THG fic: "Spin Control" [3/21]
Title: Spin Control
Pairings: Finnick/Haymitch, Kat/Peeta
Characters: Finnick, Haymitch, Chaff, Peeta, Gale, Kat; plus appearances by Mags, Johanna, Caesar Flickerman, President Snow, Effie, Claudius Templesmith, Beetee, Prim, Thresh, Rue, District Twelve ensemble and various OC
Rating: adult
Warnings: forced prostitution & non-con; people dealing with sexual trauma; rape fantasies; self-hate; canon-typical violence; minor character death (of major canon characters); implied physical abuse of children (in the Mellark household); alcoholism & drug abuse
Summary: When Haymitch Abernathy’s alcoholism makes the prime time news, Finnick Odair is sent to live in District Twelve to pick up the pieces. But it’s hard to save a friend if you can barely stand looking yourself in the eye. And it might become impossible once that friend decides to move hell and high water to bring two of his tributes home at once, even if it should cost him his own life.
Prologue -- Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2
Chapter 3: Behind The Scenes
President Snow’s office was located at the highest spot right underneath the dazzling opalescent dome crowning his mansion. From earlier visits, Finnick knew that the glass doors behind his desk led to a balcony that overlooked all of the Capitol, since all the other tall buildings were located in such a way that they couldn’t obstruct the president’s view of the city. During daylight hours, the sun would shine brightly through those windows, rendering Snow at his desk a well-calculated looming silhouette.
Now, all Finnick could see outside were faint twinkling city lights in the dark, while Snow’s face with its puffy lips was illuminated by the soft red glow of a delicately crafted District One desk lamp. It created a strange air of intimacy, highlighting all the details of Snow’s face. All of his skin always seemed stretched too tight, like the face of a monster out of a nightmare, with too many bones and too big eyes; Finnick remembered the terrified fascination that had captivated him whenever he had looked at Snow from up close as a fourteen-year-old, a first impression that he had never quite managed to overcome. People Snow’s age didn’t see a stylist anymore; they were tended to what was called a face designer.
Snow’s lips seemed to stretch wider when he smiled, in equal parts pleasant, empty and disturbing.
“Well, well, Mr. Odair,” he said, having waited for Finnick to take the proffered seat across the desk. Finnick never quite knew why he bothered, since both of them were clear on how Snow owned all of the world and Finnick just attended it as his barely-tolerated guest. “Well. Let me congratulate you on your performance tonight. It looks like Panem couldn’t be more in love with you right now.”
There was nothing Finnick could have said in reply without making a fool of himself, so he didn’t. Instead, he kept his focus on sitting straight - sitting proudly - but not too straight, like he would on the television if he wanted to show that he wasn’t afraid. It was a futile attempt at preserving his dignity. There was no dignity in this office. Both of them knew that, too. There never even seemed to be enough air here, and he was fighting the dissociative sensation of needing to catch his breath although it remained steady. People were killed in this office, many times a day, by signatures and phone calls. Everybody he loved could be amongst them at any time. Mom. Dad. Mags. KeanuPerriCoralUncleLauroUncleJaime.
President Snow gave him a long-suffering look, like an uncle would give his misbehaving nephew. “I’m going to skip the pleasantries, Mr. Odair. We’ve known each other for a while, after all. We’ve discussed your obligations many a time, and I have never before had an impression that you were trying to disobey me. Now, my advisors are warning me that you must obviously just have been biding your time. I have been telling them you weren’t. You love your dear parents and siblings too much for that.”
He used the pause to reach for an elegant porcelain teapot, pouring himself a cup without hurry and eventually throwing Finnick a questioning glance.
So Finnick nodded, working hard on loosening his jaw so that he could speak. “Yes,” he agreed tonelessly. “I do.”
“You do.” Snow nodded, taking his time with his tea and only continuing after he had taken a small sip from it, softly blowing the steam away with puffed pursed lips. “You and I both, Mr. Odair, know that this round is to you. I’m not even going to go into detail about your various fan clubs setting up websites to support your application. My media advisor has already been here, begging on her knees before this very desk to let you volunteer for District Twelve, while displaying a striking disregard of district politics. I cannot not let you leave for District Twelve. It would leave people dissatisfied. I don’t like dissatisfied people. It makes them restless.” Holding his quaint small cup with the fingertips of both strong hands, he gave Finnick a serious look. “Why do you want to live in District Twelve?”
“I’d like the change of scenery,” Finnick said. His first instinct was saying that he wanted to help Haymitch, but he discarded that reply immediately. Haymitch was a very small part of this. It never paid to keep Snow up to date about your friendships and alliances, either. But a snarky comeback was never enough in this office, so he added, “It’s the only chance I’ll ever get to move to another district,” and that was so true that it hurt.
It was so true that Finnick knew some of it had shown on his face. He hated it when he couldn’t hide behind the small mercy of the mask that he was usually allowed to wear. The way the President’s sharp eyes were watching him, he didn’t miss any of that.
“Indeed,” Snow said abruptly. “Like Caesar Flickerman pointed out on the air, you have been very busy making new friends in the Capitol during your most recent visits.”
Just like that, Finnick grew cold. He always did when Snow brought up the movie stars and the other people from the high society he sold Finnick to. One day, he imagined, he would be an eighty-year-old wreck of a man and he still would grow cold like that if Snow inquired about this or that ‘patron’ - inconceivable a world where Snow would have died of old age.
“I follow the schedules you have sent to me,” he carefully replied.
“Yes, you do,” Snow agreed. “You do so very well. I have never had any reason to complain about that until now.” Giving Finnick a searching look - again looking more like a suspicious uncle than a murderer - he added, “This sudden wanderlust wouldn’t be part of any misguided plan to avoid those obligations in the future?”
Finnick suppressed a childish urge to squirm in his seat. He hadn’t done anything wrong, as far as Snow’s rules were concerned. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t and he never would have dared speak up on that show otherwise. “I don’t understand,” he managed.
Snow smiled thinly, all bones. “What a relief to hear,” he said without even a trace of sarcasm. “I did not expect you to see patrons while you were on mentoring duty last year, but do not think that mentoring a more needy district will be the way to reducing the number of your appointments. You may start mentoring, on your own for this Hunger Games and alongside Mr. Abernathy in the future, but you will be attending to the same number of patrons you would have seen otherwise and you will find a way of juggling those responsibilities satisfactorily on your own initiative. I would be very displeased if your monetary value should fall due to complaints about your performance.”
“Understood,” Finnick said automatically, mouth dry, and couldn’t help but point out with a trace of desperation, although he hated himself a lot for it, “But mentoring for District Twelve will make me more popular. I’ll be more valuable than before.”
“I should hope so. The Capitol knows I’m not making any money from Mr. Abernathy anymore.”
“He gave the media a good story just now.”
“A good story doesn’t pay any bills. It merely distracts from them for a while.” Snow said it as if he was impatient with Finnick’s lack of business acumen, although - a little voice in the back of Finnick’s head supplied acidly - if sleeping around the Capitol on Snow’s orders had taught him one thing, it was a good grasp on the imbalances of supply and demand.
“I wasn’t aware that you and Mr. Abernathy are this close, either,” Snow remarked coldly.
Finnick blinked. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t but wonder whether that was real displeasure in Snow’s face at not knowing about that supposed tight friendship. “We’re both victors.” He said it casually, like it was no big deal. We’re comrades in arms, fuck you, he thought, while anger surged through him. We’re at war with you, we’ll never stop competing for the right to kill you.
When Snow shot him an inquiring look, Finnick raised his chin.
Sometimes he wondered if a man like Snow could even understand a concept like camaraderie.
So he wasn’t surprised when Snow thoughtfully nodded a moment later, as if he had had to process it in his head first. “You are at that,” he said, taking another sip of his tea and looking pleased when it had cooled off to a satisfactory degree. “So. Here is what I told my advisors about you, Mr. Odair. I told them that you surely must have been acting out of concern for your dear friend Mr. Abernathy, rather than trying to stage some kind of poorly executed coup d’état.”
Finnick had to stop himself from holding his breath when Snow paused for effect. The President looked at him as if he knew exactly what Finnick thought, gracing him with that thin over-stretched smile again.
This was it, Finnick knew. Here was the price he’d have to pay.
Because there was always a price.
A wave of panic hit him, out of nowhere; his hand tightened around the armrest. Suddenly he was sure that he’d miscalculated and that the nightmare scenarios that had seemed inconceivable an hour before would come true - that Snow would have his mom or Coral or Keanu killed just to remind him that he could. Instinct had told him that Snow wouldn’t do that when Finnick hadn’t done anything wrong, when it hadn’t broken that psychopathic honor system the man lived by, but what if he’d gotten too cocky, if he’d misjudged that …
His mouth was so dry that his tongue threatened to stick to the roof of his mouth.
“I told my advisors that you would be perfectly willing to take personal responsibility for Mr. Abernathy’s sobriety,” Snow said pleasantly. “You will have nursed him back to full mentorship in no time at all. Full mentorship alongside you, naturally, so to heed the doctors’ advice. And you will vouch for that promise of success with the lives of your family back home in District Four. It would be very tragic indeed if sweet Coral was reaped in a year without volunteers, after all.”
Oh shit. That wasn’t the worst that could have happened, no live feed cutting to the execution of his father or Uncle Lauro’s burning shrimper like he had suddenly envisioned. But he hadn’t seen it coming.
Although he should have. And it was still bad.
There were a lot of different ways in which Finnick respected Haymitch, for being a good mentor despite his quota and a good friend and always a protector of the younger victors when he was sober enough, but Haymitch was a drunk. The media hadn’t played that part up - it had never even seen Haymitch the way the victors had, year after year after year. The mere thought of the lives of his family relying on somebody other than himself, relying on Haymitch’s will to stay sober when being sober was probably the last thing Haymitch would ever be interested in…
When he looked up, the man’s too red tongue had darted out to wet his lips.
Snow smiled like a wolf. “Do not think I will be satisfied with an impression of sobriety for the cameras like it sufficed for Terence DiAngelo thirty years ago because frankly, Mr. DiAngelo was boring.” How petty, a dazed part of Finnick thought. Not calling him Dr. DiAngelo when he earned that degree with his victory money. But that was just another reminder of a victor who had saved himself by telling the Capitol stories, and Snow couldn’t have been impressed with that. “No,” Snow was informing him now in a soft voice. “Mr. Abernathy will be sober and he will very much not be boring. He will finally be performing as mentor again and stop making a joke out of the Games by all this blatant disrespect he has been showing us for years. Do not think I won’t know if you two should try to fool me, Mr. Odair. I’m very hard to fool.”
Finnick felt himself nodding, unable to stop the chills that just kept running down his spine. You knew it would be bad, he reminded himself. You knew you’d get in trouble. But he’d still thought that he himself would have to pay up. Snow would tell him to do something, something disgusting, most likely send him to some special client, and it would be awful, but he would deliver. He’d deliver, he’d have his breakdown later in private were nobody could see and he’d have all the time in the world, far away in District Twelve, where nobody would care, to put himself back together. That was what he did. He did it every year.
Haymitch was an addict. Finnick had never once seen him entirely sober. And the journalists were right because it was a disease and everybody with brains knew that the Games had made Haymitch like that, except the Games wouldn’t stop ever. Finnick knew this was Snow’s way of making Haymitch pay for getting drunk like that at a Reaping, too. But he wasn’t sure that Haymitch could stop drinking. Finnick hadn’t seen him do it when he’d had an okay tribute in the running three years back, when Johanna’s kid sister had been reaped and she’d looked to him for help, not the year Chaff had bullied Beetee into tweaking Haymitch’s console to play some kind of weird Capitol song as a tasteless anniversary present. Thinking of the dazed alcoholic lying in his ruins of a house, for all of Panem to see on the television, he wasn’t even sure Haymitch would ever again find a reason to stay sober.
Desperately, Finnick cast about in his mind whether he knew of any family or friends Haymitch would have had left to protect - there had to have been someone, because he knew for a fact Haymitch had been sold for a couple of years after his victory just like Finnick was now. But they had to have been cousins or schoolmates because all he could think of now was the tape of the Abernathy execution, mother and brother and girlfriend dead, dead, dead, for Haymitch outsmarting the Games.
Fuck. Knowing up front that something would be bad had never stopped him from hating every minute of it.
“Mr. Odair?” Snow prompted him expectantly.
Finnick tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. “Of course. I’ll vouch for him.”
“Any failure on Mr. Abernathy’s part will be considered a failure on your part.”
“Yes.”
“You will keep him healthy and sober like the people of the Capitol are hoping you will.”
“Gladly.” Of course, he would have tried keeping Haymitch together to his best ability anyway, but that was just part of the joke. It had never mattered what he would have done, had he had the choice. The Capitol told stories on its television, and some of them were even true. Addiction really was a disease. Of course, Finnick wanted to do well as Twelve mentor. But that was just the thing, it wasn’t about truth and lies. It was about what the Capitol wanted, because what the Capitol wanted, it got. What President Snow wanted, President Snow always got.
In the corner of his eye, Finnick could see Snow putting down his tea cup that would probably be empty, because his timing was impeccable, folding his hands on his desk and finding a more comfortable sitting position while he observed Finnick with interest. Finnick himself was staring at a spot on the desk. It was made of heavy oak like the furniture in his father’s study, District Seven’s finest carpentry, but unlike his father’s desk, the spot that he was focusing on was both clean and empty - as if it wasn’t quite a part of reality, which never was either of these things.
Almost over now, he told himself.
These meetings were always bad, no matter why they took place. He always knew, before they were over, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep properly for days. But he could always keep telling himself that all of them did end. He made it through them intact every time. More or less intact.
The fear of hurting his family was a constant in Finnick’s life these days, an ancient thing throbbing on in the background. Some days he even forgot it was there. Some days, he thought he didn’t have to fear hurting anybody because he wouldn’t even know how to not be Snow’s whore. He hadn’t been anything else for a third of his life. That was how he had known that Snow wouldn’t touch his family this time - Snow wouldn’t want to change a running system.
When Snow spoke again, Finnick thought that he wouldn’t be surprised if District Three had invented some sort of telepathic device for him because he had yet again followed Finnick’s thoughts. Followed them and twisted them into something even uglier.
“I’m going to need a bit of reassurance from you, Mr. Odair,” the President very calmly said. “Once you walk out of this office, I want both of us to be very clear on who owns who in this room, even though you were granted your wish.”
“Okay?” Finnick said.
There was a pause, maybe for Snow to lick his lips again with his bloody tongue or maybe for him to rearrange himself in his chair - maybe, a sickening lascivious part of Finnick would supply afterwards, getting comfortable for the show.
“Well, then. Open your pants and pleasure yourself for me to see.”
Finnick thought he’d never gotten this cold - as if all the heat had been trained from the room.
Despite himself, he raised his head to look Snow in the eye.
It was as if reality had broken apart, crumbling down all around him. After all the things that had been done to him by tributes, clients and Snow himself through the years, Finnick still was convinced he couldn’t have heard right.
“What?”
All the victors knew the President would never touch you. He’d fuck with your mind, and he was married to some woman, but he didn’t ever do that to a victor physically, he was like a monk in that way. It didn’t pay for people to see victors with mussed hair and swollen lips walking out of his office. It probably just wasn’t what he got off on. He didn’t do that.
Snow leaned forward ever so slightly, moving his weight until it rested on his elbows. It wrinkled the shoulder pads of his suit.
“Open your pants and touch yourself until you orgasm,” he repeated in a tone of voice that sounded both clinical and curious, curious to see, maybe, what would happen next. “That is, after all, the particular service that continues to make you so valuable to me, isn’t it? Prove to me that you will keep delivering what I am asking of you, no matter the circumstances.”
Those chills were suddenly back.
I don’t think I can. He wanted to say it rationally, he wanted to argue with facts, even though just hearing the words in his head made his chest burn. He wasn’t sure whether that was from shame or helplessness.
He didn’t think he could get an erection in this office.
But that was just another thing you didn’t get to say to Snow.
You didn’t get to say, I can’t.
There was no dignity in this office, Finnick had known that when he first walked in.
But somehow, while they were talking, he’d still managed to forget.
on to chapter 4
Pairings: Finnick/Haymitch, Kat/Peeta
Characters: Finnick, Haymitch, Chaff, Peeta, Gale, Kat; plus appearances by Mags, Johanna, Caesar Flickerman, President Snow, Effie, Claudius Templesmith, Beetee, Prim, Thresh, Rue, District Twelve ensemble and various OC
Rating: adult
Warnings: forced prostitution & non-con; people dealing with sexual trauma; rape fantasies; self-hate; canon-typical violence; minor character death (of major canon characters); implied physical abuse of children (in the Mellark household); alcoholism & drug abuse
Summary: When Haymitch Abernathy’s alcoholism makes the prime time news, Finnick Odair is sent to live in District Twelve to pick up the pieces. But it’s hard to save a friend if you can barely stand looking yourself in the eye. And it might become impossible once that friend decides to move hell and high water to bring two of his tributes home at once, even if it should cost him his own life.
Prologue -- Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2
Chapter 3: Behind The Scenes
President Snow’s office was located at the highest spot right underneath the dazzling opalescent dome crowning his mansion. From earlier visits, Finnick knew that the glass doors behind his desk led to a balcony that overlooked all of the Capitol, since all the other tall buildings were located in such a way that they couldn’t obstruct the president’s view of the city. During daylight hours, the sun would shine brightly through those windows, rendering Snow at his desk a well-calculated looming silhouette.
Now, all Finnick could see outside were faint twinkling city lights in the dark, while Snow’s face with its puffy lips was illuminated by the soft red glow of a delicately crafted District One desk lamp. It created a strange air of intimacy, highlighting all the details of Snow’s face. All of his skin always seemed stretched too tight, like the face of a monster out of a nightmare, with too many bones and too big eyes; Finnick remembered the terrified fascination that had captivated him whenever he had looked at Snow from up close as a fourteen-year-old, a first impression that he had never quite managed to overcome. People Snow’s age didn’t see a stylist anymore; they were tended to what was called a face designer.
Snow’s lips seemed to stretch wider when he smiled, in equal parts pleasant, empty and disturbing.
“Well, well, Mr. Odair,” he said, having waited for Finnick to take the proffered seat across the desk. Finnick never quite knew why he bothered, since both of them were clear on how Snow owned all of the world and Finnick just attended it as his barely-tolerated guest. “Well. Let me congratulate you on your performance tonight. It looks like Panem couldn’t be more in love with you right now.”
There was nothing Finnick could have said in reply without making a fool of himself, so he didn’t. Instead, he kept his focus on sitting straight - sitting proudly - but not too straight, like he would on the television if he wanted to show that he wasn’t afraid. It was a futile attempt at preserving his dignity. There was no dignity in this office. Both of them knew that, too. There never even seemed to be enough air here, and he was fighting the dissociative sensation of needing to catch his breath although it remained steady. People were killed in this office, many times a day, by signatures and phone calls. Everybody he loved could be amongst them at any time. Mom. Dad. Mags. KeanuPerriCoralUncleLauroUncleJaime.
President Snow gave him a long-suffering look, like an uncle would give his misbehaving nephew. “I’m going to skip the pleasantries, Mr. Odair. We’ve known each other for a while, after all. We’ve discussed your obligations many a time, and I have never before had an impression that you were trying to disobey me. Now, my advisors are warning me that you must obviously just have been biding your time. I have been telling them you weren’t. You love your dear parents and siblings too much for that.”
He used the pause to reach for an elegant porcelain teapot, pouring himself a cup without hurry and eventually throwing Finnick a questioning glance.
So Finnick nodded, working hard on loosening his jaw so that he could speak. “Yes,” he agreed tonelessly. “I do.”
“You do.” Snow nodded, taking his time with his tea and only continuing after he had taken a small sip from it, softly blowing the steam away with puffed pursed lips. “You and I both, Mr. Odair, know that this round is to you. I’m not even going to go into detail about your various fan clubs setting up websites to support your application. My media advisor has already been here, begging on her knees before this very desk to let you volunteer for District Twelve, while displaying a striking disregard of district politics. I cannot not let you leave for District Twelve. It would leave people dissatisfied. I don’t like dissatisfied people. It makes them restless.” Holding his quaint small cup with the fingertips of both strong hands, he gave Finnick a serious look. “Why do you want to live in District Twelve?”
“I’d like the change of scenery,” Finnick said. His first instinct was saying that he wanted to help Haymitch, but he discarded that reply immediately. Haymitch was a very small part of this. It never paid to keep Snow up to date about your friendships and alliances, either. But a snarky comeback was never enough in this office, so he added, “It’s the only chance I’ll ever get to move to another district,” and that was so true that it hurt.
It was so true that Finnick knew some of it had shown on his face. He hated it when he couldn’t hide behind the small mercy of the mask that he was usually allowed to wear. The way the President’s sharp eyes were watching him, he didn’t miss any of that.
“Indeed,” Snow said abruptly. “Like Caesar Flickerman pointed out on the air, you have been very busy making new friends in the Capitol during your most recent visits.”
Just like that, Finnick grew cold. He always did when Snow brought up the movie stars and the other people from the high society he sold Finnick to. One day, he imagined, he would be an eighty-year-old wreck of a man and he still would grow cold like that if Snow inquired about this or that ‘patron’ - inconceivable a world where Snow would have died of old age.
“I follow the schedules you have sent to me,” he carefully replied.
“Yes, you do,” Snow agreed. “You do so very well. I have never had any reason to complain about that until now.” Giving Finnick a searching look - again looking more like a suspicious uncle than a murderer - he added, “This sudden wanderlust wouldn’t be part of any misguided plan to avoid those obligations in the future?”
Finnick suppressed a childish urge to squirm in his seat. He hadn’t done anything wrong, as far as Snow’s rules were concerned. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t and he never would have dared speak up on that show otherwise. “I don’t understand,” he managed.
Snow smiled thinly, all bones. “What a relief to hear,” he said without even a trace of sarcasm. “I did not expect you to see patrons while you were on mentoring duty last year, but do not think that mentoring a more needy district will be the way to reducing the number of your appointments. You may start mentoring, on your own for this Hunger Games and alongside Mr. Abernathy in the future, but you will be attending to the same number of patrons you would have seen otherwise and you will find a way of juggling those responsibilities satisfactorily on your own initiative. I would be very displeased if your monetary value should fall due to complaints about your performance.”
“Understood,” Finnick said automatically, mouth dry, and couldn’t help but point out with a trace of desperation, although he hated himself a lot for it, “But mentoring for District Twelve will make me more popular. I’ll be more valuable than before.”
“I should hope so. The Capitol knows I’m not making any money from Mr. Abernathy anymore.”
“He gave the media a good story just now.”
“A good story doesn’t pay any bills. It merely distracts from them for a while.” Snow said it as if he was impatient with Finnick’s lack of business acumen, although - a little voice in the back of Finnick’s head supplied acidly - if sleeping around the Capitol on Snow’s orders had taught him one thing, it was a good grasp on the imbalances of supply and demand.
“I wasn’t aware that you and Mr. Abernathy are this close, either,” Snow remarked coldly.
Finnick blinked. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t but wonder whether that was real displeasure in Snow’s face at not knowing about that supposed tight friendship. “We’re both victors.” He said it casually, like it was no big deal. We’re comrades in arms, fuck you, he thought, while anger surged through him. We’re at war with you, we’ll never stop competing for the right to kill you.
When Snow shot him an inquiring look, Finnick raised his chin.
Sometimes he wondered if a man like Snow could even understand a concept like camaraderie.
So he wasn’t surprised when Snow thoughtfully nodded a moment later, as if he had had to process it in his head first. “You are at that,” he said, taking another sip of his tea and looking pleased when it had cooled off to a satisfactory degree. “So. Here is what I told my advisors about you, Mr. Odair. I told them that you surely must have been acting out of concern for your dear friend Mr. Abernathy, rather than trying to stage some kind of poorly executed coup d’état.”
Finnick had to stop himself from holding his breath when Snow paused for effect. The President looked at him as if he knew exactly what Finnick thought, gracing him with that thin over-stretched smile again.
This was it, Finnick knew. Here was the price he’d have to pay.
Because there was always a price.
A wave of panic hit him, out of nowhere; his hand tightened around the armrest. Suddenly he was sure that he’d miscalculated and that the nightmare scenarios that had seemed inconceivable an hour before would come true - that Snow would have his mom or Coral or Keanu killed just to remind him that he could. Instinct had told him that Snow wouldn’t do that when Finnick hadn’t done anything wrong, when it hadn’t broken that psychopathic honor system the man lived by, but what if he’d gotten too cocky, if he’d misjudged that …
His mouth was so dry that his tongue threatened to stick to the roof of his mouth.
“I told my advisors that you would be perfectly willing to take personal responsibility for Mr. Abernathy’s sobriety,” Snow said pleasantly. “You will have nursed him back to full mentorship in no time at all. Full mentorship alongside you, naturally, so to heed the doctors’ advice. And you will vouch for that promise of success with the lives of your family back home in District Four. It would be very tragic indeed if sweet Coral was reaped in a year without volunteers, after all.”
Oh shit. That wasn’t the worst that could have happened, no live feed cutting to the execution of his father or Uncle Lauro’s burning shrimper like he had suddenly envisioned. But he hadn’t seen it coming.
Although he should have. And it was still bad.
There were a lot of different ways in which Finnick respected Haymitch, for being a good mentor despite his quota and a good friend and always a protector of the younger victors when he was sober enough, but Haymitch was a drunk. The media hadn’t played that part up - it had never even seen Haymitch the way the victors had, year after year after year. The mere thought of the lives of his family relying on somebody other than himself, relying on Haymitch’s will to stay sober when being sober was probably the last thing Haymitch would ever be interested in…
When he looked up, the man’s too red tongue had darted out to wet his lips.
Snow smiled like a wolf. “Do not think I will be satisfied with an impression of sobriety for the cameras like it sufficed for Terence DiAngelo thirty years ago because frankly, Mr. DiAngelo was boring.” How petty, a dazed part of Finnick thought. Not calling him Dr. DiAngelo when he earned that degree with his victory money. But that was just another reminder of a victor who had saved himself by telling the Capitol stories, and Snow couldn’t have been impressed with that. “No,” Snow was informing him now in a soft voice. “Mr. Abernathy will be sober and he will very much not be boring. He will finally be performing as mentor again and stop making a joke out of the Games by all this blatant disrespect he has been showing us for years. Do not think I won’t know if you two should try to fool me, Mr. Odair. I’m very hard to fool.”
Finnick felt himself nodding, unable to stop the chills that just kept running down his spine. You knew it would be bad, he reminded himself. You knew you’d get in trouble. But he’d still thought that he himself would have to pay up. Snow would tell him to do something, something disgusting, most likely send him to some special client, and it would be awful, but he would deliver. He’d deliver, he’d have his breakdown later in private were nobody could see and he’d have all the time in the world, far away in District Twelve, where nobody would care, to put himself back together. That was what he did. He did it every year.
Haymitch was an addict. Finnick had never once seen him entirely sober. And the journalists were right because it was a disease and everybody with brains knew that the Games had made Haymitch like that, except the Games wouldn’t stop ever. Finnick knew this was Snow’s way of making Haymitch pay for getting drunk like that at a Reaping, too. But he wasn’t sure that Haymitch could stop drinking. Finnick hadn’t seen him do it when he’d had an okay tribute in the running three years back, when Johanna’s kid sister had been reaped and she’d looked to him for help, not the year Chaff had bullied Beetee into tweaking Haymitch’s console to play some kind of weird Capitol song as a tasteless anniversary present. Thinking of the dazed alcoholic lying in his ruins of a house, for all of Panem to see on the television, he wasn’t even sure Haymitch would ever again find a reason to stay sober.
Desperately, Finnick cast about in his mind whether he knew of any family or friends Haymitch would have had left to protect - there had to have been someone, because he knew for a fact Haymitch had been sold for a couple of years after his victory just like Finnick was now. But they had to have been cousins or schoolmates because all he could think of now was the tape of the Abernathy execution, mother and brother and girlfriend dead, dead, dead, for Haymitch outsmarting the Games.
Fuck. Knowing up front that something would be bad had never stopped him from hating every minute of it.
“Mr. Odair?” Snow prompted him expectantly.
Finnick tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. “Of course. I’ll vouch for him.”
“Any failure on Mr. Abernathy’s part will be considered a failure on your part.”
“Yes.”
“You will keep him healthy and sober like the people of the Capitol are hoping you will.”
“Gladly.” Of course, he would have tried keeping Haymitch together to his best ability anyway, but that was just part of the joke. It had never mattered what he would have done, had he had the choice. The Capitol told stories on its television, and some of them were even true. Addiction really was a disease. Of course, Finnick wanted to do well as Twelve mentor. But that was just the thing, it wasn’t about truth and lies. It was about what the Capitol wanted, because what the Capitol wanted, it got. What President Snow wanted, President Snow always got.
In the corner of his eye, Finnick could see Snow putting down his tea cup that would probably be empty, because his timing was impeccable, folding his hands on his desk and finding a more comfortable sitting position while he observed Finnick with interest. Finnick himself was staring at a spot on the desk. It was made of heavy oak like the furniture in his father’s study, District Seven’s finest carpentry, but unlike his father’s desk, the spot that he was focusing on was both clean and empty - as if it wasn’t quite a part of reality, which never was either of these things.
Almost over now, he told himself.
These meetings were always bad, no matter why they took place. He always knew, before they were over, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep properly for days. But he could always keep telling himself that all of them did end. He made it through them intact every time. More or less intact.
The fear of hurting his family was a constant in Finnick’s life these days, an ancient thing throbbing on in the background. Some days he even forgot it was there. Some days, he thought he didn’t have to fear hurting anybody because he wouldn’t even know how to not be Snow’s whore. He hadn’t been anything else for a third of his life. That was how he had known that Snow wouldn’t touch his family this time - Snow wouldn’t want to change a running system.
When Snow spoke again, Finnick thought that he wouldn’t be surprised if District Three had invented some sort of telepathic device for him because he had yet again followed Finnick’s thoughts. Followed them and twisted them into something even uglier.
“I’m going to need a bit of reassurance from you, Mr. Odair,” the President very calmly said. “Once you walk out of this office, I want both of us to be very clear on who owns who in this room, even though you were granted your wish.”
“Okay?” Finnick said.
There was a pause, maybe for Snow to lick his lips again with his bloody tongue or maybe for him to rearrange himself in his chair - maybe, a sickening lascivious part of Finnick would supply afterwards, getting comfortable for the show.
“Well, then. Open your pants and pleasure yourself for me to see.”
Finnick thought he’d never gotten this cold - as if all the heat had been trained from the room.
Despite himself, he raised his head to look Snow in the eye.
It was as if reality had broken apart, crumbling down all around him. After all the things that had been done to him by tributes, clients and Snow himself through the years, Finnick still was convinced he couldn’t have heard right.
“What?”
All the victors knew the President would never touch you. He’d fuck with your mind, and he was married to some woman, but he didn’t ever do that to a victor physically, he was like a monk in that way. It didn’t pay for people to see victors with mussed hair and swollen lips walking out of his office. It probably just wasn’t what he got off on. He didn’t do that.
Snow leaned forward ever so slightly, moving his weight until it rested on his elbows. It wrinkled the shoulder pads of his suit.
“Open your pants and touch yourself until you orgasm,” he repeated in a tone of voice that sounded both clinical and curious, curious to see, maybe, what would happen next. “That is, after all, the particular service that continues to make you so valuable to me, isn’t it? Prove to me that you will keep delivering what I am asking of you, no matter the circumstances.”
Those chills were suddenly back.
I don’t think I can. He wanted to say it rationally, he wanted to argue with facts, even though just hearing the words in his head made his chest burn. He wasn’t sure whether that was from shame or helplessness.
He didn’t think he could get an erection in this office.
But that was just another thing you didn’t get to say to Snow.
You didn’t get to say, I can’t.
There was no dignity in this office, Finnick had known that when he first walked in.
But somehow, while they were talking, he’d still managed to forget.
on to chapter 4