I do not own The Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

The Final Stretch


". . . honor to be here today . . ."

". . . noble and strong fighters . . ."

". . . worthy common purpose . . ."

". . . honor and glory . . ."

". . . great and good country, . . ."

". . . Panem."


They go through every day apart, performing their respective duties.

And every night . . .

"Good night, Finnick."

"Good night, Annie."

. . . she falls asleep in his arms.

It does not improve the deteriorated state of her condition.

But it does seem . . .

"Thank you, Finnick."

"You're welcome, Annie."

. . . to stop its descent.


". . . Hunger Games, Annie Cresta!"

They make it through all twelve districts.

And then to the Capitol.

Finnick gives her the pills.

Annie sleeps in his arms every night.

And Mags . . .

"Thank you, Mags."

. . . loves and supports them both.

Annie's slightly less than sterling demeanor proves to reward her with a somewhat shorter interview with Caesar . . .

". . . dear, you're looking so slender and delicate. The ocean air and sunshine at home must be doing you good!"

"Yes. I'm going to miss it when I die."

. . . Flickerman.

". . . have you been up since the Games, Annie? Tell us about the glorious life of such a vivacious Victor such as yourself."

"Well, I finally stopped sleeping in my closet."

And Finnick begins to believe . . .

"Well, considering the life of a Victor, I am sure it was more luxurious than most of our own living rooms-"

"It's safe and warm and doesn't flood. I drilled holes in the floor to make sure."

. . . they just might make it through this.


But first, the Presidential Palace.

Photographers, interviewers.

Crowds of bizarrely garbed people clapping politely.

Fire eaters, contortionists.

Inside, the grand hallway, spiral staircase, dripping gold filigree.

The library, full of more books anyone could ever read, the ball room, the cavernous dining hall.

Packed to the gills with all the absurdly glamorous that wasn't packed into the gardens.

They stroll, they chat and they pretend to nibble on this and that.

He's not allowed to stay with her, she will cling and cry and show the Capitol, Snow, Panem, the weakness they don't want to see, hear, be faced with, admit.

He must stay away, work the crowds.

Charm, smooze, talk her up.

Discreetly pocket the slips of paper patrons surreptitiously press into his palms, hoping she doesn't notice, doesn't see.

But Annie is so involved with being overwhelmed with everything there should be no fear, no fear at all.

Which somehow makes him feel even worse.

He cannot stop them feasting on her marrow, he must stay away because no one must suspect, must know.

Evenso, she catches sight of him every so often, their eyes meet.

Hers green and bright and overflowing with tears mixing with newfound adoration and hope.

His coolly detached, he can only hope anyone who notices her noticing him will just assume she is among the many adorers, and who wouldn't be, he is Finnick Odair and everyone loves him.

Mags is there too.

Mags, who lives without hate, without judgement.

Even the cranky, slovenly victor from District 12 who is drunk all time (not that Finnick can blame him) seems to like her.

She is the one person he doesn't openly insult.

On the contrary, his smile is real every time he comes across his, his bloodshot eyes soft.

Finnick sees her do what she always does, take his hand in her own wrinkled, arthritic ones and pat it.

Eyes crinkling up, smile genuine.

And Finnick again is reminded that she is stronger in her own way than any of them, every single one.

And he . . .

Mags.

. . . loves her for it.


The Presidential Welcome comes none too soon, they both have been poked and prodded.

Danced and groped and wined and dined, bone marrow picked clean and absolute to the extent even the stamina-ed Finnick is weary.

And he can only imagine how Annie feels.

So when the music blares and the Presidential Palace is bathed in shades of blue and white, beautiful District 4 colors made ugly by the Capitol touch, it is almost a relief.

They turn in nearly in unison, slaves summoned by their Master.

They turn and they look.

Above the gardens, above the three-tiered fountain.

And there he is.

President Coriolanus Snow.

With his maroon smoking jacket, single white rose in his lapel.

His black-gloved hands.

His shock of startlingly white hair and beard.

Piercing ice blue eyes under bushy white brows.

He could be someone's grandfather, may actually be.

Save for bloodred mouth that always vaguely reeks metallic.

That mouth that opens now, to the absolute attention of everyone in attendance.

Directed at them all, yes.

But especially, yards away from Finnick, surrounded by Capitol creatures, the Victor from District 4.

". . . welcome this year's Victor . . ."

Winner of the 70th Annual Hunger Games.

". . . ideals of strength and valor . . ."

Annie Cresta.

President Snow, standing above them.

Merciless, razor thin smile even as he raises his champagne glass in mock congratulations.

And the fireworks . . .

Annie-

. . . begin to flash . . .

Oh no-

. . . and boom.

She has kept herself upright and moderately functional throughout this entire ordeal.

This evening and the last two weeks.

The blue pills have helped.

But now, nothing, nothing, can keep her as she can needs to be.

Even from a distance, Finnick sees her slender body stiffen, her pleasantantly stamped expression fracture.

Then she crumples in on itself.

Knees sagging, sinking to the ground, crushing the slinky, bejeweled dress they have dolled her up in.

Hands clamped over ears, eyes squeezed shut, terrified screams lost to the clapping and shouts of the roaring crowd.

The Capitol crowd.

Looking up, always up, up into the bright and beautiful explosions President Snow has commanded to be released just for this moment, this distraction.

Never down, always up.

Always distracted.

Finnick sees hers, breaks, runs to her side, dodging party-goers and Avoxes alike.

And kneels beside her.

"It's okay, Annie, it's okay. It's not real."

He puts his arms around her and she flinches away, face a misery of terrified and defeated sobs and wails which concern no one but her and him.

He lifts her by the arm to standing, she presses her face to his chest.

"It's not the arena."

And never sees, behind him, . . .

"It's almost over."

. . . President Coriolanus Snow . . .

"It's almost done."

. . . smile through the blood in his teeth.


See, I have this theory President Snow knew all along. I mean, dude knows everything, right? Except Plutarch.

And he enjoyed knowing how much Finnick's 'job' tortured them both helplessly.

Which was enough for him.

Until he decided, because of Katniss, to kill them all.

Just a theory.

;)

Want to discuss?

Also, I never knew until recently that soldiers often experience flashbacks during fireworks displays. I was shocked and saddened and mortified that the displays on the 4th (American, yeah, hello) meant to honor them often causes them upset and distress.

In fact, some countries, (yay, Italy!) have begun using silent fireworks for those citizens they have that would be affected.

So, Annie's firework breakdown.

Anyway, thanks for reading.