The Hunger Games! +fic.
Yes, I saw the movie. Yes, it ripped out my heart and jumped up and down on it with a truly vicious amount of glee. So basically, it did its job spectacularly well and I thought the entire cast was fantastic, and I will look forward to the next few movies in a way I did not look forward to the next few books (even though I did, in fact, end up reading them) because who knows, maybe I will enjoy them more as films. Plus, more Jennifer Lawrence and Josh Hutcherson being fabulous on giant screens. I approve! If I get a little more coherent about the whole thing, I will make a post about all the things I love, complete with spoilers. But until then, a few things I have written for this delightful event:
Which is still a going concern, by the by, and which is a fabulous way to watch hours of your life disappear.
Title: You're Wearing Sweatpants. It's Monday.
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Characters/Pairings: Gen-ish, with the named girl tributes all making an appearance.
Spoilers/Warnings: No and no!
Summary: Glimmer and Clove have had a pact since they were ten and gave each other their new movie star names (Glimmer because 'Sparkle' was already taken by the paper towels, and Clove because it had sounded like a sophisticated word at the time, based entirely on the existence of her mother's clove cigarettes): they were going to stay important, no matter what. For the prompt, 'girl tributes, sleepover au.'
Notes: The title is from a Mean Girls quote and is not mine, nor is The Hunger Games trilogy or anything you recognize from it.
"A sleepover?" Clove asks when Glimmer passes her an embossed invitation. "What are we going to do, play Truth or Dare? Spin The Bottle? We're not twelve."
She's going. Obviously. Glimmer and Clove have had a pact since they were ten and gave each other their new movie star names (Glimmer because 'Sparkle' was already taken by the paper towels, and Clove because it had sounded like a sophisticated word at the time, based entirely on the existence of her mother's clove cigarettes): they were going to stay important, no matter what. They've done that, mostly by being blonde and beautiful and always having someone to laugh with when everyone needs to see them laughing (it's the best way to show just how sharp their teeth are).
"Don't complain just because you'd rather be kissing me than Cato," Glimmer mocks, scanning Mr. Abernathy's second period math class from their vantage point in the back corner. "Where is Mr. Muscles, anyway?"
"You say that like it's an insult," Clove says smoothly, tapping at her phone under cover of her desk. It's probably not even necessary; Mr. Abernathy is, as is customary on a Tuesday (or a Wednesday, or a Thursday), beyond hungover. He's clearly not going to call anybody out for texting, unless it's to complain that the keyboard is too loud. "He went to pick up Starbucks, he'll be back in ten."
"Ooh, is he getting frappuccinos?" Glimmer asks, momentarily distracted.
"If you want your mid-morning caffeine fix I guess you'll have to find your own Mr. Muscles," Clove says, smirking. "Now come on, tell me now so I can resign myself: who else is coming?"
Glimmer splays the invitations out on the desk; she'd ordered them from the same place that did her father's business cards, mostly because it had been expensive and she'd been bored, but also because saying it'd been expensive and she'd been bored was the kind of social credibility money, rather paradoxically, couldn't buy.
Clove flicks through them, rolling her eyes in the requisite places.
"Katerina, really?" She demands. "And Ruth practically is twelve."
"I like her," Glimmer protests, which is sort of true. Katerina Everdeen is just unimpressed enough with the daily pageant that is Panem High, that it endears her to Glimmer in an annoying kind of way. After all, Glimmer is co-host of that pageant. Still, it's nice to know that her audience isn't composed entirely of drooling, sixteen-year-old sheep. Or maybe zombies, since they're drooling. Zombie sheep? Whatever. "And anyway, the soccer team's totally going to state this year. She's going to be somebody whether she likes it or not."
"She doesn't," Clove says. "But I accept the presence of Ms. Everdeen as a necessary cog in the machine. What in God's name are you doing inviting Ruth?"
"She's adorable," Glimmer says, shrugging. "And, like, tiny? I just feel bad for her, she always looks like she's going to get squashed. Literally. What, a girl can't have a charity invite or two?"
"Oh my god this is one of your little social experiments," Clove says, slumping back in her chair. "Fine. But next weekend we're taking a trip, just the two of us. I'm sick of this, it's like you're already doing a Sociology thesis or something. Oh, and invite Marian, at least then we'll have some vaguely intelligent conversation."
The truth is, Clove recognizes the necessity of this sort of thing just as much as Glimmer does. Maybe more. It's important to test the waters, to push at places that look as if they might crumble. They're going to be seniors next year, and how are they going to know who goes where in the yearbook, or who won't embarrass them on ASB committees, if they don't start asking the right questions now? It's just that the soul-crushing boredom of pretending to care about high school is getting a little, well. Soul-crushing. This is just four years of prep work for being in charge of something that actually matters-namely, the best college campus she can get her hands on. Pretending to care about who paid for Miranda Fitzer's mom's nose job is getting old.
+ + + + +
"So, Katerina," Clove practically purrs three days later, "you have got to tell us: what's going on with Peter, because-and correct me if I'm wrong, Glim-I was under the impression that you and Gale were a done deal."
"I mean they're both gorgeous," Glimmer says, swirling her wine in a way she's sure makes her look like a 1940s sophisticate. It makes her look like someone who's about to spill her wine. "So I just want you to know that I, personally, am in camp 'Don't Even Bother To Commit.'"
"It's none of your business what's going on with Peter," Katerina says, which is so ridiculously blunt that Clove almost laughs.
"Well, nobody's going to have a very good time if nobody's going to share," she says instead. "And I would, you know I would, but what is there to say?"
"I mean, the saga of Cato and Clove has been awfully public," Glimmer says with a predatory glint in her eye. She's ready to dig in a little, Clove can tell-the glass she's swirling isn't her first. But the weak spots Clove leaves exposed aren't the real ones anyway and they both know it. And after all, it is the right time of night for giggling about middle school indiscretions. So be it.
"I think I might've missed most of it," Ruth offers, wide-eyed and intrigued from where she's curled into the corner of the couch. She's the only one without anything to drink, but she's turned out to be hearteningly and, Clove will admit, sort of adorably, curious in spite of that.
("I, um, I don't drink," she'd said after they'd made their initial foray into the wine cellar, and before Glimmer could pull the gracious host routine and say that was fine, of course, and would she like some sparkling water?, Katerina had jumped in like some ultra-wholesome, after school special guardian angel or something, and said, "That's totally cool," setting her own glass off to one side. It turns out the presence of Ruth turns her dial all the way up to mom mode, for whatever reason.)
"We-ell," Glimmer says, "I mean, we don't have the millennia it would take to tell the whole story, but I can definitely hit the high points for you. How about this: in eighth grade Cato was ultra into Ms. Trinket, and spent, like, the entire year pining desperately for her, and then the summer afterwards he swore blind to everyone that would listen that she had asked him-"
"Oh please, I thought we were telling stories, not Cato's personal fairytales," Clove says, because no matter how blonde and built her boyfriend is-the answer to both is 'very,' obviously-there is no way in hell Ms. Trinket gave him the time of day, much less 'asked him over to clean her pool.' "Besides, he knew I'd tear out his throat if he put a finger up one of those frilly pink skirts."
"Those skirts were cute," Glimmer protests. Clove favors her with a sympathetic glance.
"Yeah, but there's rumors every year that Ms. Trinket's sleeping with a student," Katerina says, glancing over at Ruth like she's, what, going to protect her from this stuff? Please. This stuff is integral to the fabric of Panem life. This is educational. They're doing Ms. Travel-Sized a favor.
"She's not," Marian offers from where she's been listening, her red hair falling around her face. "She's sleeping with Mr. Abernathy."
"She's what?" Glimmer asks, which is one of Glimmer's problems, really. She's so eager. Now everybody in this room knows there's something she didn't already know.
"Well of course everyone suspects," Clove drawls, although she herself sure as hell hadn't. How had she missed this? "But do you have proof?"
"She lives down the block from me," Marian says with a sharp little shrug. "And I know what his car looks like. I checked the plates just to be sure. It's definitely him dropping by, and leaving at weird hours-guess he doesn't stay the night."
"Should he even be driving?" Glimmer asks, giggling. Katerina is frowning, seriously looking like she wants to cover Ruth's ears or something.
"God, I wish we could put it in the paper," Marian says with a sigh. "Just asking him for comment would get us some gems. 'Red-faced, Ms. Trinket denied everything,' 'stuttering, he refused to comment'-that's the problem with school newspapers. You're not allowed to print anything anyone's actually interested in."
"I don't think anyone should be interested in Mr. Abernathy's private life," Katerina says suddenly. "What he does behind closed doors is his business."
"Oh I forgot, he coaches the soccer team, doesn't he?" Glimmer asks. "Gosh, sorry Katerina, we were way out of line."
"You lie so much less convincingly when you're drunk," Clove says. "Maybe we should play Spin The Bottle. At least it would keep your mouth shut."
"Would not," Glimmer sing-songs.
"Well we've got to do something," Clove decides, suddenly and overwhelmingly bored. "Fuck it, let's play Truth or Dare. At least maybe someone will have to say something interesting."
So, because Clove mastered the art of ruling someone else's roost a long, long time ago, Glimmer surrenders boozy chit chat to organized boozy chit chat, and they play Truth or Dare.
There are some things that are more or less guaranteed to happen at any of Clove and Glimmer's social events. Someone, for example, is going to dare them to kiss and think they're being real geniuses to have come up with it. It takes longer when there are no boys present, but Marian takes care of it, looking stupidly pleased with herself, like she's got some crazy insight into their lives. Clove rolls her eyes and shoves their mouths together for the requisite ten seconds. The whole experience tastes overwhelmingly like alcohol, as per usual. Someone is also guaranteed to get supremely giggly and confess that their first time was in so-and-so's parents' bed and the gentleman in question forgot how to work a zipper/had disgusting rhinoceros breath/accidentally snapped her in the eye with a condom. Ruth subverts this slightly by finishing a glass of Katerina's wine, getting supremely giggly, and confessing that she's got a huge crush on Theo Meyer, who is basically the Hulk. Actually, no, scratch the qualifier: he's the Hulk.
"Ooh!" Glimmer says. "Awww, oh my god, you're so adorable. You're like a little baby deer or something. You're twitterpated!"
"Um. Thanks?" Ruth says, blushing. Even Katerina is kind of smiling, so apparently it is possible to placate her mama bear instinct.
"I could totally set you up," Clove says. "Dan's had a crush on me since forever, and he's in the defensive line too. I'll just make eyes at him until he agrees to fork over the phone number."
"That's basically your modus operandi, right?" Katerina says. "Just make eyes until...?"
"If it ain't broke," Clove says, arching an eyebrow. Honestly, Kitty Kat is getting on her nerves.
Which is probably why when Katerina asks for a dare, Clove says, "I dare you to call Peter and tell him you want-"
"Clove, that's so bad," Glimmer squeaks.
"I haven't said it yet," Clove reminds her. Glimmer leans across Marian on the couch to look Clove square in the eye, like some kind of drunk drill sergeant or something, and says, "You were going to."
"And you don't have to say it, because I'm not going to do it," Katerina says, looking like she's above it all. They're all above it all, Clove thinks, that's the fucking point. They're playing Truth or Dare, for Christ's sake.
"Seriously, loosen up," she says. "What have I ever done to you, Katerina?"
"God I'm so tired of this place," Katerina says instead of bothering to answer. "It's just playing the game, every stupid day."
"I've got news for you sweetheart," Clove says, because she really, really does (and maybe she heard something in there that sounded an awful lot like, 'I'm getting out of here,' or maybe just, 'I'm bored too'). "That doesn't stop after high school."
Katerina looks vaguely unsettled for a second, but then she just leans back, deliberately relaxed-which, someone should tell her, ruins the whole 'relaxed' vibe-and says, "Only if you know the wrong people."
"I'm letting that go," Clove says sweetly, smiling with all of her teeth, "because this is my best friend's party, and I'm here to have fun. I realize it's an unfamiliar concept for you, but take a few deep breaths and try to embrace it, hmm?"
"So!" Ruth says, bright and awkward. "Um, is it my turn? I'll take truth, please."
+ + + + +
They all drift off to sleep one by one, Glimmer sprawled sideways with her head pillowed on the arm of the couch, Ruth with her feet tucked under her and her back pressed against the side of an overstuffed armchair, and Marian looking bizarrely comfortable on the floor. Clove isn't actually sure if Katerina's awake or not until she says, "Do you know where the blankets and stuff are?"
Clove shoots her a look that, even in the dark, ought to read as, "Of course I do, do you remember where you are?" and leads the way to the linen closet by the stairs. Kitty Kat grabs two blankets (one for her, Clove reasons, and one for Ruth) and leaves Clove to decide who else deserves creature comforts. Clove knows Marian can fend for herself, but Lord knows she's useful, so in the end she grabs enough for everyone and silently distributes them around the room, nearly tripping over Katerina when the other girl kneels to spread the blanket over Ruth.
"Seriously," Clove says, because God knows she doesn't need Kitty Kat to like her, but she can't help it if she's curious, "what have I ever done to you?"
"I don't know," Katerina says, doing the ultra-honest thing again, "you're just not the kind of person I like."
"Hmm," Clove hums. "Well, I'm taking that as a compliment, Katerina. And I hate to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure it just made me like you more."
"I'll survive," Katerina says, dry as a bone, and Clove dedicates a moment of silence to exactly how useful Katerina would be if she would just grow up a little. She can complain all she wants about playing the game, but what she doesn't understand is this: when you've been playing the game for as long as Clove has, sometimes, when it really matters, you get to make the rules.
"I'm so glad to hear it," she says, and stretches out on the couch, yawning as obviously as she can manage. "Sweet dreams, Kitty Kat."
She's pretty sure she hears a splutter of indignation as she closes her eyes. It's a petty victory, but it's so worth it.
Title: I'm Not Calling You A Liar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Finnick/Annie
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers; the only warnings are those which would apply to The Hunger Games books themselves (i.e., mention of the murder of children) which, granted, are pretty weighty.
Summary: For the prompt, "Mentor!Finnick/Annie - You got the world but baby at what price? Something so strange, hard to define/ It isn't that hard boy to like you, or love you/I'd follow you down, down, down/You're unbelievable."
Notes: Title is from the Florence + The Machine song of the same name and is not mine, nor is The Hunger Games trilogy or anything you recognize from it.
The morning of her fourth reaping, Annie's father takes her out fishing, just the way he has every year since she was twelve.
She imagines telling the story to Caesar, imagines telling him about how she's been fishing from her father's boat since she was old enough to walk. Imagines telling him that every year when the sun hasn't quite crept over the horizon, her father knocks on her door and they walk down deserted streets together toward the sea, silent, content in each others' company. Imagines telling him that those precious hours on the water bring her peace. Bring her strength.
It's all nonsense, of course.
The truth is that her father takes her out onto the water so he can watch her row, tie knots, spear fish. The truth is that her father takes her out onto the water so that he can assure himself she's ready.
+ + + + +
When Annie was ten, eleven, twelve, she was small for her age. Fast, yes, but not particularly strong. She was decent with a trident, resourceful with a net, but who wasn't? Between her twelfth and thirteenth birthdays, she shot up six inches. Between her thirteenth and her fourteenth, she gained her grace, lost the remainder of her baby fat. She stopped tripping over her own feet and knocking over her mother's vases with wayward elbows.
Over dinner one night, her father says maybe she should consider volunteering next year.
The next thing he says is, "Pass the butter?"
"I've heard the Rivens are hiring a few extra tutors for Lydia," her mother says, raising an eyebrow. Annie vaguely remembers Lydia Riven being absolutely atrocious in geography lessons, but her parents won't be bothering with a geography tutor. Everyone knows that 'extra tutors' means combat training, really. Annie tries to remember anything else about Lydia: how tall she is, what color her eyes are, what her voice sounds like, what shoes she wore last Tuesday. It's strange, probably, that she can't remember a thing. She squeezes her eyes shut, shoving at the edges of her memory, her heart pounding for no good reason, for no reason at all. All she sees is a blank silhouette.
A blank silhouette who's terrible at geography, she reminds herself, and turns her sudden laugh into a cough.
"Well, what do you think, Annie?" Her mother asks. "Should we be looking for someone?"
"I'll think about it," Annie says, and excuses herself. She's going to go upstairs and find a picture of Lydia Riven. There must be one in the yearbook. Instead she goes upstairs and climbs into bed, pulls the covers up over her head, and closes her eyes.
+ + + + +
She doesn't have to volunteer, in the end.
"Annie Cresta," the escort repeats, and Annie steps forward. This morning she was a girl in a boat. She isn't quite sure what she is now, except that 'girl' probably doesn't enter into any more. But she is from District 4, and she remembers herself well enough to keep her head high and her back straight, and to smile, although she can't seem to force herself to show her teeth.
She doesn't have to volunteer, in the end. The morning of her fourth reaping, they call her name.
(When she stumbles on the stairs a hand is there to steady her, callused and warm against her elbow. She hadn't expected that for some reason. He has very blue eyes, she notes distantly, and takes her place on stage.)
+ + + + +
When her mother comes for her visit her eyes are very, very bright. She spends most of her hour reminding Annie to thank her hosts, to remember her table manners, to brush her hair 100 times every night and always eat everything on her plate.
"Oh, and that Finnick," she says. "Don't you get tangled up with him, Annie. He's much too old for you, and we all know what he gets up to."
"Of course mom," Annie says.
"Good girl," her mother says, and hugs her, presses a kiss into the top of her head. "Do us proud. And-and take care of yourself."
Her father shakes her hand, his grip a little too tight, and doesn't say anything.
+ + + + +
"So. We haven't met properly, you and I. Finnick Odair," he says on the train, holding his hand out. She glances down at it and then up at him, and thinks that there's probably an even chance he's trying to sleep with her.
"Annie Cresta," she says. "Although, I already knew who you were and I doubt you missed my name."
He smiles, sudden and startled.
"Well, no," he says. "Just observing the pleasantries. But if you'd rather set those aside…?"
"Yes please," she says, although she's not really sure she would.
"Noted," he says, and drops her hand. She hadn't realized he was still holding on.
+ + + + +
It becomes mercifully clear over the next twelve hours that Finnick Odair is not, in fact, trying to seduce her. She doesn't really have time to decide whether or not that's insulting. Instead she's busy being scrubbed raw and then made up and poured into something that resembles nothing so much as a bad mermaid costume. More parts of her are bare than aren't; there's something in her hair that she thinks is supposed to be seaweed.
When he and Mags see the pair of them-she and Lew Pool, a few years younger and scrawnier and, she has privately realized, no chance of surviving past the first day-Mags sighs and squeezes her hand.
"Not so bad," she says.
"Awful," Finnick says. "But you're pretty enough to get away with it. Would you rather do shy innocence or willful seduction?"
His eyes rake over her, analytical, almost professional. She knows what he would choose, if he had to. He did have to. She doesn't want to choose at all.
"Thank you for the advice," she says. He shrugs.
"Alright," he says, and turns to Lew. "Hopeless. Grin and bear it. We'll make up for it in training."
She feels the first real jolt of panic-of anything-as the wheels start to turn, and she turns back, frantic, to catch his eye.
Help, she mouths, mostly because she can't think of anything else.
Smile, he answers. It's a stupid answer. It's useless. It's the simplest thing in the world.
She isn't sure she can do it.
+ + + + +
"You looked awful," he says. He holds out his hand to help her from the chariot and she takes it. Instinct, maybe. She snatches it back the minute her feet are on the ground, and grabs for the robe Mags has brought.
"Well that's hardly my fault," she says, but he's already shaking his head.
"Yes it is," he says. "But if you don't want to do anything about it that's none of my business."
When they all watch the footage later that night she can see what he means, instantly, and hates herself a little for it. Him, too. She's wooden and unsmiling, her nails digging into her sides, and when the camera zooms in for a closeup of their faces her eyes are frightened.
Frightened, she thinks, and gives up on hating him altogether. He probably deserves it, but it isn't going to help.
+ + + + +
"I need help," she tells him the next morning at breakfast. Maybe she'd rather have told Mags, but Mags is in Lew's room talking him through the training center. Finnick isn't. Finnick's here.
"I know," he says. "I've been trying to give it to you."
"You haven't been trying very hard," she snaps.
"Well neither have you," he says. He's sprawled in his seat, all long, lean confidence as he butters a piece of toast. She's right back to hating him again.
"I'm ready to," she says.
"Okay," he says, and leans forward. That's it, as it turns out. It's that easy.
They spend the next four mornings planning what she'll do in the training room-ignore your pride, he tells her, and learn something you don't already know-and the evenings sparring, which she's almost certain is against the rules. The first night he says he just wants a look at her form, but the minute he sees her form he says he'd damn well better do more than look.
"Haven't you ever fought anyone before?" He asks. "Ever?"
She thinks about Lydia Riven, whose face she'd tried so hard to memorize at the funeral, who'd had tutors and training and something in her eyes that looked an awful lot like victory, right up until the moment all she'd had was a broken neck.
"No," she says.
He sighs.
"I never wanted to," she says, defensive. "I never-I never needed to. There are always plenty of volunteers, I was never going to-"
"Do me a favor," he says. "Imagine dying."
She jerks backward before she can stop herself, away from him and toward the door.
"Imagine it," he says. "It doesn't really matter how, what matters is that you'll be dead. That's pretty difficult to imagine, actually. We can start smaller: imagine never taking another drink of water. Imagine never putting your shoes on again. Imagine never saying 'hello,' or agreeing that it's nice weather we've been having lately. Imagine never rushing so you can cross the street before traffic changes. You know that little voice in your head that notices when someone has nice hair or beautiful eyes, or when someone's being an unmitigated asshole? Imagine never hearing that little voice again. Can you imagine that?"
"No," she says. She feels like her entire life is caught in her throat, sixteen years knotted up and pushing at her voice.
"Good," Finnick says. "We have four days. You're going to learn how to fight."
+ + + + +
He's not a bad teacher, though he makes her feel hopelessly clumsy more often than not. He's got an inherent grace that she's been deliberately not noticing-busy hating him-and he can't seem to help showing her up, sometimes. But he's just as generous with his praise as he is with his criticism, and by their third session every other word out of his mouth is a promise.
"You can make it out of there," he tells her when she's panting, slumped against the wall. He's just barely short of breath, which she's privately counting as a victory.
"What about Lew?" She asks, a shiver forming at the base of her spine.
There's a pause as he meets her gaze. His eyes are very blue, she thinks, and knows she's thought it before.
"He won't," Finnick says.
"Let's go again," she says, and when he moves in with a right hook she catches his fist and hits him as hard as she can, over and over again. She knows she isn't strong enough to manage it, not really, but she doesn't stop until what must be much, much later, when his arm comes up across her shoulders and he traps her hands against the wall. He's being much too gentle; she hates him again, she's almost sure.
"I'm sorry," he says.
+ + + + +
The next morning at breakfast he has a black eye and winces when he reaches for the juice, one hand going to his ribs.
"What on earth?" Mags asks, though she doesn't sound all that surprised.
"You know me," Finnick says, "always getting myself into trouble."
"Mm," Mags says. How she manages to make one syllable sound so exasperatedly, amusedly fond, Annie's sure she'll never know.
"So, private sessions today," Finnick says. "You both know what you're going to do?"
Cause trouble, Annie finds herself wanting to say. Instead she offers up something about her agility, her improved strength, her skill with a spear, and when the scores are announced that night she's earned herself an eight. She doesn't know what Lew gets, because just as Caesar's about to read it out Finnick leans over and says, loudly and right into her ear, "Did you get a chance to show them what you can do with knots?"
"I-no, what-" she says, and by the time she turns back to the screen they're announcing her score and Finnick's clapping her on the shoulder and Mags is smiling and Lew's face is bloodless, still.
"What did he get?" She demands afterward, cornering Finnick in the hall.
"I don't know," he says, and she realizes he could well be telling the truth. "Will it make you feel better, if I said it was for me? I don't want to know."
"You can't just give up on him," she insists, even though she knows-
"One less person for you to worry about," he says firmly and yes. That's what she knows.
+ + + + +
"So, what do you think for the interview?" She asks him. "Shy innocence or willful seduction?"
He actually laughs, rueful.
"Sorry about that," he says. She shrugs.
"It was good advice. I should've picked one," she says. She's curled up at one corner of the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, and he's sitting in the armchair across from her, his elbows on his knees.
"Nah," he says. "You would've looked like you were trying to be me. It wouldn't have done you any favors. You're much better at, you know. Worryingly enduring compassion. Stubborn thinly overlaid with sense. That kind of thing."
"That was a compliment wasn't it?" She asks. It was, and it's left her feeling wrong-footed when there's no time to think about why. Not a bad thing, she reminds herself.
"Of course," he says, smiling, and offers her a hand up she doesn't need. She takes it.
+ + + + +
He and Mags say goodbye to them in the lobby, where there's an escort waiting. Mags hugs her, warm and brief, and taps her lightly on the chin.
"Good luck," she says.
Finnick stands with his hands jammed into his pockets and waits.
"If you want me to talk first we're going to be here for a long time," Annie says finally.
"That might've been what I was aiming for," he admits, offering her a wry half-smile, and she's surprised when she hears her own laughter stumbling out into the air, pinched, but real.
"Well," he says. "Good luck."
"Thanks," she says, and turns to go.
"You said you were ready to try," he says suddenly, catching her wrist. She turns back to face him again. "You remember, you said that?"
He sounds-young, she thinks, and he is young, he's only nineteen. She thinks maybe there are one or two things she could apologize to him for, but she has worse things to worry about just now.
"Yes," she says.
"Well-good. Keep remembering," he says, maybe-definitely-a little desperate, and lets her go.
+ + + + +
She's sitting on the hovercraft, rubbing her thumb absentmindedly over the pulse in her wrist, when it occurs to her. It's strange, how easily it swims to the forefront of her mind. The first thing she thinks is, I've never flown before. The second thing she thinks is, I might be in love with him.
She tells herself it's probably the nerves.
Title: You Do By Choice
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Cato/Clove
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers; again, warnings for the sort of thing you find in the books themselves: mentions of violence and children killing children.
Summary: For the prompt, "Cato/Clove, drunk the night before going into the Arena."
Notes: Title is from a W. Clement Stone quote and is not mine, nor is The Hunger Games trilogy or anything you recognize from it.
"Who first?" He asks halfway through his second glass.
"Hmm?" She asks, turning away from the window. When they'd arrived here, she'd expected to feel something, to drink up the roar of the crowd and know she had arrived. But the truth, of course, is that this isn't where she's been going.
"Who first? When we get there," he says.
"Oh, I don't know," she says lazily, watching lamplight filter through the Capital brandy. It had been an unspoken agreement when Cato had casually broken the lock on the liquor cabinet-they were going to drink the good stuff. It burns a little when she swallows, but it's the kind of burn she can relish, can roll across her tongue. "The big one from 11, maybe, the one who thinks he's the strong, silent type. He'd be a fun kill."
There's a pause as she considers it; surely he'll stay for the first blood bath, surely he won't be able to resist. She'll have a knife within twenty steps, maybe even a halfway decent one, and he'll provide a practically unmissable target. She can close her eyes and picture it. The broad expanse between his shoulder blades, or perhaps his pulse, hammering away in his throat.
"Are you going to ask me?" Cato says. She laughs, and holds her glass out for a refill.
"You haven't exactly been subtle," she reminds him. "It'll be the girl from 12. The girl on fire."
She isn't sure who she's taunting, the girl or him, but he's the one who's here to sneer.
"Jealous?" He asks. "Everyone loves her you know, not just her pathetic little puppy, that moon-eyed baker. Everyone."
"Oh really?" She asks, curling her mouth upwards. She's thinking of hours spent on the mats, of hitting bullseye after bullseye long after her classmates had fallen into their beds. She's thinking of the first time she sparred with him, his arm against her throat and her knife just beneath his ribs. She's thinking of her very first tutor, lithe and white-haired, who'd told her there was only one thing she couldn't teach.
"You have it, or you don't," she'd said, her voice paper thin. "It is easier, of course, in the heat of battle. When a human being is lying on the ground in front of you, weapon knocked away, arm broken, ribs fractured, eyes wide open, when a human being is terrified of you and of what comes after you, when a human being is begging you not to rob them of the only thing they have left, what will you do? What will you feel?"
"I don't know," Clove had said, staring straight ahead.
"If you are weak, you will feel their fear," she had said. "You will feel their fear and you will hesitate, and you will be forgotten. A dab of ink, maybe, in the history books. A nothing, nothing to your family and nothing to your district and nothing to the world. They will all stop watching."
"What if I'm strong?" Clove had asked, gritting her teeth.
"If you are strong, Clove," the tutor had said, "you will feel hunger."
She is thinking of instinct. She is thinking of hunger.
"Oh really?" She says. "Even you, Cato? Do you love her, do you love the girl on fire?"
He spits out a laugh and finishes his glass, sneering across the rim of it.
"Jealous?" He asks again.
"Not at all," she says, and finishes hers too because this is a competition, has always been a competition. "Pitying, perhaps. Poor, poor Cato, in love with the girl from District 12. Would you like to marry a miner, Cato? Your destiny is an awfully dusty one, but-"
"When I kill her," he says, his voice low enough that it's almost a growl, "she won't even have the time to scream."
"How will you do it, then?" She asks, because she is a strategist. It's in her blood.
"It doesn't matter," he says, shrugging, "as long as I get to watch the light go out."
She thinks again about his arm against her throat, bearing down against her windpipe, poised to crush the life from her. She thinks again of her knife, nipping delicately at the fabric of his shirt, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. She thinks of his hands around her wrists, holding her against the locker room wall, his face, teeth bared, buried in her neck. It wasn't so different, and it was. She's never made up her mind, and this is a bad time to try.
"What about when it's just us?" She asks. It'll be the two of them left, in the end. She knows that.
"I haven't decided how I'll do that either," he says, his shrug just as easy. He isn't looking at her this time, though. She's looking at him, watching his breath as it ebbs and flows. If she concentrates she can almost feel his pulse beating beneath her thumb, can spread her fingers across the tender spot where shoulder meets neck. It's all in the wrist, really, driving the blade home. Collarbone, she thinks. She's always liked his collarbone.
"Nor have I," she says, and stands, leaning over him to set her glass down on the table. She bites at his neck on the way back, almost absentmindedly. It's short and sharp, nothing that will leave a mark, except in her mind's eye. She closes her eyes as his hands settle against her lower back, pulling her down, and she can see it, angry and red, a pinpoint target.
"You know, I always liked you," he murmurs into her ear, barely out of breath.
What a strange thing to say, she thinks. She runs her hands under his shirt and across his ribs, meeting old scars she's known for years, sparing extra attention for the ones she put there. She opens her mouth to gasp and finds herself saying, "I've always liked you, too."
She wonders if it's true.
(She thinks, in a moment of ill-timed honesty, that it probably is.)
Which is still a going concern, by the by, and which is a fabulous way to watch hours of your life disappear.
Title: You're Wearing Sweatpants. It's Monday.
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Characters/Pairings: Gen-ish, with the named girl tributes all making an appearance.
Spoilers/Warnings: No and no!
Summary: Glimmer and Clove have had a pact since they were ten and gave each other their new movie star names (Glimmer because 'Sparkle' was already taken by the paper towels, and Clove because it had sounded like a sophisticated word at the time, based entirely on the existence of her mother's clove cigarettes): they were going to stay important, no matter what. For the prompt, 'girl tributes, sleepover au.'
Notes: The title is from a Mean Girls quote and is not mine, nor is The Hunger Games trilogy or anything you recognize from it.
"A sleepover?" Clove asks when Glimmer passes her an embossed invitation. "What are we going to do, play Truth or Dare? Spin The Bottle? We're not twelve."
She's going. Obviously. Glimmer and Clove have had a pact since they were ten and gave each other their new movie star names (Glimmer because 'Sparkle' was already taken by the paper towels, and Clove because it had sounded like a sophisticated word at the time, based entirely on the existence of her mother's clove cigarettes): they were going to stay important, no matter what. They've done that, mostly by being blonde and beautiful and always having someone to laugh with when everyone needs to see them laughing (it's the best way to show just how sharp their teeth are).
"Don't complain just because you'd rather be kissing me than Cato," Glimmer mocks, scanning Mr. Abernathy's second period math class from their vantage point in the back corner. "Where is Mr. Muscles, anyway?"
"You say that like it's an insult," Clove says smoothly, tapping at her phone under cover of her desk. It's probably not even necessary; Mr. Abernathy is, as is customary on a Tuesday (or a Wednesday, or a Thursday), beyond hungover. He's clearly not going to call anybody out for texting, unless it's to complain that the keyboard is too loud. "He went to pick up Starbucks, he'll be back in ten."
"Ooh, is he getting frappuccinos?" Glimmer asks, momentarily distracted.
"If you want your mid-morning caffeine fix I guess you'll have to find your own Mr. Muscles," Clove says, smirking. "Now come on, tell me now so I can resign myself: who else is coming?"
Glimmer splays the invitations out on the desk; she'd ordered them from the same place that did her father's business cards, mostly because it had been expensive and she'd been bored, but also because saying it'd been expensive and she'd been bored was the kind of social credibility money, rather paradoxically, couldn't buy.
Clove flicks through them, rolling her eyes in the requisite places.
"Katerina, really?" She demands. "And Ruth practically is twelve."
"I like her," Glimmer protests, which is sort of true. Katerina Everdeen is just unimpressed enough with the daily pageant that is Panem High, that it endears her to Glimmer in an annoying kind of way. After all, Glimmer is co-host of that pageant. Still, it's nice to know that her audience isn't composed entirely of drooling, sixteen-year-old sheep. Or maybe zombies, since they're drooling. Zombie sheep? Whatever. "And anyway, the soccer team's totally going to state this year. She's going to be somebody whether she likes it or not."
"She doesn't," Clove says. "But I accept the presence of Ms. Everdeen as a necessary cog in the machine. What in God's name are you doing inviting Ruth?"
"She's adorable," Glimmer says, shrugging. "And, like, tiny? I just feel bad for her, she always looks like she's going to get squashed. Literally. What, a girl can't have a charity invite or two?"
"Oh my god this is one of your little social experiments," Clove says, slumping back in her chair. "Fine. But next weekend we're taking a trip, just the two of us. I'm sick of this, it's like you're already doing a Sociology thesis or something. Oh, and invite Marian, at least then we'll have some vaguely intelligent conversation."
The truth is, Clove recognizes the necessity of this sort of thing just as much as Glimmer does. Maybe more. It's important to test the waters, to push at places that look as if they might crumble. They're going to be seniors next year, and how are they going to know who goes where in the yearbook, or who won't embarrass them on ASB committees, if they don't start asking the right questions now? It's just that the soul-crushing boredom of pretending to care about high school is getting a little, well. Soul-crushing. This is just four years of prep work for being in charge of something that actually matters-namely, the best college campus she can get her hands on. Pretending to care about who paid for Miranda Fitzer's mom's nose job is getting old.
+ + + + +
"So, Katerina," Clove practically purrs three days later, "you have got to tell us: what's going on with Peter, because-and correct me if I'm wrong, Glim-I was under the impression that you and Gale were a done deal."
"I mean they're both gorgeous," Glimmer says, swirling her wine in a way she's sure makes her look like a 1940s sophisticate. It makes her look like someone who's about to spill her wine. "So I just want you to know that I, personally, am in camp 'Don't Even Bother To Commit.'"
"It's none of your business what's going on with Peter," Katerina says, which is so ridiculously blunt that Clove almost laughs.
"Well, nobody's going to have a very good time if nobody's going to share," she says instead. "And I would, you know I would, but what is there to say?"
"I mean, the saga of Cato and Clove has been awfully public," Glimmer says with a predatory glint in her eye. She's ready to dig in a little, Clove can tell-the glass she's swirling isn't her first. But the weak spots Clove leaves exposed aren't the real ones anyway and they both know it. And after all, it is the right time of night for giggling about middle school indiscretions. So be it.
"I think I might've missed most of it," Ruth offers, wide-eyed and intrigued from where she's curled into the corner of the couch. She's the only one without anything to drink, but she's turned out to be hearteningly and, Clove will admit, sort of adorably, curious in spite of that.
("I, um, I don't drink," she'd said after they'd made their initial foray into the wine cellar, and before Glimmer could pull the gracious host routine and say that was fine, of course, and would she like some sparkling water?, Katerina had jumped in like some ultra-wholesome, after school special guardian angel or something, and said, "That's totally cool," setting her own glass off to one side. It turns out the presence of Ruth turns her dial all the way up to mom mode, for whatever reason.)
"We-ell," Glimmer says, "I mean, we don't have the millennia it would take to tell the whole story, but I can definitely hit the high points for you. How about this: in eighth grade Cato was ultra into Ms. Trinket, and spent, like, the entire year pining desperately for her, and then the summer afterwards he swore blind to everyone that would listen that she had asked him-"
"Oh please, I thought we were telling stories, not Cato's personal fairytales," Clove says, because no matter how blonde and built her boyfriend is-the answer to both is 'very,' obviously-there is no way in hell Ms. Trinket gave him the time of day, much less 'asked him over to clean her pool.' "Besides, he knew I'd tear out his throat if he put a finger up one of those frilly pink skirts."
"Those skirts were cute," Glimmer protests. Clove favors her with a sympathetic glance.
"Yeah, but there's rumors every year that Ms. Trinket's sleeping with a student," Katerina says, glancing over at Ruth like she's, what, going to protect her from this stuff? Please. This stuff is integral to the fabric of Panem life. This is educational. They're doing Ms. Travel-Sized a favor.
"She's not," Marian offers from where she's been listening, her red hair falling around her face. "She's sleeping with Mr. Abernathy."
"She's what?" Glimmer asks, which is one of Glimmer's problems, really. She's so eager. Now everybody in this room knows there's something she didn't already know.
"Well of course everyone suspects," Clove drawls, although she herself sure as hell hadn't. How had she missed this? "But do you have proof?"
"She lives down the block from me," Marian says with a sharp little shrug. "And I know what his car looks like. I checked the plates just to be sure. It's definitely him dropping by, and leaving at weird hours-guess he doesn't stay the night."
"Should he even be driving?" Glimmer asks, giggling. Katerina is frowning, seriously looking like she wants to cover Ruth's ears or something.
"God, I wish we could put it in the paper," Marian says with a sigh. "Just asking him for comment would get us some gems. 'Red-faced, Ms. Trinket denied everything,' 'stuttering, he refused to comment'-that's the problem with school newspapers. You're not allowed to print anything anyone's actually interested in."
"I don't think anyone should be interested in Mr. Abernathy's private life," Katerina says suddenly. "What he does behind closed doors is his business."
"Oh I forgot, he coaches the soccer team, doesn't he?" Glimmer asks. "Gosh, sorry Katerina, we were way out of line."
"You lie so much less convincingly when you're drunk," Clove says. "Maybe we should play Spin The Bottle. At least it would keep your mouth shut."
"Would not," Glimmer sing-songs.
"Well we've got to do something," Clove decides, suddenly and overwhelmingly bored. "Fuck it, let's play Truth or Dare. At least maybe someone will have to say something interesting."
So, because Clove mastered the art of ruling someone else's roost a long, long time ago, Glimmer surrenders boozy chit chat to organized boozy chit chat, and they play Truth or Dare.
There are some things that are more or less guaranteed to happen at any of Clove and Glimmer's social events. Someone, for example, is going to dare them to kiss and think they're being real geniuses to have come up with it. It takes longer when there are no boys present, but Marian takes care of it, looking stupidly pleased with herself, like she's got some crazy insight into their lives. Clove rolls her eyes and shoves their mouths together for the requisite ten seconds. The whole experience tastes overwhelmingly like alcohol, as per usual. Someone is also guaranteed to get supremely giggly and confess that their first time was in so-and-so's parents' bed and the gentleman in question forgot how to work a zipper/had disgusting rhinoceros breath/accidentally snapped her in the eye with a condom. Ruth subverts this slightly by finishing a glass of Katerina's wine, getting supremely giggly, and confessing that she's got a huge crush on Theo Meyer, who is basically the Hulk. Actually, no, scratch the qualifier: he's the Hulk.
"Ooh!" Glimmer says. "Awww, oh my god, you're so adorable. You're like a little baby deer or something. You're twitterpated!"
"Um. Thanks?" Ruth says, blushing. Even Katerina is kind of smiling, so apparently it is possible to placate her mama bear instinct.
"I could totally set you up," Clove says. "Dan's had a crush on me since forever, and he's in the defensive line too. I'll just make eyes at him until he agrees to fork over the phone number."
"That's basically your modus operandi, right?" Katerina says. "Just make eyes until...?"
"If it ain't broke," Clove says, arching an eyebrow. Honestly, Kitty Kat is getting on her nerves.
Which is probably why when Katerina asks for a dare, Clove says, "I dare you to call Peter and tell him you want-"
"Clove, that's so bad," Glimmer squeaks.
"I haven't said it yet," Clove reminds her. Glimmer leans across Marian on the couch to look Clove square in the eye, like some kind of drunk drill sergeant or something, and says, "You were going to."
"And you don't have to say it, because I'm not going to do it," Katerina says, looking like she's above it all. They're all above it all, Clove thinks, that's the fucking point. They're playing Truth or Dare, for Christ's sake.
"Seriously, loosen up," she says. "What have I ever done to you, Katerina?"
"God I'm so tired of this place," Katerina says instead of bothering to answer. "It's just playing the game, every stupid day."
"I've got news for you sweetheart," Clove says, because she really, really does (and maybe she heard something in there that sounded an awful lot like, 'I'm getting out of here,' or maybe just, 'I'm bored too'). "That doesn't stop after high school."
Katerina looks vaguely unsettled for a second, but then she just leans back, deliberately relaxed-which, someone should tell her, ruins the whole 'relaxed' vibe-and says, "Only if you know the wrong people."
"I'm letting that go," Clove says sweetly, smiling with all of her teeth, "because this is my best friend's party, and I'm here to have fun. I realize it's an unfamiliar concept for you, but take a few deep breaths and try to embrace it, hmm?"
"So!" Ruth says, bright and awkward. "Um, is it my turn? I'll take truth, please."
+ + + + +
They all drift off to sleep one by one, Glimmer sprawled sideways with her head pillowed on the arm of the couch, Ruth with her feet tucked under her and her back pressed against the side of an overstuffed armchair, and Marian looking bizarrely comfortable on the floor. Clove isn't actually sure if Katerina's awake or not until she says, "Do you know where the blankets and stuff are?"
Clove shoots her a look that, even in the dark, ought to read as, "Of course I do, do you remember where you are?" and leads the way to the linen closet by the stairs. Kitty Kat grabs two blankets (one for her, Clove reasons, and one for Ruth) and leaves Clove to decide who else deserves creature comforts. Clove knows Marian can fend for herself, but Lord knows she's useful, so in the end she grabs enough for everyone and silently distributes them around the room, nearly tripping over Katerina when the other girl kneels to spread the blanket over Ruth.
"Seriously," Clove says, because God knows she doesn't need Kitty Kat to like her, but she can't help it if she's curious, "what have I ever done to you?"
"I don't know," Katerina says, doing the ultra-honest thing again, "you're just not the kind of person I like."
"Hmm," Clove hums. "Well, I'm taking that as a compliment, Katerina. And I hate to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure it just made me like you more."
"I'll survive," Katerina says, dry as a bone, and Clove dedicates a moment of silence to exactly how useful Katerina would be if she would just grow up a little. She can complain all she wants about playing the game, but what she doesn't understand is this: when you've been playing the game for as long as Clove has, sometimes, when it really matters, you get to make the rules.
"I'm so glad to hear it," she says, and stretches out on the couch, yawning as obviously as she can manage. "Sweet dreams, Kitty Kat."
She's pretty sure she hears a splutter of indignation as she closes her eyes. It's a petty victory, but it's so worth it.
Title: I'm Not Calling You A Liar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Finnick/Annie
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers; the only warnings are those which would apply to The Hunger Games books themselves (i.e., mention of the murder of children) which, granted, are pretty weighty.
Summary: For the prompt, "Mentor!Finnick/Annie - You got the world but baby at what price? Something so strange, hard to define/ It isn't that hard boy to like you, or love you/I'd follow you down, down, down/You're unbelievable."
Notes: Title is from the Florence + The Machine song of the same name and is not mine, nor is The Hunger Games trilogy or anything you recognize from it.
The morning of her fourth reaping, Annie's father takes her out fishing, just the way he has every year since she was twelve.
She imagines telling the story to Caesar, imagines telling him about how she's been fishing from her father's boat since she was old enough to walk. Imagines telling him that every year when the sun hasn't quite crept over the horizon, her father knocks on her door and they walk down deserted streets together toward the sea, silent, content in each others' company. Imagines telling him that those precious hours on the water bring her peace. Bring her strength.
It's all nonsense, of course.
The truth is that her father takes her out onto the water so he can watch her row, tie knots, spear fish. The truth is that her father takes her out onto the water so that he can assure himself she's ready.
+ + + + +
When Annie was ten, eleven, twelve, she was small for her age. Fast, yes, but not particularly strong. She was decent with a trident, resourceful with a net, but who wasn't? Between her twelfth and thirteenth birthdays, she shot up six inches. Between her thirteenth and her fourteenth, she gained her grace, lost the remainder of her baby fat. She stopped tripping over her own feet and knocking over her mother's vases with wayward elbows.
Over dinner one night, her father says maybe she should consider volunteering next year.
The next thing he says is, "Pass the butter?"
"I've heard the Rivens are hiring a few extra tutors for Lydia," her mother says, raising an eyebrow. Annie vaguely remembers Lydia Riven being absolutely atrocious in geography lessons, but her parents won't be bothering with a geography tutor. Everyone knows that 'extra tutors' means combat training, really. Annie tries to remember anything else about Lydia: how tall she is, what color her eyes are, what her voice sounds like, what shoes she wore last Tuesday. It's strange, probably, that she can't remember a thing. She squeezes her eyes shut, shoving at the edges of her memory, her heart pounding for no good reason, for no reason at all. All she sees is a blank silhouette.
A blank silhouette who's terrible at geography, she reminds herself, and turns her sudden laugh into a cough.
"Well, what do you think, Annie?" Her mother asks. "Should we be looking for someone?"
"I'll think about it," Annie says, and excuses herself. She's going to go upstairs and find a picture of Lydia Riven. There must be one in the yearbook. Instead she goes upstairs and climbs into bed, pulls the covers up over her head, and closes her eyes.
+ + + + +
She doesn't have to volunteer, in the end.
"Annie Cresta," the escort repeats, and Annie steps forward. This morning she was a girl in a boat. She isn't quite sure what she is now, except that 'girl' probably doesn't enter into any more. But she is from District 4, and she remembers herself well enough to keep her head high and her back straight, and to smile, although she can't seem to force herself to show her teeth.
She doesn't have to volunteer, in the end. The morning of her fourth reaping, they call her name.
(When she stumbles on the stairs a hand is there to steady her, callused and warm against her elbow. She hadn't expected that for some reason. He has very blue eyes, she notes distantly, and takes her place on stage.)
+ + + + +
When her mother comes for her visit her eyes are very, very bright. She spends most of her hour reminding Annie to thank her hosts, to remember her table manners, to brush her hair 100 times every night and always eat everything on her plate.
"Oh, and that Finnick," she says. "Don't you get tangled up with him, Annie. He's much too old for you, and we all know what he gets up to."
"Of course mom," Annie says.
"Good girl," her mother says, and hugs her, presses a kiss into the top of her head. "Do us proud. And-and take care of yourself."
Her father shakes her hand, his grip a little too tight, and doesn't say anything.
+ + + + +
"So. We haven't met properly, you and I. Finnick Odair," he says on the train, holding his hand out. She glances down at it and then up at him, and thinks that there's probably an even chance he's trying to sleep with her.
"Annie Cresta," she says. "Although, I already knew who you were and I doubt you missed my name."
He smiles, sudden and startled.
"Well, no," he says. "Just observing the pleasantries. But if you'd rather set those aside…?"
"Yes please," she says, although she's not really sure she would.
"Noted," he says, and drops her hand. She hadn't realized he was still holding on.
+ + + + +
It becomes mercifully clear over the next twelve hours that Finnick Odair is not, in fact, trying to seduce her. She doesn't really have time to decide whether or not that's insulting. Instead she's busy being scrubbed raw and then made up and poured into something that resembles nothing so much as a bad mermaid costume. More parts of her are bare than aren't; there's something in her hair that she thinks is supposed to be seaweed.
When he and Mags see the pair of them-she and Lew Pool, a few years younger and scrawnier and, she has privately realized, no chance of surviving past the first day-Mags sighs and squeezes her hand.
"Not so bad," she says.
"Awful," Finnick says. "But you're pretty enough to get away with it. Would you rather do shy innocence or willful seduction?"
His eyes rake over her, analytical, almost professional. She knows what he would choose, if he had to. He did have to. She doesn't want to choose at all.
"Thank you for the advice," she says. He shrugs.
"Alright," he says, and turns to Lew. "Hopeless. Grin and bear it. We'll make up for it in training."
She feels the first real jolt of panic-of anything-as the wheels start to turn, and she turns back, frantic, to catch his eye.
Help, she mouths, mostly because she can't think of anything else.
Smile, he answers. It's a stupid answer. It's useless. It's the simplest thing in the world.
She isn't sure she can do it.
+ + + + +
"You looked awful," he says. He holds out his hand to help her from the chariot and she takes it. Instinct, maybe. She snatches it back the minute her feet are on the ground, and grabs for the robe Mags has brought.
"Well that's hardly my fault," she says, but he's already shaking his head.
"Yes it is," he says. "But if you don't want to do anything about it that's none of my business."
When they all watch the footage later that night she can see what he means, instantly, and hates herself a little for it. Him, too. She's wooden and unsmiling, her nails digging into her sides, and when the camera zooms in for a closeup of their faces her eyes are frightened.
Frightened, she thinks, and gives up on hating him altogether. He probably deserves it, but it isn't going to help.
+ + + + +
"I need help," she tells him the next morning at breakfast. Maybe she'd rather have told Mags, but Mags is in Lew's room talking him through the training center. Finnick isn't. Finnick's here.
"I know," he says. "I've been trying to give it to you."
"You haven't been trying very hard," she snaps.
"Well neither have you," he says. He's sprawled in his seat, all long, lean confidence as he butters a piece of toast. She's right back to hating him again.
"I'm ready to," she says.
"Okay," he says, and leans forward. That's it, as it turns out. It's that easy.
They spend the next four mornings planning what she'll do in the training room-ignore your pride, he tells her, and learn something you don't already know-and the evenings sparring, which she's almost certain is against the rules. The first night he says he just wants a look at her form, but the minute he sees her form he says he'd damn well better do more than look.
"Haven't you ever fought anyone before?" He asks. "Ever?"
She thinks about Lydia Riven, whose face she'd tried so hard to memorize at the funeral, who'd had tutors and training and something in her eyes that looked an awful lot like victory, right up until the moment all she'd had was a broken neck.
"No," she says.
He sighs.
"I never wanted to," she says, defensive. "I never-I never needed to. There are always plenty of volunteers, I was never going to-"
"Do me a favor," he says. "Imagine dying."
She jerks backward before she can stop herself, away from him and toward the door.
"Imagine it," he says. "It doesn't really matter how, what matters is that you'll be dead. That's pretty difficult to imagine, actually. We can start smaller: imagine never taking another drink of water. Imagine never putting your shoes on again. Imagine never saying 'hello,' or agreeing that it's nice weather we've been having lately. Imagine never rushing so you can cross the street before traffic changes. You know that little voice in your head that notices when someone has nice hair or beautiful eyes, or when someone's being an unmitigated asshole? Imagine never hearing that little voice again. Can you imagine that?"
"No," she says. She feels like her entire life is caught in her throat, sixteen years knotted up and pushing at her voice.
"Good," Finnick says. "We have four days. You're going to learn how to fight."
+ + + + +
He's not a bad teacher, though he makes her feel hopelessly clumsy more often than not. He's got an inherent grace that she's been deliberately not noticing-busy hating him-and he can't seem to help showing her up, sometimes. But he's just as generous with his praise as he is with his criticism, and by their third session every other word out of his mouth is a promise.
"You can make it out of there," he tells her when she's panting, slumped against the wall. He's just barely short of breath, which she's privately counting as a victory.
"What about Lew?" She asks, a shiver forming at the base of her spine.
There's a pause as he meets her gaze. His eyes are very blue, she thinks, and knows she's thought it before.
"He won't," Finnick says.
"Let's go again," she says, and when he moves in with a right hook she catches his fist and hits him as hard as she can, over and over again. She knows she isn't strong enough to manage it, not really, but she doesn't stop until what must be much, much later, when his arm comes up across her shoulders and he traps her hands against the wall. He's being much too gentle; she hates him again, she's almost sure.
"I'm sorry," he says.
+ + + + +
The next morning at breakfast he has a black eye and winces when he reaches for the juice, one hand going to his ribs.
"What on earth?" Mags asks, though she doesn't sound all that surprised.
"You know me," Finnick says, "always getting myself into trouble."
"Mm," Mags says. How she manages to make one syllable sound so exasperatedly, amusedly fond, Annie's sure she'll never know.
"So, private sessions today," Finnick says. "You both know what you're going to do?"
Cause trouble, Annie finds herself wanting to say. Instead she offers up something about her agility, her improved strength, her skill with a spear, and when the scores are announced that night she's earned herself an eight. She doesn't know what Lew gets, because just as Caesar's about to read it out Finnick leans over and says, loudly and right into her ear, "Did you get a chance to show them what you can do with knots?"
"I-no, what-" she says, and by the time she turns back to the screen they're announcing her score and Finnick's clapping her on the shoulder and Mags is smiling and Lew's face is bloodless, still.
"What did he get?" She demands afterward, cornering Finnick in the hall.
"I don't know," he says, and she realizes he could well be telling the truth. "Will it make you feel better, if I said it was for me? I don't want to know."
"You can't just give up on him," she insists, even though she knows-
"One less person for you to worry about," he says firmly and yes. That's what she knows.
+ + + + +
"So, what do you think for the interview?" She asks him. "Shy innocence or willful seduction?"
He actually laughs, rueful.
"Sorry about that," he says. She shrugs.
"It was good advice. I should've picked one," she says. She's curled up at one corner of the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, and he's sitting in the armchair across from her, his elbows on his knees.
"Nah," he says. "You would've looked like you were trying to be me. It wouldn't have done you any favors. You're much better at, you know. Worryingly enduring compassion. Stubborn thinly overlaid with sense. That kind of thing."
"That was a compliment wasn't it?" She asks. It was, and it's left her feeling wrong-footed when there's no time to think about why. Not a bad thing, she reminds herself.
"Of course," he says, smiling, and offers her a hand up she doesn't need. She takes it.
+ + + + +
He and Mags say goodbye to them in the lobby, where there's an escort waiting. Mags hugs her, warm and brief, and taps her lightly on the chin.
"Good luck," she says.
Finnick stands with his hands jammed into his pockets and waits.
"If you want me to talk first we're going to be here for a long time," Annie says finally.
"That might've been what I was aiming for," he admits, offering her a wry half-smile, and she's surprised when she hears her own laughter stumbling out into the air, pinched, but real.
"Well," he says. "Good luck."
"Thanks," she says, and turns to go.
"You said you were ready to try," he says suddenly, catching her wrist. She turns back to face him again. "You remember, you said that?"
He sounds-young, she thinks, and he is young, he's only nineteen. She thinks maybe there are one or two things she could apologize to him for, but she has worse things to worry about just now.
"Yes," she says.
"Well-good. Keep remembering," he says, maybe-definitely-a little desperate, and lets her go.
+ + + + +
She's sitting on the hovercraft, rubbing her thumb absentmindedly over the pulse in her wrist, when it occurs to her. It's strange, how easily it swims to the forefront of her mind. The first thing she thinks is, I've never flown before. The second thing she thinks is, I might be in love with him.
She tells herself it's probably the nerves.
Title: You Do By Choice
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Cato/Clove
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers; again, warnings for the sort of thing you find in the books themselves: mentions of violence and children killing children.
Summary: For the prompt, "Cato/Clove, drunk the night before going into the Arena."
Notes: Title is from a W. Clement Stone quote and is not mine, nor is The Hunger Games trilogy or anything you recognize from it.
"Who first?" He asks halfway through his second glass.
"Hmm?" She asks, turning away from the window. When they'd arrived here, she'd expected to feel something, to drink up the roar of the crowd and know she had arrived. But the truth, of course, is that this isn't where she's been going.
"Who first? When we get there," he says.
"Oh, I don't know," she says lazily, watching lamplight filter through the Capital brandy. It had been an unspoken agreement when Cato had casually broken the lock on the liquor cabinet-they were going to drink the good stuff. It burns a little when she swallows, but it's the kind of burn she can relish, can roll across her tongue. "The big one from 11, maybe, the one who thinks he's the strong, silent type. He'd be a fun kill."
There's a pause as she considers it; surely he'll stay for the first blood bath, surely he won't be able to resist. She'll have a knife within twenty steps, maybe even a halfway decent one, and he'll provide a practically unmissable target. She can close her eyes and picture it. The broad expanse between his shoulder blades, or perhaps his pulse, hammering away in his throat.
"Are you going to ask me?" Cato says. She laughs, and holds her glass out for a refill.
"You haven't exactly been subtle," she reminds him. "It'll be the girl from 12. The girl on fire."
She isn't sure who she's taunting, the girl or him, but he's the one who's here to sneer.
"Jealous?" He asks. "Everyone loves her you know, not just her pathetic little puppy, that moon-eyed baker. Everyone."
"Oh really?" She asks, curling her mouth upwards. She's thinking of hours spent on the mats, of hitting bullseye after bullseye long after her classmates had fallen into their beds. She's thinking of the first time she sparred with him, his arm against her throat and her knife just beneath his ribs. She's thinking of her very first tutor, lithe and white-haired, who'd told her there was only one thing she couldn't teach.
"You have it, or you don't," she'd said, her voice paper thin. "It is easier, of course, in the heat of battle. When a human being is lying on the ground in front of you, weapon knocked away, arm broken, ribs fractured, eyes wide open, when a human being is terrified of you and of what comes after you, when a human being is begging you not to rob them of the only thing they have left, what will you do? What will you feel?"
"I don't know," Clove had said, staring straight ahead.
"If you are weak, you will feel their fear," she had said. "You will feel their fear and you will hesitate, and you will be forgotten. A dab of ink, maybe, in the history books. A nothing, nothing to your family and nothing to your district and nothing to the world. They will all stop watching."
"What if I'm strong?" Clove had asked, gritting her teeth.
"If you are strong, Clove," the tutor had said, "you will feel hunger."
She is thinking of instinct. She is thinking of hunger.
"Oh really?" She says. "Even you, Cato? Do you love her, do you love the girl on fire?"
He spits out a laugh and finishes his glass, sneering across the rim of it.
"Jealous?" He asks again.
"Not at all," she says, and finishes hers too because this is a competition, has always been a competition. "Pitying, perhaps. Poor, poor Cato, in love with the girl from District 12. Would you like to marry a miner, Cato? Your destiny is an awfully dusty one, but-"
"When I kill her," he says, his voice low enough that it's almost a growl, "she won't even have the time to scream."
"How will you do it, then?" She asks, because she is a strategist. It's in her blood.
"It doesn't matter," he says, shrugging, "as long as I get to watch the light go out."
She thinks again about his arm against her throat, bearing down against her windpipe, poised to crush the life from her. She thinks again of her knife, nipping delicately at the fabric of his shirt, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. She thinks of his hands around her wrists, holding her against the locker room wall, his face, teeth bared, buried in her neck. It wasn't so different, and it was. She's never made up her mind, and this is a bad time to try.
"What about when it's just us?" She asks. It'll be the two of them left, in the end. She knows that.
"I haven't decided how I'll do that either," he says, his shrug just as easy. He isn't looking at her this time, though. She's looking at him, watching his breath as it ebbs and flows. If she concentrates she can almost feel his pulse beating beneath her thumb, can spread her fingers across the tender spot where shoulder meets neck. It's all in the wrist, really, driving the blade home. Collarbone, she thinks. She's always liked his collarbone.
"Nor have I," she says, and stands, leaning over him to set her glass down on the table. She bites at his neck on the way back, almost absentmindedly. It's short and sharp, nothing that will leave a mark, except in her mind's eye. She closes her eyes as his hands settle against her lower back, pulling her down, and she can see it, angry and red, a pinpoint target.
"You know, I always liked you," he murmurs into her ear, barely out of breath.
What a strange thing to say, she thinks. She runs her hands under his shirt and across his ribs, meeting old scars she's known for years, sparing extra attention for the ones she put there. She opens her mouth to gasp and finds herself saying, "I've always liked you, too."
She wonders if it's true.
(She thinks, in a moment of ill-timed honesty, that it probably is.)