Finnick/Annie; I'm Not Calling You A Liar; PG; 1/4..
Note: Title is from the Florence + The Machine song of the same name, and does not belong to me, nor does 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.
Finnick/Annie; I'm Not Calling You A Liar; PG; 1/4.
"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?"
Finnick/Annie; I'm Not Calling You A Liar; PG; 3/4.
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.
Finnick/Annie; I'm Not Calling You A Liar; PG; 4/4.
"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.
sajhtgjkhaegjkhagadjkd squeeee this is so good i love it so much!!!! favorite lines:
• (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.)
• He's sprawled in his seat, all long, lean confidence as he butters a piece of toast
• "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.
I'm sorry that this response is so late. But. but. ;___; BLOODY TEARS, RUNNING DOWN MY FACE TBH.
"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, but seriously, how absolutely perfect. I adore your Finnick and your Annie and most of all, I adore your writing, it's beautiful.
Note: Title is from the Florence + The Machine song of the same name, and does not belong to me, nor does 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.
Reply
"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?"
Reply
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.
Reply
"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.
Reply
• (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.)
• He's sprawled in his seat, all long, lean confidence as he butters a piece of toast
• "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.
Reply
Reply
Reply
"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, but seriously, how absolutely perfect. I adore your Finnick and your Annie and most of all, I adore your writing, it's beautiful.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment