Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I never really, like, got to speak to Krawiec. He spoke to me once, I think, when he complimented my district’s seaweed rolls. I’m sorry that I did not speak to him more,” Amity pursed her lips, looking down at her cards. She could barely read Siluia’s cursive handwriting, and the lavender cards made her head ache. District 12 was always so goddamn awkward. Victors never cared about 12 tributes, seeing them as nothing more than notches to add to their weapons.

“Romera seemed a kind soul, and if things had been different, then I imagine I would have spoken to her. She was brave, and fighting off a district one tribute is no mean feat. I hope her bravery inspires you all and her loss does not ache too deep.” 

Silence fell across the crowd, and Amity found herself simply staring at them, her eyes full of tears. Romera reminded her of Amity’s late sister, Coral, quiet but always listening like a jabberjay. Amity gripped her cards tightly, then bowed to the citizens, whispers breaking out behind her, and before she knew it, a peacekeeper was leading her back to the doors. 

Finnick's first letter arrived the day she arrived in District 11, asking why her victory tour was not being broadcast. Amity privately wondered if her victory was to be cast into a memory hole, never to be thought of or heard from again. He enclosed a copy of her poster, showing that people were still being expected to attend the rallies. 

Perhaps she should start smiling more, being more upbeat, listen to Siluia’s pleading. But Amity couldn’t; she could barely force her lips to raise when she saw Finnick. Emotions were too complicated to feel. Too hard to express. 

She mumbled her way through her cards, not looking up at the families of Seri and Ackerbau. Seri had caught Amity’s cheek with a sickle. She’d been lethal with that, only dying after running out of food. 

She didn’t remember Ackerbau but vaguely recognised his interview when Siluia pointed it out, and his sizeable, stocky body was reasonably average for District 11 men. he was one of the first to die, Truffa having stabbed him clean through the eye. What a pointless death. 

Amity's bottom lip trembled as she stared out over the crowd. Seri and Ackerbau’s faces faded, and Amity’s girlish grin replaced them, her fingers clutching the ceremonial trident the mayor of 4 had presented her. “Two in a row! Fantastic work!”

Looking at the tired, broken faces of the citizens, it didn’t feel like fantastic work. It felt like she’d murdered two children. Two workers. Two kind souls. 

Amity sucked thoughtfully on her butterscotch stick, the sweetness filling her mouth. District 6. What to say? She didn’t even remember the names of the two tributes, their sickly coughing keeping her far away. 

She stared out the window at the citizens walking to the square, a few looking up at the window Amity was peering out of. God. even the younger-looking children looked far older than their years, digits missing from their hands, a few limping along on crutches. Engineering wasn’t as safe as Amity had presumed.

She was eventually called to the stage, having to abandon her butterscotch in the drawing room. She felt so small among the peacekeepers. Was four just shorter than everyone else? Well, except twelve. Finnick was tall, and the whole Odair family were. Maybe it was a lack of nutrition that caused the capones to be so small. 

The flower presenter was gripping a massive bouquet of unfamiliar yellow flowers, looking absolutely terrified of Amity. She couldn’t even remember if she’d killed the District 6 tributes. 

Amity tried to smile down at the shaking girl and gently took the flowers from her, her hands trembling just as much as the child’s. “Thank you, bambino,” Amity mumbled, holding them by her side before turning to the microphone. 

“District Six, your fallen tributes…” Amity took a shaky breath, looking down quickly at the cards. “locus and…” oh no. an unfamiliar name. Why didn’t she watch the interview? Why didn’t she watch the damn interview?!

“Her name was pronounced jen-fer,” the small girl whispered to Amity, looking down again. “She was my sister.”

The guilt nearly knocked Amity over. What had she done? What kind of person was she? Standing in front of all these people, unaware of the life she had taken? 

“i… um… I’m sorry that your uh, daughter tried to stab me, and I had to, y’know, kill her,” Amity mumbled into the microphone, looking sympathetically at Truffa’s family, an awkward smile on her face. “she was far stronger than me. I imagine she could’ve won if she hadn’t been distracted.” Amity wanted to continue speaking about how Truffa’s gurgles haunted her dreams. The pain in her eyes as Amity garroted her made her remember how painful trying to hang herself was. It was always going to come down to her and Truffa. She’d promised as much when Amity had killed…

“Venom was a worthy opponent. He wanted me to become part of his alliance, and I almost accepted. I still don’t think I outsmarted him. I simply took advantage of him,” Amity continued, giving a more genuine smile to his family. “I hope his loss does not hurt too much, but I hope you are comforted by memories of bravery and wit.” Amity looked down, not sure what else to say. Venom had been kind to her during training, but like the rest of the pack, he’d left her to die after she fell out of the tree. She remembered him being the last to go; if he’d stayed for a second longer than Amity imagined, he would’ve seen the package Finnick sent down and taken it.

“District One, you are our closest neighbours, and I hope our close relationship continues as long as Panem exists,” Amity began reading from the cards again, her nose scrunching a little. They might be neighbours, but Amity wasn’t sure anyone she knew had been to District 1 before, and she’d never really understood what they actually did. The mayor stepped to the side of her and called on the crowd to join the rousing orchestra in a rendition of Horn of Plenty.

Amity took a step back, gulping a little as she watched the families of the two tributes proudly sing along, both gripping their children tightly. They would be trained and reaped and forced to kill. Bile suddenly rose in her throat, and she found herself having to mouth along with the lyrics, her voice having left her. She didn’t even give a second thought to the microphone before her; otherwise, Amity may have noticed it was still blinking green.

“Take a seat, Miss Capone,” Snow's voice was like oil, and when he spoke, Amity felt her skin crawl. She obeyed, sitting in a small chair before Snow’s grand, dark brown desk. She felt incredibly small before him and averted her gaze as he ran his icy eyes over her.

“How was your victory tour?” Snow began, linking his hands and leaning forward slightly as if Amity was about to speak very quietly.

“It was okay. I had to get Mags to watch my games back so I could write things about people,” Amity fingered the hem of her skirt, keeping her eyes firmly away from his.

“do you think it went well?”

Amity recognised his tone almost immediately. It was the same tone he used during her crowning, his fingers lingering a little too long on her temples. Snow had stared at the still healing rope burn around her neck, his face as unreadable as ever, and had asked that simple question.

Has it gone well? How does a Hunger Games go well? How does a victory tour go well? It obviously hadn’t crashed and burned, else, she would’ve probably been dead and buried by now. Who was left for snow to threaten? Her father had taken care of that, and Finnick was far too valuable to be messed with. 

“I think it did. No one tried to kill me,” Amity responded hollowly, pursing her lips. Snow had already formed his opinion; there was no point in trying to plead or beg. “I don’t really know what else I could’ve done.”

Snow raised a hand to stroke his beard, narrowing his eyes as he looked over her. “I really thought you’d listen, Miss Capone. I thought you’d be able to toe the line,” he sighed before giving her a faux-sympathetic smile. “Your precious Odair, you may live together, you may be the best of friends, but if you even consider making your non-platonicness public, you will suffer a relapse in your poor mental health. You will never be heard from again. Do I make myself clear, Miss Capone?” 

Amity immediately looked up at Finnick’s name before gaping in shock at Snow’s… well. Frankness. She was about to ask how he knew but remembered how he knew literally everything. 

“Well?”

“Yes, President Snow,” Amity quietly replied, looking back down at her lap. 

Amity's heart ached as the train came to a slow stop in the station when she spotted Finnick on the platform, his hair flattened down, wearing his best shirt, clutching a bouquet of water lilies. How was she going to tell him? Snow clearly hadn’t.

It was just a childhood romance. They were growing older now, apart. The games had made it difficult to become attached to anyone else. Amity was still grieving for her family. None of her pathetic excuses felt right. They'd started talking about a house together, about how Finnick’s father had finally stopped referring to Amity as the cleaner, the best place to bury Amity’s family’s ashes.

“Time to alight, Miss Capone. I hope your journey has been comfortable,” a lady in capitol attire motioned for Amity to leave the train. Amity felt rooted to the armchair like the fabric had fused with her. “Mr Odair is waiting for you.”

Way to make her feel even shittier. Fine. Fine. Amity was going. “I’m going,” she snapped, pulling herself up with all the strength she could muster, strolling out of the train as if literally nothing could ever bother her. It couldn’t. Nope. Not Amity Capone. 

“Amy,” Finnick said simply, his voice warm. 

Okay, everything bothered her. She was going to break down. Cry. Sob. Throw herself into Finnick’s arms. Never let go. Snow couldn’t kill her if she was always in his arms. 

“Finn,” Amity was hoarse. She’d been screaming most of the night. No one was there to comfort her back to sleep. No one came. 

“I know what it’s like, Amy. I really do. C’mon, we can go back to yours or mine. I don’t mind,” Finnick held out the flowers, which Amity took, cradling them in her arms. 

“oh, Finn. i… I don’t, I don’t know how to say this,” Amity began, tears filling her eyes. She looked down at the flowers, staring at them so he wouldn’t have to see her breaking down. 

“Snow already told me,” Finnick interrupted her, his face still settled on that gentle smile. “It'll be okay, Amy. I promise. I’m gonna make it… okay for us, yeah?” Finnick’s smile got a little brighter, his face lighting up. The crinkles at the side of his eyes didn’t suit a boy of fifteen. Nothing about Finnick did.

“Okay,” Amity mumbled, allowing Finnick to take her hand. He lifted it to his lips and gave her a gentle kiss before letting go of it. Appearances. Their whole life would be about damn appearances. Hiding. 

But hope grew in Amity’s heart as they walked together down the cobbled streets from the station to the victor's mooring area. It would be okay. One day.