Chapter 15: 74th Annual Hunger Games

They say he's lithe and agile, light on his feet, but Finnick feels the heavy lagging in his bones each time he stares out the window of the train as it approaches the twinkling lights of the Capitol. His heart is a brick, sitting deadweight in his chest. Mags and Beetee, Chaff and Haymitch say it's all the same in time – it never gets easier, you just grow immune to it. Every dead tribute added to your leaden conscience becomes just another number. But how can it all be the same, he wonders, when every tribute has a sparkle in their eyes unique only to them?

His tributes this year are volunteers – not uncommon in District 4, though less common than in Districts 1 and 2 and certainly more common than all other districts. They're born and bred to perceive winning as the greatest honour. Finnick hopes they also consider death a glorious sacrifice – no matter how trained and lethal, only one comes out, after all.

Tapping his fingers mindlessly on the mahogany chest in his compartment on the train, Finnick mistakenly lets his mind wander to Annie. There's an ache in his chest; a twinge of pain in his gut as he thinks of her sleeping alone tonight. She'll be with Mags, of course – he pleaded with Mags not to mentor this year; to stay home and watch over her. Mags' mind was made and she was set to accompany him to the Capitol until Roscoe's passing just the week before. It was sudden and unexpected – his heart simply ceased to beat as he settled in for a quiet evening with his programs. Though the old grump proved to be a grievous loss, his death also brought Finnick relief: nonconformist and unrelenting, Roscoe passed in his own way and his own time, not at all orchestrated by the Capitol. Annie wept silently into his shoulder at the burial and arranged fresh flowers to adorn his tombstone, but ever since, she'd been further removed from reality and harder to call back to life. Mags finally agreed that she couldn't be left without a comforting, trustworthy face.

Annie needs the old mentor more than he does, though he knows it will be a lonely, painstaking Games without Mags' gentle but assertive guidance. Elsie is fine enough, but she's as desperate to get back to 4 as he and won't take a leading role with the tributes. She'll leave it to him.

"Finnick?" A sultry voice invades his thoughts. He turns to see the fish-lipped escort, Marcocia Duterre, standing in the doorway of his room, hips jutting out to one side. Her breasts, once simply 'larger than normal', are now 'impossibly large' in her puff-sleeved fuchsia blazer, and Finnick would bet Annie's seaside house that her face had received another few injections to keep its frightening, over-exaggerated youthfulness. Of all the people he's met in the Capitol – the traitors, the corrupt, the narcissistic, the greedy – she is certainly one of the most abhorrent.

"Dinner's prepared," Marcocia says. "Your tributes are waiting."

Finnick gives a dull nod, glancing out the window one last time. He dreads visiting the Capitol even more than usual, knowing that he'll be fetched by Radman – if not tonight, then tomorrow night, or the night after that – and expected to perform for a prominent chameleon-skinned, lusty-eyed, body-enhanced Capitol woman. She'll own him for the evening in the most intimate of ways, and he'll inwardly wince when she touches all the places Annie has once touched, cringe when she elicits the cries from him that should only be for Annie's ears.

With a steadying breath, he joins the two tributes, his co-mentor and the escort at the table wearing his typical Capitol grin. The boy is small and serious; the girl older, fuller and fiercer. Finnick imagines their parents toasting their sacrifices over a dinner of trout and rice.

After they gorge themselves on delicacies, they gather around the screen to watch a recap of all the Reaping Ceremonies of the day. District 1 and 2 tributes are volunteers, all much older than sixteen, all trained in the art of brutality and mercilessness. In Districts 3, 5 and 10, there are no volunteers, but the chosen tributes are cheered on. Districts 6, 7 and 9 feature polite clapping for those reaped, while 11 is utterly silent as a small wisp of a girl, no more than twelve, is reaped and no one volunteers to take her place.

When another tiny specimen is reaped in 12 and begins the slow death march to the stage, Finnick's female tribute gives a short laugh and remarks, "Are you kidding? This is almost too easy."

But then something remarkable happens. Another girl, older, dark-haired and hysterical, breaks rank from the crowd and volunteers. The citizens of 12 do not make a sound as the reaped girl is carried away, screaming for the one who took her place. The raven-haired volunteer realizes what she's done in a moment of painful clarity, but does not falter as she climbs the steps to be greeted by her district escort. She states her name to the escort, and it is revealed to all of Panem that she is the older sibling of the one who was reaped.

A volunteer from an outer district: unheard of.

"Better… but she's still not much," says his female tribute with arrogance like a natural Career.

Silently, Finnick agrees with her. The volunteer from 12 is not much at all, but as her on-looking district places three fingers to their lips and extends them to her as one, Finnick wonders if she may have done something big.

He thinks back to his own reaping. He was only fourteen, a poor fisherman's son never trained like his compatriots. He remembers staring into the crowd, dazed and tongue-tied, his mind whirling through blankness. The odds weren't in his favour then – nobody thought so, and yet nobody took his place. Even Fletcher – especially Fletcher – sent him off to what they all thought was his death.

Oh, to be that little reaped girl who will go home safe tonight knowing she is deeply loved. To be inside the mind of the volunteer who has declared suicide.

While his tributes snicker, Finnick prays that her death be swift and painless.

As he does every year, Caesar Flickerman finds a way to mention Finnick in the interviews with his tributes. And as they do every year, the cameras pan to him. On cue, he sports his classic, heartthrob smile and can almost hear his fellow mentors sneering from around him. When the cameras return to the stage, he glances side-to-side, but no one will look at him. He lowers his eyes, absently reaching into the pocket of his blazer. Yes, it's still there – the small bottle of white pills snuck to him by Calix in the procession to their seats.

"Sickening," Johanna's voice tickles his ear. "Though not as sickening as the 11 given to the girl on fire."

Finnick looks over his shoulder to meet her eyes with a slight nod. His stomach churns to think of the spectacular death the gamemakers are planning for Katniss Everdeen, the unexpected volunteer from 12. If it wasn't enough for her to simply volunteer, her stylist sent her and her partner to the tribute parade in flames and in the private session with the gamemakers, she was ranked 11. Finnick himself had a score of 9 in his day – how the starving young girl pulled off an 11 is beyond just about everyone. The Careers and their mentors from 1 and 2 are furious, not to mention his own tributes, and he can see what's happening: by glorifying her, the gamemakers have put a target on her back. By the time they enter the Arena, every tribute will be poised to hunt her down. Snow will prove to Panem what it means to volunteer in District 12. Johanna realizes it, too, and even she does not look forward to what's sure to be Katniss's ghastly, undignified death in the Arena.

Normally, Finnick tries not to doze off after his tributes are interviewed. Twenty-four tributes taking the stage for three minutes guarantee a long night. This evening, however, he's interested to hear what the Girl on Fire might have to say. How Haymitch, her mentor, has instructed her to back out of the spotlight.

But it's not the girl who surprises him. No, it's the boy who follows: her district partner, one with golden blond hair who relaxes in front of the cameras. It's not often a tribute is at ease during the interviews, not even the Careers, but the boy chats easily with Flickerman and cracks jokes for the crowd.

And when he admits that his love life is shot because the girl who has him smitten accompanied him to the Games, the audience gasps at the realization and Finnick hears Johanna's voice behind him, loud and clear: "You gotta be kidding me, Haymitch!"

For the 74th Hunger Games has become a tragic romance, and as Capitol women pay for his services in secrets, ravage his body and leave him spent, they'll surely be rooting for love.

Their male tribute is gone – massacred in the initial bloodbath – so Finnick doesn't mind sleeping off the sweats just a little longer in his room and popping another pill before joining Elsie in the Recreational Room. Their girl has joined with the Careers, just as she was born to do, and Finnick and Elsie sent her a meal the evening before, which he sorely regrets. The girl ate it along with the other Careers – and the boy from 12 who's joined their pack, rightly dubbed Lover Boy – while watching Katniss Everdeen starve up in a tree with a charred leg from a blast. Lover Boy convinced them to camp around the base of the tree until the girl came down of her own accord. They'd kill her then.

Finnick isn't certain of Lover Boy's intentions, but he has a way with words that sways even the most bloodthirsty Career from 2. And so they camp patiently on the ground, waiting for the Girl on Fire to starve or face her death head-on. If Finnick were there, he'd climb up the tree and spear her himself. Even when in the Arena, he never had the stomach to draw out another's death.

He settles into a chair beside Elsie and takes a deep breath as the morphling courses through his veins. Through bleary eyes, he watches daylight filter into the Arena – the gamemakers have prolonged the dawn, meaning they must be expecting something to happen this morning that they want the nation to watch live. Today is likely the day that Fire Girl will perish – and right behind her, if the Careers have any sense, her Lover Boy.

In his calm, quiet state of mind, Finnick slouches further in his chair and takes a lazy panorama of the room. The other mentors survey the scene under the tree with anticipation, but none are quite as fixated as Haymitch. Though he has a drink in his hand even at this early hour, he stares intently at the television, free hand clutched in a fist and knuckles white against his cheek.

If Haymitch had ever had a surviving tribute, he'd know. He'd know it's best to just let them die. Of course, a victor can go a long way for a poorer district – even the rich enjoy being lavished in luxuries from the Capitol for a year, but in the impoverished District 12, the extra grain and oil provided in a victory year could save lives. Not that Haymitch, drowning in a bottle, cares for his district. Finnick can't imagine he has any loyalties whatsoever.

He envies the drunkard for a sheer second. Sensing he's being watched, Haymitch slowly turns his head in Finnick's direction and gives him a nod of acknowledgement. Despair is magnified in his eyes, otherwise dead from the drink.

With sudden curiosity, Finnick studies the mentor as he shifts his gaze back to the screen. There's no one he loves. No one he must protect or care for. Without a concern for even his own well-being, Haymitch can freely self-destruct with a guilt-free conscience.

But Finnick has known enough suffering to identify the torture in his hardened eyes. The loss. The sorrow. Even without love and loyalty, Haymitch's wrists are shackled, his ankles bound by chains to this life.

A girl, small but bold, racing after him into the ocean. Legs long and gangly. More of a stick insect than anything. Gentle hands guiding his fingers over the rope. Giggling. Sand between his toes. A head on his shoulder as the waves crash on the beach. Crinkles just outside her sea green eyes, worn with laughter. Fingers knotted through his. Dark, tangled hair falling over them like a veil. Whispers in his ear. Breath on his neck as he drifts to sleep.

He can't be sorry for Annie's life. Can't wish that she had died in there. He can't even regret that he grew to love her with a fierceness that burns deep within his chest and drives his every move. For death is just a blanket of white space; a descent into the earth, but living is holding her and feeling her heart beat in time with his.

There's an excited shriek from across the room. Jolted from his reverie, Finnick blinks and turns his attention to the screen. From beside a sawed branch, Katniss Everdeen stares down at her captors with her head cocked in curiosity. A jarring thud wakes the tributes as a nest hits the ground. And then, pandemonium. Swarms of bees – tracker jackers, Elsie tells him – ascend from the hive, livid from the disturbance. Screams rip from the throats of the tributes as they rise, swat, and break into a run. Through the forest and to the lake, as fast as they can before the poison from the stings sinks into their blood and stops their hearts.

But two can't escape the tracker jackers, and not for the first time, Finnick watches his own tribute perish. She sinks to her knees, losing the strength in her arms to swat the Capitol muttations. Her face contorts with pain, and then – Finnick cringes – fear. But it only lasts for a second. She collapses to the ground and convulses. Then, as confirmed by the booming of the cannon, she's dead. Another cannon follows shortly afterward for her female ally from District 1.

Katniss Everdeen, Girl on Fire, hops humbly to the ground, staggering from her own tracker jacker stings. She races to a nearby pool and extracts the stingers from her skin, her face green with sickness. Still, she has the common sense to return to the scene and steal the bow and arrows from District 1's dead tribute. There's a sickening crunch as she pries the weapon from the dead girl's cold, swollen fingers.

And then Lover Boy is there, screaming at her to run. She does. What remains of the Careers return, soaked and furious. Lover Boy doesn't have time to explain before he's fatally slashed by the knife of District 2's male and abandoned to die alone.

"She's dead," Elsie says to him, covering his hand with hers. He hears the emotion in her voice, but he does not feel it. "We can go home."

The morphling leaves Finnick compassionless. Barely able to process what he's just seen, he thinks, yes, she's dead. He snatches another glance at Haymitch, who's just as surprised as everyone else. Two Careers dead by the hands of a girl from 12. Finnick wonders if the gleam in his otherwise-dark eyes is a gleam of hope.

For Haymitch's sake, he hopes not.

With both of his tributes dead and better off for it, Finnick takes the stairs to the fourth floor of the Training Center and begins to pack the few items of clothing he brought with him in a duffel bag. It may be District 4's worst performance in years – one tribute taken out in the Bloodbath, the other stung to death on the fifth day – but he can't help his high spirits. Soon, his eyes will sweep across the landscape of his district, settling on the long, dark hair and shy smile of the one he loves. For a boy once so fiercely competitive, he'd lose every game he ever had to play for this kind of consolation prize.

He shouldn't have expected such lenience from President Snow.

Radman fetches him in the early evening. Tonight, he's to wine and dine with the recently widowed Carmela Knoff, whose husband, before his untimely death from a weak heart, was one of Snow's chief security officers and spent much of his time training peacekeepers.

"I haven't gotten out very much since Tarquin's death," Carmela says, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. Her Capitol accent is so thick that Finnick is almost suspicious that it's fake. "Mourning, you know. And now with the baby, it's difficult to get out at all."

Finnick nods, his eyes brooding as he regards her with peculiarity. He's certain that it's not just lipstick: her full lips are permanently stained red.

"Of course, my family's very insistent that I rest," she adds. "Tarquin's, too. They wouldn't like that I invited you for dinner… especially not Ryker, my brother. He's rather protective of me. But lately he's been worked to the bone with his business, and I've been so lonely…"

Smooth as silk, the morphling glides through his veins. He eases his hand onto her knee, gently shifting the hem of her dress to caress her plastic skin. Voice husky, he purrs into her ear, "I can keep you company."

"Yes," she breathes, accepting another glass of wine. They clink glasses and Finnick gulps down nearly half, squeezing his eyes shut for only a second to down the bitter taste. The alcohol seems to be more potent this evening, or perhaps he's just horrifyingly well-adjusted to the fine art of seduction. Whatever it may be, he has Carmela Knoff bare and writhing beneath him only an hour later and can barely recall getting her there. All he knows is that she wants him to take charge, to be tender but commanding, to make her feel pretty and desired and interesting once again.

And so, as they curl up together in post-coital cool-down, Finnick plants idle kisses along her shoulder and remarks, "It must be very hard, losing someone you love."

"Oh," she says offhandedly, drawing patterns on his back, "I didn't love him."

Finnick freezes for only a moment – then his tongue darts out again, tracing the lines on her collarbone. "You married him."

"Yes," she agrees. "He fancied me – I was twenty years younger and, in all his time away from home, he hadn't yet found a wife. That gruesome scar along his cheek from an altercation with another peacekeeper didn't help for his desirability, I suppose."

"But you were not fond of him."

Carmela tilts her head to the side to give him better access to her throat. "He was very rough with me," she says. "He expected me to bed him whenever he pleased. I wasn't allowed to talk to other men, even in those long months he was away. Perhaps it was his own self-consciousness, but I felt smothered."

Finnick grips her thigh, sliding easily into her again. "Then why marry him?" he asks, eyes heavy-lidded with intoxication, but what Carmela must perceive as lust.

She arches her back, adjusting to the new position, and replies calmly, "I didn't expect so many personal questions."

"But you did expect the company," he counters. "You've been lonely too long. Who can you confide in, if not a poor fisherman's son from the districts? What weight do I carry here in the Capitol?"

A few slow, tantalizing thrusts are all the convincing the widow needs. With his mind spinning from the wine and body weightless with morphling, Finnick struggles to pocket her secrets as she admits she married the man for prestige. Social status. She was born in District 1 to a heart surgeon and his wife, and after her mother's death, her father was sought out by the Capitol as an expert in his field. As a young girl, she was led into a world of glamour and politics, even on the playground. Carmela and her elder brother were ostracized as lowly district scum; not Capitol-bred or worthy to live in such a privileged world. It angered their father, whose position was precious but not powerful, and as Ryker grew older, his own fury began to bubble. The family was safe and secure, but in a place thriving on wealth, fashion, and power, it wasn't enough.

Marriage to the chief of security, no matter how old and ugly, was not something Ryker and her father would allow her to turn down. Elevation of the family name, they said. It will benefit us all, they said.

But Tarquin was cold and unkind, rarely allowing his wife to frequent parties and events, even in his absences to train peacekeepers in the districts. Without socializing with elites, it was almost as if the marriage served no purpose to the family name at all.

And that was why he had to die.

They suffocated him in the night, Carmela and Ryker, and in the morning, their father proclaimed him dead. "His heart simply failed him," he wrote in the autopsy report. As a man of science and medicine, he was trusted.

"But that's not the worst of it," Carmela whispers into Finnick's ear. "You see, being the widow of a high-society man isn't enough. It guarantees nothing to the family name. The only way to carry on the legacy is…"

"A baby," Finnick finishes for her.

"Yes," she says, her smile shrewd and wicked. "We thought I was pregnant before Tarquin's death. The signs were there and my father confirmed it. But only two days after he was put to rest, I bled."

Finnick pauses. No baby. None by Tarquin, anyway.

"Then how…" he trails off, deep in contemplation.

"You do what you must for family," Carmela says, her breath ghosting along his cheek. "My father had always made that very clear."

A slow realization sinks in, and he turns his head to meet her eyes, horrified by what he may find there.

"Your father?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Ryker," she answers.

His stomach flips. Her brother.

"'What luck,' they all say to me now," Carmela continues, "'what luck that your child resembles you and not him.' I suppose I'm glad I lost his baby – Tarquin never was especially good-looking. Nothing like you, Finnick Odair."

Treacherous woman. Disgusting, vile family. Her fingers begin to burn his skin, and with every new touch, he's certain he'll never be able to wash her off. The morphling thins under his skin and he feels heavier, soberer.

He staggers through the Training Center that evening, avoiding the Recreational Room, avoiding Johanna and her snarky comments, avoiding Haymitch staring into space at the bar. He can't recall taking either the elevator or the stairs, but somehow he's in his own room, hunched over the toilet bowl and heaving. Even when he's vomited every last organ in his stomach, he still gags, still feels like a foreign invader is hostage inside his gut. It may be the morphling. It may be the wine. But the raw lust for power – the incest – is what keeps him gagging until, with trembling hands, he finds another white pill in the pocket of his duffel.

Without it, he may never have slept again.

The Games will end tonight.

Snow has assured them all of that, and invites the mentors to a lavish Capitol party in the ballroom of his own mansion where they will gather amongst Capitol citizens to watch the conclusion unfold. This is no ordinary circumstance, but then again, it's no ordinary Games – the Capitol audience has been swept up by the star-crossed lovers from 12 and, fuelled by their excitement, the gamemakers have promised two victors this year, as long as they hail from the same district.

Finnick remembers Seneca Crane's cautious manner in answering his rebellious questions. He recalls even more clearly what he did for Annie. Tonight, as the lovers from 12 and the fierce, handsome brute from 2 are drawn together in a duel to the death, Finnick hopes for Crane's sake that the Head Gamemaker lets the pieces fall as they may. One glance at Snow's snakelike eyes and Finnick knows that two victors cannot be an option. It's a lenience he's less than likely to grant, even to his adoring Capitol citizens.

Crane must know that, for the beastly mutts that chase Katniss and Peeta across the field to the Cornucopia are certainly programmed to kill. And on top of the golden horn, the tribute from 2 is waiting for them.

"He'd make a fine victor, that Cato," says a cheerful voice from beside him. Finnick stays where he is and only turns his head to the side to see Plutarch Heavensbee. "Don't you think?"

"Mm," Finnick agrees faintly, using his tongue to shift the sugar cube he's been sucking on to the other side of his cheek. No matter the victor, he'll be going home tomorrow, to Annie. It's best to fight the morphling temptations now, no matter how excruciating, rather than frighten her later with the withdrawals.

"The ones who have been in training all their lives truly understand what it means to be a victor," Heavensbee continues. "Their duties won't surprise them, much like it surprises those who were never intended to win."

With a slight frown, Finnick says nothing.

"But of course, if Katniss Everdeen were to survive, that would be something, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would," Finnick agrees slowly. The volunteer from District 12. Her purity amuses him – especially in refusing to look at Peeta's naked form even when he was inches from death – but it also saddens him, for he knows that should she emerge from the Arena with a beating heart, Snow will rip that purity from her in the cruellest way possible. She's too vulnerable, with the sister she loves dearly and the boy she romanced in the Arena. Despite her hard exterior, it would be far too easy to hurt her.

"It seems that Panem is fixated on a love story rather than a grisly death – and that's a first," Heavensbee comments.

As the tributes duke it out on top of the Cornucopia while the mutts growl below, Finnick scoffs. Peeking at Plutarch Heavensbee with narrowed eyes, he asks, "Do you really believe that? That they're in love?"

Heavensbee smiles. "Does it matter? The nation believes them. The girl has started something. As long as she lives – and the boy lives with her – the message stands that the districts can fight back. Very dangerous," he muses, "especially for a ruler such as Coriolanus Snow."

Finnick's muscles are pulled taut. He's certain that he'll be cuffed and arrested any second. To say something so treasonous in the very house of President Snow is nothing short of reckless. With so few words, Heavensbee just dug a grave for them both.

But nothing happens. Heavensbee gives him a knowing smile. Perhaps the safest place for open discussion is directly under Snow's nose – it's the last place anyone would think to bug.

With a wary stare, Finnick wonders if Heavensbee is much more than a quirky, jolly gamemaker.

"This is the grand finale," he points out. "Shouldn't you be in the compound making sure everything is executed smoothly?"

"Oh, there are dozens of gamemakers," Heavensbee replies. "The role I intend to play is far more important than that."

There's excitement in the ballroom as the final three tributes come to a standstill in their combat. Cato has Peeta in a headlock and could easily twist his neck and throw him over the edge of the Cornucopia. However, Katniss has an arrow aimed at his forehead. If she lets it fly, he takes Peeta over the edge with him.

Either way, she's won.

"What do you say, Mr. Odair?" Heavensbee asks him softly as they both stare at the screens above. "Do you root for the Girl on Fire?"

Her fingers are shaking on the bow. Peeta looks upon her with insistent eyes, determined that she should let him go. Cato growls, but slow, painful realization dawns upon his face. He will die, just as it's always been intended.

And the girl who burns with the fires of change will live.

"Yes," Finnick says, his voice barely above a whisper. He keeps his eyes trained to the screen, declaring, "I root for her."

Katniss and Peeta huddle together for warmth on the roof of the Cornucopia as Cato is slowly, savagely ripped apart by the mutts. Shooting an arrow into his hand was a brilliant move on Katniss' part – or horrendously stupid, for she doesn't yet understand the dangers of being clever. In Cato's split second of pain, Peeta managed to wriggle free from his grasp and send him tumbling off the Cornucopia into the fanged jaws of the mutts.

And since then, they've been waiting, waiting, waiting.

When they can't wait anymore – Peeta's losing blood and badly wounded – Katniss leans over the edge of the Cornucopia and fires an arrow at the pleading Cato, ending it all. Not long after, the twenty-second cannon booms.

The Games are over, and Snow's guests begin to cheer.

But Seneca Crane is not a stupid man, though he must never have expected it to come to this. As the tributes embrace and slide down from the Cornucopia in the early morning light of the Arena, it is announced that only one will be crowned victor.

There's still one cannon left.

Though he has his arm wrapped around a Capitol woman, Finnick can't take his eyes from the screen. What now, Girl on Fire? he thinks. This is her first lesson in victory.

Both tributes drop their weapons. What the gamemakers have expected to be a fight to the death has turned into a verbal sparring match of who must be forced to live.

"Listen," Peeta says, barely able to stand on his poorly-bandaged leg. Still, he has the strength to pull Katniss to her feet and place his firm hands on her shoulders. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me."

There's a collective sigh in the crowd, but Finnick is too transfixed to notice.

Katniss stares blankly as Peeta tells her he loves her. That his life has been worth it for having known her. That she's everything, and without her, he has nothing to go home to. Though the girl's face is empty, Peeta's words are so full of emotion that even the jaded Finnick halfway believes it's true. And even if the baker's son is too secure, too innocent, too untouched to know anything of love or loss, his words echo in Finnick's chest.

From the pouch on her belt, Katniss produces a handful of berries. Peeta protests at first, but she wills him to trust her. She pours a few into his hands and, trembling, they kiss one last time.

"No!" someone screams from across the room.

Finnick wonders what's happening until Peeta and Katniss hold out their hands to show the cameras: nightlock. Poisonous berries. The instant killer.

And they're both going to swallow them.

"One," they say together. "Two."

With bated breath, the crowd waits.

"Three."

The shrieking starts as soon as the nightlock touches their lips. But it's not for long, because before Finnick can even process what has happened, Claudius Templesmith's voice booms throughout the Arena, declaring Peeta and Katniss the victors.

Victors.

Finnick whoops for joy, pumping his fist into the air as the audience goes wild. The anthem of Panem begins to play, scarcely heard over the commotion. It seems the Capitol enjoys a romance even more than a slaughter.

And even amidst the chanting and the hooting and the celebrations, there's a rustling in his bones. Though he claps politely, Snow's eyes are murderous, and Finnick knows the president feels it, too.

Something's changed, just like Plutarch Heavensbee said, and the girl from 12 may have set the whole world ablaze.

"A pleasure to see you, as always, Mr. Odair," Snow says to him, as he bids farewell to all his guests on their way out.

Finnick nods, hoping the president will set his eyes on the next guest.

But he's not so lucky.

"A safe trip back to District 4 in the morning," Snow continues, a mysterious spark in his eye as he adds, "And may you enjoy every last minute with Miss Annie."

Finnick freezes. The words sound perfectly ominous from Snow's lips. Every last minute.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he demands in a low voice.

The president merely smiles, chilling Finnick from head to toe. "Nothing, of course. I understand that you've found the accommodations in the Victor's Village not to your liking."

Grinding his teeth, Finnick answers, "She feels more at home by the sea."

"As did her mother," Snow says knowingly, and the victor can only ball his hands into fists to keep himself from lunging at the man. With a touch to the rose on his lapel, Snow clears his throat and says, "I'd be careful if I were you, Mr. Odair. People may begin to suspect you possess a spirit of rebellion. And unfortunately, my plans for those who rebel are not altogether pleasant."

The old man's furious with the conclusion of the Games, Finnick convinces himself, that's all. He stares coldly into Snow's eyes, which does nothing to intimidate the stony president.

Snow pats his shoulder and sends him on his way. "We'll see you soon, Mr. Odair," he says, "and until then, it is my advice that you keep your head down."

The skies are clear and wide as Finnick steps off the hoverplane in the meadow behind the Victor's Village. It's early evening, and he takes a moment to breathe in the clean air before walking straight into Annie's arms. The familiar, salty scent of her skin instantly relaxes him in a way only comparable to morphling.

He shuts his eyes and buries his head in her shoulder, so dreadfully guilty for the things he's done while he was away. But that's another world. Another Finnick. Annie's Finnick is who he yearns to be every day of his life.

Mags insists that both of them stay for dinner, and they discuss the Games because it's all anyone can talk about. Two victors. Two victors from 12. Two victors from 12 in love.

With a full moon and a sky full of stars, Finnick links hands with Annie and they walk the two miles to her house on the beach.

"It feels like home again," she remarks after a long silence, once they've stepped inside and locked the doors behind them. "Even with the sea for company, it was empty without you."

With a surge of emotion for the only one he loves, Finnick grabs her in his arms and holds her tight.

"Was it empty for you, too?" Annie asks him, crushed against his body.

He nods against her hair. "So empty."

Without another word, he sweeps her up, carries her across the floor to her bedroom, and lays her down. He makes love to her like it's the very first time – or maybe the very last. Either way, he intends to know every part of her, to remember what the act in earnest truly means. Annie responds with similar urgency, as if she, too, is learning his body for the first time.

Afterward, he presses a chaste kiss to her stomach and lets his head fall there, spent in every sense of the word, but content and satisfied for the first time in weeks.

Annie runs her fingers affectionately through his hair, and he can't help but close his eyes and doze off – everything feels so sweet, so perfect right here with her.

"Your birthday's next month," she says sleepily. "What do you want?"

He's barely given a second thought to his birthday – after winning the Games at fourteen, he's found that age has never meant a thing since then.

To humour her, he replies, "Fried eggs and bacon."

"And?"

"A day in the boat," he says, his lips grazing her stomach. "Fishing."

"And?"

He yawns. "King crab for dinner."

Her giggle rumbles in her stomach, and a drowsy smile crosses his lips.

"We can do that any old day," Annie points out. "But it's your birthday. It's special. What do you want?"

Finnick could think of a million things, but only one sits heavy at the forefront of his mind.

"I want to marry you," he says, his voice a soft breath.

Annie's fingers freeze in his hair, processing his words. Heart in his throat, he waits patiently for her response, staring blankly at the bed's tangled sheets. Finally, to make sure she's heard correctly, she asks, "What?"

He wets his lips, sighing as he shifts his comfortable position and crawls up the bed so that they share a pillow. "Not now," he says, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I know we can't. But something's going to change. I can feel it. The Capitol let those two kids from 12 win the Games, and it started something."

Annie smiles, and those shy curves of her lips reach even the iciest crannies of his heart. "Maybe they believe in love after all."

"I'm not that optimistic," he says gravely. "It might be the opposite. Either way, something's going to happen. And I'll be damned if we don't have our day. That is, if you'll have me."

Her sea green eyes hold his gaze with a burning desire. She gulps. "Ask me."

"Annie Cresta," he says with a short laugh. His smile fades when he realizes just how serious he is. "You have my heart. Whatever's left of me is yours, and I want it to belong to you forever."

Annie grabs a hold of his wrist, staring unflinchingly into his eyes, which are honest only for her.

"So, someday," Finnick continues, his voice low and husky as he strokes his thumb across her cheek, "when it's safe, when it can truly be just you and I, when we can live how we've always wanted to live, will you marry me?"

Annie breathes deeply, her chest rising and falling as she takes him in. "No."

He frowns.

With a short laugh, she pokes his scrunched nose with the tip of her finger. "Just kidding." While he stares in bewilderment, she captures his lips in a kiss.

"Does that mean yes?" he murmurs as they break apart.

Eyes closed, Annie gives him a dazed smile before craning her neck to kiss him again. "Mm hmm," she hums against his lips. "Just like it's always been."

There's a scene that I cut out of this chapter because, at the last minute, I decided it might fit better in the next chapter. But as I post this, I'm unsure again. This chapter feels complete as it is... I'm indecisive, I suppose. Anyway, this is just a warning that when I write and analyze the next chapter, I may just turn around and slip the scene back into this chapter. But for now, consider it complete.

Thank you guys SO MUCH for sticking by this story and having faith in where it's going :) I'm overwhelmed by the response as it seems to get bigger and bigger each chapter. So thanks again, truly – your support makes even the most difficult scenes easier to write. Have a fantastic week and I'll catch you all next Sunday!