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Mags got the courage to tell him six months before his sixteenth birthday. It was selfish, to have kept it to herself for so long. She had known for a few months now. She had actually known, since the moment he won. She just didn’t have proof until a letter came for him in the mail, a letter she had been hiding. Until now. She didn’t know if she’d be able to go through with it. She was worried that when he got home, she’d see his face and back out. Mags had never thought of herself as a coward—in fact, she always thought she was quite brave. Nothing had ever made her so scared before, and the feeling was killing her. Finnick had lived with her since he got home. He was more comfortable with a victor, someone who knew what he went through. His family was understanding enough, his father came by every single day to check up on him. And once a week Finnick went over to what was technically his house for dinner. It was hard, being around family after winning. Finnick couldn’t live with his family, he’d wake them up yelling, hiding in corners, hoarding food. It was better to be with his mentor, someone who knew how to pull him out. He couldn’t live with his family while they still navigated their relationship with him, while they learned more about how much he had changed. But Finnick could spend a few hours a week with them, rebuilding the best they could. It was good for him. Finnick seemed to like living with Mags. He spent almost all of his time out on the ocean, but when Mags could drag him back to shore, he was doing good. As good as a victor could be. His nightmares were terrible, Mags told him they wouldn’t be so bad forever. Though she still had plenty of her own. On the days Finnick convinced himself he was a monster, Mags would sit with him and talk about every kind thing he had done. Killing was something every victor had to do, it didn't make Finnick evil. But in the moments in between, Finnick did good. He was loud and confident, he found humor in everything around him. When Finnick went to the Capitol as a tribute, he smiled and waved the whole time. Despite the violence and the fear for his life, he was fourteen; he’d never passed up an opportunity to make people laugh or smile. He was good at conversation, finding ground with people from all walks of life. It was an adjustment in the Capitol, but he learned how to do it there too. How to captivate an audience like he had been training his whole life to do it. Finnick was a people person. Being charming and likable made him feel good about himself, and he leaned into it whenever he could. He played into it. But it was more than that. He liked that he was easy to talk to. He liked people, he was extroverted, community driven. Whatever it was. Finnick bloomed when he smiled and someone smiled back. Mags watched that be pulled out of him. Not completely, no, the games couldn’t change all of who you were at your core. It was more like Finnick had been wrung out, exhausted and ready to go home. After he won, he was still expected to be the charming happy child he was before. And to his credit, he could have fooled Mags with how good of an act he put on. Still smiling, still joking, still charismatic. When they got on the train, Finnick’s smile fell, and he was asleep before the Capitol was gone from the horizon line. He talked to the people in Four, still laughed and conversed and charmed in his usual way. It was simply held back, like he was doing it through a fog that wasn’t there before. And now? How could Mags tell him this? That he barely got a year of peace and recovery before he was being sent back. How could she tell a child of the ocean he'd be taken so far from shore? She didn’t get any more time to think about it when he walked through the front door. The boy was soaked to the bone, and Mags almost teased him for it. He was supposed to be out fishing, not swimming. Finnick hung up his father’s trident by the fancy one he took home from the Capitol. He did his best not to touch anything while he took off his shoes and dumped out the water in them. He spotted Mags sitting at the table and smiled. “I should take you sometime, I'm sure you've never fished with someone as good as me.” She wanted to point out that he was still a child, and she had fished with people who had double his experience. She found that she couldn't say anything when she tried. The letter in front of her had built a wall between her and Finnick. Finnick caught on to her distress quickly, he took off his jacket, hung it up to dry and went to her. “Are you feeling alright?” Sometimes he talked to her like she was on her deathbed and not in her seventies. Words still evaded her, so she made him sit down. The world was buzzing around her, and she couldn’t find it in her to even start. It was harder, the longer they sat there. She could feel Finnick, the life that radiated off of him despite what he had been through. His ability to find compassion in the world. When he found where his district partner had been buried, he brought a bowl of salt water to her. He poured it on her, and did it once a month. Once, Mags went with him and asked why.
”I would have killed her, if I needed to,” He waited for Mags to scold him, to yell at him. To say killing someone of your own district was depraved. Mags was quiet, she nodded to what he said. Finnick waited a moment longer, and looked down at the grave stone. “She told me she missed the ocean, the first night we were gone. I can't stand to think she never felt it again.” He poured the water on the dirt.
The Capitol loved Finnick, they outright adored him. Every time he waved, they screamed for him. The easy way he complimented people, talked to them, it was captivating. They loved him. Mags finally found her words after a few minutes of Finnick looking at her. He was sunburnt, all along his cheeks and arms. His hair had grown out, he wouldn't let anyone trim his hair. They were going to make him cut it, she had no doubt about it. “Finnick.” She managed to say his name. It came out easier after that. She cleared her throat. “We need to talk, and I need you to listen to me.” The tribute she had gotten out of the arena came to life with her stern tone. Finnick sat up straight in his chair, he hung onto the words she said. It took all the strength and control she had in her body to place three fingers on the envelope and slide it over to where he was sitting. “In a few months, you’re going to be meeting with President Snow.” Finnick went pale, his eyes widened and he searched Mags’ face. “You’re not in trouble,” not that kind. “No one is hurt,” not yet. That seemed to relax him enough to look down at the letter and open it. “Finnick.” She was stalling now. Delaying the inevitable. There was no stopping this, she couldn’t keep him safe forever. “I need you to stay after you read it. There’s more we need to talk about.” Finnick didn’t let her say anything else, he opened the note and began to read. Every second that it took Finnick to read, Mags aged another year. She was going to have a stroke. She held her breath, doing her best not to stare at him. Eventually, Finnick took a deep breath, and slid the paper away from him. He folded his arm and turned to her, he was frowning. “I don’t get it.” Mags felt like she was going to cry, though she tried not to. The older she got, the more draining crying became. She barely had the energy for it. Everything got more difficult with age, she wondered how she did any of it at sixteen. “Do you remember Cashmere? And her brother?” “Gloss,” Finnick filled in, so Mags knew he did know what she was talking about. Finnick understood more than he was letting on, Mags could tell because he looked like he was going to flip the table. Mags nodded, “The districts that are more valuable to the Capitol produce more victors, we’re able to prepare for the games for years in case our name is drawn.” It was easier to explain it to him like this. “From those districts, victors are more popular, more likely to be remembered.” Finnick nodded, but he knew all of this already. He knew, to some degree, how much they liked him. He also knew how far from human they thought of him. He wasn’t a child, only a spectacle. Finnick looked back down to the letter, tilting his head to reread something. “I don’t get it,” he said again, “I don’t want to go back to the Capitol until I have to mentor. I won.” “Hush,” she said, though it was impossible now to even scold him. It felt cruel. She took a deep breath, “You and Cashmere had a similar strategy, you watched her interviews before her games.” Finnick nodded, it wasn't even something Mags had asked him to do. He did it on training nights when he couldn't sleep. “It's that kind of victor the Capitol loves, with few exceptions. I didn’t think-” For a moment, she tried to think of what to say. How she could defend herself. But there was nothing. She chose to believe the people in the Capitol were better than they were. She knew better. She knew from his first interview that Finnick had done too well. Finnick walked right off the edge and Mags hadn't told him it was there. He trusted her, so he never looked down. “I didn't think they'd want you so young,” she managed to say, and it came out choked, heartbroken. Finnick wasn't getting it, but Mags could see the gears turning in his head. He knew it was bad, his arms were still folded and his brow was knit together. “I didn't think they'd want you so young,” Mags said again, stronger this time. “I knew there was a chance I was wrong, but I was hoping- I was hoping by the time you were eighteen enough time would have gone by and they would have forgotten they wanted you to begin with. They’d have someone else.” “There's a victor every year,” Finnick said, like Mags could somehow forget that. “And I’m not eighteen.” He wasn't even close to eighteen yet. Finnick would be fifteen for a few more months. “Mags?” She could hear it in his voice, he was getting it now. It made him sound old, like a real career. “What do they want from me?” He looked down at the note again. It took too much energy to cry these days, Mags had cried enough in her life. But Finnick was special. Because he seemed wary of his own family now and he took such good care of her. When she blinked, tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Finnick didn’t ask her if she's okay, because something was really wrong now. He took the letter and reread it, slower this time. He mumbled some of the words underneath his breath. “They want me back in the capitol.” She nodded. “It's not just one trip.” She shook her head. “How many?” “I don’t know.” Finnick pursed his lips, his face set into a harder, angrier look. No one from Four liked being away from the ocean, it made the tears in her eyes swell, for a moment, Finnick thought the worst thing about this was being taken from the shore. “Finnick.” It was killing her, but she had to keep trying. She had to try until he knew. “Mags,” he said back, still serious. “I’m so sorry.” He’d never know how sorry she was. Finnick swallowed, “For what?” “The Capitol wants you. And I don't know how often, or how long it's going to go on for. But after you turn sixteen, they're going to take you for a while.” Finnick was staring at her, his eyes flicked in between hers. “What do they want from me?” Mags cried, “President Snow gives popular victors to those who want them. Particularly, people in power. But really-” she choked, “Really, anyone who can afford to buy you.” Mags watched Finnicks eyes dilate, his iris grew huge, drowning out the blue, then shrank. He got pale, so pale she readied herself to catch him in case he passed out. Finnick didn’t pass out, but he stood up suddenly. So suddenly, the chair fell behind him and hit the floor with a crash and clatter. Mags saw it in his eyes, she knew that look. Finnick was about to run. She knew that look, any sudden movement and he was gone. Mags could never keep up with him, so she didn’t move. She went still, not breathing, careful to blink slow. His breathing was heavy, he glanced to the side. “Finnick?” Her voice was soft. The window in the kitchen was open, the ocean drowned her voice out. “No,” he whispered. “Before you go-” because she knew he wouldn’t stay. ”What?” He was mad now. It was such a heavy sound coming from him. “You don’t have to,” she said the easy part first, “You don’t have to. If you can’t, they can’t make you.” Finnick was still breathing heavily, he looked at her with so much intensity it made her want to look away. But she owed him enough to keep her eyes on him. “If you don’t-“ she swallowed, “You remember Haymitch Abernathy?” Finnick blinked, she knew he was listening from the small furrow in his brow that formed. That was the most she was going to get from him. “They- they killed his family, because of how he won.” Again, Mags watched as Finnick figured it out, as he understood what he was being told. He blinked, and it was the only movement beside the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He was going to collapse, his skin was white. “You don’t have to. I’d forgive you.” That broke him, he shook his head, “No. No. Don’t say that.” “I mean it,” she fought back, “I’d forgive you, and your father would too. There are punishments for refusing, but it’s still up to you.” Mags watched the glint in his eyes change, and he bolted. Mags didn’t follow him, he scrambled. He was clumsy on his feet, unstable, and in blind panic. He stopped only for his trident, he left without shoes or a jacket. He left without saying goodbye. The last thing she heard of him was the gasp he took before he started sobbing, and the slam of the door. The window was still open, and Mags could hear the faint sound of Finnick's feet racing down the sand. It took a minute, but she was able to stand up and close the window. The silence that filled the house was overwhelming. Like being dunked under the water. She stood there, listening to a faint ringing that surrounded her. She couldn't move. The sun was gone, and the moon was out, and Mags had stopped crying. She was getting a headache, and the strength of trying to breathe evenly when she wanted to sob winded her. She took the letter off the table, and folded it neatly. She’d burn it, if she didn't think Finnick would need it. He’d need it. Mags started crying again. It was a day and a half before Finnick came back home. Mags waited for him every hour he was gone. She opened all the windows back up, letting the sun back into the house. She was worried after the first twelve hours he was gone, that he wouldn’t be coming back. Finnick was still gone the night he had planned to do dinner with his family. His father looked pale when he knocked, trying to smile, trying to be nice to the woman who got his son out alive. “Is he here?” he asked. “He's upset, I don't know where he is,” she told him the truth. She wondered what it would be like, to get your child home after they faced certain death, just to lose them in a different way. Finnick’s father loved him, but Mags knew he had no idea what he was doing. Taking care of a victor wasn't easy. “Will you tell me if he comes back?” “I will.” She couldn’t promise Finnick would return. She couldn’t even convince herself of that. Finnick’s father left, and Mags watched him cross the street and sit down on the porch. He waited a few more hours, just in case his son showed up. There was a perfect view of the ocean from Victor's Village, a perfect line of big beach houses. Mags was sitting by a window, watching the waves hit the sand pull back. She had lost track of the hours Finnick had been gone. There was no use in counting them. He’d come back, or he wouldn't. It was late afternoon when she saw a boat on the ocean, her heart squeezed, but she didn't get her hopes up. Many people in the district had ended up on the dock of Victor's Village just from a strong wind or poor planning. But Mags recognized the boat every foot it drew closer. She wouldn't wait for him at the door, or even try to meet him halfway. She couldn't have him running off again, instead, she prepared a cold glass of water and the freshest fruit she had on her. Then, she waited. She glanced out to watch as the little figure of Finnick tied up his boat, and began to walk home. She looked away for as long as she could bear too, and found that he was moving slowly. So slow, she almost broke and went out to get him. She didn't. She kept waiting. FInnick didn't knock on his return, he was silent as he opened the door. Mags looked up at him, and he looked awful. Every inch of his skin was red with sunburn, a bad one too, the kind that would blister and pull. He had cried hard enough to pop a blood vessel in one of his eyes, tear tracks stained his cheeks. His face was heavy, sunken in, he couldn't have slept the whole time he was gone. He had not taken his shoes, and his feet were covered in dirt and sand. He hadn't looked this bad since he got out of the arena. They stared at each other for a moment. She breathed, blinking slowly and waited for him to do something. All Finnick did was close the door behind him and continue to stare at her. She needed to be brave, which continued to be harder than it had ever been. “Finnick?” she tried. Nothing. She swallowed. “You need some water,” she couldn't imagine he had any. Whatever he was feeling, the idea of water seemed like enough to pull him out of his thoughts. Everyone needed water to survive, and no emotion was stronger than dehydration. Finnick went to her, still slow and cautious, like an injured cat. Mags stepped back so he was comfortable enough to sit down. He collapsed into the chair and drank the whole glass in one swallow. He looked at her, big sea green eyes, he held out the glass. Mags took it and refilled it. He finished and she refilled it again. And again. And again. And again. Again until he stopped asking and held the empty cup in his hands. He was quiet, which was an awful thing. Finnick couldn't shut up. Mags had actually worried about him being a smartass in the arena and talking to himself because he could. Thankfully, the boy had some kind of self preservation. Mags sat down on the other side of the table, trying not to stare at him or his aggravated skin. Salt water had dried in his hair, and the sun had gotten him to sweat. He smelled awful. It took him a while to find his voice, he spent a long time looking at the drops of water on the side of the glass like they were truly captivating for him. It was only when his hands started to shake, he let go of the cup and looked up. “Will it be the same if I kill myself?” his voice was hoarse, it was so weak it could be days of recovery until it was back to normal. “Will they still hurt you?” Mags wasn't surprised by the question, she knew he'd ask something along those lines. She nodded, “Many tributes and victors have tried, thinking they'd get out of it, but it will only bring more trouble.” She’d forgive him for that too, if he couldn't take it, she'd only hope that they'd kill his father soon after. The loss of a child was an awful thing. Finnick nodded, he was in a daze, he wasn't in his body, or in this house. Wherever his mind was, it was far away from here. She tried to get him to eat something, but he refused. She didn't push, he must have filled up his stomach with all the water he drank. He was a growing boy, he’d be hungry soon enough. And like the dehydration, hunger would be stronger than however he was feeling. It took awhile for him to speak again, Mags could see how intently he was thinking, how he mulled over every word in his head. He was searching for something. He didn't find it, she could tell because he seemed to wilt. Completely defeated. “Why didn't you tell me sooner?” Another question she knew was coming, but much harder to answer. Nothing she could think of to say sounded good, it all came out like she was trying to defend herself. Not that she was protecting him, not that she loved him, just that she was too weak and scared to prepare him. “I should have.” It was a bad answer, he glared at her, though he was too exhausted to look really angry. “I thought you’d have more time,” she repeated what she told him earlier, “That it would be a few more years, and by then they'd want someone else.” Finnick, ever the hero, didn’t like that answer either. “That's not fair. They shouldn’t- want- anyone.” Mags set her jaw, glad he stopped talking. He was right, It wasn't fair, it was horrific. The disgust just needed to be kept to themselves. “I got the letter a few months ago,” she said, “I should have given it to you.” Finnick shook his head, that wasn't what he wanted either. “No,” Mags was worried that if he used his voice anymore today it would give out on him. He sounded like he had just finished drowning. “No, you should have told me before. Before I entered the arena.” Finnick couldn’t keep looking at her, so he dropped his head to look at the table. He started shaking again, this time, harder than before. “I wouldn’t have won,” he whispered, “I wouldn't have won. I would have died if I thought-” his voice broke. “Why didn't you tell me?” Mags had no reason that he would be happy with, not unless he started to mentor. Bringing a kid home, even if you only got one, it felt like winning. The kind of win the Capitol couldn't exploit, the kind of win Snow couldn't take. Parents losing their babies, children losing their friends; bringing back their loved one, reuniting them. How tightly Finnick's sister had held onto him when he got back. That was why she didn’t warn him. Why she’d try every year to bring a kid home. “I’m sorry,” she said. Finnick glanced up to her, his eyes were wet with tears, he looked back down. He squeezed his hands into fists, his whole body trembling. “I hate you.” He said it with so much certainty, she believed him. “I know.” He shook his head, and a hiccup came out of him, “I hate you.” “I know…” she paused, “There's nothing I could say now that would make you understand, but I think maybe one day you will.” Her grief was palpable, it was crushing her heart, making it hard to breathe. Finnick started sobbing. Mags had never heard him properly cry, and she wondered if he ever had before. He didn't cry before his games, the only sign that he was scared to die was the reflection of his eyes. He didn't cry when any of the tributes died, not even the ones he killed himself. He’d frown, stare, but never cry. After he was pulled out of the arena, he had only cried softly, his tears muddled through the pain medication they had him on. Sometimes he’d whine or weep into his arm after nightmares, but Mags had never heard him sob. She had never seen him break. Finnick was breaking now, he was breaking completely. There was no warning for the awful noises that came from Finnick, his head buried in his hands. Loud, awful wails followed by gasps for air. He shook, pulled at his hair, pounded his fist on the side of his head. He screamed, and screamed, and sobbed. Mags watched him for as long as she could stand too. He didn't want her comfort, he didn't want her touch or words. She knew she couldn't help him, so she held off. But it was too much. Finnick was only getting bigger with each day. Broader shoulders, longer legs, louder voice. Mags was sure in just a year he would be huge compared to her. Now though, while Finnick sobbed into his arms, his hands pushing into his skull, he was small. The kid she had met months ago. Tall then, but with limbs too long for the rest of his body. Athletic but awkward, his muscle mass not yet clinging to him. Fourteen. A terribly young age to be. Even now, at fifteen, he hadn't grown up quite yet. There was still baby fat on his cheeks when he smiled. Mags saw him, a child, a child she had looked after and kept alive. She couldn't sit and watch him. She stood up and went to his side, taking a moment to get on the floor next to him. It hurt her knees and her back, another loud sob pulled her out of her personal pain. She was old, but she'd live to kneel down a few more times. “Finnick,” she whispered, her hand hovering over his shaking back, “Finnick.” He pulled himself away from her, not offering so much as a glance. His breath was heavy and quick, so bad she worried he was going to pass out or throw up. “Please,” it wasn't fair of her to ask anything of him, “Breathe.” Finnick responded by crying harder. It was evident though, that his voice wasn't going to hold on much longer. He had been crying when he was out at sea, and his throat was already hoarse. His sobs pushed on, heavy, tearing through his body like a wave. Each one taking more from him than the last. Mags put her hand on his back, he didn't pull away this time. She rubbed his back, even as it twitched underneath her. Her nails were short, the tips of her fingers brushing against his spine. Finnick could hate her all he wanted, but she wouldn’t leave him alone like this. Finnick pulled his face from his hands, leaving a trail of spit, tears, and snot. He heaved, “I don’t-” a gasp for air, “I don't want to,” was all he could get out before he started crying again. Mags rubbed his back, “You don't have to,” she said, putting her mouth to his ear so he could hear her over his sobs, “I’d forgive you.” Finnick yelled at that, he anchored his hands in his hair, and pulled. “Don’t-” he gasped, “Don’t say that.” Mags leaned away, and kept rubbing his back. She rubbed his back until his voice finally stopped making noise. She rubbed his back when the only thing she could hear was him gasping for air. He tried to keep crying, to scream, to speak, but nothing came out. Only a scratchy weak whine that made him sound like a dying animal. Mags rubbed his back. It took some time, and mental preparation for Mags to ready herself to stand up. She tried to keep in her groan when she did, a few days ago, Finnick would have teased her about it. He didn't even look at her when she held her back to stand up. “Finnick,” she whispered. She couldn't imagine what it must have taken out of him to look up at her. His eyes were red, and the one that had the burst blood vessel looked much worse than it had before. She reached to him and held his cheek with one hand. “I’m sorry.” Finnick closed his eyes, letting her thumb at his growing eyebags for a moment. Then, he remembered he was mad, and that fifteen was far too old to comforted like this. He pulled away from her. Mags let her hand drop, not wanting to chase him. Finnick opened his mouth to say something, all that came out was a squeak. He tried again. Finnick held his throat with his hand and frowned. “Easy,” she warned him. Finnick shook his head, “Don’t tell him,” he whispered. It was a weak, sad attempt at talking. What Finnick was talking about, she didn't know, but she tried to understand. She didn't want him to push himself to speak again, so she filtered between his eyes, trying to put together what he meant. She didn't get it in enough time because Finnick spoke again. “Don’t tell my father.” Finnick winced, the longer sentence hurt. “You can’t.” Mags doubted he had anything left in him, anything at all. She was worried that if he started crying again, the effort would kill him. “I won't.” Mags was desperate to give Finnick something. To be able to reassure him of just one single thing, something she could promise him and not break. The weight of his words hit her slowly, “But you should.” Finnck shook his head, “It’d kill him.” Mags couldn't argue, as much as she wanted to. When given their minute to say goodbye, Finnick’s father had to be dragged out. He had been holding in his tears, but when the door closed and Finnick was gone, he wept. When Finnick asked to live with Mags, his father didn’t let Finnick lift a finger to move his things. ‘Whatever is best for him,’ he insisted to Mags. He didn't know how to help Finnick overcome the pain of killing another person, so he put all of his trust in Mags, and held back as much as he could. The victor's house was Finnick’s, but only his father and sister lived in it. When Finnick felt brave enough to go over, a few hours a few days a week, Mags could see how relieved it made the little family. They hadn't been torn apart, not completely. Mags couldn't imagine being so close to losing your baby. To have them taken away, paraded around, then thrown into the arena. How relieved Finnick’s father looked every time he saw the boy, like he had convinced himself that Finnick died and only remembered that wasn't true when they were together. His father’s heart was fragile, it couldn't take anymore heartbreak. Finnick needed his family though too. He was too young to do this alone. Maybe someday, when his father was stronger and Finnick had more time to heal from the arena, he’d say something. She hoped he would say something, anything. “I won't tell him,” she agreed. Finnick slumped at her words, his head resting against the wooden table. His body had gone still, too tired to even let himself shake. “You should eat something.” Finnick said nothing to her, she could see it in his back, he was trying to deepen his breathing. The career survival instinct ran deep within him, he wouldn't let himself pass out, not if he could stop it. Crying didn't protect you in the arena, and it would do no good protecting him now. It took a half hour of coxing to get Finnick to stand up. She didn't think he'd make it up the stairs, so she took him to the couch. He collapsed onto it, his eyes clouded over, staring intently at the decorations on the walls. Mags brought salve and lotion to put on his sun burns, Finnick didn't protest as she began to put in on him. She covered his arms, his shoulders, his neck and face. Finnick watched her, but there was no recognition in his eyes. When she started applying the lotion to the worst of his burns, Finnick’s face finally twitched. Mags had to take care of some of her own bad burns, she knew it hurt for a second, but the relief would come soon. Finnicks face twisted up, he was frowning, his eyes still trained on her hands. After a moment, his shoulders slumped, and Mags knew it was working. “Let this set, then shower.” Finnick blinked, and the small sign of recognition she had gotten from him was gone. His face settled back to neutral, and he looked back to the wall. Mags was losing him, and he'd resent her for the rest of his life. There was nothing she could do. Finnick was quiet. He floated day by day, no longer going out to sea. Sometimes, she'd catch him staring out the window to the ocean, like it was something he couldn't reach. He didn't talk to her, she had no way of knowing if his voice was coming back. If he slept, she didn't know. He was always up when she was. Only once she caught him asleep in the middle of the living room, laying on a beam of sun that came through the window. She watched him for a while and left when he stirred. A week passed, Finnick was more like a ghost than a child. He hid from his father who came to grab him for dinner. Finnick locked himself in his room, and didn’t listen to his father’s pleas to come out to talk. Mags had nothing to say, when Finnick’s father asked what was wrong. Finnick came back alive, one day, and Mags had no idea where it came from. It wasn't his normal energetic happy demeanor, but he was buzzing with energy. Mags found him doing sit ups in the kitchen before the sun came up. “What are you doing boy?” “Couldn't sleep.” His voice was harsh, a mean, cold edge to it. Mags hadn’t heard him talk in days, besides a few hums, she has been starting to worry he permanently damaged something. It was good his voice was back. “Your burns are getting better.” The skin had finally stopped blistering and was starting to peel. She had gotten him to apply ointment onto it every night before he went to bed, with how despondent he was, it was easy. Finnick shot a glare at her, he said nothing, he laid back on the ground, and frowned at the ceiling. “I’m going to try to do it,” he said, his tone flat and detached. Mags felt her throat close up, she couldn't think of anything to say. “I’ve never had sex before,” he added, much quieter this time. Mag’s hadn't felt guilt or grief so intense since the first tribute she killed in her games. It knocked her down, she thought maybe, it would kill her. That she couldn't take it at her age. She waited a moment, to feel herself give out. When she blinked, Finnick had stood up, staring at the ocean again. “You don't have to,” she said, “I’d forgive you.” She wasn't sure if they would kill her, if they'd keep her alive and just slaughter his family. She knew he'd blame himself, regardless of who died. So she had to let him know that she could never be angry with him. Finncik shook his head, “Don’t say that.” He turned around, and headed back upstairs to his room. Mags wondered for a moment if she could bribe him to eat with some coffee. They let him have it on his victory tour, and he had been begging for some ever since. She had to take care of him, as his mentor, as his district, as someone who loved him. It was impossible to protect someone condemned as he was. She couldn't save him from this, as badly as she wanted to. All she could do now was try to keep him going. And remind him, again, and again, and again, that she loved him enough to understand if he let her die.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mags used to be able to run. And oh, she loved running. She spent hours on the beach, her feet splashing against the low tide, her hair pulled up to let the sweat properly run down her back. After her games, when she started thinking, she went running. Then, she'd walk deep into the ocean, let the waves crash into her chest and wash her off. Nowadays, she was too old to do something like take a run. So while she waited for Finnick to get home, she sat. Sitting wasn't bad, the train station was close enough to the ocean that she could still smell it in the air. It was a beautiful day in Four, and birds sang overhead. It was an awful day to enjoy, everytime Mags thought about the warm air around her, she remembered Finnick and stopped. He was coming back today, and the thought kept making her sick. Either Finnick was coming back, or she was being killed. There had been no commotion from his family, so it had to be her. It would be easier to make it look like an accident that way. The last time she saw Finnick, he was silent. He had been silent for days. Only small bouts of tears or big episodes of anger pulled him out of it. She didn’t think Finnick blamed her. He just resented the person the news came from. He resented that she hadn’t warned him, didn’t tell him it could have happened. Occasionally, she’d find him curled up in a corner crying. He’d yell at her sometimes, it was rare, but she was the only thing he could throw his anger on to. Mags let him. Mags pushed to go with him. Insisted it would be better if he had someone there. Finnick agreed. Then Finnick lied to her. He took the train to the Capitol before the sun was up. He was gone by the time Mags woke that morning. He left nothing behind, just his empty room. Mags had spent every day he was gone worrying. Her only grace she had was that his family hadn't made a fuss about his disappearance. When she said he would be back soon, they took her word for it. It had been five days since he left. He was supposed to be back today, but she didn’t know when. So she waited. Mags waited for hours and hours at the train station, she had gotten there before the sun had risen. The people of Four were nice to her, because she was nice to them. Most days, she'd get a handful of people who wanted to talk to her. Strangers and friends, asking how she was, what she was doing. She liked it, her community, the home she had fought so hard to get back to. Today, not a single person had approached her. There must have been something about her. Maybe it was her frown, her shaking foot, it didn't matter how kind Mags was. No one went near an anxious victor. She liked the space, she wasn't sure if she would even be able to talk to someone if they did try converse. She wondered if Finnick would even come back. Maybe he ran away, maybe he was somewhere out in the middle of the ocean. Maybe it was too hard for him to go home. By the time the sun touched the middle of the sky, Mags had begun to sweat. It was a warm day, it would still be a few months before it cooled off. The ocean made the air humid, only offering a few cool breezes to offset the sun. Mags worried about melting where she sat, maybe she’d ask the next person she saw for water. Then, she heard the train. Her whole body seized up at the noise, the Capitol trains were well made. Barreling forward and easily coming to a stop. She stood up, even something so simple had begun to hurt a few years ago. Her back and knees ached at her weight, but she was putting off a cane for every day she could. She still had the survivor instinct in her blood. Looking weak still didn’t feel like an option. The train stopped, and Mags steeled herself for anything to happen. An angry, vicious storm of a teenage boy, burning through the air. A sobbing inconsolable child, shaking like a leaf. The fake person she had helped make, smiling and laughing and waving. She was ready. Not ready enough apparently. Their escort Vivian, followed by an avox, were the only people to get off the train. The two searched for her in the crowd and went to her. Mags swallowed, why wasn’t Finnick with them? Where was he? She and Finnick were told, before Finnick left, that ‘these first few trips’ would be the hardest. The escort, his stylist, and prep would be joining the little group. Over time, as Finnick ‘got used to it’ they would dwindle down to only the prep team. Finnick had zoned out the second it was called a trip, it took Mags two hours to pull him out of his head and relay the information without making him disassociate again. “Ms. Flanagan!” She hated how Vivian pronounced her name. She was still relatively new to her position, but being promoted to Four was likely the best thing that had ever happened to her. She had dyed her skin blue the year she was told of her new position. And every year since then, she looked like the ocean had thrown up on her. Today, she had satin gloves the color of seaweed that went to her elbows. She shook Mags hand, it made her earnings jingle. Mags offered a smile, trying not to come off too aggressive, “Did Finnick not make this one?” It took a second for Vivian to respond, she let out a nervous laugh “No, no. He came with us.” She wiped her hands on her dress like touching Mags had grossed her out. She shook off her discomfort with ease, “I came out to get you to ask if you could help us? He- he won't get off.” She was still smiling, her teeth too white against her abnormal skin. Mags took a deep breath, he came back, he was alive. She had to be grateful for that if nothing else. She walked past the pair and headed straight to the train door, there was a squeak from Vivian as she hurried up the platform to follow Mags. It wasn't the same train they used to take tributes, its purpose was more for travel than show. Still, it had that Capitol sheen to it. The lights, the furniture, the smell, it felt like a hit to the chest. Any reminisce of the salt air outside was drowned out here. Padded and cushioned seats lined the empty cart. From what Mags could see the place was vacant. “Where is he?” Vivian pointed to an empty seat near the back of the train cart. Mags gave her no other regard and walked to where she had pointed. She hoped that they would leave and give her and Finnick some space, she knew though, that her hope was misplaced. “Finnick?” She was going to do everything she could to avoid cornering him. Cornering a victor was a bad idea, and Finnick was still fresh from the arena. He was still dangerous when he felt threatened or got scared. Mags walked to the back of the cart, glancing in between seats as she went. She found Finnick on the floor, tucked between the two rows of seats that lined this section of the train. He was hiding his face in his knees, both hands locked in his hair. He was mumbling something, or breathing loudly. There was some kind of faint noise coming from him. “Finnick?” Mags tried again. He glanced up. The worst part was that if Mags didn’t know she wouldn’t have been able to tell. Because really, he looked fine. His cheeks were a little red, and he looked exhausted, but that was all. His hair laid normal on his head, his clothes were clean and pressed. Maybe he was a better actor than Mags thought. It wouldn't be the first time he had been able to fool her. He had gotten so good at it, sometimes Mags wouldn't know anything was wrong until he broke. It took awhile for her to get down on the ground. The cart did not offer much room for her to lower herself and she couldn't get on her knees without shocks of pain. Finnick watched her, silent as she sat, his eyes wide and tired. “Are you getting off here?” She asked him like it was his decision to make. Finnick stared. “If you’re staying, you better tell Vivian, I don’t think she got the message,” the joke landed flat before it was even finished, it was much easier for Finnick to ease tension with jokes. He was a teenage boy. Mags just sounded desperate. “Come on,” she said softer this time, “You need to go home.” Finnick lowered his face back to his knees. His hands started shaking, and Finick began to drum a pattern on his legs with the tips of his fingers. Tap, tap, tap. “Finnick?” Vivians voice broke through the little bubble Mags had made for them, “Darling I do have somewhere to be.” Finnick curled away from her, his hands stilled and he gripped the fabric of his pants. Mags glared at her, she was trying to give Finnick some kind of peace, to protect him from whatever hell had followed him home. To her credit, Vivian shrank under Mags' glare and pretended to fix her glove. Mags looked back, hoping to rebuild the air around her and Finnick where only they existed. Just days ago, Mags would have reached out to touch him. To hold his hand, pet his hair, kiss his cheek. She didn't dare touch him now, she probably wouldn't ever again. Not unless he asked her too. She wondered, selfishly and quietly to herself, if he still hated her. Not that she could ever blame him if he did. “I’m sorry,” Mags whispered so only Finnick could hear, “ Let's go dear, it's a short walk home.” Finnick looked up to where Vivian stood on the other side of the hall, he stared at her, his eyes clouded over. “Make her leave,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving Vivivans blue skin. His voice was weak. Vivian opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself or say something about how insulted she was. Before she could even start on whatever little tangent she was going to go on, Mags cut her off. “We’ll be out in a minute,” Mags said, and Vivian begrudgingly left. It was relieving, to be able to do something Finnick had asked of her. To offer him any kind of support, to remind him that she was on his side. Regardless of how much he might resent or hate her. “Take your time,” she said to Finnick when the train door closed. How much time they had, she didn't know, but she'd give Finnick every second of it. Finnick lowered his head and started drumming his fingers again. Tap, tap, tap. There was no real pattern, and at moments the movement would make his hands cramp up and it took him a while to go back to the tapping. Mags watched him, her eyes drifting as he moved each finger. Each minute that passed made Mags more anxious, Finick still hadn't looked up and was now opening and closing his hands into fists. She wouldn't push him to leave, it would take a group of peacekeepers to get her and Finnick off this train if he didn't want to go willingly. But they couldn't stay here forever, and Mags would much prefer getting Finnick up on her own. “Finnick?” she tried after a few minutes, Finnick had gone completely still again. “Let's go dear,” she tried, hoping he’d come with if she grouped them together. Mags wasn't expecting a response, so she leaned back when Finnick looked up and blinked at her. “Mags,” he tried his voice out, it was only a little scratchy. Finnick had not looked her in the eyes for a while. Maybe not since he had his meeting with Snow to discuss the finer details a few weeks before he left. It had easily been a month since he looked at her, and she'd almost forgotten how sharp his eyes were. Even cloudy and desperate, they were the kind of eyes she could swim in if she got too close. “Finnick,” she said back. He looked a little like he was going to burst. Not that he was going to cry or start screaming, like he was going to explode. His body was going to give out on him and she’d have to break the news to his family about his untimely death. Finnick didn't burst. Finnick always had a funny way of surprising her. Mags was sure that nothing could shock her at her age, that by now, she knew what to expect from the world around her. But Finnick, Finnick was a wild card. It was always the little things about him, the ones she never saw coming. Like now, Finnick stared at her for a long time, judging something on her face. Whatever he was looking for, he found. Carefully, Finnick held out his hand to her. Mags was too shocked to take it, she couldn't imagine Finnick actually wanted her to touch him right now. Finnick stared, his eyes huge. So Mags took his hand. Finnick squeezed his eyes shut when their skin touched. Mags placed her hand on top of his, she moved so slow it made her fingers shake. Finnick breathed in a sharp breath, ducking his head away into his shoulder. Mags curled her fingers around his hand, she rubbed her thumb into his knuckles. Finnick held his breath until he couldn't, he only allowed himself one gasp for air before he held it again. It was another while they stayed like this. Finnick, brave enough to let Mags touch him but not brave enough to see. Finnick glanced up, his face pinched together. His eyes were still big, his cheeks still pink. He looked young. Younger. It took a minute for Finnick to start breathing normally, he kept peaking up to look at their hands. As if he was genuinely surprised the touch wasn’t killing him. “Mags,” He said her name again. She squeezed his hand, “Finnick.” He kept his head up this time, his eyes never leaving where their hands met. Again, Mags was sure he was looking for something, this time in how they touched. And again, whatever he was searching for, he found. It took a moment for him to untangle himself and get off of the floor. He had wedged himself between the two pairs of seats, and he used the hand Mags wasn't holding to push himself up. Mags got up with him, it was harder than normal with one of her hands still holding his. Finnick was clenching Mag's hand now, holding on so tight it hurt. Mags could only alleviate the pain by squeezing back. She wasn't as strong as him though, and Finnick's knuckles were turning white. Mags wouldn't strip him of any more pride by staring while she guided him through the train and out onto the platform. Finnick was holding her hand tight enough now to shake. He wasn't walking close enough to touch, he kept a full step behind her. When Mags glanced back at him, his head was hung to the floor. Mags led Finnick down the steps of the station, to where Vivian was waiting, tapping her foot. “There you two are,” her smile was tight. Finnick shied away from the sound of her voice, taking another step back behind Mags. “I was worried I’d have to come fetch you.” Mags frowned at her, “Thank you for your help Vivian,” Mags voice was as tight as Vivians smile. If she was any younger, she might have snapped. Told Vivian to get back on that train and go far, far away. She wasn't dumb enough to act like that anymore, as much as she wanted to. Vivian sensed no malice, or chose not to, her smile grew to something more genuine. “Well, I’ll be seeing you two soon.” She scurried away, it reminded Mags of a rat. With the sound of the train door closing, Mags kept walking, Finnick still holding on to her hand. Everytime Mags looked back to see him, his eyes were on the floor. Distant, cloudy, sad eyes. Mags thought about hugging him, more than once. She wouldn't, but it was hard not to. For a moment, Mags wondered if this what it would have been like to have a son. She buried the thought and focused all of her energy on walking. She had grown exhausted from worrying all day, and with it still warm out, the walk was making her sweat. She’d get herself and Finnick some water as soon as they were back inside. They made it to Victors Village without issue, the few people they had seen let them pass, only pausing to smile or nod. Mags led Finnick to her house, ready to tuck him away where no one would be able to look at him. Wanting to take him somewhere she could guarantee he was safe wasn't a feeling she'd since he made it to the final eight. She turned to take the little rock path that led up to her house, when she felt a tug. Mags turned around, Finnick’s eyes were still on the floor, but he was facing the ocean. He loosened his grip on her hand and tugged her again. Victors Village was right next to the beach, the ocean was loud and pungent in the air. She could see it from where they stood, it was only a few dozen feet before the paved ground gave way to the sandy shore. “You want to go to the ocean,” it was less of a question, and more of a statement. Finnick tugged her again. He led the way this time. He walked at a good pace for her, their hands were barely together now. Only a few of their fingers were intertwined. Mags walked with him down the beach, having to slow down to stay balanced on the sand and rocks. Unlike every she could remember, Finnick had patience for this. Most other times, he was vibrating to get in the water. He’d already be submerged by the time Mags had gotten halfway there. Now Finnick waited after each step, only continuing to pull Mags forward when she was ready. He walked her all the way to where the water met the sand. When his feet hit the water, he looked up. The distant look in his eyes cleared as he took in the ocean, he scanned the horizon. The emptiness carefully replaced with one of deep, deep sadness. Finnick tilted his head up toward the sun. He closed his eyes and two tears slipped down his face, he shuddered. Finnick let go of her hand, leaving Mags to stand alone on the damp sand. The waves crashed just close enough to lap over her shoes before it drew back. Finnick walked forward, he didn't take off his shirt, he didn't remove his shoes or socks. He walked without even glancing back at her. Mags watched him wade into the ocean, the water consumed him. His legs, his waist, his chest. Then Finnick dove in. Mags sat on the sand and watched him. It was warm, soft underneath her, she only looked away from Finnick to pick through the sea shells. And Finnick swam. Mags could make out the shape of his body splashing through the water. He moved like a sea creature, aligned with the very being of the ocean. He’d stay under water for a few minutes at a time, surfacing like a whale only to jump back in. He moved easier in water than he did on land, the ocean was an extension of his body. Hours, Finnick swam. Mags had stood back up again, a pile of seashells in her pocket. She had taken off her shoes to wade ankle deep into the water. She had stopped trying to distract herself and watched him. Swimming, as second nature as it was, was exhausting. Finnick had already looked so tired. Mags had no idea how he had the energy to be doing so much. She expected a few times to look out and see his body give up, that she'd have to pull him back to shore. But Finnick just kept swimming. Coming up only for air and submerging himself in the water. Mags remembered a distant version of herself. The sixteen year old girl who won The Hunger Games, who had not yet learned to live with taking another life. When she got home, she went to the beach. For days she swam and ran, only going home for food and sleep. It took weeks for her parents to get her in for longer than an hour or so. When they did, Mags slept for a full day. Mags sent a silent apology to her parents in her head. She was a stubborn girl, and had grown into a stubborn woman. They had an endless patience for her and the things she thought she needed. Mags would have to let Finnick do what he needed, short of harming himself, because he was the one stuck in his head and body. The world wasn't ending though, the sun would rise tomorrow and Finnick could go back to the ocean whenever he wanted. With the sun setting, it would get cold soon. On land, it would be a pleasant breeze, a good temperature for a walk. Water, was much colder. The tide was creeping up as the afternoon turned into evening. Finnick was bound to catch a cold if he stayed out any longer, and a body could only take so much excursion. Everyone had a breaking point, Mags wanted Finnick at home when his body gave out. Mags called him when he resurfaced, her voice carrying over the waves. Finnick paused before he dove back down. He had heard her just fine, he was choosing to ignore her. Mag's face dropped to a frown. The boy was lucky she was going to be careful for the foreseeable future. Had he still been training as a career, he would have run a mile for ignoring her like that. The thought of younger, sassier FInnick made her chest hurt, so she called for him again. On the third call, Finnick finally started to swim towards her, though he was taking his time. As expected, when he reached Mags, he was shaking from the lack of sun. His clothes were dragging him down, his shoes squelched when he walked. Whatever life the ocean had given back to him was gone again. His eyes were on the ground, the cloudy look back on his face. Mags handed him the pile of seashells she had collected, “You bring these to your sister, when you're ready.” His sister made necklaces and bracelets between school work and house chores. She didn't make many, but half the family and all of her friends had a string of shells she’d gathered. Finnick was silent, he combed through the pile while they walked. He didn't look up once, not even to go up the porch steps or when Mags opened the door. He stood by the wall, looking at the shells while Mags buzzed around him. She took off her wet shoes and socks, turned on the lights, and downed a glass of water. She hadn't eaten anything since that morning, and she could bet Finnick was the same. Mags started a stew in the oven, it was warm and hearty. She went back to the living room with water and prepared to coax Finnick into changing or washing himself off. Instead, when she turned the corner, Finnick was already lying on the couch. He had tucked a decorative pillow underneath his head and he’d pulled out an old quilt from the coffee table drawer. His shoes were still on. “Those clothes will make you sick,” she told him and offered the water. Finnick looked at her hand, then closed his eyes. Mags sighed and set down the glass. “I’m serious.” Finnick said nothing, prefering to shiver and get salt water all over the couch. Mags shook her head, “I’ll get you more blankets.” It took awhile to get Finnick to eat something, and even then, it was only a few spoonfuls before he refused to have any more. Mags knew better than to ask if he wanted to go upstairs to his bed, Finnick looked comfortable enough on the couch. Blankets pulled up to his chin. He was shaking, his clothes were still damp. It was dark in the house after Mags turned off the lights. Only little glimpses of moonlight allowed her to see, and every year she aged, the harder it was to make out shadows in the dark. Mags lit a candle and set it on the table next to the couch, letting warm light fill in the shapes of the room. Finnck hadn't spoken the whole night, only shaking or nodding his head to answer her questions. It was cozy, if she didn’t think about it. If she pretended Finnick was sick, it might even be nice. She could pretend in the morning that she would invite his father over, and the man would scoop Finnick into his lap despite the fact Finnick had gotten too big for it. She could pretend it was fine. Mags wouldn’t pretend though. Pretending got her nothing, it was childish behavior she had dropped off before she was thirty. Pretending didn't help either of them. The truth was, he might never be the same, and there was nothing she could do about it. If he wanted his family to live, it would happen again. There was nothing she could do about it. There was nothing she could do to prepare him. She started shaking herself. Mags walked over to where Finnick had curled himself up, he was under so many blankets she couldn't see the rise and fall of his chest. She had only put two on him, he had thrown the rest on when she left the room. Mags knelt down next to him, she did her best to look stern, but she knew it was only coming across as worried. “You need to eat more tomorrow.” Finnick stared at her, still silent. Mags swallowed, she wouldn't cry in front of him again. “Do you want to talk about it?” It was the biggest reaction she had gotten out of him in hours, his pupils dilated and he shook his head. “You don't have to, dear,” she fought her natural instinct to reach up and kiss him. She had done it a hundred times before. She wasn't sure when she picked up the habit, but it was the last thing she got in before he'd race out the door, always in a hurry he was. Finnick must have been expecting the kiss too, because he closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't seem scared of it, it wasn't a look of anticipation, he was just expecting it to happen. His eyes opened again after a moment, they stared at each other. Mags felt like she was going to die. This was killing her. She wanted to sob, if she were any younger, she’d tear the world apart. “You don’t have to do it again,” Mags said. There was a chance his answer would be different this time, now that he knew what he was agreeing too. Now that he knew what would be done to him to keep his family alive. “I’d forgive you.” It was the first time in hours she had heard his voice, he shook his head, “No,” he whispered, “Don't say that.” The biggest change was that Finnick started crying about everything. Finnick lost a handful of weight, but Mags could see how hard he was trying. Still taking the time to exercise, drink water, and pick at his plate. He stopped showering all together, instead he chose to wash off small sections of his body at a time with a rag. Mags did not push him to do otherwise. He stopped sleeping, almost entirely. He only ever tried to sleep on the couch, under the now permanent pile of blankets. If they were lucky, Finnick would get a few hours in before he woke up sweating. He’d go around the house and open all the windows, sitting awake watching the candle burn. (That was new as well, he lit a candle every night after the sun had set. Mags had to get big ones imported from the Capitol.) It was little things, things Mags wouldn't have noticed if she wasnt living with him. He still tried to see his father and sister, it was just closer to biweekly instead of weekly. When Mags dragged him to the market, he smiled and laughed and talked like he always had. At home, he seemed hellbent on making Mags laugh. Like he was trying to clear the air and the tension around them. Mags couldn't tell who he was trying harder for, her or himself. She indulged him, and even went back to making him do push ups when he said something too snarky. There were things that were different about him, and that would likely never be the same. But Finnick was trying his goddamn hardest to be himself again. He was doing a fairly good job, except for the crying. Finnick cried over everything. When it was storming out, and he couldn't safely go sailing, he cried. When Mags touched him any lower than his shoulders, even to move behind him, he cried. He cried after burning his tongue on some tea, he cried when it started getting cold and the greenery died. He cried a lot when Mags asked him to change because he had been wearing the same clothes for days. Before this, between the reaping, the arena, and after, she could count the times she had seen him cry on one hand. Now, he hit that number once a week. The moment he was done crying, he was back to pushing himself to normalcy. Trying to smile and not starve himself with all the will of a sixteen year old boy. Finnick was doing the best he could. His father Marlin, on the other hand, seemed to get more anxious every day. He started inviting Mags for ‘coffee’ which consisted of long exhausted rants from a very worried father. They stopped being just about Finnick at some point, he'd laminate about Finnick's sister, Harper, how he struggled to understand her. He was a widower, trying to navigate fatherhood while his son was the most famous person in the country. Mags let him rant. Despite her best efforts, there was only so much she could do to help him. He was so worried about Finnick, about how his son had changed. There were only so many times she could say ‘he's a victor’ and ‘give him time’ before Marlin broke. Finnick had been avoiding his family more than normal, and apparently, when he did go for dinner, he was quiet and always found an excuse to leave as soon as possible. “He’s more comfortable with you,” Marlin said, “I want to talk to him and it might be better if he's with you.” It was Finnick's decision, on who got to know, Mags wouldn’t break her promise not to tell Marlin. But she knew it would be good for him to tell his father, or anyone in his family. “I can't promise he'll want to say anything,” she warned him, “If he doesn't want to talk, I’m not going to force it.” Marlin nodded, Mags could see it in his eyes. He was hopeful, so hopeful that Mags would be the thing to tear down the wall Finnick had built between them. Mags sat Marlin down at her kitchen table, he seemed enamored with her decorations. Decades of memories hung up on the wall and lay on counters. Mags hadn't warned Finnick that his father was coming over. She hadn't made up her mind on if she was going to help them talk until it was already happening. Finnick was sleeping in his room more often, another part of his desperate attempt to be normal. He spent the time he wasn't out on the water, locking himself in his room. He kept his space clean, save for the half burnt candles that covered his dresser and nightstand. Finnick was sitting on his window seal, trying to write something a piece of paper. His ‘talent’ he picked was poetry. When he told Mags that, she did her very best not to laugh at him. Finnick was a smart, talented young boy. He was good at talking himself in and out of anything he wanted. He just wasn't so good at putting it on paper. “Finnick, come down the stairs, will you?” He looked up and smiled, a perfectly normal, small smile. She had seen him practice his big one for the cameras before, forced so often it became his default. Now, he was trying to remember what his natural emotions looked like, what his face did when he wasn't thinking about it. Finnick stood, and Mags felt a pang of panic in her chest. She had the past few months to accept that Finnick hated her, he hadn't taken that back, it took some time, but she grew around it. The news had come from her, their relationship would always have that stain. Still though, he was going to be mad she hadn't given him more warning about his father. Finnick was observant, emotional, smart, which gave him the perfect tools to say mean things when he was angry. Mags had to prepare for that. She hated feeling like she was lying to him, that she was keeping things from him, “Your father is here,” she blurted out. She must have looked guilty or upset because Finnicks face twisted up. His look was somewhere between betrayal and horror. “You said you wouldn't tell him,” he said. Finnicks whole body tensed like he was preparing for a fight. Mags shook her head, “I didn't,” she spoke quietly, “But youre his baby, Finnick. He knows something is wrong, and he knows you're hiding something.” The anger had not subsided in Finnicks face, there was a light of fury in his eyes that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Well he’s about to be really disappointed.” Finnick held onto his rage for the thirty seconds it took for him to go from his room and down to the kitchen. The moment he saw his father, it was like someone had poked a hole in what held his emotions. He looked scared, a little sad, and a lot younger. Mags would have never believed he was angry just moments ago by the way he sat down across the table, how he sat with his feet up on the chair and his chin by his knees. Mags sat on a further chair, allowing the two of them to have their own space. “Hi kiddo,” Marlin started. He had that look again. Mags had seen it in plenty of victor's parents' faces before. The terror of almost losing your child, how they'd convince themselves their kid had died and they were living in some strange coping fantasy. Until they saw their kid again and were reassured that it was real. Finnick was real. It took everything in Marlin not to pull Finnick into a hug, to have a hand on his boy at all times. He scared Finnick once, right after he had gotten home from the arena. For that, Finnick gave him an accidental but brutal broken nose. Now, hugs came with a warning. “Hi,” Finnick said back. Marlin sighed, “I’m not going to keep beating around the bush. I know you like it here with Ms. Flanagan.” “Mags,” both she and Finnick corrected him at the same time. Finnick glanced over with a quick smile, something about it relieved a weight on her chest. “Mags,” he corrected “I’m not a victor,” he said to his son, “no one in my life had been in the arena until you.” Finnick looked half ashamed at that. “You're going through things I will never understand, things I could not comprehend no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I watch or think, I know I wont get it.” Mags knew Finnick wasn't listening, not really. In the past few weeks, she'd gotten to recognize what he looked like when he detached from his body. How he pulls a sheet to set between him and the world around him. He was listening enough to look sad, to know his father was feeling hurt and desperate. But not enough to let the full weight of the words hit him, he wasn’t going to respond. “But I want to be there for you Finn. In every way I can. I want you to talk to me, even if it's not about everything. There's nothing you could say that would make me love you less. I won’t be ashamed of you-” “You don't know that.” There was no bite to his voice, Finnick was quiet and completely sure of himself. Marlin blanched, “Of course I do,” he whispered. Finnick shook his head, he looked out towards the window, always trying to see the ocean. “You don’t get it.” Marlin breathed, “Okay,” another breath, “Okay, you're right. I don't get it.” He paused, rubbing at his beard, it had been awhile since he trimmed it. “But youre not letting me try.” “You’re fine dad, I get it,” Finally Finnick sounded like a teenager, not a miserable shell of a person. Finnick softened, looking down at the table. “I do appreciate you trying,” he whispered, “I like seeing you, it's just hard.” Marlin softened too, “I’m sure.” “I like going to dinner. Seeing you and Harper, and I’m sorry I don't do it as often.” “Don’t be sorry,” Marlin outstretched his hand, expecting Finnick to take it. Mags swallowed a lump in her throat, she eyed Finnick carefully. Finnick was unaware of her looking at him, his eyes fixated on his fathers outstretched hand. “We just miss you.” Finnick blinked, and tears filled his eyes. Mags almost panicked, did Marlin know how much Finnick cried these days? Did he know what to expect? Had he seen his son break down before? “The last few weeks have been bad,” Finnick whispered, his voice wet with tears and spit. Mag’s stomach clenched, she really didn't think he was going to say anything. She was glad she was here then, glad Marlin asked. This wouldn't go over easily. Marlin kept his hand outstretched, “I’m sure.” “Really bad,” Finnicks voice broke, a tear finally fell down his face. He was still staring at his fathers hand, he made no move to take it. “I-” his jaw trembled. Mags waited for the dam to break, for Finnick to start talking. For him to even mutter a confession and say nothing else. She waited for Finnick to open up. She waited. And waited. It hit her slowly, that he wasn't going to say anything else. He couldn't do it. He was too worried about his fathers heart, fragile as it was. He would not tear the man down, telling him his child still wasn't safe. Mags couldn't call it mature or selfish, she couldn't call it anything. Finnick evened his breathing, not daring to speak until he knew he was calm. “I’ll be there for dinner tomorrow.” Finnick said, his voice stronger now. He had finished whatever debate was going on in his head. Marlin curled his hand away from Finnick. It wasn't the breakthrough he wanted, but it was enough to make him smile. “Okay kiddo, I’ll see you then.” Finnick walked his father to the door, he pulled away from a hug but let Marlin tussle his hair. There were near silent ‘I love you’s’ and Marlin was gone. Mags sat at the table, leaving Finnick to decide if he wanted to talk or not. Finnick stood with his head pressed against the door, his hand still on the knob, for a long time. He sat and breathed with his eyes closed until he had better control of his nerves. He let go of the door handle, but did not pull his head away. “Mags?” Finnick whispered. If she hadn't been watching him so closely, she wouldn’t have heard his voice. He wasn't on the verge of crying again, but his voice sounded broken. He didn’t move from the door. As quick as she was able, Mags went to him. Finnick only looked up when she was at his shoulder, standing just out of reach, not sure if she should touch him. Finnick made the decision for her. He shifted to rest his head on her shoulder, his face hidden by her neck. If he kept growing at this rate, it would only be a matter of months before he was too tall to do this comfortably. Mags closed her eyes. She was careful to remember not to touch his lower back. She placed one hand in between his shoulders and one in his hair. Finnicks arms were slack at his sides, he was taking long breaths to keep himself from shaking. Mags could feel how his brows were furrowed together on her collarbone. “Mags,” he said again, he was unable to hug her back. Either from fear of touch or the exhaustion of his emotional state. He leaned into her further, her hands sat heavy but still on his back and neck. Just inbetween too much and not enough. “Finnick,” she said back to him. Finnick clenched his fists so hard his knuckles were white, so hard there would be crescent shaped indents on his palms for day. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Mags shook her head, “Nonsense dear.” Finnick was quiet, shifting like he was trying to get his bones to settle comfortably in his body. He fidgeted and started to tremble, but he didn't pull away, so Mags continued to hold him. “I-” his voice broke, “I said I hated you. When you told me.” Mags didn't dare respond with her voice, she was worried if she tried, she was going to burst into tears. She nodded against the crown of his head and closed her eyes. It didn't matter if Finnick hated her, she loved him. “I’m sorry,” it came out like a whine, “I’m sorry- I’m sorry-” Finnicks hands reached up and held onto her back. He was shaking his head, Mags could feel hot tears pour down his eyes and wet her skin. “I don't hate you.” Mags took a deep breath, determined now not to cry. She ran her fingers through his hair, how long did he have to grow it out before they cut it again? She exaggerated her breath, giving him something to follow. She swayed them, following the rhythm of a boat out on the water. “It's okay,” she said once Finnick had given up apologizing and could only weep onto her. “It’s okay Finnick, I forgive you.” That made Finnick tremble harder, he shook his head. “Stop saying that,” he was begging her. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, she frowned, “I mean it.” “I shouldn't have said I hated you-” he hiccuped, “I don't hate you. I love you. I’m sorry- I love you- I don’t hate you- I don’t-” “I love you too,” Mags shushed him, she kissed his cheek. Finnick leaned back into her, and she held him until he stopped crying. Finnick was to go to the capitol for the victory tour of Augustus Braun. After that, he would go to the Capitol for every year's games and their respective tours until he was deemed ‘undesirable.” A least twice a year, they were going to drag him back and let however many people have him for however long they wanted. It could be more often, depending on how badly they wanted him. Finnick regressed with the news. Any attempts to be happy or normal faded as each day went by. It left Finnick as a shell of himself, angry, sad, tired. Again, Mags asked if he wanted her to go. She’d be there to mentor when the games were going, so she would be for him then, but it was the only time of year she went to the Capitol. Finnick told her he could go alone for the victory tour, she should be here in Four for it anyway, he said. He stopped crying so much. His sadness was tangible, it pooled around him, it clung to his skin. But he didnt cry, he wasn't sleeping enough to spend his energy on crying. Yelling though, was a different story. Finnick found a way to turn every conversation they had into a fight. He didn't dare say he hated her again, but he kept getting close. Finnick didn't get to indulge in recovery, he didn't have the time to get over what happened to him. Because it was going to happen again. And again. And again and again and again. He couldn't try to process it, knowing it was going to happen again. So Finnick was quiet. Quiet, drowning in sadness, only surfacing to lash out. It got worse with each day. Mags couldn't stop it from happening, she could only watch. It reminded her of the arena, of the past decades she had spent sitting and watching hundreds of dying kids. How she watched life leave their eyes. She was watching Finnick now, watching him get more miserable and anxious, unable to do a thing. Any progress he made in washing himself, sleeping in his bed, changing his clothes, went away. At the very least, he still went out onto the water. Nothing would keep him land locked for long, so Finnick went out and spent long hours at sea. Even as the months grew colder and colder. Even when he'd come home with blue lips, shivering to the bone. The ocean kept him alive. It was a surprisingly warm day, what would probably be the last warm day of the season. Finnick was getting ready to go out. He double checked his pockets, his netting, his supplies. “Take something to eat,” Mags said to him, she was twisting fish hooks together and gathering the pile in a box. She had gotten good at making them over years, they were high quality, and people trusted her work. On occasion, when she went to the market, she'd take a box of them and give out handfuls to those who needed them. Finnick paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked at her, and tilted his head, he was thinking about something, she just couldn't tell what. “Mags?” he asked. She looked up. “Will you come with me today?” Mags blinked, she was at the kitchen table, surrounded by her wires and hooks. She didn't even have shoes on, her hair was pulled back only enough to get the strands out of her eyes. “Go fishing?” Finnick nodded, “I said you should go with me sometime.” It took Mags a moment to remember the time he was talking about, it was before all of this. Months ago now. She could hardly recall the conversation he was talking about. She looked him up and down, trying to figure out how serious he was being. Finnick seemed plenty serious, just staring at her. Well then, today, she would go fishing. Mags didn't do much to help him get the boat out onto the water. Finnick was a blur of movement, the company was apparently a great motivator for him. Mags was bundled up, she felt the cold in the air earlier than most due to her age. So she sat on the deck, watching as Finnick worked the ropes, the mast, the sails. He looked more like himself than he had in days. Being outside and working up a sweat, no wonder he went out so often. He was much happier here. The bay just out of Victor's Village was empty most days. On busy weekends or right before quotas were due, a few ships would row in only for peak hours. Today though, was an empty day. Just before they lost sight of the shore, Finnick dropped the anchor so they could sit and float. He leaned heavy on the side of the boat, looking back to district Four. “Do you think there's land outside of Panem?” His face was red from the excursion. “There has to be.” He glanced at her, and it was impossible to describe the look on his face. Finnick shook his head and went back to staring at the water. An hour passed, Mags stood up, she walked around a few times and settled at Finnicks side. It got warmer as the day went on, Mags shed a few layers, placing a cardigan over Finnick's shoulders. He leaned into her side. “I have fifty-five days until I have to go back,” he said over the sound of the waves. “That's less than two months.” His voice was detached, emotionless. Mags tensed, she kept her eyes on the gentle waves of the ocean, “You don't have to go back.” Finnick’s jaw set, his hands tightened over the sleeves of his shirt. “Yes I do.” “No, you don’t. I’d forgive you, if you couldn't go again.” Finnick hadn't talked about the specifics of what happened, not even a little. Even after all his break downs, all his fits of yelling and crying, his nightmares when he'd wake Mags up to pet his hair. Finnick hadn't talked about what it had actually been like, what was done to him. Finnick stepped back, he was glaring at her, “Don’t say that,” he breathed, his voice weaker than the anger on his face, “Please.” Mags had told him that a thousand times by now, she always dropped it after he said no. Today, she felt stronger, it had been months since she was out on the ocean. “Why? Why don't you want me to say that?” Finnick was appalled by the question, his anger twisted in his face and it looked like he was genuinely trying to size her up. His lip curled, Mags braced for him to start yelling. Then, it seeped out of his body. Finnick looked around, lost, his eyes ended up at the floor. He shifted from side to side, he seemed almost embarrassed. “Would you really forgive me?” Finnick asked. Part of Mags felt relief, the other, felt a squeeze in her chest. “I would. So would your father.” Finnick looked up at her, there was an intensity in his eyes. The same one he had in the arena. A fierce, determined look, like he could tear this boat apart and put it back together. “You’d forgive me?” Mags swallowed, “Yes Finnick, I’d forgive you.” It wasn't anger in his eyes, more like a deep swirling storm. An intensity mixed with disbelief, he was testing her. “You’d forgive me,” he started, his voice dripping with venom, “If I said no, and they dragged my father outside. Right across the street from you and they shot him in the head,” Finnick pressed two fingers to his skull, his voice was quiet, just a whisper. “You’d forgive me,” he continued, “If his blood splattered everywhere and for months after, you’d find red stains everytime the sand shifted?” Mags blinked, her vision blurred. Her throat had closed up, “I would.” That made Finnick angier, he took a step forward. “What about my sister? She's fourteen Mags, what if you had to listen to her screaming before she died?” He spoke at his normal volume, “What if they made my dad watch before they killed him too?” Mags nodded, she didn't step back even as Finnick got closer. She wasn't scared of him. “I would,” it was taking all of her not to cry. “What about the district? What if I kept saying no? If it wasn't just my family, but every family you have ever met? If they punished Four, raised taxes, increased patrol. Would you forgive me then?” “Yes.” Mags said. Finnick almost collapsed, his face dropped, he shook his head, “That's selfish,” he told her. Mags shrugged, she had too much life behind her to worry about the little selfish things. Sometimes, being selfish, keeping the things she wanted, it kept her going. Finnick turned away. Mags set a hand on his arm, “Finnick, dear, I’ve forgiven you already.” Finnick laughed, he shook his head, “I know. I wish you wouldn't.” “Why not?” Finnick looked up, “Because I believe you,” he said simply. “Because- when you say that- it makes it feel like an option. Like-” he swallowed, “Everytime I think about it I-” he pinched the skin on his wrist, “I hate thinking about it. I don't want to do it again Mags. And I think about you and my dad and-” Finnicks eyes were on the floor, Mags could feel him shake under her palm. “I don't want to go again, I don't know if I can do it. And when I think that you two wouldn't be mad- I think about saying no-” panic set in his eyes, he shook his head rapidly, he looked up. Finnick latched onto Mag's arms, “I couldn't lose you all,” he begged. His breathing picked up, “I can't lose you.” Mags bit her tongue to reassure him, her instinct was to hold him, tell him that she wasn't going anywhere. But that would go against everything else she had said, it wouldn't be the truth. The truth was that Finnick had to pick between being chipped away, bit by bit, for what could be the next twenty years; or the life of everyone he had ever loved. “I’m sorry,” Mags said. Finnicks fingernails were digging into her skin, even through the few layers she had on. It was starting to hurt. “I’m sorry,” she reached up to loosely hold Finnicks wrists and pry them off of her. She held his limp hands in her own. “I don’t want to go,” he cried, a wild look still on his face, “I can’t- I don’t want to go. But if I think about it- and I think you and dad won’t be mad- I keep almost convincing myself it’s okay if I don’t do it.” Mag's words failed her. What the hell was she supposed to tell him? That it was okay? It wasn’t. No matter what she said. Mags was quiet. “I don’t want anyone to die,” Finnick’s voice squeaked, too quiet and too young to be any stronger. “So will you stop saying that? Please? Stop saying you’ll forgive me?” Mags took Finnick in, all sixteen years of him, all almost six feet of him. They were going to cut his hair again in two months because he kept letting it grow. She thought about the half burned candles that littered every room of the house. About his weary, worried father. About his bright eyed little sister. About Finnick, her sad, tragic, beautiful Finnick. “I’ll stop,” she promised, “I wont say that anymore.” Finnick closed his eyes, and breathed.