On the last day of the Games, a celebration is thrown in honor of the mentor—to give him or her something to do that night while their tribute gets patched up in the hospital. Because a glitzy party mingling with Capitol residents is where they'd rather be, of course, rather than checking up on their tribute who is only there precisely because of all this Capitol nonsense in the first place.
Finnick's had a few such functions held for him, but he almost forgets that he'd have one this time. All he can think of is the picture of Annie being evacuated and airlifted out of the arena, looking as if she were dead herself. As soon as the cameras cut out, he sprints from the Control Room to the medical center, where he knows tributes will be turned into patients and will be fixed up.
Annie's injuries are relatively minor, all things considered. She received a nasty gash on her arm the third day in that Finnick was able to help her out with using sponsorship money, but after losing Vecker, she never reapplied the ointment and the wound opened up again when she was crawling through a cave. Besides this, though, her body is mostly unscathed.
So when Finnick finally finds her operating room, he isn't surprised that the doctors are already finishing up. The wound is gone, stitched and knitted up neatly so the skin is pearly-smooth; there won't be a scar. The smaller bumps, bruises, and scrapes she had acquired have all been smoothed over. They wheel her out of the room, down the white corridor into another white room. Finnick catches up to them at the door and sticks his foot in the way when the doctor tries to close it.
"Let me in," he says.
The doctor raises his eyebrows. Finnick recognizes him. They've probably been to the same random Capitol function, or ten of them. "She's in stable condition," he says, in an offensively cheerful voice that doesn't match his oddly stiff facial features. "You don't need to worry about her."
"Let me in," Finnick says again. The doctor doesn't move, so Finnick pushes past him roughly into the room. The doctor makes a noise of protest, and Finnick can feel his stare on his back. But he doesn't do anything, only closing the door and finally leaving Finnick and Annie alone.
Finnick approaches the bed slowly. She looks more peaceful than she's ever looked before. Her hair fans out on the pillow, her hands clasped together loosely on top of the blanket. The expression on her face is beguilingly serene, though, and Finnick knows her mind must be in an uproar. It's only because of the powerful Capitol sedatives that she doesn't wake up screaming right this instant.
She'll be out for the evening at least, Finnick assumes. They always knock the patients out so the mentors can enjoy their party and not have to think about their tribute. That's the thought, at least; no mentor with half a heart is ever focusing on the party more than their tribute.
In the back of his mind, Finnick knows the swankiest club in the city is being prepared for him right now. They always go all out when he's successful, of course. Live entertainment, water shows, and a rotating menu for each hour of the night to keep the food coming and the libations flowing. A theater where you can watch recuts of the Games, a mini museum where weapons from the arena are displayed. A bombastic fireworks show across the entire city that everyone watches from the roof caps off the evening.
Finnick doesn't give any of it a second thought. He pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and seats himself down. For a second he considers taking Annie's hand, but he resists. If a Capitol official walks in, better for them to think Annie's just another girl.
Ah, but would you be rejecting the Capitol party and risking your whole image for just another girl? a wicked little voice says in his head.
"Shut up," Finnick mutters.
Time rolls by, but not slowly. Finnick's head is filled with memories, just snippets of them instead of whole moments. The white-washed boards of the schoolhouse where he first met her. The sound of their shoes hitting the metal staircase as they climbed the lighthouse tower. The crackle of the fire, the touch of the sand, the sight of the stars that last night before the Reaping.
Had she thought of telling him then?
He knew he had.
There had been no way to know then that her name would be the one to be picked out of the glass bowl; no one could have known that. But to reveal to Annie that night how he really felt? Surely that would have messed with her in some way. It hadn't seemed right.
Or maybe he really had been a coward that night. Finnick can't fight this speculation either. He's already a murderer, a womanizer, and a damn liar to just about everyone in some way or another. Why not a coward as well.
It fits in nicely with the resume he's racked up.
There isn't a book in sight to read or any music to listen to. Not even a window in the room to look out of. The room is as barren as a prison cell. But Finnick doesn't get bored just sitting and watching Annie. She lies there—besides the slight rising and fall of her chest, she's unnaturally still. Not a twitch of a finger, not a tightening of the eyes. Half of Finnick is grateful beyond relief that she's alive, when she could very easily be dead. The other half of him is terrified of what her life will be like from now on.
A million eons seem to pass, and the door to the room opens. It's not the doctor, or anyone from the hospital. It's his escort, Lula. She's dressed in a garish, reflective turquoise dress that reaches her knees and flares out at right angles around her shoulders. Her eyelids are painted a similar color with white and gold at the corners. She sports a glossy blue wig as well, rising high in a bouffant and then falling down to an impractical length, with seashells, fish, glitter strewn through the artificial strands of hair. Her shoes look like they're made to imitate sea glass but Finnick is only reminded of daggers. It's clear she's dressed for the theme of his party, which is him, of course, the poster child for Panem's fishing district.
"The Capitol is waiting for you, dear," she says. She barely spares Annie a glance before she steps into the room and attempts to reach for Finnick's wrist. She doesn't flinch when he jerks it away and crosses his arms, but instead offers smiles a smile with her coral-colored lips.
"Now, come, don't be like this, Finnick," Lula says. He can hear the fake cheeriness in her voice. "Everyone has been very patient. But your sponsors are expecting to see you tonight."
"I'll see them tomorrow," Finnick says. He's in no mood to bed anyone today.
"No can do," Lula says, shaking her head. "Tonight is your night, dear. They want to see you have it."
"I don't want it anyway."
"Well, they do," Lula insists. Her voice hardens, and the accommodation is gone from her tone when she says, "President Snow has been asking for you all night also. He'd like to congratulate you again for a spectacular Games."
Finnick looks at her, finally breaking his gaze with Annie. "Snow's there?"
Lula nods, though she has the decency not to scoff at him for asking what he too knows is a stupid question. "And wondering where you are."
Finnick weighs his options. Snow will guess where he's been anyway—if Finnick shows up now, he can at least put on a show and apologize. If he keeps irritating Snow, it'll be harder to get back in his supposed good graces and potentially protect Annie from whatever he's got planned.
"Fine," Finnick consents. "I'll show up. But I'm going to tell the doctor I'm leaving for now."
Lula makes an impatient noise in her throat but waits as Finnick presses a button next to the bed and speaks to the Capitol doctor when he comes. As soon as the doctor leaves the room again, Lula sticks her foot out to prevent the door from closing like Finnick had done himself and all but drags him into the corridor. She begins to talk rapidly.
"The Capitol has really outdone itself this year," she gushes. "They've redesigned the water show to time it with the fireworks. You missed the opening show—" here a hint of disapproval creeps into her voice— "but I'm told the closing will be even better. "Oh, and the venue is better than the last one also. We've moved it to Presidential Hall so we could accommodate more people; it makes such a difference to not have three people stepping on your feet all at once! Perhaps it's better that you're going to arrive late, Finnick, people will be so much more excited to see you now. Of course, you'd make a grand entrance whenever you came, but people are really just dying to get a glimpse of you. I don't think I've ever seen the crowds so big!"
She goes on monologuing, from the hospital driveway and into the parked limousine that's waiting to transport them to Presidential Hall, Finnick barely taking it in. He's concentrating on trying to fix a smile to his face, but for once it's difficult to slip back into his Capitol persona. He's too preoccupied thinking about Annie. Her hospital bed floats in his mind every time he tries to think like a Capitol playboy—his face feels stiff, his smile like plastic.
A few blocks from their destination, Lula passes Finnick a freshly-pressed suit and commands him to change. He does so without a drop of embarrassment, discarding his shirt and jeans to the row of seats behind him. The suit fits him perfectly and is made of material that could dress a king in another world, but Finnick feels like a chameleon as he buttons the jacket and adjusts his tie, a man disguised in another skin.
The car turns a corner and is greeted by an endless sea of flashing bulbs. Finnick flinches and averts his eyes, barely able see out of the window with all the glare. Lula claps her hands twice and opens the door. She exits first, making a show of straightening her dress, and steps aside, waving her arm dramatically to welcome Finnick, who is enveloped with a chorus of screams as soon as he steps out of the limousine. Capitolites line the streets behind the photographers, reaching and waving at Finnick.
He waves and nods, hoping his lips are curved into a shape that can be taken as friendly. In front of him is a long red carpet, leading up to the imperious Presidential Hall, a monumental building of white marble and sandstone. Finnick walks towards the small figure at the top of the steps, taking the time to finally settle into his second identity. When he mounts the steps to shake Snow's gloved hand, Finnick treats the president to a would-be grateful smile.
"President Snow," he says. "Thank you so much. It's an honor, as always."
"We are honored to have you, my dear boy," Snow returns in a voice laced with so much false warmth Finnick has to bite his tongue, "even if you are late."
Finnick doesn't take the bait, instead cocking his head jauntily to the side. "Fashionably so, though, wouldn't you say, sir?" He turns to the crowd and offers them a flirtatious wink.
He's done the trick, and the president seems satisfied—for now. Snow smiles and wags a mocking finger at him like a kindly uncle or grandfather. "Indeed. Let's give them a moment, why not?" They pose together for the media for a few minutes until Snow inclines his head and raises a hand to the crowd in thanks. Then he leads Finnick into the hall, placing his hand on Finnick's back as he does so. The gesture sends waves of revulsion through Finnick.
The inside of Presidential Hall explodes into cheers and applause when the people catch sight of Finnick. Capitol citizens are immediately pulling at him, shouting questions and pushing him toward a large dais at the end of the hall. Finnick tries to acknowledge everyone, names spilling out of him automatically as he makes eye contact and shakes hands. He recognizes most of them: past sponsors, patrons, stylists, television hosts, journalists, Gamemakers. Just about everyone who's anybody in Capitol high society is there—which is to say damn near everyone in the Capitol anyway. Everyone keeps offering him flutes of champagne and plates of food, which he turns down. He concentrates on making his way to the dais, knowing what they want. Once he speaks, they'll settle down, he thinks, as he stumbles to the center. They look at him expectantly.
"Good evening, everyone. It's nice to see you all," Finnick says. The crowd claps enthusiastically. "Um, well, first of all, thanks for bearing with me tonight and I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner. I had some business to see to, but I'm glad I was able to make time for this fantastic party you all have put on for me. You know, with each one of these, I'm thinking, what will the Capitol pull off next—surely it can't be better than the last time? But it always is. You all amaze me with your vision and creativity."
He stops here to allow for more applause. There's nothing Capitolites love more than patting themselves on the back. "Seriously, I am overwhelmed with the generosity the Capitol continues to show me, and I feel so lucky to have the love of so many wonderful people." Finnick can see some of the women closest to him attempting to wipe their eyes without ruining the globs of makeup smeared on their faces. "Thanks to you all, I am able to spend my days here as a very happy man, and I am eternally grateful. Thank you!" He bows his head and the room bursts into a rousing applause again. And sure enough, they begin to disperse, having seen and heard their fill of him. Finnick darts away to a corner to collect himself before he knows he has to go out and appease the regulars.
Almost immediately, a man with bright yellow hair sprinkled with glitter and dressed in a shimmering suit sidles up to him. It's Lucius Enler, editor of the Capitol's most popular gossip magazine, Capitol Hush. Most of Finnick's liaisons leak their stories to Enler, complete with lurid (and fabricated) details about their nights of passion with the Capitol's most coveted bachelor. Although Finnick doesn't much like him, he acknowledges that Enler at least embraces the yellowness of his publication and knows it's run on sensationalism, a self-awareness that is unlike most of the Capitol's media.
"Well, well, well," Enler tsks. "Took you long enough to show up, Odair. The ladies were almost giving up on you."
Finnick pastes a smile on his face. "Sorry. Like I said, I had business."
Enler scoffs. "What business could you have tonight? Your only job is to look pretty."
Finnick shrugs and looks away like he's going to make a break for it, but Enler blocks him with a timely move to take a glass of champagne from a roving Avox. "But of course, I understand if you wanted to wait on Ms. Cresta."
Finnick tries not to react, but he can't help glance at Enler. Enler's eyes, sharp as a cat's and surgically-modified to resemble slits, glimmer with triumph.
"Not wait on her," Finnick says, attempting to regain his composure and fearing he may have given too much away. He didn't realize how frightening it would sound to hear Annie's name coming out of the name of any Capitol citizens, even after she'd won.
"Come, Odair, you needn't be shy about it," Enler says, a grin revealing how his teeth have been painted a sort of gold that matches his hair. "Annie's sponsors said you were paying more than a pretty penny this year to get supplies for her." He takes a swig of his champagne to give Finnick time to respond, but Finnick's mind has gone blank and he says nothing. Enler lets out a satisfied sigh and regards the intricately-carved glass with frank appreciation. "It's a shame she can't be here herself, don't you think?"
"I don't think this would be her scene," Finnick says.
"Well, I suppose that's true," Enler sighs. "Especially not now." When Finnick turns to look at him, he shrugs and goes on, "Well, now, everyone saw her. She didn't look too right in the head after that little incident with her partner went down." Enler speaks nonchalantly, as if the sight of an ally being decapitated wouldn't be a horrifically traumatic one. "Did she say anything to you?"
"She's sedated until tomorrow," Finnick says.
"Any word on how she'll turn out?"
"The doctors want to monitor her for a few days," Finnick says shortly. He doesn't want to discuss Annie with Capitol folk and is desperate to find an excuse to leave. His company remains determined not to allow him an opportunity, however.
"Wouldn't be surprised if she's gone 'round the bend after all this is said and done," Enler says with the same tone like he's opining on a selection of curtains for a dining room. "Still, she might be able to provide some interesting comments for a column if they're able to straighten her out to a decent extent."
"She might not be all the same, but she's still Annie," Finnick says, checking his tone. "Everyone comes out of the Games different, but she's still a sweet girl. I don't think anyone at home will treat her differently."
Enler raises his eyebrows, and Finnick knows he doesn't buy his story. "Anyway, let me know how she turns out, whatever the case is," he says. "Hush needs to know if there are people to avoid too. My readers don't have any interest in anything unsightly."
Finnick's eyebrows gather. "What do you mean?"
Enler gulps his drink so a trickle of it runs down the corner of his mouth. He dabs at it impatiently before answering, wiping away a patch of his makeup at the same time. "Exactly what it sounds it like. You too, Odair." He fixes Finnick with a look Finnick can't decipher completely. "Best if you leave her alone once these Games are all over with. Not the most flattering look if you keep chasing after her. Readers will complain."
"I'm not chasing after her," Finnick says irritably. "But I'm not going to abandon a friend just because your audience doesn't like her."
Enler regards him pitifully. "I didn't realize you were this naïve, Odair. Look, I understand." He puts his arm around Finnick like a brother as if to comfort him. "You're from the same district, you've probably known this girl for a while. But be sensible, would you? Good news is sexy news—that's you. You don't want to ruin that golden reputation you've got by mucking about with—well, half-sane people who don't know who they are anymore, do you?"
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Finnick snaps, pushing Enler's arm off him. "She's not insane." But even as he argues with Enler, Finnick knows in the back of his mind he's trying to convince himself as much as he is this fussy reporter.
"Don't I?" Enler says, raising a thinly-plucked eyebrow. "I'm a lot older than you, boy. You think she's the first one to have gone off the deep end?"
"I don't care what the hell you think you—or I—know," Finnick says. "I'm going to do what I want with who I want. Just don't bother Annie. She's played her part for you Capitol people already."
"And you're still playing yours, Odair," Enler says softly. He's leaned in closer to Finnick, but now he steps back marginally so their eyes meet. Enler's are veiled with warning. "So don't forget that either."
His gaze lingers with Finnick before he turns away. Finnick stands still but his hands have balled unconsciously into fists. He thinks of Annie, sleeping in the hospital somewhere across the city.
He's playing a dangerous game with her. Despite what he said earlier, Finnick knows Enler is right in a certain respect, that he should stay away from Annie. It'll be safer for them all. Snow will have less leverage against him, and she won't be used as bait.
But like an idiot, Finnick goes straight back to the hospital when the party is over. It's too late to pull out of this relationship, he thinks once he's standing over her bed again. Annie has a storm to face, and Finnick's determined that they'll face it together, no matter what a sleazy magazine editor—or Snow—have to say about it.
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