I do not own The Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

Safe Haven


And he practices, Finnick practices.

Out in the back of his house.

On the beach, waves lapping his ankles, washing over his feet.

He likes to spin his trident.

Spin it, twirl it.

In front of his face, behind his back.

Around and around and around.

Not because it's a killing tool, something he once used to murder other human beings.

Something that, if he chose to, he could use to murder marine life for food or fun.

But because it takes his mind off everything else.

He likes the smooth, cool feel of it in his hands, he likes the movements and patterns and whistling sounds it makes as it spins and twirls.

The way concentrating on it lulls his brain, soothes it.

As much as anything can, really.

He practices during the day when everything is too brassy and loud, during the quiet, long nights when his skin crawls with agitation and he's unable to sit still and be alone in his own flesh.

In the Capitol, he has his rope.

Here, his trident.

He's out in the morning light, trident whistling, feet dancing and moving through the motions, waves and sand caressing the soles of his feet, the tops, the toes.

He's almost shut out everything, the whole horrible world and everything in it.

And he turns, on sudden alert, someone is near and it's the Games and they're coming to kill him, if he doesn't stop them, it will be his cannon that booms because he'll be dead and will have never gotten back home at all-

And the trident's piercing tines halt inches from Mags' unflinching face.

She doesn't flinch, he's never seen her flinch, not Mags.

But he does, Finnick, at the horror of what he's almost done.

Flinches, drops the trident, flinging it backward away from her with numb fingers and reaches out to her.

"Mags, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . . I was back there and it was - and-"

And she reaches back and wraps his nearly sobbing little boy anguish up in a strong, calm embrace and lets him leak a few tears until he stuffs it back in and she never says a word.

Because of course she can't and never will again.

But he remembers her voice.

It used to be calming, so quiet and calming.

So reassuring and so strengthening.

Because that's what she does, she strengthens people, she believes in them.

All they need, all she can provide.

Even though it sometimes isn't enough and she has to go find . . .

Annie.

. . . more than just her to help.


Annie has shut herself away, deep in her room.

Windows closed and drawn.

Lights out.

Everything still and dark.

"Annie?"

And quiet.

"Annie?"

She's pushed herself all the way into her closet, closed the door, and covered her mouth with her hands.

It takes Finnick forever to find her.

She's so quiet.

And so still.

And so very, very . . .

"Annie?"

. . . afraid.

She doesn't speak when he opens the door and sees her.

Annie.

Only flinches away, whimpering as she sits on the floor, back pressed against the wall, legs drawn up in front of her, her final barrier between herself and everything else in the world.

"No no no, please-"

Hands going up to cover her face.

That splotchy, red, tear-streaked face.

"-it's not safe, they're coming, they're looking for me-"

Those swollen, bloodshot, green eyes.

Her hands go up and he sees they are red too.

"-please, they'll find me, you have to shut the door-"

Red and scratched and swollen, as she's been obsessively rubbing them, or scratching them with her nails.

Broken nails, gnawed down to the quick, even the cuticles are red and angry.

"Annie, nobody's coming to get you."

And her entire countenance tells the story of continued terror, her clear and present horror.

Shame that anyone would see her like this.

"You're safe."

And yet, she cannot leave, cannot save herself from this fate that's eating her alive.

"Annie."

And turns her head away, won't face him or acknowledge his presence in any way.

"No no, they're going to find me, you have to close the door, they're coming-"

Voice a strangled sob, body trembling on the edge of complete collapse.

So Finnick does the only thing he can do.

"Okay, Annie, okay."

He shuts the closet door, plunging them into total darkness.

Kneels.

And places himself . . .

"I'm here."

. . . as close to her as she'll let him.

"I'm right here."

So she, he, they won't be alone.


She doesn't move for a little while, only continues to cry in the darkness.

It's a wretched sound, one that hurts to hear more than he'd care to admit.

The closet is horrible too, suffocating and cloying in its blind, thick darkness.

He feels she, he, they would be so much better out of it, where they didn't have to imagine writhing, horrible terrors slinking silently out of the corners to slither up their trembling arms and into their screaming mouths.

He realizes he's sweating, perspiring, clammy and cotton-mouthed.

He knows he's going to freak out soon, freak right out and burst out of the closet, and leap out the window and run into the waves and swim straight out to sea until he drowns if he doesn't get out of this closet soon.

But he can't do that, he's promised her he'd stay and help.

Promised Mags.

Promised himself, as dwindling a resolution as that may be.

He's always made promises to himself he couldn't keep.

Like he'd never again kill anybody.

And he'd never again cry and beg for mercy from some sadistically smiling patron who's bought him for an evening of pleasure.

Never again contemplate what it would be like to just let go off the top of some high open air Capitol balcony.

He's broken all those promises, time over and again.

So promises to himself are easy to break.

It's promises to others that keep him alive and breathing.

Breathing.

Breathing, that's the key.

He's got to slow down hers, his, their breathing.

And he's got to do it soon.

Because this closet is already the rectangular shape of a grave.

And Finnick Odair isn't allowed to die.

"You know, uh, when I was a little boy, I didn't dream of the sea."

Yet.

"I dreamt of the clouds."

He tells it slow.

"I, uh, I dreamed I could fly up into them. Feel them, taste them."

Quiet.

"One time my grandfather gave me a kite, taught me to fly it."

Taking his time to speak, to build the story.

"And I liked it, I really did."

Gain her attention, focus his attention.

"Except it made me sad that the kite could be so high up there but not me."

Draw both of them away from their growing terrors, fears.

"I told my grandad I didn't want the kite anymore and he made me tell him why."

Get them out of this rectangular coffin.

"I thought he would laugh. But he didn't. He just told me that if I wanted to be there, to put myself there."

Even if they're still in.

"So I drew a picture of myself on the kite so I could pretend I was up there flying."

He's smiling now, smiling in the dark.

Sitting next to Annie and smiling in the dark.

"And made me happy. I flew it every chance I got."

It's not really the end of the story but it's all he wants to tell.

So he stops talking and just sits.

Shoulder to shoulder with Annie, forearms propped on bent knees.

Hands, those hands he wished hadn't been used for so many things, harmless and dangling.

And Annie, eventually, speaks.

"What happened to the kite?"

He figured she'd ask that question and he's formulated an answer that's acceptably palpable for both of them.

"I grew up."

Grew up, yes, survived the Hunger Games, yes, sold into sex slavery by Snow, yes.

But for the purposes of this, and every other telling . . .

"Forgot about it. Until just now."

. . . he keeps it simple.

And they sit there quiet a while longer.

Until she murmurs.

"I don't know what's real or not real anymore. I'm scared. Of everything."

He shrugs.

"You can ask me. I'll tell you."

She doesn't reply and he wonders if she's calming enough to fall asleep.

But she isn't.

"I survived the Hunger Games."

Not yet.

"Is that real or not real?"

That one's easy.

"That's real. They're over."

And it's not.

"I swam. And everyone else drowned. Real or not real?"

"Real."

A whispering sigh.

And space of time.

"We're home in District 4."

"Real. Do you want to go out so you can see it?"

"No."

She's silent for another space of time.

"But nobody is coming to get me. Is that real or not real?"

Finnick releases a soft breath, hoping this is a good sign.

"That's real."

And they sit there.

"Okay."

A while longer.


I love Finnick. Have I mentioned? ;)