Chapter Text
The sun rises and sets, the tide rises and falls, and I am selfish.
Bright gold nails dig into my forearm, clinging like beads of sweat on hot skin, and they all want to know the same thing: What are you like when you're alone, Finnick? Who are you when no one is watching? What do you sleep in? What do you wish for when you catch sight of a shooting star?
It's easy to answer, too damn easy, because telling the truth is never an option. I can't even tell the truth to myself. So I trace a finger down their neck, breathe against their skin, and give them beautiful lies that are almost as attractive as me. Lies such as: I am thoughtful and poetic alone, I sleep naked because I like to feel free, when I see a shooting star I wish to see you (insert name I will forget in the morning) again, again, and again.
And they absorb these lies, gasping with pleasure, sparkling with delight, bodies and hearts alight with a joy that I am giving them. Joy that robs me of my own with each passing second, each moment. Sometimes I stare at them, curled up on their sides or sprawled out on their stomachs, their backs rising and falling steadily as they sleep, and I want to ask: do you steal often? They steal from me, stole from me, will keep stealing from me.
I know this, but I just can't admit what it is that they continue to steal. And there's really no place to start this story, no beginning to the sadness inside of me, no shift in my nature. This is something that would be hard to believe if I ever admitted it to anyone at all, but I was sad before the Reaping. It doesn't start there and it doesn't end there. It starts inside of me, in my mind, where I've never quite felt like I should feel. I could always see the error in my behaviors, my words, my attitudes, but I couldn't stop doing them. I felt like a mindless robot sometimes, a slave to a sadness inside of me that stemmed from a deep seated belief that life was pointless. Boys of ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen shouldn't think things like that, but I did for as long as I remember. Maybe because I had nothing to fight for, nothing to believe in. Maybe because I didn't even believe in myself. Maybe because, deep down, I knew where I was headed before I turned eighteen. I knew I would end up in that arena one way or another, which is why I decided to volunteer when I turned sixteen. If you're going down, at least go down the way you like, right?
Of course, my mother didn't agree with this. I told her when I was young that I was going to volunteer one day, and she was furious. Things were hard for her anyway, because I was an asshole of a child, an insolent boy with no steering influence, no bright light at the end of any dark spot. With a father who died before I was born and a mother busy all of the time, I grew up starved for attention, which was easy to find when I acted cocky and ignorant. But she loved me, she loved me, she did. In her own way, whenever she could, however she could. And I loved her. But maybe not enough. Maybe not as much as I should have, could have. Maybe too late.
Things break and they broke when my plans didn't really go according to plan at all. They called my name at age fourteen, and that was two years too soon, two years too quick. I had never kissed a girl, never taken the boat out all by myself. But that's really all I was thinking about: myself. The things I didn't get to do, the things I might never get to do. When my mother sobbed into my shoulder, I was angry with her, disgusted by her weakness, frustrated by my own inability to admit to myself that I was scared and sad, too. I pushed her away and thought to myself: there is no time for weakness, there is no time for this. No time for her tears. No time for her shaky love, her uncertain conditionality. That day, when I pushed her away from me, it broke her heart. But I broke much more. The worst breaking comes later.
And it was easy after I met my fellow tributes. Easy as swimming, as breathing, as lying. They were dying and I was living. That was the new plan. I ignored the fact that, really, maybe I was dying and they were living in a convoluted way. In a relative way. In a way that I couldn't allow myself to think.
The memories of my Games are not for me, for you, for anyone. They are dark, they are disgusting, and they are terrible. I won't give them to you, I won't give them to anyone ever again, because no one deserves them. No one deserves to have to see what I saw, hear what I did, feel what I felt. So, instead, let me tell you the five things I learned, the five things that changed because of these Games:
One: I went from believing that there was a flaw in me that made me unable to love anyone more than I loved myself to believing that real love didn't exist at all. In any form. In any place, in any time. It was a hand-wrapped lie delivered to children and pretty people.
Two: I learned that the sacrifices you make to live aren't even worth the life you're fighting for in the first place.
Three: I found that what you think you left behind will look very different when you come back to it.
Four: Darkness became a gift because sometimes you don't want to know what's hiding in the corner.
Five: I realized, for the first time, that control does not exist anywhere. It's a luxury no man has, unless that man is President Snow.
To know the man I am when I am alone, you don't need to know what I saw during my Games, or how each person screamed when I dug my trident into their flesh. What you need to know is that sometimes I can't remember my Games at all and sometimes I can't stop remembering them. Sometimes I'm more frightened by the fact that I can't remember them. Sometimes I think I should have killed myself, too. Always I believe that uttering words about the month I spent in the arena is a cruel act, a vile act. A malicious act against the innocent around me. And if I won't speak them to anyone, I especially will not speak them to you, have not ever spoken them to you, will not ever speak them to you. This is not about the Games. This is about a love so powerful that it's a rebirth.
And because of this, I am starting where I want to, where I feel is the only logical place the start, the only place that I think was a true starting point to something about me (the only thing real about me): the first time I saw her.
Oh, but you already know who she is, don't you?
The sad thing is that I didn't then. Maybe if I had from the start, my life would have been a lot different. Maybe if I had, this wouldn't have started as a story about a selfish boy who turned into a numb and selfish man. But that's where I began, and I'm still happy to say that it isn't where I ended up, and that's a direct consequence of a day one summer that ruined many lives and ended up completing two in a convoluted way, a Capitol-way, a melancholically beautiful way.
I saw a girl one summer and thought she was ordinary, and the rest of my life was spent marveling at the fact that I could have ever been so wrong.
Reaping Day of the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games
I'm fucking sick of my prep team and the Capitol, sick of Snow, sick of everything. That's all I can really think and luckily for me, no one gives a damn and it doesn't matter.
My prep team showed up at my front door at four in the morning, jars of skin cream and curling irons in hand, and demanded to begin the day's preparations. After a coffee-less and breakfast-less morning spent sitting in a chair getting my pores and hair follicles abused, the last thing I'm in the mood for is the reaping. But I'm here on stage, in this chair, staring out at nervous faces, because here's some news they won't give to just anyone: Finnick Odair is a slave. The last time I did something just because I wanted to do it was two years ago, when I took Mags sailing for her birthday. The last time I laughed at a joke because I genuinely thought it was funny, and not because I had to, was at least six months ago. The last time I kissed someone because I liked them, because I wanted to, is nonexistent. I do what I do and say what I say and wear what I wear because I have to. I am not Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair is the Capitol. I don't really exist anymore.
You wouldn't think that were true, though, by looking from the outside. People are more than aware of my presence. I can feel all the cameras on me, even though there are two potential tributes out there in the crowd that the camera could be panning for. It would rather stay trained on me, though, because there are women with sharp nails and sticky palms in the Capitol who pay to have it that way, their way. Who pay to have me their way, too.
Life is darkness, a maze of shadowy corners and heavy hearts. The last time I remember being truly happy was when I was seven. The last time I could think back on memories and feel warmth instead of coldness was before my Games, before my abuse in the Capitol, before having to send children to their deaths. But if my life is darkness, it's mercy, because as I learned a long time ago: it's better to not see what's lurking in the shadows for you.
I'm thinking about those veiled corners, and the strange perfume the snakes hiding there spray on their satin pillowcases, the entire time the opening video is playing. Maybe no one will notice that I'm not noticing anyone or anything. But that's hardly ever the case. When you are chained in the limelight, you can't even escape into your own mind without people sending a search team in for you.
I reach over and take Mags' wrinkled and cold hand as Annora Bellamy, District 4's escort, makes her way on stage. She's even more obnoxious this year, with bright green fluorescent skin designs added to the neon yellow and pink ones she had last year. Her usual style of frilly cupcake skirts remains, but this year she's wearing a leather top that clings to her skin, with a slit traveling down the middle all the way to her navel. She catches my eye for a moment, and she seems pleased, pleased because she thinks I'm staring at her exposed chest because I like it. I would never have the energy or the freedom to tell her that I don't like it. I don't know what I like. None of the women or men I'm forced to be with appeal to me, no one seems particularly enticing or particularly beautiful. No one's small habits make me smile; I crave no one's touch or closeness. Maybe I don't like anyone or anything anymore. Maybe I never did and never could.
"Now, I will draw the lucky girl chosen to represent District 4 for the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games! Remember, volunteers will be chosen based on who volunteers first. You may not volunteer for a volunteer…"
I feel Mags' gaze on me as Annora speaks. I turn to look at her, dig up a dusty smile from the bottom of my heart, dust it off and give it to her. She smiles sadly back. Poor Mags. Another little girl to send off to die. Another little girl to bring home to bury. Mags gets attached, no one can deny it. I've been pretty good so far about keeping my distance from my male tributes. But then again, it isn't hard for me to keep distance from people. The only person on the planet who knows me, actually knows me, is Mags. Coincidentally, she's the only person who cares, too. Sometimes I wake up, screaming and sweaty, devastated from a nightmare in which Mags pays for loving me. For loving me in her own way, whenever she could, however she could. For being loved by me in return. For paying for my mistakes like my mother did. As I told Mags one day, when she begged me not to sell my soul for her life: I have already lost my mother once. I won't do it again.
I only catch the female tribute's last name as Annora's voice echoes all around us. Everyone falls silent, as it always does, and as my eyes scan the crowd I keep hearing the last name in my mind. Cresta. I imagine saying it, imagine what it would feel like, because I decide quickly that it rolls of the tongue quite nice. The mentor part of my brain is already thinking of ways we could play on that, ways it could help her roll of the tongue, too. But then I remember that I can't care, won't care.
Movement in the sea of frozen people tips me off to who her family is. There's a little boy, screaming with his face pale and his eyes wide, and an older girl, maybe mid-twenties, who looks like she might pass out. And an older man, who must be the father, who I'm sure is going to vomit right onto the stones.
It doesn't take long to find the girl, because everyone's eyes are turned to her, imploring her to move. She's got her body turned away from the stage, her gaze back on her stricken family. I can't see her face, but my eyes find her hands, curled tight into tense fists. I take in her uneven breathing, the slight build of her body, and decide I've seen enough. I turn and glance at Mags quickly, because I'm wondering if she knows what I know already. That this girl is a guaranteed goner.
"Come on up, Miss Annie Cresta!" Annora sings.
Annie. It's a cute name, one that I've never heard used in District 4 before. And when I turn to watch her finally begin her journey up to the stage, I decide she's kind of cute, too. At first I'm disappointed by her ordinariness. Disappointed by her thin legs peeking out from underneath her dress and the fragile curve of her shoulders. Disappointed by her pale skin and brown hair. Disappointed by the fact that there's really not much that can be done with her. But then she trips on the last step up to the stage, her unusually light skin flushing a gentle pink immediately, and instead of being frustrated and horrified by this immediate show of weakness, I decide that she is as cute as her name. But then I glance back at Mags and I see the truth reflected in her worried eyes: cute gets you nowhere in the Games but dead.
I'm horrified when I hear a small sound, though, one that floats over to my ears easily from my spot on stage. I lay my gaze on her once again, and as I stare at the dip between her shoulder blades, I realize by the light shaking of her shoulders that she's crying. Mags' open mouthed look of horror reflects how I feel, too. You don't cry on the reaping stage. You don't do it. I'm angry all at once, my face flushing and my heart picking up speed. I'm angry with the pathetic identity she just gave herself all at once. But you don't care, Finnick. Remember that?
Things only get worse when the male tribute is called. He's short and stocky, but young. Very young. He shakes hands with the female tribute, and I can see his shaking a bit.
Mags doesn't have to say anything as we follow after them. We'll be done with the Games quickly this year.
Mags and I wait on a sofa in a room near the rooms they place the new tributes in for their final goodbyes.
Mags leans her head against my shoulder and says nothing. I breathe in the scent of lavender she always carries and spend a while trying to figure out why I feel the way I do. I feel furious and I don't know why, I just know that I do. I feel restless, and I know if Mags wasn't leaning against me, I'd be angrily pacing back and forth. Maybe pulling at my hair and screaming, too. I worry for a moment that I'm going to cry, but I haven't let myself do that since the first time I was forced to sleep with a man.
I realize the root of my anger suddenly, when that same woman I remember seeing walks in. She doesn't resemble the female tribute at all in any ways I can see, but yet I know immediately she's her older sister. There's something similar about them in a way that isn't tangible, something in the way she walks maybe, or blinks, or presses a palm to her tear-streaked face. I realize that I'm angry with this woman's sister, the girl locked away in a room now, probably crying into her hands. This anger leaves me feeling uncomfortable, because I know there's no reason to be mad at that tribute. I know it isn't right to. But I get this urge suddenly to walk into that room and grab her brown hair and pull her head back so she's looking up at me. I can see the smooth milky skin of her neck, the faint green and blue lines of veins, the sharpness of her collarbones, that rose blush staining underneath her skin. I can't picture her mouth, nose, or eyes, because I didn't look that closely at her, but I can imagine the feeling of my hand knotted in her hair, the tautness of it as I pulled her head back, the smoothness of it between my fingers. And this mental imagine, this sudden urge, leaves me more upset than I've let myself be in a long time. Is this what I am becoming? A man who gets so angry at a little, scared girl that he'd be angry enough at her to want to hurt her? A man who cares enough to even get that angry?
I'm rising abruptly to leave, suddenly certain that I can't be trusted around anyone, when I feel a surprisingly strong, but small, hand wrap around my forearm. I tense automatically, as I have ever since my Games, but I relax when I look down and see the owner of this hand is just a little boy, maybe around seven years old. He's the tribute's brother without a doubt. He has a similar coloring to him, a similar gentleness in his gait and posture. He has a fierceness, too, that I find myself hoping that she has as well. He stares me squarely in the eye and doesn't falter as I offer him a smile.
"You gotta teach her to use a trident. You gotta or…or…I'm gonna kick you!" he exclaims. His voice is small and shaking, and a moment later tears are swimming in his eyes. I can't help but imagine what she means to him, what their life must be like. I bet she takes care of him. I bet he loves her deeply. I didn't see a mother standing with that terrified family, and for a moment I wonder if, when he loses her, it will feel like losing a mother all over again. Like how I would feel if I lost Mags.
I feel my anger giving way to a sadness that I'm not sure I prefer. I stoop down so I'm eyelevel with him and set a hand on his shoulder. He's crying openly now, tears dripping off his small chin and his eyes shut.
"What's your name, buddy?" I ask him carefully. He sniffs and looks up to meet my eyes. His are a deep green; a green that I know must be a shade similar to mine when they aren't soaked with tears. I wonder briefly if his sister has these eyes, too.
"Arnav Cresta. Annie is my sister and she's my best friend, too, and you know what?"
His voice is small and sad, with tremors every few syllables. I feel my throat tightening. There's something about this child that I can't place, something that pulls at my heartstrings, which shouldn't even exist anymore in the first place.
"What, Arnav?" I ask.
A quiet desperation shines in his expression.
"She doesn't deserve to die. Meet her, you'll see, I promise. She's the nicest and you'll love her too," he says. He reaches up and wipes at his eyes. "And you gotta teach her to use the trident, because I want her to stay."
I don't feel okay suddenly, and I think I definitely might cry. Whatever anger I was feeling at this girl is long gone. Now I just feel sorry for her and for this kid. It's this sorrow that causes me to give him a brief hug, something that surprises me probably more than him. I rise back up to my feet after that, and I can't make him any promises that I can't keep. Still, I find myself speaking.
"I'll take care of her, okay?" I lie.
The boy, Arnav, seems immensely soothed by these words. His tears stop and he stands up straighter. From the corner of my eye, I see the sister leave a room that must be the female tribute's, her entire body shaking with hysterical sobs. I can't help it; suddenly I want to shield this little boy from her tears, because I know it's going to upset him again, and his eyes have only just begun to brighten.
"Thank you, Mr. Odair," Arnav tells me.
I have to walk from the room before I see him succumb to tears again. Once I'm alone in a small, cramped bathroom, I punch the wall four times, until my hand is stinging more than my eyes. I look in the mirror after that and stare at the lines of my jaw, the shine of my hair. I look beautiful to everyone but myself.
"I'm stronger than this," I whisper out loud, feeling foolish. But I have the urge to convince myself of this. I'm Finnick Odair. I killed over twelve people. I can handle crying little boys and their crying big sisters easily.
I don't leave the confines of the bathroom until I've convinced myself of this fact once again. But even when I'm feeling strong again, I can't help but remember the lie I told that boy, and how trusting he looked at me after I did.
I don't know why I do it for sure, but after I meet Chiron (the male tribute), I find my feet carrying me to the female tribute's room only an hour after the train sets out on its course to the Capitol. I know it's a bad idea, but I knock against her door anyway. Maybe I just want to see if her eyes are the same shade as her brother's. Maybe I want to see who could inspire a little boy to approach and threaten Finnick Odair. Maybe I want to see if he was telling me the truth. But more than likely, I'm driven by guilt over lying to him, and a desire to make it so that wasn't a lie after all. Regardless of the reasons, I'm curious about her. I'm curious because, already, this day has turned out so different than it normally is. That brief bout of anger I had at this little girl was more intensity than I have felt in a very long time. The sadness her brother made me feel momentarily was more than I've felt in a very long time, too. It's damn stupid, but I think I'm drawn to her because I'm interested to see what having a conversation with her will be like, if just those brief tangles with her life could instigate emotion inside of me (me, a person who already decided a long time ago that they wouldn't let themselves feel anything but numbness ever again).
I'm irritated when she doesn't answer the door. I knock again and wait for a few more moments, but no one comes. I know I shouldn't do it, but I open the door anyway. The doorknob is cool and the gush of air that hits me as the door slowly pushes open is colder. I peek in the doorway, my eyes searching over the smooth wood furniture and sleek metal panels impatiently. I spot her sitting on the edge of the bed, her face ducked down and her eyes shut. I worry that she's crying, but it's too quiet for that. She's not doing anything, not saying anything. Just sitting there, looking oddly vacant and invisible, and I'm jealous. Jealous because she isn't chained to the limelight. She probably disappears a lot.
She didn't seem to hear the door open. I know I should say something, but I'm hesitant. I run sentence after sentence over in my head, trying to figure out what to say to her without sounding heartless or boring or egocentric or stupid. I catch myself a moment later and give my head a shake, because since when have I ever had to worry about what to say to a girl? I'm Finnick Odair.
"The Capitol better be glad your little brother is too young to be reaped. I have a feeling he'd set the arena on fire and then take the Capitol down with it."
Her eyelids lift immediately and the sight of her green eyes makes something tug at the bottom of my stomach. It's just because it makes me think of her brother's pain, it has to be, but it's still disconcerting. I smile at her, and she seems to calm when I do. Her shoulders relax and she crosses her ankles. This forces my feet forward and they carry me into the room, over to the bed, down beside her. The easy familiarity of my actions throws her off, and it throws me off, too, because it was something I did automatically and not because I felt like I had to.
"He cornered me at the Justice Building. He grabbed my arm and demanded that I teach you how to use a trident, or he would kick me," I explain. Her eyebrows furrow momentarily, and then the corners of her lips twitch up. I'm laughing a second later, and she's following, and I'm surprised by her laughter. It's carefree and gentle, and blissfully happy, even if I know she must be miserable. I feel jealous again, but this time for her innocence, her happiness. I think I'd rather die as this girl than live as me.
Her laughter trails off gently, and then her eyes shine with tears again. I think to myself then that she's very odd. She moved from such easy laughter to such pain in a millisecond, and I almost feel whiplash from the quick transition. She must feel more in an hour than I've felt in the past four years.
I turn to face her fully and stick out my hand for a handshake, taking this opportunity to really get a look at her. She takes my hand weakly, her hand soft and small and feeble, and my eyes scan over her face. There's a loveliness there that I didn't see from a distance, and a maturity, too. Her cheekbones are pleasantly defined, her face heart-shaped, her lips full and eyes large. There's a peppering of light freckles over the bridge of her nose, which is the only thing I can see about her that would tip anyone off to the fact that she lives in 4. Her eyebrows are thin, dark arches that counteract the lightness of her skin with a surprisingly aesthetic contrast. This contrast is repeated in her face over and over, with the darkness of her long, wavy hair and light skin, her seagreen eyes and dark, thick eyelashes, her rose lips and white teeth. And I'm an idiot, because I find myself wanting to ask her if she knows she's beautiful. I feel shocked when I realize that, yes, I do think she's beautiful. I haven't thought anyone was truly beautiful in a long time, but she is. She is in a way I can't place, a way that is a combination of both her physical appearance and the softness she gives off. I give her hand a gentle squeeze and admit to myself that it's hard to look away. Her hand falls back to her lap, and she gazes down at it, and I gaze at her. It's just nice suddenly to like something, even if it's something as simple as this girl's face. It's been so long since I've liked anything at all. Is this how people feel when they look at me?
"I'm Finnick Odair," I introduce myself, even though I know everyone knows who I am. "I'll be mentoring Chiron. Mags will be mentoring you."
Mags is lucky, I think. And then I am disgusted with myself for thinking that. She isn't a piece of art to look at any more than I am. Is that what I want? To treat people like they treat me?
She nods, her eyes glued to her knees. I follow her gaze, and I smile at the sight of the lace hem of her dress against the smooth skin of her thighs.
"I'm Annie Cresta," she finally says apologetically. Her voice is as soft as her laughter and somehow exactly what I expected but not at the same time. It's got the softness that I figured it would have, but her speech is much clearer and enunciated than most people in District 4. My eyes scan over her dress, which despite its nice color and cleanness, is obviously a dress of a family that is neither badly off nor perfectly secure. This is echoed in her body structure, which is healthy enough that I know they don't go without food on the table, but lean enough that I know they don't get a chance to eat anything but the run-of-the-mill snapper most nights. I had expected from this that she dropped out of school like most who aren't wealthy in District 4 do, but her speech is surprisingly educated, her voice oddly sophisticated. I'm surprised, but more surprised by the tone in which she said these words. She said them like she was sorry, like she was apologizing for being herself, and I can't help but think that that's really strange for someone so pretty to say. I wonder then if maybe no one else finds her as pretty as I do. If maybe she is treated poorly at home because of that. I don't like the thought of that and I'm not sure why.
"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Annie," I say honestly. "Although I would have preferred different circumstances."
"I would have much rather met you at the market," she says at once.
I grin, fighting back laughter at those words. The market? Why the market?
"The market! That would have been a great place to meet you," I agree. I can't help but continue, my imagination getting away from me because I'm suddenly thinking that she'd look very pretty beside green apples, with her hair pulled back and the tears off her face. "I would be standing by the fruit stand, trying to figure out what to purchase while groups of girls crowded around me. Desperate to talk to me, of course. Can you blame them?" I wink.
She smiles a true smile and leans towards me a bit, her hands still folded in her lap.
"And I would accidentally knock into your posse while trying to get out of the store, because they always seem to be clogging the exits," she jokes.
That they do. It's annoying actually, but funny right now, so I can't help but laugh.
"And then you would give up trying to leave and instead come join my adoring fans," I purr. I lean forward a bit and give her my best seductive smile. I'm curious to find out if she's an adoring fan. If she will cave under this look. If maybe, if I were to lean in, she would want me to kiss her. I'm testing her, and she passes with flying colors.
"Or really I would push through because I have places to be," she argues.
I feel a rush of pleasure at these words. I lean back on my hands and bite back a pleased smile. It's easy to talk to her, easier than talking to people I've known for years. Perhaps because she's different in a way I can't yet place, but can sense.
"Then I would immediately rush to your aid, because that is the kind of knight in shining armor Finnick Odair is. We would exchange names as I help you carry your groceries."
Maybe in another place and another time I could have done that. I could have kept my promises to her sad little brother. Not here, though. I watch her fiddle with a rope bracelet on her wrist, a small smile still peeking out from underneath the curtain of hair that's fallen into her face. I get an abrupt urge to push it back behind her ear, and it throws me off. I never want to willing touch anyone. Maybe I'm coming down with the flu.
"That would have been a nicer way to meet," she whispers, and just like that the emotion in the compartment shifts completely, like she's in charge of it somehow. I reach forward to push that hair behind her ear, but then I remember that I don't know this girl. I don't know her, and no matter how easy she is to joke with, I can't do that. I can't do it because I wanted to, and that scares me. Instead I reach over and pat her shoulder to make an excuse for my sudden motion. I can't meet her eyes.
"It would have been," I say.
I rise to my feet and move to the door, turning around when my hand has reached the doorframe.
"We're meeting for dinner in about ten minutes," I tell her, and then I'm winding my way out of her room and down the hallway to my own room, where nothing can shake me.
Or, that's the way it should be, but when I enter Mags is sitting on the edge of my bed.
"What's wrong?" she demands, right when I walk in.
I stop and stand in the middle of the room, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable somehow. I turn my gaze to the ceiling.
"Nothing. Dinner's soon, we should head down," I say.
I cross over to the dresser against the wall to my left and fumble through the drawers for a light jacket or shirt to put on. My prep team always dresses me in these ridiculous dress shirts that are too small (so I won't button them up) and the train is drafty. I hear the bed creak as Mags stands.
"You're acting weird. Was it the little boy this morning?" she asks.
I can't lie to Mags, it's one of my biggest flaws. I pull a cardigan from the top drawer and shut it, turning around to face her. I drape it over my arm and sigh.
"Yes. No. I don't know," I admit. I find myself thinking about Annie Cresta's face again, without meaning to, and that spurs my next question. "She's very pretty, isn't she? Annie?"
Mags raises her eyebrows in surprise, and I'm quick to refute what she's implying.
"Not like that! I just mean, you know, from an objective point of view. An aesthetic point of view."
I want to hear that she's as pretty to other people as she is to me, because I have this odd feeling that I'm seeing something that no one else sees, and I don't like it. Just like after leaving her room I got this feeling that she was seeing something no one else sees, too. She makes me uncomfortable, I decide. Her eyes are too wide and too green. She's too emotional. She says strange things. Even worse, she makes me say strange things, too. Mags would scold me for thinking that, she would say that I can't make these assumptions based on one encounter with the girl. But that odd feeling still hasn't left me.
Mags stares evenly at me for a moment.
"I suppose," she finally says. "She's pretty in a cute, plain kind of way."
I nod and avert my gaze again. Mags steps nearer.
"Finnick…do you have a crush?" she asks me incredulously. She glares at me in disapproval, because her biggest advice for me as a mentor has always been to not get attached to the tributes. That's my mistake to make, she said. And having a crush on one would definitely go against that advice.
I look up at her and roll my eyes, because that's ridiculous. I haven't had a crush on anyone since I was thirteen. I never will again. I like nothing and nothing likes me.
"No, of course not. She's like fifteen," I scoff.
"Seventeen," Mags corrects. "Turning eighteen soon." Really?
"Seventeen, then," I sneer jokingly. This makes her laugh.
"Besides, she's not my type," I say.
Mags gives me an almost pitying look.
"You don't have a type, Finnick," she says. Mags knows me better than I know myself, so I know that must be true. Is true.
"Well, even if I did, she wouldn't be it. She's too…much."
Mags nods, but I can tell she's fighting back a grin.
"Okay then," She says breezily.
I groan. "Oh, come on, Mags! Don't tease me about this, I don't have a crush! I was just making an observation!"
"Since when do you make observations?" she demands.
I falter. "All the time!" I hedge. I hesitate. "Like just last week when I made an observation that you needed to water your petunias."
"Right, well, just remember where we are and where she's headed. I don't want to see you hurt," she reminds me sternly.
I look her squarely in the eye as I say my next words.
"I don't care about Annie Cresta," I tell her.
I think I convince her, because she nods a few moments later. I know it must be true, because I can't lie to Mags. Only to myself and everyone else.
By the time dinner is halfway over, I've convinced myself that I'm just having an off day and there's nothing strange about Annie, or our conversation, or the way I might have felt.
She's very quiet during dinner, and I don't look at her much. She is the only one at the table making any sort of effort to talk with Annora, who won't shut up, which makes me feel like Arnav must have been right about saying she's nice. But even she doesn't have much to say.
She manages to surprise me near the end of the meal by saying something to Annora that I've yet to hear a tribute say out loud before.
"Oh, you're going to be so shocked by the grandeur. It's not at all drab like District 4. There are colors everywhere and breathtaking art and fashion. It's wonderful," Annora gushes.
Annie's quiet but sure when she speaks up, offering her opinion for the first time during this painful and dull dinner conversation led by Annora.
"I can't think of anything nicer than home," she says.
Mags stops trying to cut her chicken beside me and falls still, and I turn to look at Annie in shock. A couple tributes might have felt this way, too, but none of them have ever said that to Annora during her Capitol-gushes. Most of the youth in District 4 hate it and spend all their time wishing there was a way to escape to the Capitol to live. It's these children who end up volunteering, but volunteers are something we haven't had in the past two years. After I won, there was an influx of eager volunteers wanting a happy story like mine. After they all died pretty quickly into the Games, that fairytale shattered and no one wanted to volunteer.
Annora looks mildly insulted. I think she's going to yell at Annie, but she merely smiles tightly and begins talking about how Annie's "content" is charming, but the Capitol is greater than all. I decide to save Annie from one of Annora's long rants, because it's the least I can do.
"Well, you know Annora, District 4 has me. You can't deny that I'm nicer to look at than a lot of the "art" in the Capitol," I say, lowering my eyelids and smirking at her for good measure. She giggles immediately like the open book she is.
"Well, you are a masterpiece that the Capitol can only have part of the time. That's quite true." She agrees eagerly.
Mags speaks up for the first time during the meal a minute later.
"You should eat," she says. Her voice is concerned, and I naturally think she's talking to me at first. I look down at my half-empty plate, confused. But then I see that she's looking at Annie who, sure enough, has a full plate of food.
"I don't think I can," she tells Mags.
"Try," Mags encourages.
I watch Annie look slowly down at the Capitol food on her plate, and feel an unexplained squeeze of my heart when her nose scrunches up a bit. I don't even think she notices, because she's been trying her hardest to be as polite as possible during this meal.
She looks up suddenly and locks eyes with me. I feel self-conscious then and I struggle for something to say to explain why I was looking at her.
"Have you thought about what you're going to do yet?" I ask her. I immediately feel like an idiot, because of course she hasn't. The poor girl just found out she's headed to her death, she probably hasn't had time to think of much else.
I expect a shake of her head, or maybe a shrug, but she parts her pink lips and that same soft, eloquent voice fills the dining room.
"All I can think about is how I wish this day would have gone. I have no idea what to do," she says.
The honesty of this statement makes everyone feel awkward. I see Chiron staring diligently at his plate (which is really not that much of a change from what he's been doing this entire dinner—the guy has less interest in us than we do in him) and Annora looks politely in the opposite direction, clearing her throat slightly. I'm just shocked to hear someone admitting how they really feel for once, without thinking about the pros and cons of it. It's obvious it's something natural for Annie, but it's not natural here in the Capitol, and it's not natural to me, the man who lies more than he tells the truth.
I keep my eyes on her and, without meaning to, I begin remembering the night I was reaped. I know that feeling all too well, the feeling of feeling absolutely helpless and trapped.
"I know what you mean," I tell her, hoping maybe that will ease her a bit. "Don't worry, you and Mags will figure out something."
After all, she got me through my Games.
"I'm mentoring Chiron," Mags says abruptly.
It takes a lot of effort to keep from looking at Mags in shock. I quickly make my expression neutral, like I knew this was going to happen, but Mags never said anything about this to me. We never do it that way. I always mentor the boy, she mentors the girl. The last time it was different was when it was my Games. She mentored me and her male counterpart mentored the female tribute. Does she think switching the genders like that provides some good luck? And didn't she just get finished telling me that I don't need to get close to Annie Cresta?
"Why?" Annora questions.
"Because it is going to be best," Mags snaps.
Best for whom? I look at Annie, who's looking at Chiron, and try to read her expression. I'm curious for a moment as to whether or not she is happy about this. Did her stomach drop when Mags said that? Did her heart leap? Or was she completely indifferent to it all? I want to know.
Chiron looks relieved anyway, and I can't say I'm mad. He's been a little snobby shit the entire time. He hasn't talked to any of us once, just flat out ignores us. I could do without that.
When Mags stands up to leave the table, I quickly follow her out. It isn't until we're in a sitting room with the door shut that she explains.
"You talk different with that girl," she tells me. She says it like it's her grand explanation, but that explains nothing to me.
"What are you talking about? Mags, why would you say that without talking to me first? Maybe I don't like her. Maybe I don't want to mentor her," I say, anger licking at my heels and threatening to overtake me.
"You were just telling me before dinner how pretty you think she is," Mags says impatiently.
"Yes! Pretty! Physically pretty! That has nothing to do with what I think of her personality or if I get along with her or—or if I even want to be around her at all!" I exclaim.
Mags rolls her eyes and hobbles over to the sofa. I help her sit down even though I'm angry. Sometimes I forget Mags is so old, because she has the spirit of a much younger person, but it's evident when she tries to walk or sit.
"You seemed to be getting along okay with her tonight. You were being sweet even. Finnick, I don't think I've ever seen you be sweet to anyone," she accuses me.
I gape at her and struggle for words.
"What? I'm sweet! I'm sweet all the time! Hell, I'm the sweetest guy around! I just bought you that book a few weeks ago, remember?" I say.
She stares at me with an expression that clearly means she isn't taking my shit today.
"You're nice to me. You are my son, Finnick. But you are not sweet to anyone. Not like that, not protectively," she said stubbornly.
I think she's ridiculous, because I don't remember being all that sweet to Annie at all. All I did was reassure her. What's the big deal? Although, I guess compared to the detached relationship I normally keep with tributes, it appears as a big deal to Mags.
"You still didn't even ask me if I wanted to be her mentor. You didn't even ask me what I think about her," I grumble. I fall down beside her on the sofa, glaring at the floor. Mags pats my arm.
"There, there, little Finn," she teases. I pull my arm away. She continues, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "What do you think about her, then?"
"No, it's too late now. You were supposed to ask before," I argue.
She sighs in irritation. "Well, I'm sorry, Finnick. But I liked seeing that side of you. It reminds me of you before your Games. And I think she'll be good for you and that you will be good for her too."
I cross my arms over my chest.
"Yeah, well, you're old," I refute.
"I'm wise," she corrects. "Now shut up and get over your pride. You have a tribute to mentor, and I hear from reliable sources that she's a pretty one," she teases.
I rise to my feet and march to the door without turning back to look at her.
"I'm never telling you anything again," I say.
She laughs at this.
I'm still a little irritated when I get back to my room. I'll show Mags. I'll prove to her that she's being ridiculous. She can't listen to Annie and I exchange a few words and decide that we're "good" for each other. We're strangers. I'm strange. She's stranger.
I order a mug of iced tea and curl up on top of the blankets with a book, but I can't relax. It's been a while since my stomach's been in knots over the women and men I'm going to have to touch and be touched by once I'm in the Capitol; I'm numb to it now. But something is making me feel like I've got something to do, or somewhere to be, so I can't fully unwind.
I don't even consider that it could be that girl until an Avox is bringing me a tray of cookies and I'm asking her a question that I didn't even think of asking before it left my lips.
"Did Annie ever eat her dinner tonight? Did you see?" I ask her.
She shakes her head, and all at once I'm sitting up and asking her for a tray of fruit. It's easy to get and something that we have back home, so it will be familiar. And maybe it will remind Annie of the way we joked and said we wished we had met. Maybe that would make her a little happy. What makes her happy? I want to know that, too. Is it the same things that make the women in the Capitol happy? Is it the same things that make me happy? What?
The Avox leaves and I pull my shoes and shirt back on. By the time I'm dressed again, she's entering the room with the tray. She hands it to me and offers me one of the first smiles I've ever seen her give. I grin back, surprised.
It's late, but I know Annie won't be asleep. Which of those twenty four tributes is going to be able to sleep tonight?
I knock anyway, because it's near bedtime and she could be changing or something.
"It's open," she calls.
I push the door open and stick my head in. She's sitting in the middle of the huge bed, wrapped up in what looks like three thick blankets. Her eyes are tired and her face paler than it's been all day.
"Can I come in?" I ask her.
She nods slowly, her eyes wide and almost suspicious. And why wouldn't she be suspicious? All she knows of me is what the Capitol sells: that I'm a smooth-talking sex god who has sex with anyone. I don't want her to think that, though. I don't want to be that with her. Maybe because she's got an odd innocence about her, one that makes me want to seem just as good and wholesome in her eyes.
I walk in the rest of the way and carry the tray over to her bed. I set it down by the footboard and sit down beside her blanket-encased body. She stares at me, the question in her eyes.
"I thought you might be hungry. You haven't eaten anything since this morning." I nod at the tray. Her green eyes leave mine and take to examining the tray instead. She looks back at me a moment later.
"Why do you care?" she asks me bluntly. Her voice is tired and something about the resigned tone makes me sad.
I stare at her uncertainly, because of all the questions I expected, this wasn't one of them. I have to remember to smirk, to be who I'm supposed to be.
"Because you're Finnick Odair's tribute. And I can't have you fainting in the chariot tomorrow. My tributes have done poorly enough in the arena as it is, I'd hate to lose one before the Games even start. Image how bad that would look!" I say. But that isn't true at all. I don't care how I look. I don't want to admit it to her, and definitely not Mags, but maybe I do care just a little bit. That's okay, though, right? Because mentors are supposed to care about their tributes. It's okay for me to be worried about her, to be a little haunted by the idea of her fainting and crumbling to the ground, her dark hair floating in a pool of blood. I did tell her brother I'd look out for her.
My skin prickles and my stomach drops at her next words.
"You put on a good act," she says.
I'm lucky that she chooses that moment to inspect the tray and choose a piece of fruit, because I know my face must be paling. I feel tense, like something terrible is about to happen. No one is supposed to think I'm an act. They're supposed to think this is just me. Yes, she definitely makes me uncomfortable.
"Well, you know," I quickly work to recover. "My acting skills are craved after in the Capitol. Well, those and other skills." I wink. She laughs easily at that.
"I think you are nicer than you pretend to be," she continues.
I start to tell her that, no, I'm mean. I'm mean and selfish. It's the truth, but it's a truth I don't really want her to know. Because she's so nice, and I want to be nice like that, too. She can think I'm nice if she wants. Maybe if she thought that I was, I could be. Maybe I am being nice. Is bringing food to someone nice?
I toss a grape into my mouth and make a decision.
"It seems I am," I say. I pause thoughtfully. "Maybe more people will like me now!"
She smiles at my joke, and I'm happy for a moment as I watch her pluck the green bits off a strawberry. I don't know where the happiness comes from, or why it's here, but I let it stay covering me for as long as it wants. I watch her bring the strawberry to her lips and bite down, and the colors' contrast is so lovely. Maybe I was meant to be a painter.
Her voice breaks the comfortable silence suddenly.
"My sister calls me Shell," she tells me, out of the blue. I raise my eyebrows, slowly becoming uncomfortable once again. I think it makes me so uneasy because I'm not used to not being able to predict someone's next words or next moves.
"That's a strange nickname for a girl named Annie," I say. I wait for her to explain, curious to know what's going on in her mind and why that was said.
"I've made jewelry with seashells my whole life practically. And she says I'm fragile just like one," she explains, a little sheepishly. She looks down at her hands for a few moments and then looks back up at me carefully, just in time to see the smile that spreads out over my face. Things make a bit more sense then. I can place her in my mind. She's without the typical tan and more educated than most because she doesn't work on the sea all day. She probably gathers the shells in the morning before school and works in a covered space after it. It's different from what I expected, and I like it. She's the first mystery of this new life I have here in the Capitol.
I'm just about to tell her that she's probably not as fragile as she seems when she speaks again.
"Finnick?" she asks.
"Annie?" I tease.
I kind of stop for a long moment when she gives me an almost surprised smile. It's different than her others, much sweeter and happier and smaller, and I decide it's my favorite. If I were a painter, and I were painting her, this is the smile I would want to paint.
"If I wrote a letter, would you mail it to my sister in the Capitol?" she asks.
It's those words that remind me of all the sad things I had momentarily forgotten. Things like: President Snow controls me. Annie is a tribute headed to her death. People I end up caring about usually end up dead.
I begin nodding my head and then give her the answer President Snow would want me to give, while silently giving her the one I really want to.
"No."
She lifts one eyebrow, something that I find oddly endearing, and I quickly explain.
"It's against the rules. If someone even heard me saying that I would, it probably wouldn't be good for anyone involved. So I can't."
By anyone involved, I really just mean her. Because if Snow sees me going out of my way to do something like that for her, he will begin to think that I care for her, and if he thinks that, she might end up punished somehow. Even though she's about to undergo one of the worst punishments there is.
Her face flushes for reasons unknown to me.
"Well, thank you anyway," she mutters.
"No problem. What would you need to say so badly that you couldn't have said it at the Justice Building?" I inquire. I push the bowl of fruit her way again to remind her it's there. She picks up a blueberry.
"When my sister came to see me, all she did was beg me to win. She wouldn't let me say goodbye like I needed to. Well, she didn't keep me from doing it, but it would have broken her heart. I couldn't do that to her. But I wanted to tell her not to watch it."
She is definitely a nicer person than I am.
I quickly try to fix the worrisome last sentence she spoke.
"Not to watch what? The Games?" I ask nervously.
She nods. "It would break her heart to see me killed. I don't want her to have to see that."
But Snow does. Snow wants everyone to have to see that. That's why it's mandatory viewing. Surely she knows that?
"Well, you know it's mandatory viewing," I remind her. "So she has to. But I understand what you mean." I make sure my voice is projected so any potential bugs in this room will catch it. I highly doubt Snow bothered to bug this room (he usually just bugs mine) but I won't let anyone pay for my carelessness.
I push forward. "And don't count yourself out so quickly. You've got the hottest and most talented mentor there is. Don't count me out so quickly, either."
I tell her this even though I counted myself out long ago. Even though I don't have faith in myself at all. But I think she could have faith in me—even if it was misguided faith—and maybe if she believed in me I would too.
She points at herself. "Seashell, remember?"
I lean back against the footboard and look over her carefully. I eye her long fingers, the gentle curve of her breasts, the slope of her waist, the firmness of her thighs. She looks stronger than she sounds. And more importantly, she has managed to somehow charm me, and if she can do that she can charm anyone. Favor with the audience gets you far.
"You know what I think, Seashell?"
She shakes her head. I push the bowl towards her again and wait until she's munching on a piece of apple.
"I think you're a lot stronger than you think you are."
She must be, because even though she fell apart on stage, she's been keeping herself together remarkably well. She's probably falling apart in private, but the fact that she can keep herself together right now, even when talking about her imminent death, tells me more about her than what she does for a living.
She must not agree with this, because she chokes on the apple she's eating as she starts laughing incredulously. I reach over and pat her back until her coughing stops. She looks at me in shock.
"Not that I don't trust your keen eye, Finnick, but I'm honestly hopeless when it comes to this. I spend my spare time quilting. I'm in the same weight class as twelve-year-olds. I've never held a weapon in my life."
I work hard to keep my face unaffected. I merely offer her the bowl again. She rolls her eyes and takes a strawberry.
"I think you're counting yourself out," I continue stubbornly. "You are obviously strong enough to put your sister's emotional needs before your own. You gave her the words she needed to hear when you were supposed to be saying goodbye. As for talents, I know for a fact you can tie knots and make nets. I'm also fairly certain you can swim."
She's quiet for a moment, and then she confirms that yes, she can tie knots and make nets. And she can swim.
"Well, that's three advantages you have right there. Just because you're not a master swordsman doesn't mean you are going to die for a fact. We are going to work together, okay? We'll find a weapon you feel comfortable using. I'm going to teach you how to protect yourself. And then we'll work out a strategy for the Games."
She stares at me with so much trust that I feel sick.
"Okay," she says.
I rise after that. I'm not feeling my best. I'm usually not feeling my best, though, so it's easy to work past.
"Now, eat the rest of your fruit. I want you looking buff and strong the next time I see you," I joke.
She takes another piece and smiles.
"Better be careful or I'll be stronger than you."
I stop and stay near the door, that same odd and abrupt feeling of happiness washing over me for a moment. It passes quickly.
"Oh Annie, I hope so," I say quietly, and then I close the door before I have to see that look in her eyes again.
It isn't until I'm under my blankets that I understand why I feel so terrible. It wasn't just the trust in her eyes. It was the fact that, while trying to convince her that she had a chance, I somehow managed to convince myself that she does too.