Finnick Odair was drowning.
Not literally, of course. He was known for his combat skills in water, after all. But every time he closed his eyes, he could see the shores of the arena around him. He could feel the life being choked out of him.
Finnick's last kill had been his hardest. It was hand-to-hand combat against the tribute from One. Quinn had almost gotten the better of him, forcing his head under the waves and choking him, his hands squeezing harder and harder around Finnick's neck.
It was only when Finnick kicked his already injured leg, raised up his trident, and brought it down on the boy's neck that he was declared the winner of the 65th Hunger Games.
He could still feel the struggle of the tribute beneath him. Finnick saw the split second of fear and anguish right before he died.
He remembered the moment of silence just after the final canon. It was barely three seconds before he was announced the winner. He slumped back into the water and touched his throat, the feel of the dead tribute's hands lingering.
Now, six months after he was sent home, he still woke up gasping for breath. The covers were pressing him down, and it felt like he was a hostage all over again. More often than not, he threw them off and fell to the floor.
He always looked to the window. He looked at the bright moon that was so far away.
He would take deep breaths, trying to keep his breath as steady and quiet as possible.
He knew Mags always wanted him to come to her, but he never could. Mags had already done so much for him. The last thing he wanted was to pull her from her sleep night after night.
Instead, he looked out at the moon. It was full that night. In order to keep it as dark as possible in the arena, the game makers elected not to put a moon in his arena. He hated every second of that darkness, and in the last few months, the moon had become his solace.
He was not in the arena.
He was not in the arena.
He was not in the arena.
It was the same thing he repeated every night until his brain grew so tired he was able to crawl back into bed. Sometimes, however, Mags would walk in the next morning to see him leaning up against his window, fast asleep.
That night, however, he chose to stare at the moon just a little longer than he usually would. His victory tour would start in the morning. He would be poked and prodded and displayed like a trophy for the world to cheer for and admire.
To them, he won a game. To him, he would forever remember every kill he made during his time in the arena. His hands were soaked in blood, and that was something that was never going to change.
What he didn't know was that sitting in the Capitol, looking out her bedroom window up at the very same moon was Amara White.
Unlike him, she wasn't awoken from nightmares. No, she rarely got nightmares.
Amara was scribbling in her song journal, desperate to appease the manager she would be meeting in the morning. Like Finnick, Amara was given to the grasps of frame very early. She was the daughter of Edwin and Astrid White. Amara was never quite sure how they managed to acquire their wealth, but she was treated as a princess by the Capitol because of it.
She was loved by everyone she met.
The Capitol agreed with her. She was born into a life of wealth and prestige, but with it came responsibilities. The moment the world discovered Amara could sing, she was tossed on the stage with a microphone.
She loved it.
She loved everything about music and being on stage.
She loved hearing the crowds of people yelling her name. She loved signing autographs, and waking up in the middle of the night with a line ready to be written.
When Amara was writing under the moon, everything was good. It meant that when she saw her parents the next morning, her hands would be covered in ink and there would be a sleepy smile on her face.
Amara White, even at age fourteen, was a Capitol elite. People paid thousands to see her perform. An event wasn't an event until Amara White was there. She was the most sought-after guest at any gathering, and to have her present was the only thing a Capitol citizen needed to do to secure their place in elite society.
Amara tended to be selective-- or rather her manager was-- about the parties she attended. She had a reputation to uphold, after all. Besides, there was nothing better than seeing the host's face when she walked in.
One woman actually fainted when Amara walked into her house-party.
But it was Celeste she wanted to please the most. Keeping her manager happy was everything to the young Amara White, which is why she was up so late at night coming through her journal of songs.
As always, her hands were stained with ink by the time she fell asleep at the window.
Amara White and Finnick Odair had very little in common, but that night, they both fell asleep under the same moon.
**
"Ladies and gentlemen, the victor of the 65th Hunger Games: Finnick Odair!"
It was the same phrase that was heard in every district. Most of the districts politely applauded in sympathy, but the career districts was always the loudest. Winning the Hunger Games was an honor, and they treated it as such.
In their eyes, he was the victor. He worked and trained hard, and he must have been better than even their tributes, which made him a sight to behold.
It was strange feeling, being watched, but when he looked out at the school of kids, it was clear they were whispering to one another about his games.
"He caught them in his net and stabbed them."
"He killed eight of the other tributes."
"He killed our tributes. What did they do wrong?"
Nothing. They did nothing wrong. There's only one winner.
He could hear the whispers as he smirked and waved at the crowd. All they wanted was a show. He was a career too. This was what he had been trained for, but as he stood up there, he felt entirely unprepared.
He gave his tribute speeches by memory, something that had the hearts of every family he killed. He wasn't reading off a note card.
"Know that Reilly and Red's sacrifices were not in vain," Finnick said. "It is because of these games that we are able to have peace."
The career tributes cheered in understanding.
The crowd went wild when Cashmere, the winner of the last games walked out on stage. She threw her hands up in the air and smirked at the cheering crowd. Everyone was screaming like they were at a concert and not looking up into the faces of two children forced to become killers.
When Cashmere turned and shook Finnick's hand, she gave him a sad smile that was unsees by anyone but him. She saw the dark circles under his eyes and understood completely.
No one ever wins the games.
But when she turned back to the crowd, her sympathy was gone, and was replaced with nothing but malice. She lifted his hand in the air: two victors basking in the glory of their kills.
Caesar Flickerman and the Capitol citizens who were watching from their homes were jumping in excitement.
"I love this! I love when two victors are united!" He declared, and the crowd agreed.
His experience in districts Eleven and Twelve were very different.
When he spoke in Twelve, he wanted to cower under their stares. They looked at him with pity. All they saw was the fourteen-year-old boy.
He saw as children clung to their mothers. The miners were covered in soot and grime from their day of work, but everyone joined to mourn the loss of their
When he gave the speech in Twelve, he wanted to cower under their stares. Clearly they did not agree with his notes about the games bringing peace.
He saw one girl, with two braided pigtails, hide behind her older sister, who was looking at him with disgust, as if him saying the words was him thinking the games were the best thing to ever happen to the districts.
How had he managed to offend two children?
He looked out onto the faces of the two tributes. Thankfully, he hadn't been the one to kill either of them. That was always the worst. Looking into the eyes of weeping families when he knew he was responsible for the deaths of their parents was a gut-wrenching.
When he found himself back on the train speeding toward the Capitol after giving the same speech again and again, he let his entire body relax.
He was ready for all of this to be over.
"You're doing well," Mags commented, lowering herself into the seat next to him. Finnick snorted.
"I feel like a fraud," he admitted. Mags nodded in understanding and sat next to him, watching as he picked at a loose thread on a chair.
"You will for awhile," she said. "I know reading those cards isn't easy, but you have to remember that the games aren't ever over. You will have to learn to adjust. Once you can do that--"
"That's foolish!" The loud voice of their escort, Iris, a woman who was fittingly named for her refusal to wear anything but purple. She waltzed over without a care in the world, a glass of scotch in her hand. "You are a victor. Your life is nothing but smooth sailing from here. You get to attend parties and galas and eat as much as you want. You'll even be able to come to and from the Capitol whenever you want."
Finnick didn't have the heart to tell her how entirely unappealing that was.
"Besides, what is wrong with the cards?" she added. Being apart of the Capitol, she loved the games. In her mind, they were an excellent way to show the sacrifice and repentance of the districts.
Thankfully, Finnick was spared from answering when the bring blue hair of Caesar Flickerman caught everyone's attention.
Iris immediately turned it up.
"Iris, I'm really not in the mood to watch more news reels about myself," Finnick protested, but Iris shushed him. She was obsessed with them, always hoping to catch a glimpse of herself.
But this piece was not about him. At least, not directly.
"And you heard it here first, folks," Caesar Flickerman grinned, "our very own Amara White will be attending President Snow's gala for our newly crowned Finnick Odair. If this wasn't already the party of the year, it certainly will be now."
Iris let out a shrill scream as she jumped up. She began pacing around the room, muttering about how her outfit for this party wasn't going to be good enough if Amara White was going to be there. Finnick leaned away from her.
"Do you know what this means?" She asked, turning around to look at him. "All eyes will be on you. Amara White coming to your party is everything."
Finnick paused, and glanced over at Mags. Finnick had no access to a TV before the games, and tried as hard as he could to stay away from anything Capitol related during the last six months. Mags could see the question forming in his eyes, but she only laughed.
Even Mags knew who Amara White was. Finnick had a tendency to drown Iris out, but Mags knew how completely obsessed she was with the star. Everyone was.
"You're stuck with this one," she said, and he groaned. Iris looked between the two of them, confused.
"Stuck with what?" Iris asked, and Finnick wasn't sure how to ask without blowing an eardrum.
"Who is Amara White?"