"I am half agony, half hope"

~Jane Austen, Persuasion

I sit on her bed for a lot longer than I mean to. There's no desire for me to get up or move, all I can do is sit here and stare into the dark, Brenda's hand clutching mine. Only when I hear footsteps do I come to my senses. In the hallway I see the dark shape of Finnick trudging to his room. He sees me but he doesn't say a word. He nods at his room and I silently close the door to Brenda's and follow him in.

I stand in the center of the room, making eye contact with him as he sits heavily on the edge on the bed. Aggressively he runs his hand over his face, pressing his fingers so hard against his skin I'd think he was trying to rip it off. I make a questioning face at him when he looks back up at me. He just shrugs, running his fingers through his hair.

Sucking in a breath through my nose, I move to sit down next to him. I'm overwhelmed by the smell of liquor and cigarettes. "You need a shower" I try to say lightly, but all it does it make him frown.

He turns his head, breathing in the scent of his thin shirt. Deep set lines appear between his eyes. With a quick intake of breath, he lurches to his feet. In a quick, albeit jerky motion, he pulls his shirt over his head. I know that feeling, of need to be out of your clothes immediately. Or hell, even your own skin.

Holding his shirt in one hand, Finnick pauses. On his chest, trailing down his stomach in increments, is what I assume to be lipstick. I can still make out the shape of the woman's lips who made them. The trail disappears past his waistband, and I can only guess where it ends. But those aren't his only battle wounds. Red, angry claw marks streak his chest and all the way down his back.

I pretend not to notice them and force my face to stay indifferent. Shaking his head, he finally tosses his shirt into a corner, moving to the bathroom where I hear the shower turn on.

I lie next to him when he climbs into bed after a while. He doesn't have to say a word, unlike with Brenda, I know exactly what he needs from me. I wrap my arms around him, holding him tightly as tears leak from his eyes. It never gets easier, this life. It fills me with rage, seeing him like this, broken and crying in my arms. He's so strong, stronger than I'll ever be, but they still break him over and over again.

I wake up late in the afternoon, Finnick still sleeping beside me, one arm wrapped around me like he's afraid I'll get up and leave. I never leave. Screw my tributes, Finnick needs me more and, frankly, I'd rather be with him than their morbid company. I skip all their training – let Derek lecture me about it later. He also agreed to stop coaching them.

The day of the final training session starts with me in the exact same position, in bed with Finnick. He watches me cautiously as I catch my breath, trying to stop shaking. It was one of those dreams that's not really a dream, but a memory. Even now I can still smell the smoke, mixed with the scent of burning flesh. I swear, even though I'm inside, I can see the ashes falling down around me.

"They burned alive" I mutter, not really speaking to Finnick but knowing he's listening all the same. "I couldn't do anything… I – I couldn't…."

Finnick sighs. "I've had that dream."

"It wasn't a dream, Finnick."

He pauses and in the early morning light I can see him watching me. "Oh, I didn't-"

"Don't" I interrupt.

Instead of my own tributes, I think of Katniss. Hopefully she'll prove herself. Haymitch is confident she'll do well, but today she has to prove it and get enough sponsors to keep her alive.

I scoot closer to Finnick, feeling his warmth. My head lies on his chest as I think – intimate but completely unromantic. If everything works out perfectly, Katniss will win and the boy will be a martyr. She could be the face of a rebellion. More likely than not, she'll fail, and we'll stay in shadows, forever waiting for the next opportunity.

Finnick wakes once again with a start, flinching violently at the remnants of some dream. His eyes are wild when they meet mine. He's confused for a moment, likely having expected me to be Annie, but relaxes. His fingers tighten over my arm as he stares up at the ceiling, his breathing fast with fear. I can't help but wonder what he saw in his dreams.

Even with my dramatic decline in nightly visits, the thought of them sends me into a panic. I can't imagine being Finnick, forced to go night after night or face the murder of the woman he loves. He never gets a break and he likely never will.

I grab his jaw, forcing him to look at me. "You're okay" I tell him.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"Twelve maybe?" I say and immediately he shoots up into a sitting position. He's worried about his tributes even though he's planning to let them die. I scoot out of his way, trying to get him to lie back down, but he has so much adrenaline in his veins that he jumps out of bed.

I sigh and follow him. His apartment is empty aside from Brenda curled up on the couch, staring blankly at the T.V. She gives us a curious glance but shrugs it off. She's trying to pretend the other night never happened, that I didn't bring her back her and take care of her. It's all fine with me, I'm good at pretending.

The three of us spend the afternoon on those couches, talking sparsely but taking comfort in the company. I lean my head on Finnick's shoulder, exhaustion making my eyes heavy. Each minute it comes closer to the time I know I have to return to my own floor, the harder it becomes to move. But, at Finnick's insistence, I finally go.

The question of the scores twists in my stomach as I ride the elevator up. I don't know what I'm rooting for, or what to expect. A high score proves her strength, but a low score doesn't disqualify her either – I only got a three and yet here I stand.

I brace myself when the doors open and enter the dining room. Derek, the tributes, and the others are already there, though it seems I'm on time to eat. Their voices die down and they turn to me. I ignore it, falling into my chair beside Derek and reaching for the wine. "Well" I sigh "how'd you do?"

Oliver makes a face but looks down at his plate. "I think it was okay. I hit two dummies with the knives."

I raise my eyebrows, unimpressed. "Marta?" I ask.

She shrugs, "I don't know. I did the ropes course without falling…"

Definitely not impressive "okay" I say.

"Okay?" she asks, looking up at me "do you think that's enough?"

I look at her calmly, sipping at the wine before setting it down. "No. I don't. I still think you're going to die. But, please, feel free to prove me wrong."

Her face falls and she stops eating. Derek shakes his head at me but I know he isn't actually mad. At this point, it's just a flaw in my character.

When we move to the couches to watch the scores, I'm surprised when Derek sits beside me, close enough that our arms touch. "Are you okay?" he asks softly, leaning close enough that no one else can hear.

I shrug noncommittally. He smiles, shaking his head slightly. Together we watch the tribute's faces as the scores are announced, like two helpless parents.

The Careers get traditional scores, even the ones from 4. They're still strong even without Finnick's and Brenda's help. Oliver gets a four, and Marta a five. They seem encouraged but when the little 12-year-old from 11 pulls a score higher than them, their faces fall. I'm impressed with Peeta, getting an eight when he plans to die. But it's Katniss that gets my attention. I find myself leaning forward, waiting to see what number will appear.

The 11 appears and we all fall into shocked silence. Never have I seen someone get an eleven. It's unheard of. Karina and Lucile gasp, both holding their hands to their chests like their hearts might stop. To stop the smile from spreading over my face, I bring the wine glass to my lips, downing it in a single gulp.

My head pounds, both with excitement and the increasing buzz. Karina looks at me, her face confused by my expression. I can't help but laugh; it might be the strangest thing to happen yet.

"What did she do?" Oliver asks, sounding terrified.

"Something unique" Derek responds, scrutinizing the T.V.

"Or" I but in, ignoring everyone's cautious and doubtful looks, "they're painting a target on her back."

"Really?" Oliver asks, a little more hopeful.

I shrug nonchalantly. "The Careers take out the strongest ones first. The higher the score, the bigger the target. Why do you think I got a three?" I grumble. Getting to my feet I grab the bottle of wine, still half full and take a drink straight from it.

"Johanna" Derek sounds tired.

I wave my hand at him, "save it."

Derek shakes his head at me, this time disappointed, as I turn and walk down the hall to my room. I take another drink, falling onto my bed ungracefully. I breathe deeply, still smiling as I think of that eleven. Even after the sun sets and I've finished the wine, I can't stop smiling

"Jo?" a voice calls from the cracked open door. Finnick kicks the door open, closing it behind him. "I thought you'd be celebrating."

He sits on the edge of the bed, smiling at the bottle of wine, now on the floor. "What are you doing here?" I ask him. I'm thrilled that he is, he might be my current favorite person, but he's usually more dedicated to his tributes than I am.

"I watched the scores" he says. He kicks off his shoes and lies down beside me, pushing me over to make room for him. I make a face at him but still move over. "I thought I'd come see what you thought of it." I roll my eyes at him but can't stop the smile.

Part of the shock is that no one has gotten an eleven in over twenty years. Even then, there have only been a handful of them. What did she do that impressed the Gamemakers so much? Could she really be that talented? I'm impressed, but there's also something else chewing at me. My strategy was to lay low, to hide my skills to stay alive. She couldn't be doing anything more different. Now, Katniss will be a target.

I hadn't realized how much I was hoping it would work out until I feel the disappointment sinking through me. She could be the best tool we've ever had, but now she'll likely just get killed off at the cornucopia.

"Jo" Finnick says, pulling my attention to him "you're somewhere else." He lies on his side, his head propped up on his fist.

"I'm fine" I say. He nods, clearly not believing me. He's trying to stay awake, but the bags under his eyes fill me in on how exhausted he is. "Go to sleep" I tell him and with little protest, he does. My mind is racing too fast for me to even consider doing the same.

Watching Finnick sleep reminds me of what's at stake. If, in some way, this girl on fire wins, the boy becomes a martyr, and there's a face for the Capitol to see, to love, and to listen to, then maybe one day we'll live in a world without all this pain. It could be a world I've always wanted, one that my parents, Johnathan, Vinny, and every lost tribute dreamed for. It's a world in which we can sleep without fear of being woken up to a gun and Peacekeepers, one in which Finnick, the kindest and gentlest person I know, doesn't have to go through hell night after night. Even if just for that, to give him his sanity back, it would be worth it.