The cold dark nights in the woods passed unlike anywhere else, even the beach. It was like entering another reality. Somewhere known only to those worthy of such beauty, though the starry sky was tricky to see through the thick foliage of the trees.
There was no doubt that the wood's beauty had its own kind of deadly side, which increased at night. But no danger would stop Olive. Not that night.
Sounds appeared all around, like a hunter watching their prey before striking, but she would not change her course.
She only stopped once her eyes landed on her mother's grave, right next to her grandparents'. The only stone that could give away the land's area's importance was spotless and shining under the moonlight. A single dried Fire Lily leaned against it.
Flowers weren't scarce in the woods. Fire Lilies, however, were odd. They were all around their home, though, as outstanding drawings. If Olive had to choose, she would say that her mother's artistic ability was her true blessing, or perhaps a bonus for being an angel undeserving of such a life.
"Mum, what can I do?" Olive mumbled to herself.
No one replied.
Olive didn't expect any other outcome. Ghost stories weren't real, and it was rather a good thing to her. Her mother deserved peace. There wasn't anything else Olive hoped for her mother. Watching their family break down and suffer was not something she should ever see. Not again after many years of stability.
Perhaps it had somewhat worked once, but ignoring their problems wouldn't cut it this time. They all knew that.
"You always knew what to do. It was so easy for you to pick what was right." Olive sat down, hugging her knees to her chest. "I don't . . . I can't. What if it hurts them? What if I choose wrong and all the pain we've gone through is for nothing? I need help . . . I'm lost, mum. If you can . . . in any way."
There was a rustle of fallen leaves with a continuity of foreign footsteps, and an unknown presence behind her. The person wasn't trying to sneak up on her, but neither were they trying to get their presence known to all the animals that had to be lurking around the place.
"What are you doing out here so late?" asked Finnick, sitting down next to her, his eyes landing on the dried flower. "Nightmares?"
Her reply was a simple sigh, accompanied by her voice. "I can't even have them. I haven't slept since the train."
"That was almost two days ago," Finnick said. "You need sleep."
"I know . . ." Olive breathed out. "I know, but I can't fall asleep. Annie . . . she doesn't have nightmares yet. I don't want her to have to wake me up during one of mine when she's unstable herself."
Finnick stared at her, getting lost in thought inside the dangerous night sky reflected in her eyes. "Is this really about Annie?"
"What do you mean?"
"Olive Navin Cresta, you're the kindest, most reckless person I've ever met, with and without memories, but you're as hard-headed as they come."
"Is that . . . is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"I'm trying to tell you that you should give up that stubbornness and let those you love see you at your lowest, not just the 'fine' you fake for them."
"And then what, huh?"
With the most serious expression Olive had ever seen Finnick make, he moved to face her and took her hands softly with his own. "And then, let them love you for you."
A gulp was all she managed to do. Her eyes were stuck on his — barely visible in the darkness — enchanting sea-green eyes. Many thoughts came and went, but none was allowed a second of her time.
"That's . . . that's what I think. You can choose to ignore me, of course." Finnick let go of her hands shyly. "And, well, if you don't want to—"
"No, that's OK," Olive assured rapidly. "I—I'll do that."
"Really?" He asked. "Great. I mean, your family will be more than happy with it. I know it might feel like a burden now, but it'll get better. You'll get used to it, and sharing your feelings is necessary."
"Do you do it?" She moved closer, her eyes still locked on Finnick's. "Is there anyone you can be vulnerable with?"
No doubt was present in his voice as he answered, "You . . . and Mags."
Finnick's house wasn't exactly what Olive expected, nor was it too different from hers. All houses in Victor's Village had to be the same, or at least decorated in the same way. Blue walls, sea decorations all around, and as many windows as possible to assure the lack of privacy in all rooms except bedrooms and bathrooms.
"One tea, and then you're off to sleep." Insisted Finnick for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes.
"Promise." Olive nodded, a hand over her heart as an addition to her dramatic tone.
She followed him to the kitchen, taking a seat on a stool, so she wouldn't be in the way. It amazed her the ease Finnick had to find anything in the vast selection of cabinets and drawers. Although, having been a victor for longer than her was enough of an explanation for her.
"I hope you like chamomile." Finnick laughed softly. "It's basically the only kind I've got. I haven't gone to buy at the market in a while."
"That's alright," said Olive with a smile. "We always traded the herbs, anyway. Only when my mother was alive would we specifically go to the woods in search of ingredients or herbs for her."
"She wasn't a hunter?" asked Finnick.
"No." Olive shook her head. "She was far from one. Just like Annie." She paused, but a single look into Finnick's curious eyes made an urge to continue explaining appear. "They're both plant-lovers . . . when we were five, I wasn't allowed anywhere near the weapons, you know? I was frustrated because I wanted to be just like Gianna and my father . . . Annie wasn't like me. She enjoyed walking around the meadow with our mother, collecting any flower she considered beautiful, and listening to the stories our mother used to tell us."
Finnick grabbed two mugs from a cupboard next to the fridge, pouring the tea into them as he asked. "Stories? Like fairy tales?"
"Not exactly." Olive's smile grew while receiving her mug after a short, and strangely heart-warming warning of how hot the drink was. "Those were only for when we had to go to sleep. The others were all about some teenage couple that fought injustice with love . . . I remember almost all of it. For some reason, it's hard to forget."
"It does sound like a lovely story, though."
"Yeah, well, when the story takes place in a close-future Panem, and she explained it in broad daylight in the middle of the town . . ." She chuckled at Finnick's surprised look. "I know. My mother never really cared for death. I don't think it was something she was afraid of."
"Well, I don't think death's something to be afraid of. At least not our own." Finnick took a sip of his tea, forgetting for a second that the drink was still too hot to drink.
An involuntary snort escaped Olive's attempts not to laugh at Finnick's pained reaction to his burned tongue. She left her own mug on the counter and dragged the stool she was sitting on closer to him.
With the mug back in her hands, she smiled mockingly at him. "Burned your tongue? Ouch, that's got to hurt."
Finnick's eyes widened for a split second, but they were shortly back to normal. "Yeah, it's because it's boiling hot. Ugh, it's been a while since I burned my tongue. This sucks."
"Come on, give it here. We wouldn't want you to burn your tongue again, would we? I'll show you a trick, so it's not boiling hot," said Olive mockingly while pointing at his mug.
She left her mug on the counter just as she received Finnick's. Without asking, nor that she felt like she had to, she walked over to the mugs and cups cupboard she had seen before and took a glass cup. Trying not to spill the tea onto the counter, she poured it from the mug into the cup over the sink.
"Drink some cool water for now." She informed. "And honey, if you have, too. It'll relieve the nasty feeling."
"Thank you," said Finnick with a snigger. "You're really good at this."
"At what?"
"Taking care of others."
A smile crept up on her face before she could do anything about it. "Well, I do have two younger siblings. And it's not like Gianna or my father have never been ill. I've taken care of many people in my life."
"It's quite a talent."
"Better than knowing how to use a trident or spear flawlessly?"
"Well, you can't compare. They're two very different kinds of talents." Finnick drank plain, cool water while trying to find if he still had any honey left lying around in a pot. "I'd say they're actually opposites."
"But . . .?" asked Olive teasingly.
"But opposites usually become the best partners." Concluded Finnick, letting out a huff as he found the honey pot to be empty.
Olive patted his shoulder, taking a sip from her mug without a problem since the tea was at a tolerable level of hot to her. "Talking from experience, Odair?"
"What if I was, Cresta?"
"I'd tease you for the rest of your life."
A soft smile formed on Finnick's face. "You have no idea how much I would actually enjoy that."
Her confused look made him snigger, but there was no addition to it. They stayed silent, staring at each other, gradually getting lost in the other's eyes. The colour was clearer and oddly warm. Though all rational explanations dictated that it would have to be due to the kitchen's soft orange light, both ignored it at once.
Olive looked away, taking her hand off Finnick's shoulder to grip her mug with both hands. "How's your tongue?"
"Better." He took a step closer, leaning over and brushing his arm against her shoulder slightly, only to get his cup of tea, which had been cooling down next to the sink. "All thanks to you, my saviour."
"You're welcome." She scoffed.
"I should call you when I'm ill. It's not that bad to be pampered." Finnick leaned on the counter, sipping his tea, while Olive took her previous seat on the stool.
"I bet," said Olive, raising her mug to her lips. "Don't tell Theo, but I kind of like pampering people, too. So call me whenever you like . . . just a warning, though. Gianna always says I nag like a mother."
"Oh, well, that I'm quite used to, so it's OK. Better if it's from you."
"Your mother . . ." Olive cut herself off immediately, realising the subject she was bringing up.
Out of all the memories she still kept from her interactions with Finnick, none contained any mention of his family. Perhaps it was a taboo to him, just like Librae's siblings and son were. And, from the little information she had about the fate of the victors' families, and the obvious lack of other residents in the house, she doubted that Finnick's story was any better.
"She's alive," Finnick said softly, looking almost afflicted as his brow furrowed. Not something Olive enjoyed seeing. She would rather see him smile, joke around, and even tease her if that was what it took to make him go back to his livelier self. "We've never had a good relationship, though . . . And, well, my father's death didn't make things any better."
"Finnick . . ." Olive breathed out, leaving her mug on the counter, and carefully taking the cup away from his trembling grasp. "You don't need to tell me if you don't want to."
"No, it's OK." His lips curved into a short-lived smile. "I want to tell you."
Silently, Finnick held her hand and stared at it as if lost in thought.
"Let's move to the couch, then. It'll be more comfortable." Olive pulled his hand softly, making him snap out of his daydream to nod in reply.
No lights were on in the living room. The moonlight shining brightly through the windows was their only means of finding the couch, which was located in the middle of the wide, heavily decorated and furnished room. They were silent for a while, sitting patiently next to each other, simply staring into the other's eyes.
Their hands intertwined, and, in the blink of an eye, Olive's legs rested on Finnick's lap, while he had his head buried in the collar of her shirt. She raised her hands to the back of his head, ruffling his hair and soothing him for reasons unknown to her. Their heartbeats were louder than ever, though she attributed that to how silent the dark living room was. Surely their hearing would have enhanced to the point of being able to listen to it, but that still didn't explain how quickly it pounded.
"I'll say it one more time. Even if you want to tell me, I'll wait until you're ready." Olive tucked some strands of Finnick's hair behind his ear, listening to his deep breaths and loud heartbeat.
"I swear it's fine," he muttered, raising a hand to her back, clenching her shirt, while the other wrapped itself around her waist. "I didn't have enough time to know about the consequences of not accepting the deal . . . my father paid for them with his life."
Olive gulped, lowering one hand from his hair to his back, which she rubbed comfortingly. "But . . . you were fourteen . . . how could he . . .?"
"Well, the Capitol people don't really care, do they?" Finnick whispered, chuckling bitterly, before adding. "I thought that if I went to the Games and won, maybe my mother would come to say anything to me, you know? Even be happy for me. And if I died, at least she would get rid of me . . . After I survived the arena, Snow took me aside right before the interview with Caesar. He explained the deal — that I wouldn't actually be sold off until sixteen and all — but I didn't listen and refused . . . when I got back to Four, my father was dead, and my mother wouldn't even look in my direction."
"You've been living alone since you were fourteen?" she asked, concerned.
"More or less. Mags took it upon herself to take care of me." His grip on her waist became stronger, pulling her closer despite the lack of need to do so. "I can't blame my mother, you know? I've tried for years: hate her, pity her, ignore her. I can't. It doesn't matter how much I try . . . I see her every time I go to the market. I see her eyes in my reflection. She's everywhere, but nowhere at the same time."
"I . . ." Olive didn't know what to answer. Nothing came to mind. How could someone resolve such a complicated matter when the other person involved wouldn't even look at them? "You have me. Mags. Muscida. Annie. Theo. Gianna . . . well, you know where I'm going with this, right?"
"Yeah." Finnick chuckled softly, a good sign that made Olive's lips curve upward.
The hand she had on his hair brushed some strands out of his forehead, trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes. "I'm not trying to say that you should forget about it. It's important to you, and that's OK. But, until you find a solution, rely on us. We can help, and we're willing to help."
"I know." He locked his eyes with her when he raised his head, making both of them aware that they were close. "I guess it's just difficult to open up when, for the past five years, I've done the exact opposite."
"Well, I'm ready when you're ready." Olive smiled at him. "You need me to stay silent and listen? Done. You want advice? I'll try my best. You just want someone to hug you and tell you everything will be alright? I'll do that. Just say it, and I'll be there."
"Which one do you want for yourself?" asked Finnick.
"A hug," Olive replied immediately, her eyes barely holding back tears. "I have a lot of bottled-up feelings, and it would be great to have a crying partner."
Finnick smiled at her softly, letting go of her body to face her. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as his eyes watered. "Done."
Olive smiled, allowing the tears to slide down her cheeks, and pulling on Finnick's shirt to hug him. Her shaky voice interrupted her sniffles to utter two words.
"Thank you."