Author's Note: I just wanted to quickly give a thanks to the wonderful people who have put this story on alert. I hope you like this, I wanted to move the story along while shedding some light on the past. Enjoy.

"I'm not a good guy, Peeta." Finnick exhaled, his green eyes focused intently on the cloud of blue smoke that had left his lungs, passing through his nostrils and now filling the ceiling of the bedroom, illuminated by dim light. He reached for the ashtray that sat on the nightstand while continuing to stare.

Peeta continued drawing patterns on the taller man's bare torso with his index finger. He was seemingly fascinated with two small round scars along his rib cage.

"What are you talking about?" he asked as his hand travelled down and rested on Finnick's warm thigh, fingertips brushed against a small patch of hair. He paid little attention to the man's words. His lips replaced his fingers as he gently kissed the two scars.

Finnick took another drag and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. "Nothing," he mumbled.

He reached his hand out to stroke Peeta's blonde locks carefully, admiring the golden locks that hung in his face, he glanced at him, green eyes travelled down over his bare body. He found himself getting used to the feeling of having the younger man admire his own body like that. He could tell over the past weeks, the young man had become enamoured with him, he hated himself for provoking those advances, for being too weak to turn them down, especially when Peeta appeared at his door with a chipper smile in place.

Finnick was allowing Peeta to get closer than anyone else had before. It didn't seem fair, not only to lead him on, but to subject him to the pain and hurt he would inevitably have to put Peeta through when he would break off their liaison.

Peeta didn't deserve that. He had an innocence about him that made Finnick want to protect him and keep him safe. Eventually a time would come when he'd be forced to break it off. Every day he delayed, every time they kissed, he knew it would only cause more hurt for both of them. He would deliberately have to hurt someone he'd come to care for, someone who already had a fair share of pain inflicted on him.

He really wasn't a good guy.

He didn't want to think about it at that moment. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the pleasure of Peeta's lips touch him. Perfect.

"What did it feel like?" Peeta asked as he sat up in the large bed and reached for the packet of cigarettes that had fallen to the floor.

He knew what he was referring to. His hand instinctively rested along his only imperfection, the two faded scars above his left hip almost below his rib cage that had been placed with kisses only moments earlier. "Getting shot?"

Peeta held the cigarette in his lips and lit it, raising his eyebrows in response. It had been his favourite spot and his current fascination. Even as Finnick laid before him, naked and bare with their legs tangled together amongst the strewn sheets, he couldn't take his eyes off the scars that rose and fell with every breath. After three weeks he finally summoned the courage to ask the question that had been plaguing him every time they slept together or he felt the taller frame wrapped around him.

Finnick shrugged a response. "It hurt."

"Well that's specific," Peeta replied sarcastically. "C'mon. I want to know."

He hated the scars, no matter how small they were. They were a constant reminder of a chapter in his life he had no interest in revisiting. Peeta was not the first person to ask about them, and was definitely not the last. The mark was hard to disguise as another sort of injury, especially given his prior career. Most people left the topic alone upon picking up on Finnick's clear hesitation, but there was an unusual level of comfort Peeta seemed to develop around him.

Finnick sighed, "First there was this kind of sharp stinging pain. I could feel the bullets lodge inside. By the time I actually realized what was happening, I was already down. He rubbed his big toe against Peeta's knee. "Then out of nowhere there was this huge pressure pushing down on my chest, my lung collapsed and I couldn't really breath."

"Shit," Peeta mumbled, flicking the ash off the tip of the cigarette, Peeta used his free hand to run up and down Finnick's calf, resting his chin on the his bent knee. "Then what?"

"By the time I realized what had happened, I started reaching for my med pack. At first it didn't hurt so much, but as the adrenaline started to wear off I could feel everything." He paused for a moment, and looked into the younger man's blue eyes, wide with wonder and curiosity.

To Peeta it was just a cool story that roused his interest. It was an entirely different experience to Finnick. It was the story of how his life almost ended. Peeta wasn't caught between gunfire, bleeding to death, feeling the pain of the almost mortal wound blossom inside him. He wasn't laying on the ground feeling the life slip away from him, helpless and scared, unable to be helped as others joined him on the ground wounded, dead or in danger of joining him.

Finnick didn't feel the tear well up in his eye. "The pain quickly grew, it was pretty intense. I couldn't move, I couldn't help myself, I couldn't do anything. And the worst part was, I knew there was nothing I could do, that I had to just lay there and wait to fucking waste away. I knew it was coming and I couldn't do anything but lay there and wait for it. Do you have any idea how that feels?" he asked sullenly.

Peeta paused for a moment, hesitating to say anything as he searched his memory for an answer, quickly realizing that no injury he ever faced could possibly compare to the sickening story he was being told. He shook his head quickly. "No," he said quietly.

"I knew I was in serious shit when I started to feel how wet the ground was," Finnick continued, "It could have been the loss of blood, but it didn't register with me straight away that it was my own blood I was laying in. I was covered with it. That's when I knew I was going to die."

Memories as vivid as ever filled his mind, a panicked whimper, the sound of his own desperate, uneven breathing and the distant shouting and gunfire all around him. He remembered his life coming to an end and the sight of all the blood, too much of it. He didn't know there was so much.

Peeta pulled him out of his hallucination by taking his hand gently. "It's okay," he said softly, reassuring the older man by placing a kiss on his hand.

He left his cigarette to dangle in the ashtray, moving his entire body back to Finnick. He resumed his position, by his side, wrapped around him, his head on his heart. He observed the cloudiness in the man's eyes, which now seemed empty and distant with a one or two tears filling them.

"You won, Finnick. You survived," Peeta said lowly, unsure of how to fix the situation, his own heart dropping at the sight of the man in pain. He recognized that look. He was all too familiar with that look.

Finnick closed his eyes, trying his best to recall what he had learned in the months of psychical and psychological rehabilitation. He remembered being forced to learn to walk again without a cane, tying knots into a small piece of rope and being rewarded with an honourable discharge, the most degrading and humiliating moment in his life.

"I used to be so much better than this," Finnick muttered. "I used to have purpose and dignity, I was part of something."

He was unsure of where the sudden revelation was coming from. "I thought you were the one who requested to leave."

Finnick scoffed almost obnoxiously, "Peeta. I got shot and spent three weeks in a military hospital, before being sent back here to live in a rehab ward for four months before they showed me the door. They kicked me out. They didn't want me anymore. I was too weak."

The tone had already become heated and tense. Peeta didn't want to respond, but he couldn't get the words out of his head. "You still have purpose. You don't need to fight in a war to be driven or powerful," he said, sitting up and pulling at Finnick's arm too, pulling him up with him.

"What the hell do you know?" Finnick muttered, sitting up, "I let my guard down, I thought I knew everything, that I was untouchable, and look at what it cost me."

Peeta nodded curtly, "There are worse things you know."

"Yeah? Like what?" he mumbled, reaching for Peeta's discarded, half smouldered cigarette.

"Like losing your family and having your whole world change," Peeta said quietly, wanting Finnick to see there was more to life than what his preconceived thoughts were, while at the same time, not wanting to make it about him and his problems.

They sat quietly on the bed. Even completely naked, Finnick felt so exposed and bare before. He hated that he let his guard down and opened himself up to the younger man who moved in to kiss him deeply, assuring, caring. He hadn't wanted it, nor had he invited it. He was suddenly furious that Peeta had managed to sneak into his life, consume his every thought and feeling and even make him want him.

Peeta broke their kiss. "You're not weak," he whispered, moving closer into Finnick's hold.

Finnick unintentionally placed his hand over Peeta's heart. The feel of it beat forced him to pause. Peeta wrapped in him, he could feel his heart beat faster.

"Yes I am," he whispered back.

The realization of what their relationship was becoming quickly dawned on him as Peeta moved his body to sit in his lap, that the young man saw this as more than it was. In truth, so had he. He found himself wanting Peeta's heart, to feel it beat. It made him weak. Peeta wanted to kiss him and have him open up about his past, his secrets and the things he didn't want to talk about again. Now Peeta was kissing him, his way of letting him know it would be okay. Peeta now knew his weaknesses, he'd gained too much power. He knew what could undo him, what could make Finnick break, where he liked to be touched, how to touch him.

He broke the kiss, pushing Peeta back slightly, off from around his body. "Stop," he hissed.

"What is it?" Peeta asked, reaching out to touch him again.

Finnick shook his head, forcing himself to hold back the words he was about to spit out. He held back his instructions for Peeta to get dressed and get out, that he didn't want him to stay, that he didn't want the man touching him. "It's nothing."

He rested his hands in his lap, "Why won't you let me touch you? You've never said no to me before."

"I'm not in the mood," Finnick said quietly. He discarded the cigarette and clicked off the lamp. The room now filled with darkness. He rolled onto his side, making sure to have his back turned on the younger man.

For the first time, he didn't feel Peeta on him, crawling into his arms or holding him from behind. It felt equally freeing as it did upsetting.

"I shouldn't have brought it up," Peeta muttered aloud, he too turning on his side on the other side of the bed.

Finnick was quiet for a moment. "No. You shouldn't have."

It had been weeks since the pain had come. Peeta knew he had been stupid to think maybe he was moving past it. He had come to accept that he never would. That night it was brought about by a particularly vivid dream he woke from. It wasn't so much a dream as a series of vivid memories, only slightly distorted with surreal images Peeta couldn't really remember.

He awoke at some point well into the night. He ripped the covers off himself and moved for his dresser, where he kept a half empty bottle of vodka for such an emergency. The harsh clear spirit numbed the memories and the pain, and if enough was ingested, would knock him out quickly.

He propped his desk chair in front of the window and covered himself with a blanket as he slowly took mouthfuls of the harsh liquor. It was becoming all too familiar with him - his growing dependency of the intoxication that alcohol provided as an escape when things got too rough.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the days leading up to the worst event of his life. He brought the bottle up to his lips again and remembered the way Cato would smell when they laid in bed together, Cato tall and strong, Peeta pressed behind him, short with his arm wrapped around the larger man's neck watching his lover smoke a joint.

He was happier then, blissfully unaware that in a matter of days his parents would die and he would never get them back.

Peeta was broken. At first in a mild state of catatonia, he would sit in his room alone, unable to cry, scream or feel anything. It was Cato who sat with him, feeding him, whispering things in his ear and doing his very best to bring his heartbroken love back to life.

Then the grief came. Peeta quickly discovered the weight of his sorrow was too much to bear, something he couldn't bring himself to handle. He was unable to sleep, too frightened of his dreams and the images that would play when his eyes were closed. Waking up every day proved to be laborious, knowing his parents were dead, now buried in the Earth leaving a hole in him. Once again, it was Cato who listened to his begs for a way to make the pain stop, who held Peeta as he sobbed and trembled, pleading for Cato to do something, anything to make it stop.

Convenient drugs didn't work. Peeta found the intoxication of the pot Cato provided growing wearisome and tedious very quickly. It proved to be futile. If anything, it only exacerbated the smaller man's grief. Once the drug proved itself ineffective, Peeta's depression grew as he began to realize it wasn't enough.

Cato quickly learnt to be more resourceful and found a way to supply his lover with substances he hoped would heal the agony of everyday living - it was now becoming not only a burden for Peeta, but him too. It didn't take him too long to acquire the drugs that could medicate Peeta and stop his heart wrenching sobs that were beginning to take their toll.

He brushed the blonde hair out of Peeta's face and looked deep into his red eyes that had begun to grow dark circles beneath them. Knowing Peeta would be scared, Cato kissed him gently and promised it would all be okay before cutting the white powder into a long line and taking the first hit.

Even in a state of euphoria, Peeta's anger began to manifest. In a matter of weeks, Cato had seen the man he loved change into someone else entirely. Even the euphoria of cocaine couldn't calm him, and Cato couldn't help but wonder if the drugs were to blame, replacing his grief with a fury that Peeta unleashed on everyone besides him.

He had become Peeta's protector in every sense of the word. He no longer cared about actions or consequences as long as the man he loved was at peace and completely untouchable by the pain that loomed over him. Cato didn't care if the drug use and blatant abuse of alcohol were causing this sort of raging reaction, as long as Peeta would stop trembling when his mind had a chance to catch up and remind him of the void in his life. As the weeks passed, the use of drugs began to wane, leaving only alcohol to pick up the slack.

Completely oblivious to the long term repercussions, Cato continued to encourage Peeta's actions without taking a moment to consider letting the man grieve. He watched on as Peeta and Noah's relationship deteriorated and even found himself getting involved when Peeta needed defending.

Their reckless actions eventually caught up with them. The memories of his arrest were lost somewhere in a hazy part of his memory, clouded amongst the other repressed memories during his depression. Peeta could remember being strung out and equally, if not more wrecked than Cato one night when an altercation between them and a few other men lead to violence. Certain images that weren't lost remained burned in his memory. Cato's furious fists flying through the air, Peeta's own bloodied knuckles colliding with bone, flesh and teeth, and Cato's large hand taking Peeta's as they unsuccessfully tried to outrun the fast approaching sirens.

Somehow, in a daze of confusion and panic, Peeta found himself alone in an overnight cell to sober up, awaiting to hear if any charges would be placed. He didn't care. Peeta quickly realized it was the first night he had spent alone in a long time, he couldn't understand why Cato abandoned him.

Noah picked him up shortly after. Peeta sat in his room for two days waiting for Cato to come back.

Cato was the only person he had left. When calls went unanswered and the man was nowhere to be seen, Peeta was devastated to realize he was never coming back. The out right betrayal was what hurt him more than anything. The notion that he was hurt or in danger was completely ludicrous and absurd to think. If Cato did anything well, it was protecting himself. To think the man just took off without a reason or goodbye hurt more than words could describe.

He didn't know what happened to him, where he was, who he was with, just that he wasn't in Peeta's arms. Now, all he could do was nurse a bottle of vodka in the darkness of his room. It was the only relief he could find. The vodka tinged his lips, it tasted like Cato. Like countless other nights, he began to ask himself the hard questions he didn't know if he had an answer to while he thought back to where it all could have gone wrong. Was it his fault? Was it the one action that drove the man away? Or was it a culmination of the months of unmanageable, unbearable grief and burden he placed on him?

Peeta didn't know. He supposed he never would. But on that particularly low night, the only comfort he could find were in the memories of what he once had and how good they were to remember on nights when he had no one.

Finnick didn't bother getting a name from her. It felt even better knowing she didn't seem to care what his name was either. She was exactly what he needed, another nameless, faceless girl he could use and discard.

It was what he did best.

There would be no hurt for her once this was over. No pain. No apologies.

He lifted her up onto the counter between the two faucets, she knocked the back of her head on the bathroom mirror. Her own fumbling hands pulled up her short skirt as his far more steady hands grasped her panties and pulled them off and dropped them to the floor. He began freeing himself from the confines of his pants.

She was intoxicating to him, the moment he saw her on the dance floor he knew he had to have her. He was used to having whoever he wanted and she was no exception. A perfect outlet for his desire, tall, blonde and promiscuous, just the way he liked them. There was no chance the completely forgettable stranger would invade his thoughts and feelings, or cause him to be concerned about her well being, the way he did about Peeta. He knew this relief would take him away from all of it. He couldn't stand the way his lust competed with his conscious. Everything was getting away from him, he was losing all his control and power because someone had made him vulnerable.

His hand dug around his wallet for the condom he'd strategically placed in lieu of the encounter he had planned. He tore the packaging open with his teeth and rolled it onto the tip of his hardened length.

Finnick had to remind himself to be gentle with her. It wasn't like being with a man where they could roll around between the sheets, using their strength to pleasure the other. She was delicate and soft, a welcome change.

He enjoyed the way she released quiet gasps as he pushed himself into her. The feeling of being with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted was liberating. Once he was in, he began to thrust in a fast rhythm causing them both to release the desperate groans from their throats.

He didn't have to make excuses, he certainly didn't have to explain himself. He had made himself clear. He was beyond caring about the younger man and his feelings. The more he cared, the more they both hurt. It was a contradiction that he couldn't find himself concerned with any longer. He was proving a point now. He had already spent weeks consumed by the younger man, he'd allowed him to open up about his pain and he kissed away his sweet tears. He'd shared his own pain and opened the flood gates. This was his way of establishing his position, sticking to his own rules and refusing to break them again for anyone.

Later, he would smell her perfume all over him and find some of her lipstick on the collar of his shirt and remind himself he wasn't weak anymore.