Author's Note: Not bad huh? Two chapters in one week? It's my way to make up for lost time and the unfortunate hiatus I took from updating this story. Though not the lengthiest chapter, it does move my story forward without rushing. I felt like making it longer but it the end it seemed like doing so was just procrastinating and filling the story with irreverent filler (like this A/N) and after I had finished I decided to omit at least 1000 words. I also felt like it was important to explore the original story I had set up for Finnick but never fully explored in the early chapters of this story. I think it works nicely, I hope you think so too.
Well, I'm off to start writing the next chapter now. Enjoy!
He couldn't escape the hot air he was engulfed by. It surrounded and consumed him and Finnick didn't think he could experience a more unpleasant situation. His uniform was only exacerbating the heat and he felt at least a little better only wearing a light layer or protective equipment. He kept his chapped lips closed and resisted the urge to moisten his lips with his tongue. Doing so would only make them crack more, and opening his mouth was always uncomfortable as doing so would surely lead to a mouthful of sand.
There were times he felt homesick, not that he had much of a home in America or family for that matter, but running drills in a desert in Afghanistan during an oppressive heat wave could only make one miss a life they were accustomed to.
He appreciated beautiful things, and to Finnick, the Afghani deserts were certainly marvelous to his own eyes. As he continued to perspire among his fellow troops, the knowledge of where he was and what he was doing was not lost on him. He reminded himself to stop and take in every single moment, this is what he wanted to be doing, where he wanted to be, what he wanted to fight for and above all, what he believed in. He reminded himself he was part of something bigger, more than sweat and scolding heat and tiring training, even if he was only sectioned in the middle of the desert.
For a moment, Finnick smiled to himself. That was when the shouting started.
Learning something in theory, even practicing simulations was one thing, the reality was so much different. In a few seconds that lasted longer than he could comprehend he watched as two men went down before his eyes. As the bullets left their bodies, so did a red spray of blood that stained the once golden sand. Gunfire and shouting filled his ears. He was terrified.
It was always a hypothetical until now, he thought as he spun around. As he turned in his place, he watched as two holes went directly through a large man's chest. Finnick recalled the one and only brief exchange they shared in a chopper two days earlier. They were all so new to this that they hadn't even been out there long enough to learn all their fellow soldiers names. There would be a time in the future he would learn the man's name, but in that moment all Finnick could do was question his own morality as he watched the man's clothes quickly dampen with dark red blood and die in front of him with his own big eyes still open, fixed on him. He would never forget the way the man's eyes looked at him but weren't seeing him.
By the time he raised his gun he felt the bullets pierce him. Then he was down along with at least four other men. The sand felt extremely hot, definitely hotter than it looked. It was a nice and very brief distraction from the knowledge that he was lying in a pool of his own blood.
"Sink or swim," he thought in his head as he blindly reached around, hoping to crawl out of the backpack that still strapped to his back, but the second he reached his arm any further than his head, or even tried to roll on his back, the blinding pain would come. He hoped that his very light movement would at the very least signal his fellow troops to help him.
The need to stop the bleeding was suddenly surpassed by another need. He realized he couldn't breathe properly. No doubt his lungs were filling with blood. He knew he'd soon be dead. What a terrible feeling that was, he thought before deciding to just close his eyes and finally sink.
As Finnick Odair took his last breath, he asked himself if it was still worth it? He died before he had a chance to answer the question.
He woke up with a jolt, almost thrashing as his eyes shot open and the sound of gunfire continued to fill his ears, even if it was only a dream, a memory, all in his head. As Finnick gathered his bearings, he slowly wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his trembling palm as he waited for the loud ringing in his ears to subside.
Even though they had never really stopped, they were starting again. There was only one thing worse than dying, having to relive it. It was nights like that Finnick wished that he had died, at least that way he'd have been put out of his misery.
20 minutes had passed until Finnick could stop thinking about his dream. He pulled the sheets off himself and got out of bed. Padding his way to the bathroom, he pulled the shirt off his head and winced in pain. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, disturbed by the look of the man who stared back at him. His reflection revealed an exhausted man, worn with anxiety. He traced a thumb across his bruised lip, noting the way the bruise had begun to fade nicely in the past few days. The circles beneath his eyes had more to do with the sheer exhaustion he'd faced the last few nights and less to do with the bruise stemming from the peak of his nose to the bottom of his left eye. At least it opened all the way now, no longer swelled shut and covered with a dark bruise. Finally there was the big red splotch on his right cheek, the one bruise that had refused to vanish despite his best attempts at treating it.
The biggest bruise, the worst pain came from the long bruise on his rib cage. He'd yet to seek medical attention for the cracked ribs. For the first few days even breathing hurt but the pain was nowhere near as intense as it had been any more. Never one for admitting he needed help, he decided to be stubborn and deal with the injury himself. He continued to study the 12 inch bruise on his chest for a few minutes longer, noting the way it almost covered his two bullet scars.
He deserved this, he thought. The physical and emotional damage he'd suffered in the past was brought on by his own selfish and callous behavior. He was a cold man, growing intensely more bitter each passing day. He knew he had to do something before it became a problem, before the loss of Peeta scarred him even more than Cato's beatings or the trauma he faced all that time ago.
Finnick made his way back to the bedroom, eying the dresser drawer. He pulled open the top drawer that contained articles of underwear, socks and ties. He placed his hand inside and lifted up various bundles of clothing until his hand wrapped around something hard, cold and heavy. He pulled out the M1911 pistol out and held it firmly in his hand. He released the cartridge and inspected it. It was lined with 6 small hollow point bullets.
He would never fire a gun again, he knew that. But on that particularly frightening morning, haunted with fears of his almost lost life, it felt very comforting and reassuring to know the pistol was close by.
Finnick placed the gun back in its place and closed the drawer.
"Do you want to come over tonight?" Peeta asked into his phone, unaware that he was holding his breath in anticipation, hoping for a positive answer, "I just-we haven't really spoken since-" He stopped himself from finishing what he needed to say mid-sentence. He took a deep breath and continued, "I miss you. I thought we could spend some time together tonight."
A long pause filled the next few seconds driving Peeta crazy with worry and frustration.
"I can't tonight," Cato said almost gruffly, a little too plain and simple in a certain manner of speaking that Peeta knew he couldn't stand. "I've got other plans."
Peeta nodded and closed his eyes, so tired and already sick of their newly antagonistic relationship. "Then when?" he asked, knowing the answer would definitely be intentionally vague and delivered in a bitter way, stripped of any remorse or regret.
"Not tonight," Cato replied, vague as ever. He impatiently grunted into the phone, "I've got to go."
"Okay," he replied, doing his best to hide the disappointment in his voice. "Goodnight."
The line went dead. Cato had already hung up.
As Peeta sat in his bed, beneath the sheets, devastated with the mess he had made himself, he realized it would take more than a phone call and an invitation to spend the night to help him redeem his shortcomings as someone's partner.
He wanted to be mad at Cato, furious with his silence and malevolence, but he couldn't. He had been forgiven days ago, but it was clear that such a short amount of time was not enough to heal bleeding wounds and broken hearts, and he had really broken Cato's heart. Peeta wanted to count his blessings, remind himself that at least the man was talking to him - albeit short, snarled replies but at least it was something. At least he didn't abandon him again, especially seeing as this time he deserved to be abandoned.
Peeta scooped up two large white pain pills in his hand and dropped them into his open mouth. He reached for the glass of water by the bed stand next to the pill bottle and took a small sip, washing the drugs down in anticipation of the sweet relief they would soon bring his stiff, throbbing shoulder.
He settled into bed with a frown, feeling the weight of truly being alone rest on his sore shoulders. It wasn't crippling but it was saddening. He may have been clinging to Cato with all his might, trying his best not to let go despite the man's urge to resist, but he may as well just have been alone.
Closing his eyes, he sighed deeply and let his mind wander. For the past week his thoughts had been turning to the bright lights of car beams blinding him in the middle of the road, the screech of the tires and the painful impact. His eyes opened and Peeta realized he was too scared to close them again.
He'd been so preoccupied with his other problems that his real fear had laid dormant, taking it's time to prey on his vulnerability. It was finally starting to catch up with him. He could feel his hands turning to fists, his fingernails digging into his skin, pinching it and leaving small red marks there.
It was all too much. All of it. His feelings were beginning to clash with his wounded pride. His guilt threw itself into the mix as his anger and panic over the car that struck him and the person behind the wheel. He felt like screaming, like running away from his small bedroom filled with memories he didn't want to be remembering, laying in a bed with sheets that draped over Finnick's naked body as they made love. It was the same bed frequented by Cato who'd also laid strewn between them. He sat back up and quickly picked his casted leg up and let it fall to the ground as he swung his other leg off the bed and bent forward, his head between his knees as he breathed deeply, trying his hardest not to cry and not to lose his cool.
After a little while he started to feel better, for the most part it was simply the drugs taking affect. Peeta laid back down in his bed, cradling a pillow beneath his head with his good arm. Once again his mind began to wander, only this time it didn't go to a dark place, he smiled and remembered the last time he was happy.
Peeta didn't feel guilty as he began drifting off to sleep. Fantasies and memories couldn't harm anyone. Even if they could, Cato wasn't exactly there to help him make any new ones to help him sleep. He couldn't help but wonder if Cato ever would again? Or was he just kidding himself and delaying the inevitable?