HI LOVES! So anyway, it's summer! Yay! That means no finals or stress about homework, which is the best. As a little happy celebration, and a weird and not-related-to-the-theme-of-Memorial-Day-at-all Memorial Day gift (that hopefully makes you happy), here is Chapter 8. Annie's games are going to be hashed out in Chapter 9 and mainly 10 (because I have a little spiel for 9 planned out), so stick with me! Chapter 10 will probably be a big one considering I want to have an in-depth experience with Annie's Games but plan to end them in Chapter 10. So, that one will probably be a long one that I'll try to work really hard on for you guys. Anyway, nine is done (all I have to do is edit it), so I might even put it up sometime tonight just because I'm really excited for everything this story is going to be delving into during the Games and especially after. Lastly, PLEASE tell me your thoughts! Feel free to PM me or review this story with any comments, questions, suggestions, etc. :) I love it when I get to hear from you guys; it means worlds to me.

Enjoy! And don't forget that you're beautiful!

Chapter 8: Before it All

Get a hold of yourself, Finnick.

Why am I falling apart? Why can't I just let her go? She's going into that arena tomorrow, and I'd be fooling myself if I denied that almost all, actually no, all of the tributes in the pool are probably better-skilled and better-trained than she is. And even if she had been able to transform herself into a strong, brutal survivor, I still don't think she'd ever be able to murder anyone. She's too kind, too caring. I can't imagine her frail, compassionate heart bearing the weight of a murder, or let alone something like these Games. Hell, I've never really even come to terms with the fact that I've purposely stolen people's futures and scarred their family members by killing their children, and it's been five years.

I repeat the same trivial ramblings in my head, trying to ingrain them into the very muscles of my tired brain. It's two in the morning, but I still feel wired. My roof seems ominous tonight, the dark clouds swirling overhead, almost like a dreadful reminder of the hell that will begin tomorrow. I cringe at the thought of sitting in that clean, sterile space, eyes glued to the screen, desperate as the gong sounds. I can't imagine it. It's hard enough with children you've never met before, knowing they'll most likely die. Watching Annie in the arena, the girl who I've just reconnected with, my best friend? The thought makes me want to escape into a dark, reclusive corner far away from the Capitol and dry heave, getting rid of the heavy breakfast that is now an uncomfortable weight in my stomach. If she dies, I have no one closer to me. I've told her everything about me, and with her gone the comfort of having a best friend who understands my pain dies too.

Let her go, Finnick. She won't make it. Why can't you just be thankful to have befriended her again? You've lived without her before… You have Mags.

But was I really living before she came into my life, or just merely surviving? And Mags is the one person left on this planet who actually, genuinely cares for me and I for her. But a beautiful seventeen year old friend like Annie and eighty-year-old motherly figure like Mags are two different things completely.

All of these thoughts beat around my tormented mind, blocking out all rationality. I know I care for her, much more than I should. But I'd be lying if I said I expect her to be the one to walk out of that arena alive. Annie's too good for these Games, too pure and innocent and beautiful. I should just be happy I've gained her friendship back after shutting her out for so long. That should be enough to allow me to let go and watch her tragic story play out across the live television screens of Panem. But it isn't.

I've let myself slowly let her in again without fully realizing it, and now it's too late. I care too much, and I can't let her go. I want to do everything in my willpower to bring her back, no matter what those blinking screens that display Annie's odds of winning in the Training Center reveal. I know she can do this. I just have to have faith in her.

Once I've come to this conclusion, that I can help Annie and do as much as possible to bring her home, I almost feel guilty, finally focusing on something other than my gut-wrenching anxiety. I'm pacing my roof worrying myself sick while she's probably in bed terrified, focused on the outcome of her fate tomorrow. She's the one going into the arena, not me.

I turn to slink back down the stairs, to return to Annie's compartment and check on her. She's not there. Instead, I hear low voices that seem to be coming from an almost-muted television and walk in to the sitting room, preparing to say something witty about the late hour, only to be silenced. Annie's long, luscious hair is draped over the back of the velvet couch and her tiny, fragile hands are gripped around a mug of some steaming liquid, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She looks beautiful. She looks terrified. She looks like Annie. Everything I've grown to know about this fragile girl sitting here seems to fit perfectly with the haunted look and beautifully innocent frown that she's wearing right now.

I don't know if she realizes I'm here or not, so I make my footfalls louder as I approach the couch.

She starts a little and peers back at me, her brilliant eyes glowing, even though they are ringed in dark circles that seem to accentuate the heart wrenching fear etched into her features. "Fin?"

I smile at her lips forming my name. "Hey, Annie Bananie."

Despite her obvious anxiety, she rolls her eyes a little. "That nickname needs to go," she mutters sadly, shaking her head as if it's the worst thing she's ever heard.

"I like it," I say simply, plopping on the couch beside her. For awhile, we say nothing; we just stare at the sheeting rain as it glints against the lights of the city framed by the large window. Suddenly, this conversation suddenly seems like maybe the last time I'll really be able to talk to her, my best friend. The thought kills me.

"Say something," I beg suddenly, my voice desperate. Her eyes widen, so I add softly, "This isn't our last night together, I know, but I can't help but feel like it is. So just say something so I know this is real. I want to talk to you while I still can."

Annie smiles simply, giving my shoulder a small squeeze as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Her face grows thoughtful before she speaks. "I'm glad we found each other again, Finnick. I needed this before these Games."

I nod, my heart flying at her words. "Me too," I murmur quietly into the peaceful dark of the room. "I bet you were surprised when your name was called that day at the reaping. If I had been you, I'd probably have been dreading it just because I'd have to see me again after I was a total asshole and-"

"Finnick."

"I'm serious, Annie, I…"

"And I'm serious," she cuts me off, that mature tone saturating her voice. "I don't hold you to anything that's happened during these years. It wasn't your choice. You were broken. End of discussion. But you are right in a way," her voice grows softer and her eyes flit to mine. When I raise my eyebrows in question, she giggles and continues.

"I was terrified to see you again. I really was. After the initial shock, you were on my mind. But I tried not to show that, of course." I remember the way she avoided my gaze on the reaping stage. "When Pearl came to visit me, after she cried her poor eyes out of course, she had to end on a light note. That's just her, trying to make a terrible situation seem a little brighter. So she mentioned you. Something like a, 'So, word on the street is that Finnick Odair is a mentor and is all over Annie Cresta'." She laughs again, but I can't help but notice how ironically true the words are. Did her family and friends notice my staring at her that day? Do they think I have feelings for her now?

Annie's words distract me from my rambling once again. "Lana, she was beside herself. She just kept sobbing, but at the end of her visit, she did tell me she wanted to say hi to you."

I smile at that. "I always liked Lana," I mutter nostalgically. "She talked to me sometimes at school, when she thought I was having a rough time. Would just ask me how I was, even though I treated you like crap. I wonder what she thought about that."

Annie sighs now, a quiet one that escapes her plush, pink lips. "I guess we'll never know."

"Don't say that," I insist, sounding more demanding than I mean to. "I just—you can do this, Annie."

"Okay, Fin," she concedes, repeating the same thing she said a few days back. Sitting here, I am reminded of her long weeks ahead and realize I should let her either think or sleep in peace. I rise, slowly looking down at her with remorse. I'd wasted five years without her. What the hell had I been thinking? I would give anything to be home right now with her in my arms, on our beach right next to the Victor's Village, the wind whipping her hair and tickling my skin. Now, it's too late.

That seems to be the repeated, thematic phrase of this night, even this entire trip that started when Annie entered that train compartment with me just a mere few days ago that for some reason feels like lifetimes.

It seems to always be too late.

Finally, I say goodnight, promising her I'll see her tomorrow in the morning and then head up to my roof again. But it's only a matter of time before I find myself slinking back down to check on her, to make sure she's handling the night okay. I remember how scary sleep the night before can be.

I tell myself that if she's asleep, I won't disturb her. A good night's sleep is precious the night before the Games begin. If she's awake though, I can keep her company and try to make her feel better about tomorrow. Selfishly, I'm almost hoping for the latter. I want to see her again.

Her door is shut tightly, so I ease it open, peering in while trying to block the dim light in the hallway from leaking into her room. Her face, I notice, is peaceful. Just like when we were kids and she would fall asleep as we laid on the couch and listened to my father tell us stories of sea voyages, her jaw slackens and her breathing evens into a peaceful lull, which tells me she's asleep. As I near her bed, I notice the sheen of sweat on her forehead and realize that she's probably only just recently gotten to bed. I'm impressed that she's even been able to fall asleep on a night like this, but then again, by the way her cheeks gleam in the dark room, it looks like she probably just cried herself into oblivion.

Her soft, mahogany hair is tangled on the lush pillow and her cheeks look fuller somehow than they did mere hours ago, the perfect planes of her face completely smooth. There's no moon tonight, just stormy, brewing air that whispers into her compartment through the slightly ajar window. I shiver at the slightly cool breeze, my body still standing at the side of Annie's bed. I know I should leave, that my being in her room like this without her permission seems wrong, but I can't bear to carry my feet out the door. I want to protect her, and more importantly, if she wakes up, I want her eyes to be searching for my face and her lips to be saying my name. I want her to need me just like I desperately need her. So without much other thought about what I'm doing entails, I carefully slide in and lower myself back against the pillow, hands awkwardly splayed against my stomach as Annie's breath slightly hitches. I freeze and keep my gaze locked on her soft eyelids, praying that she won't wake up and see me here. Thankfully, after a few moments, she relaxes into the sheets again and mumbles something unintelligible. I sigh in relief, and then settle myself in for the night.

Slowly, despite how intrusive and pretty damn creepy I feel, I decide to spend these last few moments I have with Annie memorizing parts of her I've never had cause to notice much before. The perfect line of her high cheekbones, the delicate and rosy flush of her cheeks, the way her brows softly curve into a perfect arch. I study the shape of her full lips, the way they twitch slightly as she breathes. Most of all though, I notice the light-as-dust sprinkling of freckles across her bronze skin. I've never noticed them until now, but once I see them, I can't look away. They are a slight pink, dusty hue and trail over her nose and a little onto her cheeks. Here in the dark room that's almost completely empty of moonlight, the freckles seem strangely beautiful to me, as if they tell a hidden story of this mesmerizingly beautiful, sleeping girl.

Instinctively, I reach my hand out to brush her freckles. Where my fingers come in contact with her skin, I feel a tingly burn emanate from my hands all the way out to the very tips of my being. She's perfect, laying here in the seemingly-alive darkness. All the words I've held back throughout these years bubble to the tip of my tongue, just begging my mouth to form the syllables, but I hold back. I don't want to taint the perfect stillness with my tired voice, and those words won't matter anyway if she can't hear them.

But what happens next shocks me.

One moment I'm lying there on the bed, softly trailing my fingers across her face, when the next I'm staring into her radiant emerald irises.

"Finn?" she asks in a small, sleepy voice.

She sounds so innocent that my heart clenches as I conjure up the horrible imaginings she will have to face over these next weeks.

"Yeah?" I murmur, trying to hide my embarrassment with a little smile and ruffle of her hair.

"What are you doing here?"

Great, I think to myself. Just the question I didn't want to have to answer.

"I couldn't sleep," I say lamely. Hopefully, my semi-true excuse is believable.

Her eyes are confused, but I swear I see the hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"Okay," she says simply, scooting closer and burying her face into my chest. Her silken hair drapes across me and I inhale the fragrance of it, sweet yet extremely natural smelling. It mingles with the breeze and floats into my nostrils, allowing me to relax and slowly forget my fears about tomorrow. I want to live in this moment with her, with my Annie, before the hellish reality of the morning seeps into my consciousness. And with her arms wrapped tightly around my waist as my fingers delicately stroke her hair, I do just that.