Finnick Odair's Story: Dark Secrets (The Hunger Games Fanfiction)

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

Johanna Mason:

I hate Christmas. I don't want anything to do with it. I didn't celebrate it in District 7, so why does Snow think I want to celebrate it here? Everything is so tacky and superficial, with people using it as an excuse to dress up like idiots and drink too much alcohol. I've seen Finnick at parties and he looks ridiculous. His stylists make him wear the most humiliating outfits that the Capitol seems to adore - tinsel in strategic places, sequin bodysuits, light up tuxedos.

Luckily, my stylist is pretty damn terrified of me and wouldn't dare dress me in something embarrassing. Finnick is too nice - he lets them dress him in whatever they want. I just wear red, green or gold dresses to the parties and try to avoid the glare of creepy government ministers and Snow's advisers.

In all honestly, I'm just tired. I'm f*cking exhausted. All I want to do is step out of this weird trance I'm in and go back to normal. Christmas Day will be a nice break from the stresses of living in the Capitol.

It's December 22nd, and I'm meeting Finnick for a coffee in one of our favourite bars. I arrive five minutes late, and he's already there in our private booth, away from the bustling restaurant. It's luxurious here, and the food is admittedly to die for.

When I approach, he gives me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. I hate that. It's so Capitol-esque, and I don't want to turn into one of them.

"Hey, Johanna," he says, gesturing for me to sit down. "How are you?"

"Not bad, thanks," I say with a shrug. I pick up a menu and flick through it.

He raises an eyebrow. He can see right through me.

"Well, if you must know," I say, a smirk creeping on to my face. "I just really f*cking hate Christmas."

Finnick chuckles. His laughter sounds magical as it echoes around the bar. I can't help but join in.

"I can tell," he says. "At every party, you've had the face of the f*cking turkey just before it gets slaughtered."

Rolling my eyes, I hit his arm. "F*ck off. Those parties are sh*t, admit it. Absolutely f*cking bullsh*t."

Finnick shakes his head. "Language, sweetheart," he warns. "This is the most wonderful time of the year - not the time for cursing like there's no tomorrow."

"Don't call me sweetheart," I retort. "I'm not one of your latest conquests."

For a split second, I see his eyes flicker with sadness before he puts up his mask again.

"Alright," he says. "Darling."

"F*ck off!" I snap, but only playfully. A waitress arrives to take our order, so we ask for our usual cappuccinos - but Finnick adds cinnamon and gingerbread spice to his. He makes me feel sick.

We stay in the bar for hours, chatting about nothing, chatting about life, chatting about anything. It's pitch black outside by the time we're tired enough to leave.

"I'll see you soon, yeah?" I say as we're walking outside to call a taxi.

"Of course," he says. "Are you going to Charli Overhill's party on Christmas Eve?"

"Sadly, yes," I say.

"I'll see you there, Johanna," he says firmly. "You can keep me sane."

"Whatever, fisher boy," I smile.

He pulls me in for a hug in the freezing night air. I can feel flecks of rain on my cheeks as we embrace. I breathe in his warm scent. I don't want to let go, but I do.