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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.]
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.]
