This chapter is slightly terrible. Sorry . . .

Fight

(ANNIE)

My head is pounding. It's as bad as it was when Gad gave me a concussion. But nobody's hit me.

It's been exactly one day since I last had the rebreather. I have refill canisters, but they're useless without to actual rebreather. And not only is withdrawal a living hell, but it's nearly impossible to breathe. Maybe I wasn't thinking right when I threw those breathers into the ocean. Maybe I need mine.

It's after dark. I'm walking barefoot down the beach, half-hoping that maybe one of the rebreathers has washed up on shore. Eventually, I give up and flop down on the sand, dampened and cold from the rain. It's just drizzling now, but it was pouring earlier this morning.

I catch sight of Broadsea stumbling around on the dunes. There's a big bottle of vodka in one of his hands. He slips a few times and the liquor sloshes out onto the sand. "Oops!" he says. He starts laughing and trips his way over to me. "Annie! How are you?" he falls down next to me.

I shrug and look into his bloodshot eyes as he starts laughing. He's drunk out of his mind; I can smell the alcohol on his breath. He offers the bottle to me and at this point, I can't refuse. It smells and tastes like the nail polish they put on me in the Capitol.

"I was just thinking about Lowtide," Broadsea says. "She hated me. Everybody hates me." He laughs. "Do you hate me?"

I shake my head. I don't hate him; I don't know him well enough to make an informed decision. But everybody else says he's a jackass.

He smiles. "Just give it some time. You will." He sounds so sad . . .

I shake my head again in an attempt to tell him, I don't believe that.

Without warning, Broadsea places his hands on either side of my face and kisses me. I don't know what's happening, but I don't like it. I try to push him away. I do it gently at first, but he doesn't budge. So I hit him in the face.

Broadsea pulls away, chuckling. "Ouch," he laughs.

"Annie?"

I to turn see Finnick making his way across the dunes. I'm not sure if he's still mad at me, but I don't really care right now. He walks over to us very calmly.

Broadsea groans. "Haven't you ever heard that three's a crowd?" He casually wraps his arms around my shoulders.

"Shut up," Finnick says nonchalantly. He turns to me. "I'm hungry. You want me to make another one of those omelets?"

No. What I want is Broadsea to get the hell away from me.

I nod and Finnick bends down to help me get to my feet. Just as he does, Broadsea punches him along the jaw. Finnick shouts, but doesn't seem too effected. He promptly grabs Broadsea, tackles him, and then starts hitting him in the face over and over.

Broadsea seizes Finnick by the throat and hair and throws him onto his back. He gets to his feet and starts to kick Finnick repeatedly. Finnick's only down for a moment before he kicks Broadsea in the leg, making him fall, too.

It becomes clear that although Broadsea is bigger and stronger, Finnick is the better fighter. And somehow, this makes the two victors evenly matched in hand-to-hand combat.

"Somebody's feisty today," Broadsea says, chuckling. In a flash, he is on top of Finnick again, hand around his neck. He slams Finnick's head against the sand twice. Then his hands tighten around Finnick's throat and laughs. "Weakling!"

"Dick!" Finnick shouts back. He manages to jab Broadsea in the ribs. They start to roll over and over in the sand, exchanging punches every now and then.

I should do something. I should get help or keep them from killing each other. But my limbs aren't responding.

The two boys wrestle for a while before Finnick gets the upper hand. He pulls himself onto his feet and Broadsea manages to get to his knees. Finnick bends his leg and snaps it forward, hitting Broadsea in the nose with his knee.

Broadsea falls back to the sand unconscious. His nose is definitely broken.

Calmly, Finnick picks up Broadsea's bottle of vodka and takes a big sip. He turns to me. "You okay?"

I nod.

He offers his hand to me and pulls me onto my feet. Then he wraps his arm around my shoulders and we start towards my house. I wrap my arm around Finnick's waist because he seems to be limping. And also because I just want to be close to him.

"Lowtide and Broadsea dated for a little while," he explains. "But Broadsea – being Broadsea – slept with somebody else. Lowtide caught 'em in the act. He cared about her, but he didn't exactly put much effort into getting her back." He winces as we climb the steps to the porch. "He does that to a lot of women – claim to love 'em, then break their hearts. I don't think he means to, but he does."

Inside, I sit Finnick down on the couch and head into the kitchen. I wrap a handful of ice cubes in a dishtowel and go back to him. I press it against the bruise forming on his jaw and notice his right hand pressed against his side. I try to push his hand away to see.

"I'm fine," he says angrily. He wraps his hand around my wrist and tries to pull me away. That's when I see the bloodstain slowly growing on his shirt. I gasp. Softly, he says, "It's okay. I got him worse than he got me."

I make him hold the icepack to his jaw and grab another dishcloth to press against the bloody spot. After a second, I look up at him and mouth the words, Thank you.

He smiles halfheartedly and mouths, You're welcome.

There's a long pause.

Finnick sees the safety bracelet on my wrist. He stops holding the icepack and reaches out to touch it. "You held onto this?" I nod. He's got his serious-face on – eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, brows pulled together with a little crease between them. "Annie, I . . . I . . . You . . . I . . ." he chokes on his own words.

Spit it out! You what? You what?

He sets his hand on my cheek and gives me a kiss. It's not sweet like the one after Mags's dinner party. This kiss is different. And it doesn't last nearly as long; he pulls away after only a few seconds. "I'll see you tomorrow." He kisses my forehead. Then he's gone.

See you tomorrow? Somehow, I don't think that's what he was trying to say.