Coral woke with an ache in her neck. She'd slept most of the night in fits and starts, Finnick's warmth curled into her lap and his arms looped around her waist. At some point, she'd ended up with her head across his back, but now all that was there was the soft part of her forearm. Her clothes were dirtied and bloody, back stiff. Hearing voices, she threw off the small blanket that had been covering her.
Rising, Coral stretched out her limbs and padded her way down the hall to where the voices were coming from. A glance up towards the old clock on the landing told her she'd missed the set off for today's fishing. Her father would be furious, but then - maybe him yelling at her while sober would be a new and exciting kind of experience. Somehow, she doubted it. Scrubbing at her face, the girl ran a hand through her tangled hair and winced. Sleeping on the floor without dinner had made her just the wrong shade of irritated. Not exactly the mood anyone wanted to wake up in.
Mags and Finnick were in the living room, perched either side of the heavy wooden dining table. A series of instruments were laid out, mostly bandages and the boy himself was covered in more than one swath of white linen.
"The wound near his elbow needs stitches." Both of them looked up at once, Finnick's expression sheepish and Mags' guarded. In her hand was a glass of something that smelled like alcohol, the woman trying to root out the small needle she'd been sterilising within.
"Did I wake you?" Coral shook her head, though she knew it was a lie. Finnick himself hadn't woken her, but the absence of him had. For all the restlessness she'd felt while perched against the chair, the most comforting part of it had been the body heat she'd leached from him. Admitting to that was too much for her to bear, and so she chose to lock it away instead. She couldn't give him another thing. Not today.
"Do you need me to do that?" Coral asked while signing out that she had questions. Mags hesitated and then handed over the glass.
"You've got steadier hands. I'll make some tea." Coral's stomach grumbled. "And breakfast." As the woman left the room, she flicked on the radio. What filtered through was one of the local channels, a station that shared only the fishing updates and highlights from the Capitol. Music and entertainment, on the scale involved in broadcasting, were for those that didn't live in the districts. A shame really, given the beautiful songs Coral had learned and sung while sailing over the years. Extracting out the needle, she threaded it carefully with the medical thread from Mags's first aid kit. Another indication that the events of the night before hadn't been in isolation.
The sounds of movement in the kitchen blended into the radio outputs and Coral drew Finnick's arm to her so she could better see the first wound. It had been cleaned but the skin was puckered and raw. Hardly a neat cut. For a citizen from Four, he ought to have done better.
"Mags sent Medea's eldest kid down to let your parents know you needed to stay here last night. After her bad fall." There was a silent question in his statement. A nervous query. An alibi. All of which depended on her. Would she share the truth with her parents when given the chance?
Coral still didn't know the answer to that.
"What did they do to you?" Voice low, Coral began the first stitch with a deft hand. He'd most certainly gain a jagged scar but, somehow, she suspected that was what Finnick wanted.
"They're called redo centres." Though it had to have hurt, he didn't flinch when she passed the needle through his skin. Drew it tight together. "Tributes go there after the games. To heal their wounds, make sure they're primped and preened for showtime."
Coral thought back to previous Games and how quickly the recap sessions occurred despite the often-mortal wounds inflicted on the winners in their final moments. Her mouth thinned.
"Mags has scars. Marks on her skin." It wasn't so much a question as a statement. A means to try to figure out how angry she needed to be.
"Mags isn't desired by the general population." Bitterness flooded Finnick's voice, "And I can't look fourteen forever. As much as they do their best to maintain that illusion."
He hissed as her hand slipped. Jabbed the needle into the meaty part of his bicep. She didn't apologise, but her thumb traced the little red mark she'd left behind. A gesture as soft as a kiss. There were parts of her mind warring with each other. Over how foolish it was to sit here and talk so honestly of such things. Of what it meant that her first instinct today was pity instead of righteous fury. She wanted to go back. To before she'd taken on this stupid job. To the day of the reaping so she could silence Aveline before she could step forward. Maybe then she wouldn't feel so conflicted. So confused.
"To sponsor her, what did they take?" It was dangerous. To dare ask anything like this when they knew their homes were bugged. No one could be sure when it started, but too much had happened over the years for it to be a coincidence. Families pulled from their beds in the middle of the night for treason, or embezzlement or any fucking thing at all. For things that hadn't been shared beyond their own kitchen table. People rising the ranks without any discernible income, skin pale from long hours working indoors at jobs they never spoke about.
The radio formed a cover, the signing was most effective but still, the people of Four suffered. Got caught. Turned on their own at the drop of a pin. It only deepened Coral's conflict. Did she feel sympathy for the same people who had hung her brother out to dry, or did she hate them all with uniformity? It seemed to come so easy to her father. It would've been easy for her without Aveline.
She knew all the risks and yet she still had to know. Mags had told her not to punish Finnick for Aveline's death, but to do that she had to know that he'd tried. Problem was, there was a jarring contrast between knowing he'd sweet-talked people and hearing the implication in his voice. Anyone with sense could say he was handsome. Striking even. Freckles on the bridge of his nose. Hazel eyes that strayed more towards green in the right light. Beach waved hair with hints of blonde. A strong jaw and lips right off of a bust. Coral had hated him for years and even she had seen that.
The Capitol's poster boy.
What Coral hadn't factored into consideration was that it was the type of handsome someone might prey on. That it was the face people would go to exceptional lengths to hide acne and scars from, to remove hair from so that he'd stay ever young. Just like he had at fourteen.
The radio was filling the silence between them, Coral tying off the last of the stitches. Finnick hadn't moved in a long stretch, his skin was ashen and pale. When she attempted to retreat, his hand moved quick as a flash and pinned her in place.
"As much as I could offer." Coral's stomach bottomed out.
"Like?" She couldn't say it. Couldn't ask it.
"Innocent things. Kisses. Some not so innocent. Touches. Secrets." He laughed without humour. "The things some people will do to know what their neighbour thinks of them."
Touches.
She was going to throw up. He hadn't said sex but that didn't matter. Anything that cost the price of someone's body, no matter how desperately she wanted it, it wasn't worth it. If Aveline had lived past that second day - how far would he have gone?!
Alarm flooded through her, breathing erratic and tight. Coral had seen horrors. She'd watched her own brother die on a national broadcast. Had seen children ripped open from the inside. She'd watched a wraith replace her once jovial father, and when the liquor set in - saw a demon take his place. Somehow it paled in comparison to knowing Finnick had traded his own desirability for her request.
"Why?"
"Because it's the only weapon I have now."
She'd demanded everything of him for Aveline's life without knowing the cost. Without weighing the cost. The hunger that had made her stomach cry out only minutes earlier was all but gone, replaced with the desire to be sick. Her hand reached for the table, for balance, and missed. Her weight tumbled and Coral couldn't catch her breath. Couldn't find the oxygen. The sickness she'd felt on the boat after being underwater so long paled in comparison. At least there she could've opened her mouth and just – floated away.
On land, she was dead weight.
On land, she was the one who had asked this of him. All to find a victory for the person she'd loved most in the world. Another thought struck her, solid and heavy. A curled fist would've smarted less.
"If she'd won –" She thought of Aveline's dark skin against her own, the midnight to her morning. The shimmer of a highlighter on her cheeks. Bright red lips. Aveline had been the most beautiful person Coral had ever met. The fantasy she'd entertained of Aveline's victory was drying up too fast. The homecoming and tentative nursing back to normality. Their small house on the beach. Long easy mornings as they basked in each other. Those might have happened but Coral, Coral would've only been a noose around her neck. People who craved youth and beauty and charm, the people who sanded down the signs of life on Finnick's skin – they would've taken Aveline too. Even on her best days, Coral wasn't a person inclined to share. In what world would she have been okay with Aveline trading her body for anyone? Even a kid who might die otherwise.
"Not everyone ends up like me." Finnick offered, fingertips reaching out to brush away the moisture on her face. Coral hadn't even heard him move. He was crouched before her. Reaching to draw her into his arms and she hated him. She hated him. She hated that he'd done what she'd asked at such cost. That it had all been in vain. Coral hated most that even if they'd both sacrificed everything for Aveline Wyndham, they'd have likely lost her anyways. This time when she sobbed, she didn't push him away. It was reciprocal. After this, they'd be even. He'd cried into her arms. Now she cried in his.
She couldn't apologise. There weren't words strong enough to actually make a dent in what she'd asked of him. So she cried until her throat was raw and the pain was dulled and she hoped that he understood. That he sensed the shift.
Indignation gave way to sorrow.
Anger gave way to pity.
Hatred – well, that would give way too in time. Only not for the Capitol. Not for Snow. They deserved every wretched thing they had coming.