NOTES: All this story aims to do is extend the amount of time that Katniss, Peeta and Finnick spend in the arena. I've taken a few liberties, altered a few canon details, and changed some subplots. Really, it's an indulgence to explore more time in the Quell arena. Here are a few alterations I made (for no good reason)
Johanna, Finnick and Mags were intended to join with Katniss and Peeta from the beginning— Finnick was supposed to go directly to Katniss while Johanna collected Mags to present as a white flag. Meanwhile, Cedar, Chaff and Blight were supposed to find and protect Beetee and Wiress.
BUT: Johanna came up in the arena much too far away, and never made it to Finnick and Mags before they left with Katniss and Peeta. Haymitch's spile gift, and the fog both unfold much the same way they do in CF. Essentially, this fic picks up post-Mags' death, (and ignores the cream they receive from Haymitch for their skin.) Additionally, I've kept the fact that Enobaria wounds Finnick, but the nature of the wound and its context have been changed/are unimportant. If you have questions, feel free to ask! But also be advised that the reality is that the timeline is messy and without reliable continuity. Sorry.
( ) ( ) ( )
Though Finnick and Peeta share little in common, their capacity for stoicism seems equal. We've been walking for a solid two hours and neither of them have made complaint about our brutal pace despite the fact that they're both impaired. Peeta's stumbled more than a handful of times– his engineered leg preventing him from any chance of coordination. Finnick, while not as outwardly fatigued, has been slowing. He'd made no reference to the wound I saw Enobaria's knife make, and has continued to remain silent on the subject; the limp slowly developing in his gate does nothing to subdue my worries. My concern for Finnick's well-being is real– but it's motivated by selfishness, not empathy. The truth is that I can't keep Peeta alive without Finnick. At least not for very long. The fog already proved that. This time around, the Game is not about surviving, it's just about lasting. And if the three of us are going to last through the night, we need to break. Feigning pregnancy woes, I pause my trek and put a hand on my belly.
"I think I need a minute," I say as convincingly as I can. Peeta holds his hand out to me and leads me to a fallen log. I sit eagerly, hoping he'll do the same. Finnick stays a step or two behind, not yet letting his guard down.
"Do you feel nauseous?" Finnick asks. His question seems surprisingly genuine; I wonder if he bought into my manufactured excuse for a rest, or if he's just effortlessly better at acting than I am.
"Only a little. I'm mostly tired." I briefly put my head in my hands for dramatic effect and it seems to work because the action manages to coax Peeta into sitting next to me. His sturdy hand finds my back and rests there. The gesture is strangely intimate– something you might expect from an old married couple. I hardly believed it was something Peeta ever saw his parents do and I silently wondered where he picked it up. As he rubs his hand back and forth gently, eyes scanning the jungle, I realize that Peeta didn't need to have learned the gesture anywhere. To him, it came naturally– pure instinct. The thought does nothing but remind me how precious he is to preserve. Peeta's free hand begins to mirror the same motion on my back on the thigh of his bad leg. As relieved as I am that he's finally resting, I'm growing more anxious about the mobility of my allies. Finnick still hasn't spoken, and hasn't gotten off his feet. He's starting to look paler, sweatier, weaker… and panic begins tightening my chest.
"Finnick?" The call comes from Peeta, as if hearing my silent thoughts. I'm hopeful Peeta's easy nature will relax Finnick long enough for him to rest. The older victor looks up at us from his place on lower ground as Peeta continues. "I think we're far enough away from the Careers on the beach. We should all rest before it gets dark." Finnick remains despondent but at least lowers himself onto a stump.
"How's your leg?" I ask Finnick a bit too impatiently. He makes no effort to respond even though he's looking at Peeta and I. I give him another moment to process before trying again. "Finnick?"
He looks right at me, attentive, and offers an explanation as if proving he's still alert.
"I thought you were talking to Peeta."
And that was a fair assumption– I should be asking Peeta the same thing. But what would he tell me? I'm dead on my feet, I can't move another step… It wouldn't change anything. Apparently Finnick knows this too because he still doesn't respond to my question. Finnick's silence seems to alert Peeta to the growing severity of our situation because the circles he's rubbing on my back are getting larger. As soon as Peeta starts acknowledging how vulnerable we are, I realize he must be hiding even more exhaustion than I realize.
"Here, let me look at your leg," I say to no one in particular.
When there's agreeable silence, I walk the few steps downhill to Finnick and kneel, taking his left leg roughly in my hands. He recoils at the contact with a hiss of pain. Only then do I realize how forceful I've been. I guess I'm still working on learning my mother and Prim's gentle healing touch. Luckily for me, Finnick is not a scared child, or a fragile old man from the Seam. He is a victor. The pain snaps him back into an attentive, commanding state.
"I'm not convinced One and Two won't track us. Especially knowing I'm wounded. We need to get more distance between us. Find higher ground that we can defend."
I ignore his assessment, though it's painfully accurate, and instead pull the flap of his jumpsuit back so I can better see his calf. But to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking at. Unlike Peeta's leg from our first games, this appears to be a stab wound rather than a slash. There's a deep hole, looking almost as if it was made by a pickaxe rather than a blade. Enobaria's knife must have stuck cleanly in and come out just as smoothly. It seems like the bleeding has slowed significantly, but based on the pallor of Finnick's skin, I fear he's already lost more than enough to debilitate him. You can't afford that, the thoughts scream at me. You need him functioning.
Solving simple problems first, I decide he needs to start with water. At least that's something we can achieve.
"You need to keep drinking. Peeta?" My 'husband' heads for a tree without complaint.
"I'll try and bind it at least," I tell him. Finnick nods silently, knowing just as well as I do that there's nothing to be done without supplies. I move away several feet to collect moss and vines but there's nothing that's not covered in a fine layer of dirt. I stray a few more yards, turning my back on the boys for a few reasonably short moments. At least it seems reasonable until I hear a faint rustling. Under other circumstances, I might take another moment to consider what form of danger the noise suggests. With my allies well below their full capacity, I blindly draw an arrow and frantically shout a warning.
"Peeta! Finnick!"
Peeta's head whips towards me, water flowing freely from the tree he's tapped. Finnick, too, has effortlessly armed himself with his trident and stands at attention. The noise quiets as my eyes frantically scan the dense greenery for some kind of movement. Peeta appears frozen at his place by the tree; his hand moving imperceptibly slowly to the knife tucked in his belt. Finnick, as well, is unmoving. I match my allies' stillness, wondering if they know something I don't. That's when I notice that both sets of their eyes are fixed on a point somewhere past my head, slightly above my natural eyeline. Someone or something is in a tree behind me. No. Not someone. They would have attacked already–knowing Peeta and Finnick are staring them down. A mutt, then. My thoughts run a mile a second. It doesn't take long to conclude that my life is entirely in my allies' hands. They can see what I cannot, their judgment is the only thing keeping me alive. I want to lock onto Peeta's eyes, to reach safety in them. But Peeta's face will not tell me how to stay alive.
Finnick's piercing green stare is easy to find. He holds my gaze for a few long beats– long enough for him to be sure I'm locked in on him. Then, he briefly closes one eye; a wink. He locks on me for another moment and repeats the same wink. His left eye closes briefly each time. I translate. It's above me on that side. On my right. I close my eyes deliberately for a beat. Yes, I say silently. I understand. For a brief moment, I break my eyeline and glance back at Peeta. He has remained so remarkably calm and still, I almost wonder if this threat is something the boys consider will pass without incident.
I know better.
Peeta's lips slowly part, almost as if he's attempting to take a deep breath. Then I realize that he's cautiously attempting to gauge how much movement the threat is able to detect. My eyes dart back to Finnick whose own eyes have begun surveying the surrounding tree line. His face is difficult to read, but I don't detect a worsening situation. His stare finds me again quickly and I rule out the congregation of a mutt army. Out of the corner of my vision, I sense the slightest movement and return to look at Peeta; his lips are moving rhythmically. He's mouthing a word I can't quite make out. Dog…Dough…Own…Down! DOWN! I frantically turn back to Finnick who has abandoned looking at me altogether. His feet are ever so slightly digging into the ground beneath him, his shoulders shifting slightly, muscles tensing. The tightening of his grip on the trident shaft is the last movement I register before Peeta is barreling towards me, shouting for me to get down.
My instincts tell me to drop into a roll so I can pivot to face the threat behind me. But instead, I simply collapse towards my left side, away from the threat, and try to make myself as small as possible. And it's a good thing I do. I hear a heavy impact in front of me and instinctively roll backwards, away from the sound. My shoulder hits a moving body and I snap my head up. I know I'm firmly on the ground, but the chaos surrounding me makes me question which way is up. Peeta is pinned underneath a mutt his size. It isn't human, but I don't have a better way to describe the creature with a heavy build and strong limbs. Peeta is fighting as best he can under the mutt's weight–it's a violent, bloody wrestling match that will not end until one of them is dead. I draw an arrow and prepare to shoot at the creature while I still have a clear shot, but I'm knocked over by Finnick's retreat. I turn behind me and see Finnick already bloodied, trident trapped by a tangle of vines, fighting the same kind of beast.
Two. There are two mutts.
I never would have known. Except that Finnick tried to tell me, hadn't he? He'd winked twice.
I bound upright and rip the vines away from Finnick's trident, but not before there's a sickening crunch as Finnick takes a blow from the creature's heavy tail. Weapon now free, I decide Finnick will have to make do on his own as I draw an arrow and fire directly into the mutt straddling Peeta. He's managed to stab the creature already, based on the amount of blood on the fur, but it still takes a shot to the head to kill it. I nock another arrow, preparing to help Finnick, but by the time I go to aim, his trident is already lodged in the thing's throat. There's a lull as we listen to the sound of each other breathing. Breathing. How much I'd taken it for granted. Now, hearing the ragged, wet sound of Peeta's breath is as much comfort as the arena provides. Finnick is sucking in air just as eagerly, still shaky on his feet, and hasn't yet retrieved his trident from the body of the animal.
Peeta lets out a strangled sound and I realize that he's partially trapped under the mutt's limp body.
"Peeta?!" I don't know exactly what I'm asking– I just need to say his name.
"Okay..I'm okay." His breathing is labored, but he's well enough to help me shift the corpse off him. I offer a hand to balance him as he uprights himself, but he still wobbles briefly before settling into his stance. When Peeta's hand goes to wipe away steadily flowing blood from his nose, I notice how crooked it seems. With my adrenaline fading, for the first time I consider how much damage we've taken from this attack.
"Peeta, your nose."
"It's broken. I think. I'm alright." His voice is uneven but it effortlessly reassures me. "Are you?"
His hand finds my arm and rubs up and down a few times, as if to make sure I'm not going to float away. I nod, feeling a wave of guilt that I haven't been hurt. Partially, I'm still shocked that I wasn't; the creature beside us is at least two-hundred pounds. Staring at the mutt's corpse, it becomes clear that it doesn't resemble a human at all, despite moving like one. It has two short arms, which are built like clubs, hind legs that take up sixty percent of the creature's whole size, and a massive, muscled tail that's a weapon all on its own. The face is not unlike a deer– sharp pointed ears and dark, round, massive eyes. No wonder the boys were so still.
The boys.
I turn on my heels, half-expecting to find Finnick moments away from incurring a cannon shot. But before I can punish myself for forgetting Peeta's lifeline, Finnick is retrieving his trident and attempting to carry on as if he isn't covered in blood.
"We shouldn't stay here, in case more show up," he says. I translate his meaning: I can't survive another fight. I try to counter, noticing how he's not putting any weight on his injured leg.
"They won't send more mutts right away. We're safest here." There's a beat of consideration and he begins shifting impatiently. Needing another voice of reason, I whisper to Peeta, "I don't think Finnick can keep moving." Peeta nods in agreement just as the silver parachute floats down from the treeline.
Our gift lands perfectly in-between the three of us. My mind automatically replays the last thirty seconds– it contains the message Haymitch wants us to hear. Finnick can't keep moving.
The arrival of the parachute forces us to stay at least a moment longer, and I know Haymitch intends for us to make camp for the night. Keep him alive, sweetheart. I can hear the gravel in his voice, and more importantly, the double meaning. Him is Peeta. Him is Finnick. At least for now. This early in the game, they're one in the same. I wordlessly retrieve the parachute and hear Finnick release a deep sigh. He sounds annoyed– but I'm not at all familiar with Finnick's mannerisms. For all I know, he's relieved. I hear a thud behind me and turn to find that Peeta's plopped himself down on the ground. His legs are crossed loosely, almost like how we used to sit at school, when we were children. Back when he was just the boy with the bread.
It's hard to hold the images side by side in my mind. The little boy with a smile permanently glued to his face, and the young man whose face is swelling so rapidly, I fear his eyes will be bruised shut before nightfall.
I don't delay any further and unclasp the lock on the large metal canister. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting from Haymitch, but this is beyond anything I could have hoped for. There are two small tubes of ointment, a single vial of a clear liquid, a roll of strange looking bandages, and a small pouch that's extremely cold to the touch. Haymitch has sent us a small medical miracle and I cannot begin to fathom how much this cost. More terrifying is what the gift implies. I shrink at the thought of how urgently Haymitch believes we need this. I try to assuage my worries… Star-crossed lovers from District 12 and the darling of the Capitol, Finnick Odair…. What's not to love? Haymitch has so many sponsors lined up, this is nothing. At least that's the story I tell myself.
I'm not entirely sure which precious items are intended for what purpose, but I'm hoping Finnick will have a better sense with his years of familiarity with the Capitol. I finally announce what we've received, even though my partners are too tired to muster the energy to perform for the cameras.
"Medicine! It's medicine!" I try to sound exuberant, but all I want is to empty every tube and vial over my allies until they're strong and healthy and ready to keep fighting.
"Finnick, I don't know what everything is exactly…" He stares blankly for a moment before wavering on his feet. I close the gap between us and reach to steady him. At my contact, he lets out a sharp breath. "Sit down, sit down, here," I order. I help him lean against the base of a tree, and survey the blood on his jumpsuit. "How much of this is yours?"
"Not all of it."
I walk to Peeta who's got a big clump of moss under his nose, sopping up the blood, and lead him to the tree where I've propped Finnick. Peeta makes some kind of attempt at a joke as I bring the canister over, but I can't make out what he's saying because the moss is muffling his words.
"Finnick, any ideas?" I pass him the collection and he turns each item over in his hands. Immediately, he gives the cold pouch to Peeta.
"Very advanced Capitol technology. Hold it to your face, there, like that. You'll feel it start to work right away. … Inflammatory Control Equipment. … Ice." A ghost of a smile crosses Finnick's face and I let out a nervous giggle I hadn't intended to escape. Finnick's back. He continues analyzing and holds out the vial of liquid, handing it to me.
"Smell that, would you?" He asks.
I try not to notice the slight tremor in his hands as I un-stopper the glass, taking a breath in.
"It smells like … dead plants."
His hands turn over the tubes, and he settles on opening one, squirting out just enough to see it's a bright purple goo. A smile breaks out across his face as he hands me the tube.
"My leg, if you please, Nurse Everdeen." Finnick twists as well as he can so I can reach his calf. I smear a decent amount of the goop over his wound, trying not to be too forceful. When it's covered and looking like a shade of Effie's hair, I reach for a bandage and cover it in crisp white gauze. With Finnick noticeably more comfortable, his attention goes back to the vial. He looks at Peeta—at least what can be seen of him from behind the ice.
"This one's all yours, Peeta. I'm pretty sure it's for the swelling. And the pain, too."
"Ww bb-t oo?"
Peeta sounds so ridiculous, I almost want to laugh. But when he moves the ice away, I see it's because his entire face has swollen up. I begin to wonder if that mutt had something more than just brute force.
"Drink it, Peeta. I'm sure it tastes awful anyway, you're sparing me." Finnck must have understood whatever Peeta had said, and thankfully Peeta accepts Finnick's offer. Hands still shaking with adrenaline, Peeta has me pour the liquid into his mouth and he swallows obediently.
"Tsts wrssml."
"Told you." Finnick smiles.
"I can't understand a word he's saying." As soon as the words leave my lips, I regret them. I sense where the conversation is headed and prepare for the impending crash.
"Hardly anyone could understand Mags, either. The past four years especially. Guess I got a good ear for it now." He pauses, almost as if he isn't aware that he's verbalized all that. But all he does is correct himself. "The last four years."
I attempt to move on, picking up the other tube of ointment and opening the cap. I squeeze to reveal a repulsive, puss-colored yellow goo.
"And this one?" I try to redirect Finnick to his task.
"For bruising…" He takes it from me and unzips his jumpsuit from the top pull, stripping his undershirt to reveal dark abrasions across his sternum and down onto his ribs. I don't stare as he rubs the glop over his chest. Instead, I offer to hold the ice on Peeta's malformed face. He agrees wordlessly and we sit in silence.
I begin making a mental list of what needs to be done before the sun sets. And judging by the cooling temperature, we don't have long. Ideally, I'd like us to move a few yards up where a slight hill could partially disguise us from passersby. We all need water. Badly. But Mags had been the one to weave the leaf baskets and I'm not asking anything extra of Finnick. We'll have to make do with the leaky parachute canister, or drink from the tap. Then of course there's the growing concern over food. Peeta is certainly too tired to care about eating– already I sense him wanting to doze off. Finnick, as well, has seemed to melt into the tree trunk. But I'm hungry. Very hungry. And for a brief moment I consider trying to cook hunks of the dead mutt. But Peeta's rapid swelling is too suspicious; perhaps the mutts had some kind of poison.
"Katniss!" Finnick's voice is suddenly urgent.
"What?!" I snap my focus to him, though Peeta is unconcerned.
"You weren't hearing me."
"Sorry. I was thinking we need to move up. Past that ridge there." I point vaguely at the hill and Finnick nods in agreement before handing me the other ointment.
"Put it on Peeta."
I do as he says.
"Werr mo'vn?" Peeta asks, words now clear enough for me to understand. .
"Just a few yards. Then you can sleep."
I gather the remaining supplies we have and strap my bow back on. I go to lift Finnick's trident, but I'm not prepared for its weight; I struggle to regain my balance and keep hold of our gear. This trident is much heavier than the ones I'd tried at the training center and I make a mental note that I'd be much better off reaching for Peeta's knife if I found myself without a bow. I decide to leave the trident where it is and move Peeta and the rest of our stuff to the new campsite. I get Peeta settled on a flat stretch of ground, leave his weapons within reach, and command him to sleep. When I return to collect the trident and parachute, I find Finnick still sitting at the base of the tree. As I approach, he extends his arm out to me.
"Pretty please?" Finnick's voice is low and seductive, though I'm not terribly familiar with the concept. He sounds like dessert… I want to laugh at the thought, but instead I dramatically roll my eyes and offer counter-weight as he rises. Now that he's directly in front of me, I see how tightly he's holding his chest— as if the bones are shifting out of place. Horribly, I consider that perhaps they are. Finnick answers my silent questioning with another seductive request.
"Nurse, if it's not too much to ask…" the words slowly bubble out of his mouth like a chocolate fountain, "would you bandage me up?" He looks at me from underneath his eyelashes as he slowly and deliberately pulls down the remaining top part of his wetsuit. It's the world's most laughable striptease, and yet he pulls it off with a kind of grace. Even injured and dirty, his body is striking. Lean, toned, and symmetrical… I can understand why his stylists loathe to drape any fabric over him. But in truth, I don't see beauty in Finnick. I see power. I see a body that is capable of keeping me alive. That's where it ends. I suspect Finnick knows this as well, so I'm keenly aware of the show my ally is putting on. More importantly, I know it's electrifying.
The Girl on Fire is standing less than a foot away from Finnick Odair, bare-chested, eyes sparkling, smile teasing, while Peeta's light snores orchestrate the scene. I know the audience is screaming. Not even a kill is as entertaining as this. I decide to play along the best that I can, but make sure to not try too hard. Cinna's advice to me from my first interview echoes in my head. Just be yourself. I roll my eyes again, the simplest act I can pull off, and respond to his request.
"At least Peeta calls me doctor…" I give a small grin and begin tightly wrapping the sturdy bandages around Finnick. He takes a sharp breath in but continues talking.
"Have I been a good patient, doctor?" His tone drops on the last word as his eyebrows lift. I struggle to respond appropriately.
"Better than I would have expected from a Career," it's my best attempt at a playful dig, "but not as good as Peeta."
"Well," he takes a breath, "We can't all be as good as Peeta."
I freeze.
He's toying with you. This is all a setup. He's going to use Peeta against you. My mind screams at me to kill him now. He knows I'll do anything to protect Peeta, and that will be his weapon. Maybe he even overheard something from Haymitch. But then his voice falls back into its normal tone and drops to a whisper.
"Is he holding up?" Finnick's question seems so sincere, I don't know what to make of it. Each passing moment, I'm further and further from figuring him out.
"I think so…" I decide to be honest. "I'm glad he's resting. Especially after–" I fade off. I intended to slip back into the fictional banter we had going before, but I'm distracted thinking about how exactly Finnick went about re-starting Peeta's heart. More importantly, why. Why work so hard to save someone you plan to kill?
"Earlier….what you did at the forcefield…" I try to mimic Finnick's flirtatious voice but I accidentally slip into my mocking-impression of a Capitol accent. I abandon it quickly, clear that I'm in no position to extract information. I'm forced to pivot and so I reach for the lowest hanging fruit. "Is that how you learned to kiss so well? Or so I'm told." I see Haymitch's face contorting with embarrassment.
"Oh yessss…." Finnick draws out the s but I think it's to cover up a yelp of pain as I tighten the bandages. "People back in Four have actually been known to drown themselves just for a chance at the experience. But very few can say they've had the pleasure. You know, your husband is a very lucky man."
The rise in pitch of his voice does nothing to distract me from how uncomfortable the roleplay has gotten. Glorifying the skill of breathing life back into blue, dead lips…. But I can't afford to think like that. Not here, not now. I force a sly grin.
"Well I'm glad Peeta's the one who's had the honor. After all, he deserves it."
Thankfully, I finish with the bandages and head back up to where Peeta is sleeping soundly. When Finnick arrives a few moments later with his trident, his jumpsuit is zipped back up; his face and body looking tired once again.
"I'll take first watch," I tell him. "Sleep while you can." Gratitude washes over his eyes.
Finnick drags towards me and finds a spot to lie near Peeta. A few silent moments pass. Right when I think he's fallen asleep, I hear him whisper, "Thank you."
( ) ( ) ( )
I let them sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And sleep. With each passing hour I see Peeta's swelling reduce, and Finnick's restlessness abate. Watching their progress, it's almost impossible to justify disrupting them for the sake of my own needs. But eventually, I can no longer protect us; fatigue takes me, against my will, and I'm forced to wake one of them. But which? Though I trust him not to kill us, I don't doubt that Finnick may separate from us anytime. While Peeta's heart stopped just 22 hours ago, another few hours of sleep will not fuel him for all the days to come. A crack in the air makes the decision for me; Finnick bolts awake at the sound of a cannon. Peeta is disturbingly undisturbed by the noise.
"I'm sure he's fine…" Finnick assures me, seemingly hearing my thoughts. "People usually sleep for days after beaching. I'm surprised he's not doing worse, actually."
Finnick suddenly seems wide awake, and is, in fact, correct. Peeta is breathing and appears to be safe.
"What's beaching?" I ask, genuinely curious about the world Finnick calls home— a world where you learn to bring people back from the dead, I think.
"What we call what happened to Peeta at the forcefield. But usually because someone's drowned. It's that… small window where you might get them back." Finnick seems generally disinterested in my questions, but not evasive. I suppose the Capitol is censoring our discussion, and there's not much point to fulfilling personal curiosities.
"You need to sleep," Finnick says. I wordlessly agree by curling in beside Peeta, and decide to rest my arm over his chest. It's not a terribly comfortable position, but I'd rather do this than have to muddle my way through a sappy conversation. Besides, Peeta is warm beside me and I can take full advantage of his body heat. We are married, after all. I hear Finnick's airy chuckle and immediately feel a pulse of embarrassment.
"Happy honeymoon…" Finnick whispers so quietly, I'm not sure if I'm intended to hear it. I close my eyes and try not to dream of Mags' death.
Sunlight wakes me. I open my eyes and am blinded by the noon sun, directly overhead. Beside me is a flat patch of leaves and moss; matted down by Peeta's sleeping form. My eyes have yet to adjust, but I hear Peeta and Finnick's hushed voices a few yards down the hill. As we don't appear to be in any danger, I take a moment to pull myself together as I listen to the boys' conversation.
"It's not too bad," Peeta says. I run my fingers through my hair.
"Liar…" Finnick mocks. I begin to rebraid.
"If you'll recall…" Peeta trails off and Finnick dryly laughs as I re-strap my bow on my back.
"I stand corrected."
I approach them, interjecting myself into their conversation.
"Corrected on what?" I ask.
"Hey…" Peeta's face is almost back to normal. There's still some puffiness around the worst part of the break, but compared to yesterday, he is far improved. "You sleep okay?"
"Thanks to my heater." I try to be playful. Peeta smiles. "What are you two up to?"
"Discussing the finer points of masculinity." Finnick's tone is humorous.
"Oh! Well then, don't let me interrupt." My remark draws a laugh from Peeta, but he exchanges a look with Finnick and then laughs harder. "What?" I say, a bit upset I'm being left out. "What?!"
"Well Finnick asked how I was feeling…" Peeta takes an ironic pregnant pause. "...And if my chest hurt at all. And I said my threshold for pain has definitely changed since the last games…" Peeta stretches out his prosthetic leg.
"And…" I prompt him.
"And that's what we were talking about," Peeta assures me.
"Those… are the finer points of masculinity? " I try to use the tone I've heard Gale use when his little brothers are causing trouble. Peeta surrenders, holding his hands up.
"Nothing you want to hear about. I promise." I know he's being lighthearted, but I hate the idea of Peeta and Finnick palling it up in the arena. It makes Finnick harder to kill, and Peeta harder to keep focused. And alright, maybe some part of me was jealous– what could they possibly be saying that I can't know?
"I bet Finnick will tell me. Won't you, Finnick?" I raise my eyebrows at him.
Peeta reaffirms, "Katniss, you really don't want to know." Peeta is almost laughing at me. I know my anger is misplaced but it's growing, along with the extreme growling in my belly.
"Finnick?!" I demand.
"Don't…" Peeta half-heartedly throws out a last warning but Finnick finally answers.
"I've known Haymitch for a decade, give or take… And Peeta and I were simply comparing our…. reflections…. regarding your mentor's unfortunate tendency to get sick on himself and need a hand cleaning up. Let's just say that dear Peeta here isn't the only one to have witnessed Haymitch in his full glory."
My face is hot with blush, but I'm determined to ignore it. "Oh," is all I say. Peeta bursts into laughter, calling my bluff. Finnick flares his eyes wide before ending the moment.
"Well with that lovely image, let's find some food, shall we?" Finnick brushes by me, and I follow on his heels as Peeta noisily trails behind us.
I'm not entirely sure what Finnick has in mind, but I'm so hungry, I don't care. I can't imagine either of them are fairing particularly well either; the last substantial food we'd had were the nuts that Mags deemed safe to eat. I briefly consider that their Mens' Club chat was some bizarre attempt to get food from Haymitch, but I quickly dismiss the idea. They know how much that medicine cost. That's the last we'll see of parachutes for a long while. But if not that, what, then? Maybe a merciful act meant to pull attention away from the Capitol's obsession with relieving Haymtch's own crushing memories of the Quell? Whatever the reason, for the first time during the games– either of my games– I feel like an outsider. I get why Peeta was so furious, I think as I replay the moment he realized how in sync Haymitch and I were. Well, now he's exacting his revenge… because I have no clue what kind of plans Peeta, Finnick, and Haymitch have concocted. But I do know that Mags is dead. And Peeta is not. And regardless of my ignorance, that is a truth I am all too painfully aware of.
We don't know which direction to head in, but all three of us agree that the Careers have either abandoned their search for us, or are too far-off to be an immediate threat. Tonight's projection will reveal the owner of the rogue cannon shot, and, if we're lucky, a few more tributes before the end of the day. I realize that Finnick has been loosely leading us towards the beach, which seems odd; had we not exhausted ourselves to get as far away from the beach as possible? But therein lies the logic– we will circle back to where we have fled, hopefully disorienting the remaining Careers. I hear a rustling in the brush to my left, and glimpse a well-camouflaged, slow-moving creature. It is not a mutt– my instincts assure me of it. In fact, my instincts tell me it's our next meal. I watch it walk slowly in circles, its ridiculously long snout burrowing around the base of trees. I sense that Peeta has noticed my rigidity and stopped moving in accordance, but Finnick has marched on, slowly getting farther and farther away. I swiftly notch an arrow and kill the creature easily. Peeta's words of praise do, actually, make me feel good.
"Alright, Katniss!" He emphasizes each syllable– almost as if he's chanting; I look over to find him with a goofy smile. As I approach the kill, my excitement drains so quickly I don't even have time to stop Peeta's call telling Finnick to return. The creature, upon inspection, is nothing but bone. Its long, wiry hair has masked the fact that despite being quite large, is nothing but muscle, sinew and cartilage. It would still be worth eating if it were only me, but between the three of us there is no point in wasting time breaking it down to eat so little in return. More of the nuts would serve us better.
"Never mind. It's not enough meat. Let's keep moving."
Peeta's face is a bit disappointed, but not nearly as frustrated as my own. I return the arrow to my sheath and increase my pace to catch up to Finnick.
"I'm not sure how well I'll do finding prey with the both of you with me," I explain to Finnick, knowing how poorly hunting with Peeta went last time.
"I'm not sure how well you'll do finding prey at all." Finnick surprises me with his doubt; surely he knows I can feed us. I'm embarrassed by my ego when he specifies, "Quell's aren't exactly notorious for their safe and abundant offerings." He adds a bit of a trill to his voice, almost mocking. It's becoming clearer that Finnick is not quite the Capitol pet I'd expected him to be.
"What, then? Sponsors won't feed everyone in here."
"I think we just have to know where to look."
"And you do?" I question his confidence.
"The belts? We learned that tributes didn't have to know how to swim, they just had to take the risk. Well… I'm thinking the water rewards your risk."
"Convenient for you…"
"Good thing we're allies, right?"
( ) ( ) ( )
Having been the provider for so long, it's uncomfortable to sit back and let Finnick hunt. Except he isn't hunting at all. Though he isn't quite fishing either… But what do I know about fishing? My experiences tell me you set up a pole with a lure and wait. Or, you set a trap and watch as fish stupidly swim into it. I've never given much thought to District Four's industry, but whatever notion I had in my head is nothing like what I'm witnessing now. Finnick has waded into the ocean about knee-deep and stands so still, it doesn't even appear that he's breathing. His eyes are focused beneath him and his trident is raised, resting just below his shoulder. Then, in a single, beautiful movement, he extends his trident down beneath the water line in what could almost be described as some kind of dance. He resets his stance, but does not draw the weapon back up from the water. Instead, he repeats the action several times until he finally pulls his trident to the surface to reveal four very large fish skewered on the blades. He gracefully retreats from the waves and moves easily through the sand, arriving in front of us.
"There are oysters farther out, some clams too. You can gut these?" Finnick asks me, referencing the fish.
"Yes. Thank you." The gratitude isn't manufactured but I hadn't intended it to come out. It sounds strange coming from me, somehow. I've never had much cause to display gratitude, and evidently that's clear from my awkward tone. To Finnick's credit, he ignores it and simply asks Peeta for one of his smaller knives. He leaves his trident standing in the sand and heads back out into the surf. I'm tantalized watching him effortlessly waltz with the waves when Peeta's voice interrupts my gawking.
"Do I have some competition?" I smile shyly, knowing he's not really jealous. "You know, he might be Panem's most wanted man, but nobody throws a sack of flour like me. I want you to remember that." Peeta has one eyebrow slightly raised, and the same smile he uses with Caesar during their interviews– the one that makes the crowd fall in love with him. I purposefully time my response so I'm slicing open the belly of a fish when I say,
"He brings me dead fish, you bring me cheese buns… What can I say? I'm yours." Peeta laughs and I can't help but smile along with him.
"Ahhh the cheese buns save me again…. How do they do it?!"
"By conferring with the red velvet."
"Right. Of course, how could I forget…"
For once, this is not a conversation I have to lie through– I feel very strongly about the hierarchy of Peeta's baked goods. And who knows? Maybe this is the last real moment we'll have together. If so,
I'm content enough to let it be with smiles on our faces, dreaming of indulgence, but Peeta scares away the remainder of warm thoughts.
"My father has all my recipes– he'll teach Prim. I'm sure Buttercup and buttercream will compete to be the favorites of the household. And I think I know which one you'll side with…" Peeta gives me a loving nudge … as if he isn't dreaming of his death. I slice open the last remaining fish as a tear rolls down my cheek without my permission. Peeta's large hand wipes it away, forcing me to look at him. I've stared into his blue eyes hundreds of times, but never so much have I wanted to keep him for myself.
"You can't say that," I tell him, voice climbing. "You can't expect me to be okay- that's not fair. It's cruel and I hate you for it!" I want to hit him, to pound on his chest. But I curl into him, like the weakling I am, and he soothes me as I secretly comfort myself.
You'll have to be the one to be okay. Because you're the one getting out of here. You're the one surviving. Prim will eat your pumpkin bread, and learn to make your frosting. You'll paint pictures of me she'll want to hang, and find herself seeking your company. Slowly, she'll let you be her friend.
You'll be able to talk about me in a way I could never speak of you. If you die, that's the end of your memory– I won't be able to share it. But if I die, I live forever because of you. … Because of you, the world becomes a better place. So go on pretending that you're the one saving me– as if the girl on fire wouldn't burn the world to ash.
My thoughts are successful in consoling me, and I pry away from Peeta's embrace. Don't look at him again, I tell myself. I go so far as to decide to give Peeta the cold shoulder, at least until we've eaten. No need to give him positive reinforcement for his infuriating behavior.
I catch sight of Finnick's head bobbing and track him as he swims to shore. His wetsuit protrudes some, and as he gets closer I see that he's stuffed it full of shells. He unzips and dumps his collection into the sand in front of us.
"Neither of you should go out there. There are some jellyfish I don't trust, and what feels like the beginnings of a riptide. Let's eat before the Gamemakers get too bored."
I don't argue with Finnick despite not knowing half the words he's used, and the three of us settle into eating our meal. I'm disturbed by the texture of what Finnick called scallops even more than I am by the oysters, but my stomach is so happy to finally be acknowledged, it doesn't matter. We eat in silence, aware that our unused senses have to be on guard. Finnick is the first to stop eating and steps a few feet deeper into the treeline. He unzips his suit once again and begins unraveling the bandages I'd wrapped around his injured ribs. Either they've done all they can, or they're simply wet and uncomfortable after his recent swim. I take a minute to analyze Peeta's nose and decide that it's healed as much as it will– there's no point wasting the remainder of our medicine on a broken bone it won't be able to mend. Finnick's calf, however, might need another round of purple goo– I make a note of remembering to deal with it before we settle for the night.
Each of us drinks six cups of water and then we work to discard all signs that we've been on the beach. Peeta covers our footprints, Finnick organizes our gear, and I walk down to the waterline to dump the fish guts into the ocean. From my place, I see Peeta and Finnick talking, then Finnick begins walking away, into the jungle, while Peeta stays put. This is it, the thought hits me square in the chest. This is where he leaves us– before the Careers are even dead. I race to meet Finnick, to persuade him to help keep Peeta alive a few days longer, but he looks perplexed as to why I'm so suddenly panicked.
"I'm just headed this way for a minute," Finnick explains. "Keep an eye, would you?"
"I'll come. What are you looking for?" I pressure him.
"Nothing. I'll be right back, just stay here." His voice is strangely adamant, which is nothing but alarming.
"No," I snap.
"Katniss–" Finnick's voice drops, as if he doesn't want to have this conversation.
"No one goes alone. Do you have a problem with that?" I decide that I will threaten confrontation; he seemed adamant about avoiding it before.
"Katniss—" Peeta's voice interjects, but he's… laughing? Sure enough, Peeta's looking at me with an awkward, pitying expression and a half-hearted grin.
"What?!" I demand.
"Finer points of masculinity…" His voice is measured, as if he's explaining something, slowly emphasizing each word. Finnick cuts in with,
"If you insist, you are more than welcome to join me. But you might prefer the ocean for such activities." My face turns red for the second time today.
"I see," I squeak out. Stupid, stupid, stupid… Here I was thinking Finnick was ready to leave our alliance, when all he wanted to do was relieve himself. I actually chuckle– a reaction to the extreme relief flooding my body. I want to make a joke– something about seeing something with my husband right there… But I have no dexterity, and no guts to see it through, so I take refuge in the silence Peeta has created for me. When Finnick returns, he doesn't embarrass me further and I'm grateful. After a minute of reconvening, just before we're about to make our next move, I detect the slightest change of sound coming from the ocean.
"Shhh." Upon my command, my allies grow silent. We all look to the lapping waves and begin to make out five, six, seven, nine, twelve sets of blinking eyes that grow closer and closer to shore. We synchronously move away from the water, but the creatures move with us. They crawl up onto the sand, their whole bodies visible. They are meat-eating lizards, unquestionably. Eight feet long with thick, scaly skin and long rows of razor teeth that peak out from their closed jaws.
"I take it you didn't see those in the water?" I ask Finnick.
"If I had, I don't think I would have lived to tell you about it."
We are all armed and prepared to fight, but something tells me we won't have to.
"They're only forcing us away from the beach," I say. "Don't provoke them." It's not like there are any objections. Before long, we're deep into the jungle and finally dismiss the possibility of the creatures pursuing us. We talk for a moment and decide to walk in the direction of the back side of the cornucopia where we haven't yet traversed. Before we start hiking, Finnick asks for a brief delay in order to deal with the wound on his calf. It's much better than it was, but no one wants to take chances when we don't have to– especially this early in the game. When Finnick's ready, I lead us on our march, with Peeta trailing behind me. It was no accident on my part that I sandwiched Peeta between the two of us, but my earlier concern about Finnick's departure has me wondering how much longer I can keep Peeta in a bubble. With each passing hour, I force myself to remember that I do not have friends here. I have enemies, and I have Peeta– I don't know what category he falls into, but it's not a friend. Not like everyone else here, I remind myself, they are friends. And you don't know what that means. And suddenly, I feel so incredibly alone; my mind reaches for consolation …. So despite the fact that he's hundreds of miles away, watching us from some plush Capitol lounge, still cursing the boys for their crude anecdotes, I imagine Haymitch trails behind me instead of Peeta.
His tread is impatient, but quiet. His eyes do not roam, scanning for risk and reward– they are fixed and assured. He sleeps in twenty minute naps throughout the day, never staying put for longer than a few hours at a time. He knows he can't outrun a threat–perhaps, if he's lucky, he can hold off an attacker until I'm able to shoot. His actions are clumsy and brazen, but always with intention. He is the smartest tribute in this arena— still possessing the very thing that made him a victor in the first place. And yet… he knows that it will not save him. … … I see everything Haymitch does in the arena.
Everything except how he dies.
Because he can't die. Not even in my imagination. Haymitch is not a victor, not a mentor, not even a friend. He is simply … there. As if he has always been. As if he, and these games, have been within me as long as I have lived. And that, hard as I try, is not something I can erase.