a/n — … it's been, what, three to four months? ^^" i apologise for the shockingly late update; but i abandoned FFN a while back and this is about the first time in months that i've actually sat down with the intent of writing fanfiction. of course, in my break from FFN i've completely forgotten the details of this entire story, an AU so warped that i'm going to have to reread it in order to remember.

still, thank-you to all reviewers who bothered to review in my absence! (: you guys are amazing, really. also, i got an anonymous review telling me to take my story down because it was being reported? :/ i really don't know whether what i've written is offensive in any way, so if it is, could you please talk to me in person and explain why so i can change it? :D since there's been no action from the FFN admins regarding my story i've left it up, but really, if you have an issue with it, please do tell me. (:

^ also not sure if this is a warning that i should change the rating or

this chapter is dedicated to Diana / Pennilee, my beautiful twinny.

V.

水能载舟，亦能覆舟。

the water sustains me without even trying
the water can't drown me
I'm done with my dying

Finnick Odair doesn't know how he managed to stay sane.

In between the sexual slavery and the mentoring and the Games, he ought to have gone mad, much like the other victors, or at least turned to some kind of comfort. Meth, maybe. Alcohol, perhaps, then he could have been a drunkard like Haymitch.

He's seen the others struggling without their relief — and it pains him, especially knowing what they've gone through, particularly when it's Katniss. When he watches her writhing and crying out in her sleep he feels as though his heart is being ripped in two. His nightmares, on the other hand, are equally vivid, equally sensory — but his mind remains intact, and he stays sane.

The other victors put up all forms of tough fronts — they laugh about their Games, they shrug it off with a toss of their heads. But even those who ended up there voluntarily — Brutus and Enobaria, Gloss and Cashmere — he knows that they, too, are haunted by the ghosts of those they've killed. He sees Enobaria snorting lines, Cashmere taking pills, Brutus shoving hypodermic needles under his flesh, Gloss throwing back shots like drinking water — but in public they appear calm and collected and that's what counts. After all, who is he to deny them their pride?

But still, after seeing everyone suffer so, he has to wonder — how did he manage it? He's not the only one who's confused by this, though. When the other victors ask him, how did you pull it off? He says, luck. When the occasional pensive Capitolite asks him, how did you manage to stay the same? He says, with my immeasurable capability. When Katniss asks him, how can you be the same Finnick from before? He says, because the old Finnick treasured some things too much to let them go.

Katniss knows what he means; she has a younger sister that she wanted to protect. It was the Capitol's fault that she ended up the way she was.

He wants to protect her from everything; he wants to protect her and love her the way he was unable to with Annie so many years ago. He doesn't want to make the same mistake twice, forsaking his chance when it came along only to mourn its passing.

Even though it seems almost implausible, Finnick Odair, too, has his regrets.

"You guys will be great," Finnick says with a wide smile at his two tributes, who look back at him expressionlessly and grunt. The girl's name is Scylla, and she's even more heavily built than the boy, whose name is Gaven. Both of them are Career tributes, having trained intensively for the Games since they were children.

"Thank you," Gaven says, his voice flat and emotionless. "Any last advice?"

"Be memorable," Finnick's fellow mentor, Coral, says with a false smile, pursing her blood-red lips as though to look seductive. "They'll love you."

Scylla nods. She and Gaven share a poisonous glower, and at that moment the lift doors part, revealing their escort, who ushers them into the elevator hurriedly. The lift doors close behind them, and Finnick exhales, moving forwards to jab the button again.

"Oh, Finnick …"

He looks back to see Coral, who has perched herself on a nearby table and crossed her legs so that her extremely short, extremely tight red dress rides upwards, barely concealing the crimson, lacy number she's wearing underneath. "Now that we're alone, how about you and I — ?" Her silence is suggestive enough, as is the action of her beckoning with a single red fingernail.

"Excuse me," Finnick says stiffly. "I'm going to visit an acquaintance." The lift arrives once more, and he steps forwards, jabbing the button '12' followed by 'close' without sparing a pouting Coral even a second glance. Sometimes, he doesn't understand Coral. Does she enjoy it?

The lift doors slide open with a soft 'ding', leaving Finnick almost nose-to-nose with a surprised Effie Trinket, who jerks backwards. She's holding both tributes by their wrists in her pincer-like grasp, and while Rory is wincing and casting worried glances at his arm, Madge seems unaffected. They are both dressed in flames once more, Madge in a bright-red dress reminiscent of Coral's that glimmers as the fabric rumples, like she's being consumed in glittering tongues of flame. Rory is in a suit made of the same fabric, but he is less striking with his hunched pose and slight demeanour. Madge holds her head high, and seems arrogant, brave, and fearless — ever-so-much like pre-Games Katniss.

Finnick takes a step back as well, flashing his trademark smile at Effie. "Taking the children down, Effie?"

Effie blinks; almost as though blinded. "Y-yes." She lifts the arms of the tributes as though she needed to make it any more obvious; Rory cringes again.

Finnick almost pities the kid. "Well, good luck to both of you."

"Thank you," squeaks Rory, while Madge manages a confident, "thank you." Finnick pauses, once more he is taken aback by how much she's like how Katniss was — until the Hunger Games reduced her to a shivering, hallucinating shell. Recently she'd grown less dependent on him and more collected — and she'd always been a completely different person in the Capitol. Something about the place sobers all of them.

He manages a nod, and steps past her, onto the landing. Before the lift doors close he hesitates again and turns around, hoping to catch a last glimpse of her before she disappears entirely — something about her unnerves him. But the lift is long gone by then.

Finnick shakes his head; what is wrong with me? He turns on his heel and heads down the hallway, towards Katniss' room.

Before he can reach it, a door next to him swings open, and Haymitch staggers out, drunk as usual. On seeing Finnick, all he says is, "she knows." Finnick nods again, and with a snort Haymitch straightens — or attempts to — and brushes off the lapels of his suit, before resuming his inebriated swagger down the corridor towards the lift.

Soon Finnick is standing before Katniss' room, feeling himself soften just by knowing that she's nearby. He leans forward and knocks, almost gingerly, on the polished wood. "Come in," her voice calls from inside, and he pushes the door open.

Katniss is seated on her bed, in a pale yellow dress that gives off the impression of glowing candlelight, with her hands clasped on her lap and her eyes staring forwards into empty space. Finnick hovers in the doorway, unsure of what to say. Her grey eyes drift across the room and finally settle on him, as though registering his presence. "Finnick."

"Katniss," he answers, his legs propelling him forwards as though they had a life of their own, seating himself next to her on the bed. He takes her hands in his, cupping them between his palms. Her fingers are icy cold, and she looks down at them in surprise, as if just realizing that they existed.

"It's the interviews," she says. "Real or not real?"

She's relapsed, he thinks instantly. She constantly has these periods of mental-uncertainty in between her saner moments, which usually only last for a day or two before her mind crumbles once more, affected by the poison in her body as well as the traumatic experiences she's had. "Real."

"My tributes are going to lose," Katniss counters. "Real or not real?"

"Not real. Katniss, you have to stop this." She can't lose herself now, not then, not at that moment when her tributes needed her. "You can't relapse now. Rory needs you. Madge needs you."

"And it's going to be because of me. Real or not real?"

"Not real." He grips her hands so tightly his knuckles go white, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Please, Katniss. Think of Rory. Think of Madge. Think of Prim. She's counting on you to bring them back, so please, Katniss."

Something in her eyes flickers, and her willpower crumbles. She leans her head against his shoulder, and he lets her as she cries, as she releases all her frustration and her fear into her tears. "I can't let them lose," she says in between gasps.

Finnick nods. "And you won't."

It takes a while for her to calm down, but soon enough she's composed and ready to head down. Katniss stands, and the fabric of her dress ripples, giving off a gentle, subtle glow. He shakes his head in utter amazement. "Your designer is outstanding. This — and your tributes — and the opening ceremony —"

"Cinna," she says, and a small, almost incredulous smile spreads across her face. "He's something else. I can't tell you how lucky we are to have him. He designed me a mockingjay," she explains, as though that is supposed to make sense. Finnick nods anyway.

"Alright, it's almost time," Katniss adds with a glance at the clock on her dresser. "We have to go." She starts to move towards the door, but something glimmers in Finnick's peripheral vision.

There's a tinkling sound behind Katniss, and she starts to turn around, confused. "Finnick —?" But she feels his calloused hands on her bare shoulders, holding her where she is, and in the next moment, the cold metal of something descending onto her collarbone. She looks down and sees a gold mockingjay attached to a gold chain resting in the hollow of her throat, and swivels around — somewhere behind Finnick, the pile of gold jewellery in her ashtray has been rummaged through.

Her eyes return to him, even more confused now. In response, he taps two fingers under his chin. "Head high."

-;-

He's always been fascinated by Annie Cresta. She's a year under him in school, and everyone says she's mad. Barking mad, his best friend Blake used to say. She talks to herself all the time. Seems to think she can see things that aren't there. If I were you, I'd stay clear out of her way.

He hasn't told anyone, but he used to have a sister. A retarded, underdeveloped husk of a sister who shriveled away and died when she was seven. But he'd adored her, caring for her as though she was his child, always giving her the best portions of food and ensuring that she had enough to eat. If he wouldn't work for his parents, he'd work for Lethe. She was his oblivion. When she died he near went mad. His family fell apart, and he swore that her death would not be the end of him. He'd bring his family together again because that's what she would have wanted.

Annie Cresta reminds him of Lethe; the way she traces pictures and words onto the air and laughs to herself. Lethe is in her curly brown hair and pale skin and even in her laughter, the shrill giggles that escape her lips as she entertains herself. The only thing different about them is their eyes; Annie's are a clear blue while Lethe's had been more green. But every time Finnick looks at Annie, he sees Lethe.

He watches her at school; she keeps to herself and sits in a corner — or is it no one would sit or speak to her? — and mumbles to the walls as the other children frolick and play during their lunchtime. She always has her lunch packed from home in a paper bag; she's one of those families that always have enough to eat, with finery and wealthy to drape themselves in. What a waste, Blake used to say. What a waste that it would be wasted on Annie Cresta.

Finnick doesn't agree; he likes the way that Annie dresses — she always wears long-sleeved white dresses with grey or maroon tunics over it, the hems ending in artfully stitched ruffles at her wrists and her bony knees. Her shoes are always polished and shining, with large golden buckles that defines her as, not one of us. The only reason she goes to their school and not the expensive one in the city is because they wouldn't have her.

She isn't always talking to herself, though. There are times, Finnick notices, that she breaks away from her seeming stupors to observe the other children as they play, sometimes even standing up as though to join them. But before she can move towards them, she always sits back down, turns to the walls once more, and recommences her madness. He doesn't understand this; her behavior confuses him. Lethe never had sober periods; she was always lost to the world.

He wants to go up to her, to speak to her, but he's afraid of what the other children would see him as; but the opportunity presents itself when he loses a dare and has to go up to talk to Annie. The other children don't despise her; he realises in that moment. They're afraid of her. His palms tingling, he walks up to her. She's in her usual corner, mumbling as always. Taking a deep breath, he taps her on the shoulder.

Annie whirls around, her blue eyes narrowing. "What?" she asks, more aggressively than he would ever have pictured her capable of. He shies away from her, confused by her sudden anger. "Um, I was just —"

Then her expression softens. "Hello. Would you like to play with me and my friends?" Annie gestures towards the walls, and he takes another step back. "We're playing a game. It's really fun."

For the first time in his life, he is afraid. Afraid of Annie Cresta. "Um, it's okay —"

"Alright," she says, and Finnick is confused once more, before realizing that she's not even speaking to him, but to her imaginary friends. "Where were we? Have we reached the journey across the hills yet?"

Finnick takes another step back as she continues babbling, already unaware of his presence. Then he turns and runs.

He doesn't speak to Annie Cresta again after that incident, in which he determined that she was really, really mad and not in the way that Lethe was perpetually dreamy, but in a way that she saw things they didn't and that frightened him. She remains at the back of his mind, and now he's become somewhat of a hero amongst the other children, having spoken to Annie Cresta and survived. He would usually feel bad about this, but he's kind of proud of himself, in a sick, twisted way.

Of course, everything changes when she's Reaped.

Something inside of him snaps when he sees her, shivering and pale, in all the glory of her miserable twelve years, standing there on the stage beside their district escort, not quite registering what's going on. Still there's a hint of fear in her eyes, and he suspects — but of course that thought is crushed when a laugh bubbles through her lips. The entire district remains silent throughout the Reaping.

She just stands there, her gray tunic barely covering the ruffled hem of her white skirt, in turn barely covering her knobby knees, her clothes clinging to her fragile, slender form, her blue eyes wide, lips parted in a smile. She continues to smile as the boy is Reaped, and he's eighteen and a Career, towering over her and making her tininess even more pronounced.

He should have volunteered. Finnick knows that. He has regretted it for every waking moment of his life and continues to regret it; because only he could have taken care of her in the arena. Staring at her onstage, he just wants to take her in his arms, hold her, and protect her from the horrors to come. He wants to cradle her as he had his sister's corpse. He wants to coddle her as though she is a child, to ensure that she never has to suffer again.

But he can't and he never will.

She dies on her first day in the arena.

A District 1 boy beheads her with a cleaver a mere twenty seconds after the gong has sounded. Her death is unexpectedly wounding; it's as though he feels the blow too, because he spends the next minute clutching at his own throat with his parents' eyes on him. He thinks of Lethe, and how disappointed she would be that he hadn't protected Annie.

If any consolation, her death was quick. Possibly painless. Not that she would have felt it anyway.

-;-

Madge is beautiful, Katniss thinks to herself. The seventeen-year-old girl is beautiful in her own way, bold and brash, like Johanna, she thinks. The way she speaks, the way she moves, right down to her mannerisms, they're almost exactly like Johanna. In Johanna she finds strength, and in Madge she does too.

Of course, she's not one to speak, being an emotionally fragile, halfway-gone lunatic with no idea what's real and what's not. But with Johanna on one side and Finnick on her other, she feels stronger than she has ever felt before. Johanna's hand is on her knee, almost reassuring, and Finnick's fingers are woven through hers, concealed from the cameras, of course. She can feel the bodily heat and the strength they give her radiating out from both of them, and she loves them both more than ever, in different ways.

Onstage, Madge speaks with Caesar Flickerman. By right Katniss should be feeling anxious, but the Madge onstage is a whole different Madge. She's good-humoured, charming, graceful, and strong, as opposed to the sulky, stubborn Madge Katniss has encountered.

"You shouldn't worry about her," Finnick murmurs, at the same time that Johanna says, "she's a natural." And Katniss basks in their warmth and their strength and agrees that yes, maybe Madge does stand a chance.

But then Rory goes onstage, and Katniss' chest constricts — in the same moment that Finnick's grip on her fingers tightens, and the pressure from Johanna's palm grows greater. It's as though they're not even worried about their own tributes, just hers — but she knows that they're not even worried for her tributes, they're worried for her. Rory starts out tentatively, softly, but Caesar helps him along, chatting with him as though they're old acquaintances, and slowly Rory loosens up. Their conversation is mildly interesting, and anyone paying attention would remember who Rory is, but it isn't enough.

Finnick and Johanna escort her to her floor. Just as the lift is about to reach her apartment, the two of them exchange a look, and Johanna voices aloud, "you know, they can't both win." Finnick frowns at her words as though she's said something wrong, and Katniss can already see the unspoken argument that is surely oncoming. Johanna's words strike a dull blow in her heart, as though she's already been conscious of that fact since long ago.

Surely enough, even before the doors close she can hear Finnick's raised voice, speaking heatedly to Johanna, but she cannot decipher his words. Taking a deep breath, she braces herself, and then turns towards the living room.

Madge and Rory are both standing in the middle of the living room; Madge is pacing agitatedly. Haymitch is passed out on the sofa, while Effie is seated on the other end, saying something like, "the caviar at today's dinner was too salty!" very loudly. Cinna is partially blended into the background, leaning against a cement column with his gold-lined eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly.

The moment Katniss enters, Madge turns to her. "So?" she demands, as though awaiting a verdict on her performance. Keep calm, Katniss reminds herself, but the words slip back into her head. They can't both win. No. I must keep calm.

"You were good," she says honestly. "Memorable, even. Striking. That and your training score should get you a couple of sponsors."

"And me?" Rory asks in a small voice.

Katniss hesitates, and all of them see it. "You were sweet. But not something people would remember. I'm sorry, Rory." The words kill her, over and over and over again. They can't both win. And at this rate, it's looking as though out of the two, Madge is the more likely candidate to survive.

After she dismisses both of them and Effie excuses herself, she slumps next to the unconscious Haymitch on the couch, who reveals him to be not-so-unconscious when he says, out of the corner of his mouth, "what's bothering you, sweetheart?"

"They can't both win, Haymitch," Katniss whispers. She buries her face in her hands. "But they both have to. Oh, I don't know. I owe Madge, and Rory — well, you know." They can't both win. "But I promised Prim."

"And that, sweetheart, is where we come in," says Haymitch in his usual lazy drawl.

Katniss pauses. "What?"

"Oh, you know," Haymitch says, with a wave of his hand that Katniss understands to mean, 'the rebellion'. "Us. We're working something out. You can rest assured that everything will be alright." He sounds as though he's mocking her, but she's used to it by now. With a final leering grin, he stands up and stumbles in the direction of his room.

Katniss sighs, but she knows she has to trust that he knows what he's doing. After all, he did get her out of the Games four years ago. She stands, and is about to follow Haymitch, but a voice calls out from behind her. "We have a plan."

She freezes, every fiber in her being tense. Cinna! She'd forgotten about his presence in the room entirely; he was that silent. But — what did he mean? What is he saying? Is he a part of the rebellion too? Why is everyone around her — except her — seemingly involved in this thing before she'd even known about it?

When she finally has the sense to turn around and question him, Cinna is gone.

There is someone knocking on her door. The knocking gets louder and louder the longer she ignores it, and finally when the incessant knocking becomes too much for her to bear, Katniss extracts herself from the many layers of blankets she's suffocated herself under and calls out, "who is it?"

The door flies open and it's Finnick, he's holding something in his hand. Katniss starts to think; Rory and Madge are going into the arena today, when it strikes her, oh no, Finnick's angry. Has she done something to anger him? But no, all his anger is concentrated on whatever's in his hand, and as he draws nearer she recognizes the glossy pages to be a bundle of Capitol magazines. Finnick throws the tabloids down on her bed at her feet; the magazines fan out and reveal their assorted different titles, but the cover picture is all the same.

With a start Katniss recognizes herself, sitting alongside Finnick in her yellow dress from the previous night; she sees Johanna's shoulder and arm but the rest of her is cropped out. There is a large circle outlining the silhouette of hers and Finnick's intertwined hands in the darkness.

"It's everywhere," Finnick says; his voice is agitated. "Everywhere."

It's everywhere, his words ring out in her mind. Everywhere. Everywhere. Finally she finds her voice; "what are they trying to do?"

"The reporters? Make out like there's something going on between us," Finnick says tightly. His expression constricts further. "The rebels? Make a stand." He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't like what they're doing, but I can't dispute it."

"The rebels?"

"You can count on the fact that they gave the picture to the press. This has Beetee's work written all over it — if he didn't want them to have the image, he would have deleted it from all their records. But no, this is obviously something else. This was someone else's idea." Finnick's angry pacing comes to a halt; he takes her hands in his and stares her in the eye, his blue-green eyes ever-sincere. "It's okay if they use me, but I don't want them to use you."

"It's okay if they use me too," Katniss argues. "I want to help. I can't always be helpless; I have to do something. Finnick, please. This is something else. I'm not the frail little girl that came out of the arena any more."

Oh, his eyes say, but how I wish you were.

-;-

The next day, Finnick comes to visit her in District 12. She's surprised as ever to see him, but she's extremely happy, and launches herself at him the moment he presents himself on her doorstep. Johanna is less receptive, but gifts him with a smile nonetheless.

"Odair."

"Johanna," he says with a smile, and moves forwards to hug her, but she maneuvers her way out of his embrace skillfully.

"You might want to know that I despise human contact."

To his credit, Finnick doesn't falter, just nods knowingly. "Of course." He turns to Katniss now, and bows deeply. "My lady, may I request your company for one day?" His smile is genuine, not like the fake ones he puts up for his women in the Capitol. Katniss feels an involuntary smile spread across his own face.

"You came here all the way for me?"

"Of course," he says again, and now he sounds slightly confused. "Who else would it be for?" Then she hugs him once more and breathes in his scent of mint and the sea and exhales into his embrace, because he loves her more than anything and she never wants to let him go.

"I tried watching it," she tells him as they're splayed out against the grass in the Meadow, their picnic abandoned a few metres away, and her head on his lap. He's twirling her hair between his fingers absent-mindedly, half-forming complex knots that he collapses with the tug of a lock.

"Watching what?"

"My Hunger Games."

His fingers pause, half-tangled in her hair. "And?"

"And nothing," she sighs. "I wasn't ready." Katniss tilts her head to one side, tearing her eyes from the azure zenith to face the distant district, her eyes skipping across the familiar landmarks like the Seam, the Hob, and the Justice Building. Then, even further off, Victors' Village.

Finnick hesitates before commencing his fiddling with her hair. "You shouldn't watch it. I don't want you to ever relive that."

"But, Finnick, I need to know what's real," she argues.

"Don't watch it."

"Finnick …"

"Don't, and that's final." His expression is tight when she turns to look back at him, and she can almost see the gears ticking in his head — ways to communicate with Johanna, to get her to dispose of the tapes, how to ensure that they never ended up in her hands again — but that only strengthens her resolve. Even if it takes lying to Finnick, she'll watch those tapes. She will know what's real and what's not. She'll prove to him that she's stronger than she actually is.

-;-

"What is the meaning of this?"

Haymitch is obviously nursing a killer hangover, muses Katniss. He's drinking coffee for a change, and has added so much cream and sugar she wouldn't be surprised if he were diabetic, and is groaning while attempting to butter his toast. Even his pathetic appearance doesn't cause Finnick's anger to diminish a notch.

The older man raises his eyes disinterestedly to the tabloids Finnick is brandishing. "Yes, what about it?"

"You know what about it." Finnick's teeth are gritted, his stance aggressive. "What do you people think you're doing? What are you trying to achieve? Wasn't this a part of our deal, that you could use me but not her?" I was mentioned? Katniss thinks, somewhat dimly. Finnick is speaking so rapidly that she can barely keep up.

"Oh, Finnick, you speak of us as though we're your enemies." Haymitch grumbles under his breath and reaches for the jam on the other end of the table. An Avox rushes forwards and fetches it for him before retreating to a corner. Finnick steps back, shocked, having just registered their presence, and his glower fades before he dismisses them. The female Avoxes rush away, blushing furiously.

When he turns to face Haymitch, his anger is back. The first time Katniss saw him angry she'd been frightened, terrified even. She wonders, privately, how Haymitch can be so immune to his glare, to his furious eyes.

"You behave as though you are."

"Finnick," Haymitch says, slowly. "Don't you see? This is for your benefit. The story — whether it's real or not, it doesn't even matter. The people will lap it up either way. And you can even go public about it. Sure, the press will be bad, and sure, Katniss might be affected, but do you see? President Snow will no longer have a bargaining chip. He thought we wanted to keep you two covered up, so we just had to do the exact opposite. It'll take a while before he gathers his troops once more." A familiar smirk finds its way onto his lips as he turns to Katniss, waving his butterknife in the air. "Can't you see, sweetheart? You're free for now."

Finnick absorbs his words. Katniss is stunned into silence, trying to grasp what he'd just said. I'm free? From the sexual slavery? For now? She turns to look at Finnick, whose expression softens on seeing that she's looking.

"Finnick?"

"He's right," Finnick says, deflated. He nods at Haymitch. "I trust your judgement. For now. So long it ensures that she never has to do … that again." He evidently doesn't want to say it out loud, as doesn't she. "But what next? How do we move?"

"This is part of the plan," Haymitch says, digging his knife into the jam pot.

Finnick's fingers curl into fists once more. "The plan that you won't trust me with."

"That's right," answers Haymitch, calmly spreading a dollop of strawberry jam across his buttered toast. When Finnick doesn't respond, he sighs. "We have our reasons. Part of it is because you're so desperate to protect her."

"So the plan involves me?" Katniss steps forward. "If so, I want to know."

"Katniss," says Finnick.

"No," Haymitch's eyes are on her, brooding and disconcerting. He sinks his teeth into his toast with a loud crunch, and both of them wait as he chews and swallows. "She's right. She has a right to know, especially since she plays such an important part."

"What about me?" Finnick demands, angry again. "Don't I deserve to know? I've done so much for all of you, oughtn't you just trust me?"

Haymitch takes even longer to reply this time, chewing his way through his first slice of toast and then starting work on another. Not one of them breathes a word while they wait, even though Finnick is visibly restraining himself. Finally, Haymitch sighs, placing his toast back onto his plate. "Fine. I'll bring you to the next meeting."

Finnick exhales, but Katniss doesn't feel any more relieved, if anything, she's even more anxious. "When?"

"Tonight," Haymitch says. His eyes lock on hers as she speaks. "It starts at midnight."

a/n — the first part of the chapter was more finnick-centric than anything i've ever written before! (: i hope you enjoyed that little insight into my headcanon-finnick's past, and i hope you enjoyed this chapter, shitty as it was! :P please review, and try not to favourite or alert without reviewing? i know it's a lot to ask, since i suck at updating, but more reviews would encourage me to write more. ^^ please? :D