, blood that looks just like red jam bursts everywhere and it's sweet when it hits my lips, so sweet I'm vomiting, and she's laughing and her orange silk dress is ripped and stained with blood, and she's bringing the knife back down, and—
"—sorry, Ann. I'm so sorry."
Finnick's voice is tortured and deeply apologetic when it breaks through to me. It's still cold, so I think we're still in the lighthouse. This is confirmed when I open my eyes. Finnick's holding me to him, and he looks stricken, but it isn't his fault.
His eyes snag mine and he looks so sad.
"I shouldn't have said that. I don't know why I did. I was just so angry, and it slipped out before I even—"
I lean up and kiss him, because I can in here, and this isn't his fault. I slowly part our lips, looking up to him again.
"It's fine." I tell him. "I'm fine."
And I am now, because he's with me. He nods, still a bit upset, but accepting my words.
He rises and helps me to my feet and keeps his hand in mine the entire walk down. He doesn't let go until we're entering the ballroom again and it's absolutely necessary.
The rest of the party goes by very quickly. My feet are aching by the time Finnick and I walk through his door. I kick my shoes off first thing and then set about yanking my hair down and pulling every piece of jewelry off my body.
Finnick isn't as uncomfortable in his. He picks a few pieces of paper off the kitchen floor and then turns around to see me struggling with the clasp of a necklace that's somehow gotten twisted up with my hair.
He laughs a bit, crossing the room and taking the tangled mess from my hands. I drop my arms to my side and stand still while he fiddles with the necklace.
"Eager to get undressed?" He teases, his warm breath hitting the back of my bare neck as he lifts my hair up to try and pull it free.
His voice is quiet and smooth and I can't explain why I suddenly feel goosebumps rise up on my skin or why my heart picks up pace.
"You could say that." I reply, my voice less stable than I would have preferred.
He laughs a bit in triumph and then I feel the strain on my hair lessen. It falls back down my back and he reaches around me, dropping the necklace into my hand. He presses a gentle kiss to the back of my head.
"There you go, my darling!" He practically sings.
The air goes cold when he takes a step back and I spin around and grasp onto his hand before he walks away. He stops walking instantly and turns back to face me. His eyes scan over my face and he furrows his eyebrows.
"What's wrong?" He asks.
I have an urge to smooth my fingers over his forehead until his eyebrows unfurrow and the worry lines melt away and I'm not sure where it came from.
"Nothing." I tell him, and when it comes out, I sound just as confused and puzzled as he must be.
He looks down at me and I up at him and the room feels sweltering all of the sudden. I drop his hand and avert my eyes, glancing instead at the wall beside his head.
"Do you remember a few months back, when you got home from the Games, and you said that your future self wouldn't mind?" I ask. I wish my heart would stop pounding because really there's no reason for this.
He looks even more baffled. He thinks for a moment and then nods, reaching out to grab onto my hand again. I don't even have to look at him. I can feel his worry. I can feel it on his skin.
"Yes." He replies slowly.
I look back up at him, taking a deep breath that sounds shuddering. Maybe the lobster was bad at dinner.
"Did you mean that?" I ask. "About us getting married one day?"
He's staring hard at me, trying to understand where I'm going with this, and I'm staring hard at myself too, because his guess is as good as mine.
"Of course I did." He tells me softly. He reaches forward and gently redirects my gaze so I'm looking at him once more. "That's number one on my list, Annie. That's the thing I want the most. It has been for a while and it will be until we get it."
I don't remember either of our faces moving an inch, but they are suddenly closer than they were before. They must be, because I can see each of his golden eyelashes, and our noses are practically touching.
"That's number one on mine, too." I whisper.
He smiles a bit, reaching up to cup my cheek. He strokes his thumb back and forth and leans his head forward so our noses bump into each other's.
"Then we'll just have to find a new number one together once we achieve it."
It isn't until I kiss his lips, propelled forward by something powerful that originated in my heart rising inside of me and taking over, that I realize exactly what the problem is. It's a problem that isn't even really a problem, but I want him. In every way, all the time, no matter what, until I die. I want him beside me when I drink tea in the mornings and I want to know he's beside me when I wake up randomly at three in the morning and I want to hold his hand on summer days underneath the sun and I want to be there for him when he's sad and I want to make him smile and right now I want to pull him as close to me as he can possibly get, skin on skin, because the love is eating away at my heart, creating a hollow space inside of me that hurts hurts hurts and I want it filled.
I think I'm being transparent with my thoughts again, because when we break apart, he looks like he wants the same things, too.
But I won't love him like that until I know for certain he wants to be loved like that, or even could let someone love him like that, and that's completely okay because I feel blessed I have the opportunity to love him in any way at all. I will love him by sneaking extra sugarcubes into his coffee during breakfast when Mags is over and attempts to limit his sugar intake by yanking the box out of his hands. I will love him by reminding him every time he's forgotten just how good and wonderful he is. I will love him by throwing the blanket into the dryer in the winter when he's cold and curling up underneath it with him until he's not anymore. I will love him by letting him leave the top off the toothpaste and I will love him by telling him so. On and on so he always believes it.
He brushes his thumb over my lips and smiles down at me.
"Oh, Annie. You always were the only one that could make me understand that all the things I've thought were about power aren't really supposed to be at all. You're the only one who could make me feel like sex would be something pure and good and wonderful."
I'm a little surprised that we're on the same page once again, although I'm not sure why. We're almost always on the same page.
I reach up and grasp his hand and kiss it.
"One day." I promise.
He smiles and reaches behind me, pulling a stray pin loose from my hair.
"One day." He agrees.
For once, the calendars and the clocks and the dates on newspapers don't make me feel like screaming, because we have time. We have a future, one that we both want to spend together. And it hurts every time he has to go away, but he always comes back. We have the rest of our lives to spend together. That is a true victory.