norelief | Entries tagged with archive

Finnick's not sure how much success he'll have with teaching Harley to fish, if only because it's never easy to pass on knowledge that's practically second nature. It's different now that they have the support of the city, of their anonymous benefactors, but when he was younger it was all about survival, and survival was undoubtedly the best motivator.

Still, he's sure the other guy isn't looking to become some sort of savant so he fills a bag with some basics, brightly colored lures and hand reels, a small package of bait. Mostly it's all about patience, not getting agitated by the hours that might pass without a bite. He thinks if he hadn't learned these skills as a child, he wouldn't have survived the arena. Certainly not the Capitol. All he ever did was wait.

It's early when they meet at the land where their properties meet and he raises his hand in a wave. "Good morning," he calls. "You ready?"

Finnick's not a particularly deep sleeper. In part, it's habit. In the arena rest had been fitful at best, always with one eye half-open if he hadn't managed to find himself a worthy ally to keep watch while he slept. It's also because that's when the worst dreams come, the ones that he has to fight his way out of, hands in fists and hair soaking wet. So it doesn't take him long awaken at the sound of Katniss' restlessness, the sound of her scream rattling him to his core.

It doesn't matter what it's about. They've both seen things, felt things, that few others could hold claim to. They've both experienced terror in all its forms. The threat of a knife against one's skin, the cry of genetically modified creatures engineered to unsettle. Breathing in deeply Finnick shifts to pull Katniss into his arms, wondering what part of this was ever supposed to be victorious.

"You alright?" he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. It's a pointless question. She's not alright. None of them are ever going to be alright. That's the Capitol's special kind of cruelty, not the lives it takes in the arena, but those that it forces to keep living. The ones who are not victors, but survivors, who carry the scars that cannot be erased with Capitol magic in their aching hearts and in their weary minds.

In the past, birthdays haven't been the bearers of much joy in Finnick's life. First, there was the count until 12, until he was old enough to have his name put into the reaping. Until he was 16, old enough to become a Capitol commodity, old enough to have his fame turned against him, victory feeling anything but victorious.

Now, he's twenty-five, a quarter of a century old, though sometimes he feels like he's lived a thousand lives, felt a thousand things, committed a thousand atrocities in the Games and outside of. He feels old and impossibly young, all at once, time all relative to what he's seen. To what he's done.

There's more to celebrate here than ever before, though. Though they were rocked by the arrival of the Careers just months ago, his injury forced him into the arms of Katniss, forced him to realise how much he cherished her – as so much more than a friend. And there is some kind of peace, no threat of the reaping (that, though, that he thought he was done with when he was fourteen. The Capitol only played by its rules until it made more sense for them to break them), no annual death march of the tributes he was forced to mentor.

And then there is hope. Though he resents so much of their innocence, there is the reminder that not every world has turned as sour as his own. That there is goodness, that there are people who don't relish in the suffering of him and his friends – hard as it is to believe sometimes.

He knows that others might relish the luxury of sleeping in on their birthday, a Saturday, but instead he makes himself rise at pre-dawn, gathering his fishing supplies and heading down to the beach. The shore is empty and the surf is loud, the salty air reminding him of home. Maybe before this would have made him ache more, and maybe a part of him still does, but for the first time since he was a boy he feels at peace again, thinks that maybe he might have found a place he doesn't have to be so afraid. More than that, people to share it with.

His catch isn't as good as it has been before, but Finnick doesn't mind the lighter load as he carries it back to the house. By the time he arrives he's breathless as always, but invigorated. Twenty-five years old, and maybe finally living.

[HAPPY BIRTHDAY FINNICK. Find him on his way to or in the house at any time past let's say... 8am.]

He's seen the dog around often enough that it doesn't startle Finnick as much as the first time, though he can't help but tense up slightly as it sniffs at the bag of fish he holds in his hand, freshly captured from the sea and ready to be gutted and fried for dinner. Glancing around he spots Harley in the distance, closes the space between them with long strides and tries not to think of muttations as the creature follows. Lifting the bag up, he raises and eyebrow.

"I don't know if dogs are allowed to have fish," he says. There's enough there that if it's fine, he'll happily let him, but he's not about to let himself end another innocent life out of anything but necessity. Even that of a dog. Prim's taught him to be softer when it comes to animals, after all. That not everything is genetically modified to want to kill him.

It's strange in a nice sort of way, the silent boundaries they set for themselves. And it isn't that Finnick doesn't want to go further. It isn't as if it's not something he's considered in his mind. But the fact that Katniss demands nothing of him but that he be himself makes it that much easier to breathe. Makes it that much easier to let things take their course.

He's never had that before.

And maybe that makes him want her more.

It's something they've not really discussed – the kissing – and yet it manages to not be uncomfortable at all. It speaks mountains for their friendship, for his trust in her, that he knows this isn't enough to ruin what they have. They've overcome too much, seen too many horrible things together. Whatever mistakes they make, they'll never override the core of what they are: two people that understand the parts of one another that no other can.

Still, he has to admit his curiosity. How they've come so far. From enemies to friends to whatever this is. Kissing and touching and soft sighs of contained desires. It's still early morning when she returns from hunting and Finnick waits in the kitchen, filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He doesn't mean to confront her like this, but for whatever they've started – he wants to know what she wants of it.

He's killed another one.

Somehow that's what won't leave him alone. Even if it's been for the right reasons, even if there's a gash in his side that's stopped bleeding but still hurts so much he almost needs to bite his lip to keep from screaming. He's had worse. It'll heal. He'll be fine. The Career impaled by his trident and struck with Katniss' arrows won't.

Nothing has changed, and they've been foolish to think otherwise.

And it's not as if he didn't expect this outcome. They couldn't let them live. But that doesn't take away from the fact that another life is lost because of him, and he can't even claim the security of the arena. Can't even claim that it was all part of a game. Whatever Darrow is, however it might mirror the confinement with its invisible walls, it's not the same. He's not even sure he can claim the Capitol made him a killer anymore. Gutting fish from not even four years of age, maybe it was an inevitability.

When he speaks from the couch, though, he does his best not to let that show. It's bad enough that she's had to see him wounded. Nobody needs to know how torn up he feels inside. When he speaks, instead, it's matter-of-fact. Like they're back in the arena. Like this is just another day in their alliance. "So, one down, three to go?"

Between the bees and the arrival of the bread, his trident and, well, Effie, Finnick's more than a little on edge. And he's always a bit on edge, because he's been taught to never have his guard down, to never fully let himself relax.

But it's different today, when he finds himself all but screaming at some poor cashier who's made the mistake of calling him sweetheart, because all he can hear is the whispering of anything-but-sweet nothings, feel the gaze of people who never need ask before they took all he had.

He could kill them, he knows, he could kill everyone in the damn store and flee for the countryside but this is Darrow and they'd catch him sooner or later, but he's not a killer anymore that's what they made him and goddammit, he's better than the worst thing he ever did.

Throwing down some notes and grabbing his groceries, Finnick doesn't bother to wait for his change. He just utters something like an apology and races out, hating himself, hating how fast his heart is racing, hating how much the Capitol has fucked him up.

They're not always bad. Sometimes he even gets through them without waking.

And he knows it's the most pathetic thing possible, a victor of one games, tribute in another, unable to break free from the torment of his subconscious, from the reminders of what he's done and what he can't do and how little control he's had over anything from the very start.

Tonight it's his first games.

He's young, naive and gorgeous. Foolish enough to believe that victory is a way out. That victory might mean peace.

But as he plunges the trident into the pale flesh of the boy from 3, it's not the boy from 3 anymore. It's Annie. Eyes flickering with betrayal before slipping away, before he's consumed by a wave, before the guilt washes him away from her once more.

He wakes gasping for air, floundering to keep himself afloat. It takes him a moment to place himself in Katniss' loungeroom, and guilt rears its head once more as he realises from his aching throat that he's been screaming. "Not again," he murmurs, and hates himself all the more for it. The least he can do is be a decent houseguest and here he is, waking up the whole house. He buries his face in his hands and considers running for the door. It'd be a favour, he knows.

It's frustrating, infuriating, really, that they won't let Finnick go to District 8 with the others. The argument is that he's not physically well enough, but he's not an idiot. He knows they think he's insane. He has to talk to Katniss, he knows, and immediately. They can't leave without him. He should be a part of this. Everything he risked in the arena for the rebellion, he's earned this.

He can't stop twisting the rope in his hand, has grown immune to the roughness of the burn, needs the distraction more than ever. They won't let him sleep forever, but he wishes they would. It would be easier. At least they're together in his dreams. At least the morphling seems to keep the nightmares at bay (he's supposed to be off it, of course, but the nurses give him one look and pity consumes them. He's a lost cause to them, he thinks, just a pretty boy with the girl he loves too far away to touch, to taste, to tend to. He'll take their pity if it eases the pain. Pride just isn't a priority anymore.)

At least he has the mind to put on his slippers. A few questioning glances are cast his way as he makes his way into the depths of the district, eyes wild and hair disheveled. Twisting rope, tying knots. They have to let him go. They have to. He's earned this. He's earned this. For himself, for Annie, for Johanna, for Mags. For everybody suffered, and suffering, at the hands of the Capitol's cruelty. This war is as much his as anyone's. He has a right to see it all.

He takes no note of a sudden shift within him as he goes to turn another corner, because nothing has felt right in a long time. Nothing has felt right at all, really, since he was first approached with the idea of the rebellion. It hadn't taken much to win him over, his fellow victors knowing the toll the Capitol had taken on his life, his love, his everything. Twisting rope, tying knots. He wanted them to be accountable for it all.

As he turns the corner, finally, he's first overwhelmed by the air. It's fresh, crisp, not recycled like he's used to in District 13. He wonders just how far he's gone off course, if maybe this is some sort of morphling stupor. But no, his rope is in his hand, and he doesn't feel as light as the drugs make him. Spotting a familiar brown braid, he calls out. "Katniss! They won't let me go! They won't even let me ride in the hovercraft! I have a right to go! Tell them, please! I'm fine."