Chapter 11: 70th Annual Hunger Games

It's a sunny, humid day in District 4 as Finnick makes his way down the beaten path to the District Courtyard.

"Finnick! Over here!" calls an admirer. A girl not more than fifteen perches on the wooden fence along the pathway, giggling with two of her friends as he gives them a glance. He waves, but does not join them.

Many in the district grant him space and privacy. To most, his victory and Capitol favouritism are old news, but every so often – especially on these public walks to the District Courtyard – he's targeted by the wealthy who see the Games as honourable and his victory as triumphant.

He hates these walks to the Courtyard, but he's determined that Annie will always have a familiar face awaiting her when she's released from her bi-weekly therapy sessions in the medical center.

"Lookin' good, Odair," remarks a passer-by with yards of netting thrown over his shoulder.

"Thanks," Finnick murmurs under his breath, if only to be polite. It's something he's never gotten used to: known by all, recognizing so few.

He slips through the bustling Courtyard mostly unseen, darting into the medical center and waiting in a chair outside room 034. Within a few minutes, the door opens. Out walks Annie and, behind her, Dr. Ablesworth. He's a middle-aged educated man whose job is to make Annie say crazy things that he can report back to the Capitol. Most of the time, it's fairly simple – when Annie emerges from the room blocking her ears, muttering to herself or squeezing her eyes shut, Finnick knows the doctor has done his job.

On one hand, Finnick loathes him. Twice a week, he takes Annie right back into the Arena, and any progress that Finnick has made with her is nullified. On the other, Annie has thus far been deemed unfit to mentor in the Games, and for that, Finnick owes him.

Ablesworth must have gone easy on her today, for Annie's eyes are not red-rimmed and her hands do not shake. The doctor gives Finnick a nod of acknowledgement before retreating – after all these months of meeting Annie after her sessions, Ablesworth knows simply to escort Annie to the door and then leave them to one another.

"How are you?" Finnick asks Annie as they leave the medical center side-by-side.

She nods, unwilling as always to discuss her sessions further.

Finnick doesn't prod. If there's anything he's learned, it's that Annie does not respond to force or urgency.

"Will you come with me to the marketplace?" he asks her. "Mags asked me to pick up two pounds of snapper."

Though Annie doesn't reply, he knows she hears him. She's quiet today, but fairly calm. Sometimes she chats idly with him on their walks home. Other times, it's a struggle just to get her there – her therapy sessions bring back warped memories of her mentor killing her tribute partner and seeing Finnick after the session sends her into a fit.

The fish market is busy despite the humidity. It's the season for blue crab and speckled trout, with shrimpers also highly in demand. He takes Annie's hand for the purpose of weaving in and out of the many bodies. She doesn't squeeze back, but she doesn't recoil, and he accepts that neutrality is the most he'll get from her today. Better than fear and loathing.

They meet Roscoe Roe at his regular booth, sweating and cursing the weather.

"Hotter than the bowels of hell out here," he laments. "'Fraid my fish are rotting."

"I wouldn't say that too loud," Finnick chuckles, handing him a few bills. "Business might slow down."

"Business be damned," Roscoe grunts. "Can't keep up in this old body. And with the crowd seeing Odair and his beauty at my booth, I'll be on my feet all day."

Finnick glances at Annie for her reaction. She gives him a small smile, encouraging him to laugh at Roscoe's antics.

"Well, you're welcome," he says, accepting the packaged snapper. Under his breath, he adds, "You old crank."

When he and Annie turn around, there's a line-up at Roscoe's stall. Just as the coot predicted, their presence made business boom. They take one last look at Roscoe to see him cursing under his breath.

Annie giggles, and her amusement brings a smile to Finnick's face. He relishes the moments where her eyes are alive.

"He'll be fine," Finnick assures her with another chuckle. "You would have thought we'd be doing him a favour."

In better spirits than before, they leave the fish market on the opposite end. It's a more scenic route to walk to the Victor's Village along the beaches and then up.

There are boats pulling into the harbour, some commercial, some private, all with loads containing their catch of the day. The beautiful weather and calm seas have made it ideal for the busiest season, and fishermen work hard to keep those at the marketplace in business. Theirs is a well-oiled machine: they dock their boats and tie them, efficiently emptying the cargo in the wharf for gutting and cleaning.

As he and Annie walk past, Finnick spots a head of vaguely familiar bronzed hair. The man is squatted as his fingers work effortlessly to tie his boat, knot after knot after seamless knot.

Fletcher was always proficient when it came to knots. He learned that from their father.

He stands, running a hand through his thick, matted hair. He uses his shirt to wipe his forehead of sweat and calls out an order to a fellow crew member. When he spins around, his muted grey eyes lock with Finnick's. The exchange lasts only a few seconds.

"Fletch!" His name is called and he breaks the connection, returning to his daily work. The life he was born to live. The life Finnick should have been living.

Finnick hasn't seen his older brother since the day their mother was taken. He's heard news – Fletcher lives in a small house not far from the wharf. Last year he wed Kessie Frey, a fisherman's daughter, and recently he's heard that she's expecting. They're a match made in heaven. Or the sea.

And after just one glance, he feels those familiar pangs of envy for his brother. Fletcher lives a quiet life doing meaningful work beside the girl he loves. He doesn't know how lucky he is, how much his younger brother would sacrifice for that kind of life. Yet Finnick only sees long-standing resentment in Fletcher's eyes. Resentment of his younger brother's life; of what he perceives to be fortune but what Finnick knows to be pure hell.

"I want to visit my mother," Annie announces, interrupting his painful thoughts.

Breaking from his trance, Finnick gives her a small smile. "Okay," he agrees. Every so often, they stop by Poppy's grave in one of the district's burial sites. Finnick pulls the weeds from the dirt that threaten to strangle the tombstone while Annie picks wildflowers and arranges them to her liking. She lays them in front of the stone and speaks a few soft words to her late mother.

Finnick hates visiting the cemetery. He hates to think of the dead. But for Annie, he'd do anything.

Today, he reminds Annie that he's carrying fish that will soon expire in the sun. She nods, assuring him she won't pick flowers today. She just wants to say hello.

He leaves her to it, hanging a few rows back. Privacy is scarce in Annie's life, and he gives it to her when he can. It makes her feel more human.

It's too hot for the graveyard today, and as Finnick scans the perimeter, he realizes they're alone. It's safe to leave Annie with her mother for a while, so he begins to wander down the rows, reading the inscriptions on the stones. Names, places, dates, quotes. Sadness and regret well in his stomach though the majority of deaths are people he knows not. When Finnick dies, he wants his body to be thrown to the sea. No longer will he be restricted to a place, a name or a history. He can float on: anonymous, free.

Before he knows it, he's at the grave of Leander Odair.

The stone is a pallid grey, inscribed: Here lies Leander Odair. Husband, father, friend, fisherman.

The words are so meaningless. They don't begin to describe the person lying six feet underneath, nor do they do justice to the circumstances surrounding his life and death.

He remembers why he never visits. The memory of his father is so much more than what's engraved in stone.

Still, a rectangular plot of dirt has been neatly carved and tended in front of his tombstone. In it are freshly planted bluebonnets and as he stares bleakly, Finnick knows that his brother has ensured that the grave is never without life or company.

There's a rustling in the grass behind him. Annie appears by his side, pensive as she examines the plot.

"I remember your father," she says thoughtfully. "After my dad left, he kept an eye on me when I went swimming in the ocean."

Finnick lowers his stare.

"When he died, your mother cried through the funeral. These deep, heavy sobs that probably exhausted her – but he must have been worth every tear."

He remembers that day, though it's something he normally keeps far-removed from his thoughts. Dixie's grief. Fletcher's anger. His own hopelessness, fear, and recognition that death could become anyone he loved at any time.

"They say he died in a boating accident," Annie continues, her tone contemplative. She turns her head to look at Finnick. "Is that true?"

Training his eyes on the tombstone, he purses his lips and shakes his head.

Annie bites her lip and asks in a small voice, "How did he die, Finnick?"

A breeze blows by – the first movement of air he's felt all day.

"They killed him," he admits. He gulps, adding, "The Capitol."

Annie doesn't startle like he expects. Instead, she asks, "Why?"

He grinds his teeth, answering, "Because I didn't do what they wanted me to do. It's my fault."

He feels her gaze like he feels the sun beating down on the back of his neck, singeing his skin.

"They're bad, aren't they?" she asks.

Regretfully, he nods.

"They'd do anything to make you feel alone."

Truer words have never been spoken, and he wonders if Annie is expecting a reply or if she's simply making an offhanded remark. If the latter, it would be the first time she's voiced anything remotely negative about the Capitol since the Games. The first time she's thought independently, really.

He doesn't allow himself to get his hopes up. It's too painful to have them dashed again.

But then she slips her hand into his. Interlocks their fingers. Squeezes.

And as he stares into her eyes and a jolt of electricity surges through his body, his hope tips the scales.

At first, after Finnick aired out Annie's house in the Victor's Village and helped her move all of her things, Annie insisted she was fine alone. He protested, but Mags told him he was in no position to impose anything on her. Annie wouldn't answer her door the following morning, so Finnick had to hook a rope to the upstairs balcony railing and scale the walls to barge into her house. He found her in her new bedroom, the sheets knotted on the bed, pillows scattered, Annie shuddering on the floor in the corner.

She didn't protest to company after that.

Initially, it was Mags who slept over by Annie's request. The warped visions of Finnick killing Mace remained far too real to doubt, and Annie regarded him with suspicious, frightened eyes. After a month or so, it was clear that late nights spent consoling Annie were taking a heavy toll on Mags and her withered body. While Annie was convinced she could be on her own again, Finnick was adamant that she should not spend another night alone.

She would only allow him to sleep downstairs on the sofa at first. From the bottom of the stairs, he only knew that something was wrong when she began to cry out. Every night, he had to hold her hands in his and start from the beginning. You are Annie Cresta. You live in District 4. I'm Finnick. I would never hurt you…

After another month of torturous nightmares, she allowed him to move to a guest bedroom upstairs. From there, with the door open, he could hear her as soon as she began to writhe restlessly under the sheets. He could be by her side before she began to scream.

As for his sleeping arrangements, Finnick didn't much care as far as comfort was concerned. The sofa or the guest bed didn't make a difference – he'd sleep in the mud if she asked him to. It wouldn't matter, because after every episode in the middle of the night, he always ended up on the cushioned chair in the corner of her bedroom, where he'd doze fitfully until morning.

"Sometimes I hate you," she confesses one night after dreaming of the meadow rigged with landmines. The words cut right through his chest and sear him. Breath escapes him. He goes rigid in his chair across the room, hoping against all hope that she's dreaming again. Dreaming of someone else.

But the moon streams through the balcony window and casts a dim light on her face, and he sees her eyes wide open, staring unflinchingly at him.

"I wish you'd let me die in there," she says, adding faintly, "It would have been kinder."

Before she'd gone into the Arena, she'd asked him to be strong for her. Even in moments when he felt himself yearning to slip away, one fleeting memory of her face was all he ever needed to pull himself back to reality. To be strong for her through the brainwashing, the nightmares, the Capitol threats.

Despite the circumstances working against him, he's been strong. But it's these honest confessions that break him. They send his thoughts spinning so fast that they come to a grinding halt. Then he's gone, removed from the present moment. Lost.

He sits on the balcony with his legs dangling through the rails in the dark night and doesn't sleep a wink. Annie brings him a breakfast roll and a cup of tea at dawn, wrapping herself in her blanket as she sits beside him to watch the sun peek out above the horizon.

He accepts the meal with a meek smile, his throat cracked and dry like the walls of his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says in response to the previous night's confession.

"Sorry for what?" she asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"For my selfishness," he admits, staring into his mug of tea.

Silence hangs in the air. Annie bundles herself in the blanket and stares inquisitively.

"I barely spoke to you," she points out. "I didn't trust you. I made you sleep downstairs on a narrow sofa and you meet me at the medical center every week even when I'm unhappy to see you. No one asked you to do that, least of all me."

To keep himself from spitting out another apology, he stuffs the roll into his mouth and chews.

"You have everything," she continues. "You could be with anyone in the world. You could be happy. But instead, you make sure I'm warm and safe and protected. You never let me feel alone, not for one second, and I can see in your eyes that you've been alone every day. If you're selfish, then…"

Finnick lifts his head, meeting her eyes. Even though he doesn't feel like it, he manages a smirk. "Then what?" he prompts.

Annie returns a weary smile. "Then I don't want to meet the person who's selfless."

He sighs. Her words don't change the night before, but coupled with the rising sun, they inspire him.

"We could go fishing today," he suggests. "We could take out the boat and some bait. And you could tell me again how selfish I am."

This comment earns him a real smile from Annie and a jab in his ribs. "And how hilarious," she adds dryly.

"And how skilled."

Annie snorts. "And how pompous."

He pushes himself to his feet, ready to brave the day. "And how adored."

She takes his outstretched hand and he pulls her up as she retorts, "And how over-rated."

With no additional goading, he stands facing her and smiles. He has to be strong.

She smiles back, and he knows it's worth it.

Being back in the Capitol reminds Finnick that, through and through, his heart is made of stone. His voice hardens again, crusted with cynicism and distaste – nothing like the soft, easy tones he adopts when speaking to Annie. His green eyes sparkle only in the fluorescent light, for there's nothing he can set his sights on to elicit any sort of feelings within him.

"Take me," Ilyana whispers to him before taking his earlobe between her teeth and biting.

He grunts in response, hitching her leg around his waist and grinding against her. His eyes close instinctively, and he uses his age-old trick of closing off his mind to the experience. It doesn't change the hatred he feels for himself afterwards, but it's his coping mechanism for the here and now.

Ilyana is the chancellor of the Ministry of Interior Trade, largely overseeing the exchange of goods and services between the districts. If he pleases her this evening, there may be more use than ever for fishermen in District 4.

Once it's over, she gasps for breath and reaches for her purse on the nightstand. Her eyelashes are pink and long enough to reach her eyebrows. Finnick watches with curiosity as they flutter. She whispers to herself as her heart rate settles, blinking over and over as if she's sure she's dreaming.

"You must not tell a soul," she says worriedly. "If my husband were to find out, he'd make sure I was removed from the ministry." With a sidelong glance at Finnick, she adds, "And I daresay District 4 would not see a surge in its prime industry, so we can agree that secrecy benefits us both."

Finnick has no intention of blabbing his sexual liaisons to anybody, but with an arched eyebrow, he finds himself intrigued by her insistency.

"Why risk it with such high stakes?" he asks her, running a hand down her side to keep her attention.

Ilyana sits up, baring her chest without shame as she digs through her bag. "My marriage was one of convenience," she tells him. "Most unions of the upper class are. You wouldn't know, being a poor fisherman's son from District 4."

He ignores her unintentional jab at him and keeps his eyes on hers, pressing her to go on.

"And while I reap the social benefits, I find that my husband lacks appeal. Perhaps if he were younger or lost the roundness of his gut. Or if he had your smile…"

Finnick chews on his lip.

"This hurts no one," she continues, referencing their night under the sheets. "He won't find out and you've satisfied my appetite for the next month."

She does not mention Finnick at all, and he knows she sees him as nothing more than a prostitute, there by choice for her pleasure alone. She does not for a second consider that he has the ability to be hurt. Running a hand through his hair, he sits up on the bed and flashes her an annoyed glance. He wishes she'd cover up. Her skin is made of plastic, cold and rubbery to the touch, so white he suspects the pigment's been drained.

Pulling out a wad of bills from her bag, she asks, "What's your going rate these days?"

He's often paid for a job well done – the more he receives, the less he thinks of himself. But he always accepts their offers. It would be an insult to the women if he refused. If there's anything he's learned, it's that his patrons need to feel as though he's getting just as much out of it as they are.

Nothing is gained from monetary payment. He leaves feeling as much of a slave as when he arrived, stripped of his clothes, his body, his secrets. Snow owns them all.

Suddenly, Finnick wonders if it's possible to own some part of Snow in return.

"I'll let you off scot-free," he tells Ilyana, leaning back against the pillows. "There'll be no evidence, not a single bill missing from your wallet, if you'll loosen your lips for me."

"Loosen my lips?" she asks. "In what way?"

He puts on a show of racking his brains, finally coming to a conclusion. "Tell me what you know of Coriolanus Snow."

Ilyana pauses, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why should you care to know about him?"

He shrugs, meeting her eyes with bold indifference. "It's either that," he begins, and then points to the bills in her hands, "or the cash. Plus the fine jewellery around your wrist – to keep my mouth shut, of course. Will your dear husband notice it's missing?"

Eyes narrowed, Ilyana sneers. "You're playing a dangerous game, Odair."

"Likewise."

His sudden defiance confuses and irritates her. "Do you know who I am?"

"I do," he answers with a nod, "and that's why I'm asking. How long has he been in power?"

Wary of his curiosity, Ilyana leaves the bed and begins to dress herself. "Many years," she answers as she works. "More than thirty."

"Was he elected?" Finnick asks. "Or was the presidency passed down through the family?"

Ilyana gives him a sharp glare while buttoning her shaped blouse. "Neither."

Finnick frowns, deep in thought. "Then how did he ascend to power?"

"How do you think?"

He shrugs, genuinely at a loss. Snow is a popular, revered figure in the Capitol – he'd always assumed he was there by choice of the citizens.

She sits on the edge of the bed to strap on her glittered heels. "Ever heard of potassium cyanide?" she asks.

"No," he answers honestly. "What's that?"

She looks at him over her shoulder. "That, Mr. Odair," she says, grabbing her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, "is poison."

He always relishes that first deep breath of salt and the sea as he steps off the hoverplane in District 4. Today is no different, but as he's unannounced, no one awaits him in the meadow. Only a moment is allotted to inhale the fresh air before he takes off down the quiet road of the Victor's Village.

Finnick's first stop is his own home, where he unlocks the front door and throws his bag inside. That's all he has the patience for before he locks up again and heads across the street to Annie's. The sky is burnt orange in the late afternoon, and he reasons that Annie will be preparing dinner. Or knitting, a hobby she picked up from Mags to pass the time.

After several bouts of rapping on the door, he concludes that she's not home. Before he scales the walls of her house again to search for her, he decides to check in with Mags. The elderly victor promised to watch over his girl in his absence, so in all likelihood, she's keeping Annie company.

He knocks on Mags' door and doesn't wait for a reply before turning the knob and entering.

"Mags?" he calls. "You in here?"

He hears her faint reply and walks across the floor to the kitchen. Mags is just off the kitchen in the den, nestled in a comfortable chair with a quilt she's been working on spread across her lap as she keeps going.

She looks over her shoulder at Finnick. "Hello, my dear," she says in her garbled voice. "A sight for sore eyes, you are."

With a weary smile, Finnick crosses the room and leans over to give her an affectionate kiss. "You too, Mags," he tells her, "anyone who wears the skin and eye-colour they were born with is beautiful, these days."

Mags sadly tilts her head to the side, knowing implicitly of what his trip to the Capitol consisted.

Finnick sighs, straightening his back and looking around. "Where's Annie?"

Returning to her quilting project, Mags replies, "She's gone to the beach."

"With who?"

"By her lonesome."

His smile fades. "What? You let her go alone?"

"Of course."

"To the ocean? Mags – how could you?" Finnick's stomach clenches as he thinks of all the things that could have happened.

"Quite easily, boy," the old woman says calmly. "It's a beautiful day and she grew restless cooped up inside. She was dying to go."

"Mags," he sputters, frustrated by the woman's nonchalance, "it's – the water – she's – her mother just waded in one day. Never came out."

"Yes," Mags agrees, her voice somber. "But our Annie's not like that."

"Oh, God," he says to himself, dragging his fingers through his hair. He begins to back away toward the door. "When she's all alone… her thoughts run away from her… she thinks of the Arena and then she wades in to save herself—"

"She's not as lost as you think she is," Mags points out. "And if she were going to end it all, she certainly wouldn't do so without first wishing you goodbye."

That's all the motivation he needs to burst out of the house and break into a run. He sprints down the lane that leads into the Victor's Village and ignores strange glances from passers-by as he flashes through the district towards the sea. It's more than a couple of miles, and by the time he's halfway there, he's shed his shirt and uses it as a towel to blot the sweat pouring down his face. Even in twilight, the district is blistering hot.

The ocean stretches along the coast of District 4, so in theory, she could be anywhere. But Finnick knows on instinct almost exclusively where she'll be: behind the run-down Cresta family home, on the patch of sand where she's spent the happier days of her life.

He's right.

He spots her as he approaches, standing ankle-deep in the ocean and letting the tide rush around her feet and then recede. He knows that game. He's played it a million times himself.

With a deep sigh of relief, he slows to a walk and eventually has to stop altogether, placing his hands on his knees as he bends over to catch his breath. There's a splitting pain in his side that sears with every breath, but he doesn't care. His lungs are going to burst and his legs are on fire, but he feels alive.

He bundles the shirt in his hand and wipes the last drops of sweat off his brow before slinging it over his shoulder. He straightens, facing the tranquil sunset, and marvels at the simple splendour that is the girl he loves. With tangled, elbow-length chestnut hair, a flowing sundress that reaches her knees and her head tilted back and eyes closed to meet the setting sun, Annie takes his breath away. Her Games have left him so preoccupied with her health and sanity that he's forgotten just how beautiful she is. The only one he has eyes for.

Ignoring the prominent cramp in his left side, Finnick takes long strides down the beach toward her. His thoughts race past all they've done for one another. All the hardships they've endured. All they've been made to suffer at the hand of another. They deserve this moment. Just one moment, uninterrupted in the caresses of the breeze, belonging only to them.

But she may not want any moments with him at all.

The thought stops him dead in his tracks. She might distrust him again on instinct. Everything they'd worked toward, vanished within a fortnight. She may feel abandoned. Betrayed. Used. Cheated. There could be any number of uncertain hiccups in their reunion.

Annie opens her lids to the sun, breathes in deeply and looks over her shoulder. Their eyes lock, and the corner of her lip turns upward into a smile.

"Finnick," she says. Though the sun is shining on her, Finnick is sure the twinkle in her eyes has nothing to do with the light.

A grin spreads across his face – so large, it hurts his cheeks. He hasn't smiled on impulse in ages.

"Hi, Annie," he replies. She turns to face him, taking her thick hair all in one hand, twisting it around and throwing it over her shoulder. Every movement entrances him and he wishes he never had to take his eyes off her again. He adds confidently, "I missed you."

The urge to sweep her into his arms has never been greater, but there's a gap between them for safety. In case his face triggers a horrible memory.

Annie nods, biting her lip. And then it's she who moves forward, closing the distance between them and throwing her arms around his neck. She clings to him, whispering in his ear that she's missed him, too.

He clasps his hands around her back and resolves not to let go. Shutting his eyes, he breathes her in – salt, sea and sunshine.

He's home.

Annie, even more so than Finnick, was not made to live in a spacious luxury home in the Victor's Village. Though she never utters a complaint, it's the little things Finnick observes that prove her unease and discomfort. The only rooms she uses in her home are the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom. The more adjusted she becomes, the less time she wants to spend there. A quiet sadness builds in her eyes as she sits in the sand behind what used to be her home. And though both Finnick and Mags have suggested unpacking some boxes and belongings from her home on the beach, Annie's reluctant to do so and delays. She treats her home in the Victor's Village as a motel, a temporary stay.

Finnick does what he can to help her settle. Every morning, he runs around the house and opens all the windows to let in the sunlight. He picks up knickknacks from fans and from booths in the market and decorates the rooms of the house to personalize it. He plants flowers around the front stoop and together, they create a small vegetable garden around the back. But it's not the same. Still, the house seems barren and cold. Made for a killer to isolate himself from the world, not for sweet, gentle Annie.

"You spend more time here than at your own house," Annie remarks one day as they prepare a meal of trout and rice. "Why?"

Finnick pops a carrot into his mouth and replies, "What do you mean, why?"

"Wouldn't you rather be in your own home?"

He opens the oven and squats down, pulling out the rack. Concentrating on using tongs to flip the fish, he answers easily, "You are my home."

He feels her eyes on him, but he does not look up.

One day, after spending the afternoon fishing on the shore and the evening playing card games, she mentions unceremoniously that she dreads the next time he's called on by the Capitol. Finnick, who's tried not to think about it, allows his smile to fade only for a moment before he dons a brave face.

"Come here," he says, taking Annie's hand and pulling her up. He leads her towards the stairs. "I want to show you something."

"What is it?"

With their fingers lightly entwined, he takes her to her bedroom, dimly lit by shaded lamps.

Her bed has been transformed. It's still the same bed, of course, but there's now a canopy that drapes over the four posters, like a tent to shield her from the outside.

Amusement plays on Annie's face.

"Mags made it," Finnick tells her. "She quilted it for you. I gave her some ideas and then when you were with Dr. Ablesworth this morning, I set it up."

Annie stares at him expectantly, awaiting further elaboration.

"Come here," he says again. It's better to show her than to explain.

They climb onto the bed under the awning and he instructs her to lie down. He lies beside her, intently studying the reaction on her face as she views the inside of the canopy for the first time.

It is, in essence, all the things that remind Annie of home.

He gives her a moment to take it all in, her lips parting as she gazes upwards.

"That's a fish," he says, propping himself up on one elbow and pointing to the left corner. "Next to it is the sand and the surf. A fishing boat. A hook. Crabs. An anchor. The golden sun." He could go on, but she can see it for herself. Instead, he waits for a reaction. She's mesmerized, staring in awe at the tiny details of the quilted canopy. After a few more moments, a pained expression crosses her face.

"I thought it would be good," Finnick says slowly, treading lightly around her expression, "for the nightmares. The images can remind you where you are. That you're safe and loved, even when I'm not here to talk you through it."

Finally, her fixation on the quilt comes to an end as her eyes dart to Finnick's face. "You're leaving again?" she asks.

"Not tonight," he assures her, reaching over to brush her hair from her face. "I never know when I'll be called away."

"To the Capitol," she adds.

He nods gravely.

"Do you like it there?"

"No," he replies, absently twirling one of her curls around his index finger. "You know I hate it."

"You must like something about it. You're always smiling on television," she remarks.

He rolls his eyes with an amused half-smile. "Not real."

"You're not on television?"

"No, that part is real," he explains in good nature. "And I do smile. But the sentiment behind it – it's never real."

"Then what is real?"

He gulps, falling into Annie's sea green eyes. "Every smile I've ever given to you."

She considers this, chin touching her shoulder. Without shame or nervousness, she asks, "Does everyone know you love me, Finnick?"

The question takes him aback, and he opens his mouth to no available response. Annie patiently awaits his answer, her eyes trailing from his hair, to his lips, to his chest.

"Some do," is his calculated reply. Softly, he adds, "But no one knows how much."

"I loved you, too," she says. The past tense of the word stings, but he doesn't let it show. "Is that real?"

"That's real," he murmurs. "At least, you told me so. The night before the Arena."

Reminiscing, she nods. "I remember." She returns her gaze to the canopy, her chest rising with a deep breath. "I don't always remember all of what we said to each other. Sometimes, when I'm convinced I hate you, I don't remember any of it."

He shuts his eyes in pain, breathing, "That's okay."

"But one thing that never leaves me is the way it felt that night, when you kissed me."

His eyes open slowly.

Annie bites her lip as she stares at the canvas above, deep in thought. "Sometimes I can swear it just happened. Even in my worst moments, I never forget how it felt."

He's almost afraid to ask, but he plucks up his courage. It's now or never. "How did it feel?"

As if suddenly remembering he's beside her, she turns her head to meet his eyes again. "Like I was safe," she admits. "Like I was free. Like I was loved."

He gravitates toward her on instinct, lowering his head to meet her. As their lips brush, Annie rests her hand on his chest, just over the heart that beats for her and her alone. One taste isn't enough, and Finnick dips in for a lengthier kiss, one that serves to reacquaint them.

Once they break apart, noses touching, breathing heavily, Annie asks, "Finnick?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," she says, "for the quilt."

He gives a small smile, nodding in acknowledgement and pressing his lips to her forehead. They lay in an embrace for some time after, she staring at the intricate details of the canopy, he breathing her in and trying to match her heartbeat with his own.

"You'll stay with me tonight," she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "Won't you?"

He shuts his eyes in contentment, running a hand along her back. "Yes," he agrees, "and every night after, if you'll have me."

She tightens her grip on him, nestling comfortably into his arms, and he holds her to his body like he never intends to let go.

That night, holding her close, he catches her nightmare before it consumes her.

Sorry for the late update today - it was so beautiful outside that I had to take advantage of the weather! Thanks to all you readers out there, especially those who are kind enough to leave me comments. I really appreciate it and hope I'm doing Finnick and Annie justice :)