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The first thing that Finnick hears as he comes to is the constant beeping of a machine right by his ear.
It should be annoying, but it’s not. He’s spent enough time in hospitals by now to know that the machine is beeping because it’s reading his heart rate, and he’s grateful that his heart is beating at all.
His eyes feel dry and it takes effort to peel them open, but he does. The bright lights swirl above him and it’s all he can do to not clamp his eyelids shut again. Finnick’s tongue feels heavy and cottony in his mouth, and even though he tries to speak, it comes out as more of a garbled mess.
A hand is on his shoulder, gently pressing him back against the pillows. He’s in a Capitol hospital, that much he knows, but this is no Capitol doctor. “Don’t try to talk yet, Mr. Odair. You’ve been unconscious for several days.” Finnick’s pleading eyes must have articulated his confusion because the doctor continues. “Coriolanus Snow is dead. You’re safe now. The nurse is on her way to notify your wife that you’ve woken up.”
His wife. He’ll never get tired of hearing that.
His panicked breathing calms at the sight of Annie approaching his bedside. Her hair is in a ponytail but a few loose curls frame her face. The dark circles that line her eyes are overshadowed by her radiant smile. “I was waiting for you to wake up,” is the first thing she says. “Maybe you can tell Plutarch that lobster bisque isn’t the victory meal he thinks it is.”
His mouth twitches into a grin. “Sorry I took so long,” he rasps, his throat burning with the effort. A few sips of water and a moment to rest give him the energy he needs. “Lobster bisque, really? Not a very hearty soup.”
Annie laughs, throwing her hands up like this is what she’s been saying the whole time. “He insists it’s a delicacy.”
The talk about Plutarch leads to talk about the war and how everything ended. Annie updates him on everything from who’s still alive to Coin’s interim presidency (to which Finnick promptly scoffs). They won the war, technically speaking, but every victory comes with a price. In this case, most of Squad 451 is either dead or severely injured. It’ll take them weeks just to get all the victors together for a meeting, which Coin is proposing.
Finnick’s eyes start to slide shut again. Annie, as intuitive as she is, notices this and stops talking. “I’ll let you get some rest,” she offers, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“No,” he breathes, already drifting off. “Stay?”
“Anytime,” Annie replies. She hasn’t let go of his hand and doesn’t until Finnick falls asleep, although probably not even after that if he knows her at all.
He doesn’t need Annie sitting vigil by his bedside, although the fact that he wants it is obvious. He can rest easier when she’s there, and he knows she’s safe. He can rest easier knowing that he won’t have to wake up tomorrow and fight another war. Mainly, he’s just glad that after everything, he’s not waking up in a sterile hospital room with no one to talk to but the walls.
Finnick’s first thought upon waking is that he forgot to clean his trident off.
It had been coated with dried blood the last time he saw it. That stuff takes forever to wash off; he’ll be lucky if the shiny surface ever gleams again. His hands scramble for the weapon before he realizes that it doesn’t matter, because the trident isn’t with him at all.
The blankets of his hospital bed are blindingly white and tucked so tightly around his body that they may as well have been restraints. Finnick’s mind is foggy, maybe from exhaustion or whatever heavy duty drugs they have here in the Capitol. No medical expense is spared for the victors.
That’s what he is now, isn’t it? A victor. It feels hard to believe. He doesn’t feel like he’s won anything.
Finnick’s fingers reach down to his abdomen, where blood was pouring out just hours ago. Now, the skin there barely tingles with the pull of stitches and whatever numbing agent they’ve given him. All of his arena injuries, scars, and tribulations have been erased. His hair is fluffy and clean and bleached gold from the sun. There is no imperfection on his body that the Capitol doesn’t want there.
Beauty Base Zero, they call it. He’s a clean slate.
The rest of the hours drag on, and for as long as Finnick is awake, he has no visitors. A nurse will come in to check his vitals every so often, but other than that, he suspects there must be some sort of locking mechanism on the door that keeps people from entering.
It’s not until the next day that the door swings open with a shriek of metal. “Good morning, Finnick. You’re looking well.”
He’s seen President Snow on television, but never in person, and certainly not so close. Up close, Finnick is surprised by how old he looks. He looks like the ancient men at District Four’s market who sell their stew and everyone buys it because it’s the best stew in the district. Only the president has no stew, and even if he did, it probably wouldn’t taste very good. “Thank you, sir,” he responds, not really knowing what to say.
It appears to be the right answer because the president gives him a satisfied smile in response. “Now, Finnick, I’m sure you know about the customary victor interview that takes place after every Hunger Games.”
Wordlessly, Finnick nods.
“Traditionally, we wait a full forty-eight hours before bringing the victor onstage. However, you are a bit of a special case.”
Dread pools in his stomach. “How so?” Finnick asks, trying to keep his voice even.
The president smiles again, and Finnick is really starting to feel unsettled. “Well, for one, our finest doctors have done a wonderful job of patching you up. And your fans here in the Capitol are very eager to see you again.”
“You want me to do the interview early?” It hasn't been forty-eight hours yet, that much he knows.
“Precisely,” says the president, looking at Finnick like he just answered a question right in class. “And, think of this, Finnick. You will again be making history as the victor with the shortest recovery time.”
The president heads for the door as if this is all Finnick needs to hear. He exits before Finnick can decline the offer, although he doesn’t think he had much of a choice in the first place.
He doesn’t sleep after that. It’s difficult to rest when his stomach is churning with nausea like there’s a war on the horizon.
As it turns out, the most difficult part of the war isn’t the fighting.
Finnick knows combat. He can wield a gun and a trident and anything in between, and he can do it with ease. With battle, there’s only one goal: survive. Now that he’s done that, the rest of it starts to get a lot less clear.
The streets of the Capitol are absolutely decimated. There was an arena like this, not too long ago. Tributes had to climb through the rubble of a bombed city. It didn’t end up being a very popular Games because there was nowhere to forage for any natural food. Most of the tributes died from dehydration before the first week was up.
Seeing the Capitol in this state is nothing short of jarring. For as much as he hated being here, the Capitol had always been very ornate and consistently wealthy. Now, citizens line the streets in desperate mobs, dirty and hungry and crying. It’s a scene that feels more applicable to the districts than a place like this.
Despite this, these people are Capitol. Their eyes bore into his back and he can hear their whispers as he walks down the street. It’s not hard to guess what they’re thinking.
He hasn’t been back to the Capitol since he did that explosive propo detailing every atrocity he’s heard of in the Capitol. Since he revealed that their favorite celebrity is less of a victor and more of a prisoner.
Johanna walks by his side like a diligent bodyguard, but even she can’t stop the whispers. She sports a scathing glare and lets her disdain for the Capitol bleed through in her every movement, because she’s never gotten the chance to before.
Finnick flinches as someone reaches for his arm. They don’t quite touch his body but they grasp at the fabric of his sleeve. He wrenches his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”
He’s never said those words to anyone in the Capitol in his life. Doing so would’ve almost certainly gotten someone killed. He feels the small hitch of his breath that still comes from breaking a rule, even now, when it’s technically not a rule anymore.
He’s about to walk away when the person speaks, and he recognizes it as a woman’s voice. “Finnick! Please, don’t you remember me?”
Finnick flinches, barely. He turns back around and takes a slow, careful look at the woman. Ages ago, he would have said yes. Yes, he remembers her, because how could he forget such a beautiful face?
“I don’t know who you are,” he says simply, and walks away.
He’s not unkind, but he’s not putting on a show, either. There’s no need to anymore. He’s a revolutionary just like everyone else here, and there’s no need to keep up the pretense that he ever held any emotional connection to the people of the Capitol.
The show is over.
The crowd at Caesar Flickerman’s show is overwhelming.
They’re loud and so brightly colored, from their clothes to their hair to their eyes and skin. Everyone is excited to watch Finnick’s post-arena interview and get the newest gossip on his thoughts on how the Games went. The suit he wears is a striking shade of turquoise that his stylist insists brings out his eyes. He would run his hand through his hair like he usually does when he’s nervous, but it’s been so artfully styled into beachy waves that he doesn’t want to mess it up now.
He draws a few deep breaths. From beside him, Mags reaches for his hand. “It will be fine,” she says sagely, like she has the answer to every question in the world.
He nods. If she believes it, then so does he.
The stage lights are even brighter once he gets up there. Caesar welcomes him with an impossibly broad grin, giving Finnick a firm handshake. “Finnick, so nice to see you!” he says, and the crowd roars. Once they quiet a little, Caesar invites him to sit down. “You know, I must admit, I was rooting for you the whole time.”
He smiles coyly just like he’s supposed to. “Can I tell you a secret, Caesar?” he asks, leaning in. The cacophony of the crowd falls to a gentle lull as they listen in. “So was I.”
This gets a laugh out of everyone, and Finnick is feeling more warmed up. He lets his body relax into the chair, exuding confidence and comfort.
“Now, Finnick,” Caesar says, his tone morphing into something more serious. “We have to talk about your district partner. How were you feeling when you saw that she had lost the game?”
That’s a phrase the Capitol uses. Lost the game. Not died, not been killed. It makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably. He tries not to reveal this to the crowd. “I was upset, of course,” he begins, eliciting a sympathetic hum from the crowd. “It was a brutal end and she deserved better. I only wish I could have stayed with her.”
Caesar nods, like he was expecting this response. “Of course. But you had to run. Districts One and Two were after you. That had to have been scary.”
Finnick flinches a little. The memory isn’t a pleasant one. If he thinks about it too long, he can still hear the scream of the District Two girl right before she was impaled by his trident. “I’m just grateful to be here,” he says smoothly. He shifts in his chair so he’s facing the crowd, and they chatter with excitement. “I don’t know what I would do if I could never see any of you again.”
They erupt into celebratory whoops and heartbroken sobs alike. They love him, by the sounds of it.
Finnick leans back in his chair, his heart thudding in his chest. He’s done his job.
Their home is quiet when he and Annie return.
Victors’ Village feels like a ghost town. Unlike the decimated remains of the rest of the district, the Village wasn’t touched by bombs or combat. It was left alone, probably to serve as a reminder, or for Capitol officials to have somewhere nice to sleep. The lawns are overgrown, and the houses feel desolate without people to fill them up. An empty porch swing at one of the houses creaks on its hinges as it sways in the wind. Somewhere down the street, somebody’s window shutters are completely removed. They must have been in the process of renovating.
“It’s so empty,” Annie breathes, her eyes glassy. She grips his hand.
Finnick can only nod.
Their house is much like the others. When they go inside, Finnick can take stock of the level of abandonment. A few dishes sit piled on the counter. The blanket for the couch is crumpled on the floor. Every surface has accumulated a thick layer of dust that leaves his finger dirty as he pulls it away.
“Nothing’s broken,” he says, eyes scanning the kitchen. Annie nods in relief.
Things are broken, though, just not in their home. The Town Square, where the reaping was annually held, is a decimated pile of rubble. People’s homes have been bombed and ravaged and torn apart. The people of District Four, or those who are still left, are shell-shocked and crying desperate tears of loss and relief.
Somehow, it gets done. They rebuild. He and Annie spend weeks in the hot sun, picking up rubble and recovering lost belongings and giving people new home assignments. He hasn’t worked this hard since before entering the arena, at least, not physically.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asks Annie as they dig through the ruins of the Justice Building, looking for anything worth salvaging.
She wraps her jacket tighter around her shoulders. “I’m fine. Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worried,” he protests, trying to be dismissive, but it sounds like a lie even to his own ears.
Annie gives him a small, fond smile. “I feel okay. But if I start feeling nauseous or something, I’ll sit down, okay?”
Finnick nods. This is enough for him. Annie’s pregnancy has been a hot topic in their house as of late. Sometimes, it’s all he can think about. But he trusts Annie to know what her body needs and when it needs it.
The weeks pass. It isn’t easy. Most of it is grueling work, and he’s not only talking about the recovery of the district. He and Annie and all of Panem, really, have never dealt with this feeling before. The stillness that comes after so much destruction. There has never been silence before. Just the destruction, prolonged and so perpetual that it wasn’t forgotten by anyone.
Not that anyone will be forgetting now. The Games and the war and Snow’s regime will live in his memories forever, and then in the history books. Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it, as Mags used to say.
But things get better. They begin to move on.
The first time Finnick steps foot into his new home in Victors’ Village, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
It’s so quiet. He is the only one in the house at the moment; the rest of his family is working on packing up the old house. The camera crew has just left, and it feels strange not being watched. The space is all his, right now.
It’s so big. It’s modest compared to the houses in the Capitol, but far more luxurious than anything else in the district. He can’t believe it’s all his.
Finnick hopes that this feeling will go away soon. The constant feeling of his skin crawling, like he doesn’t belong in his own body. It doesn’t go away after a week or even a month. Finally, after getting tired of waiting to feel normal again, he invites some of his old school friends over. Maybe this will make him feel like a person again.
It doesn’t. Finnick tries. He puts on his Capitol smile and talks with them about homework and girls at school and what the Capitol was like, but something’s not clicking. It feels like his friends will leave his house and immediately start talking about how different he is now.
Can everyone see it? Can everyone tell that the scent of the arena still clings to his skin?
Finnick gives up, after a while. Most of his old friends don’t talk to him anymore. These days, the only people he really talks to are Mags and the other victors.
He’s starting to feel like they’re the only people who really get him anymore.
“I don’t get it,” Finnick says to Mags one warm afternoon as they sit on her porch. He’s drinking a glass of lemonade. It used to be crisp, cold condensation lining the glass, but the sun has made it warmer. “How do I become me again?”
Mags raises her eyebrows. “Are you not yourself already?”
She’s joking, a little. Finnick can see the slight smile that tugs at her mouth. He frowns, and the smile disappears. “Not like I used to be. I mean, how do I move on?”
Mags sighs. She sets down her glass of iced tea on the coffee table in front of her. “You don’t.”
“What?” Her answer is too blunt for Finnick’s liking.
“You can’t,” she says, and she doesn’t even sound sad about it. Just resigned. “Even if you had all the time in the world to recover from the ordeal, it’s impossible. It will only be augmented every year, with the constant reminders.”
Finnick huffs a disbelieving laugh. “So it never gets better?”
“That’s not what I said,” says Mags, and Finnick has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at how cryptic that sounds. “It can fade, with time and support. But it will never be erased. Not when you must go through it again every year until you die.”
It’s morbid, but Finnick’s beginning to realize how correct she is. Suddenly the purpose of the Victory Tour and the annual Games become more clear. Mags is right. How can you move on from something in a world that makes you relive it?
Finnick doesn’t know very much about babies.
He was an only child, so he never watched his parents have another kid. His circle of close friends as an adult was limited, for obvious reasons. None of them ever had children. So to say this is unfamiliar territory is an understatement.
The doctors say that their baby will come any day now. He and Annie have been looking at each other with a mixture of terror and excitement for weeks. Every day that passes leaves Finnick one day closer to meeting their son.
“What do you think he’ll be like?” Annie asks as they rest on the couch. Her hand rests on her stomach, and Finnick’s hand rests on her hand.
“Smart, like his mother,” he says, and Annie grins.
“Flatterer.”
He shrugs. “I’m just telling the truth.”
Annie laughs. “Well, I think he’ll be smart, too. He’ll get it from you.”
“Both of us,” Finnick concedes. “We’ll compromise.”
This is a game they like to play. Their son is a frequent topic of discussion, but he’s not the only one. They talk about the future of lots of things. The other victors, all spread out across the country. Or the future of their district, slowly but surely recovering. It’s nice to speculate about positive things. He and Annie have both had enough dread for a lifetime.
Their son comes three days later. It’s a smooth birth, according to Mrs. Everdeen. As smooth as they could have wanted.
The three of them rest on the bed in the master bedroom. Finnick, Annie, and their newborn son. He blinks up at them with his huge, green eyes. His fingers wrap around Annie’s hair and tug gently. He gives Finnick a bright smile like he knows exactly who he’s with and what’s going on.
“He’s beautiful,” Annie says, her voice thick with emotion.
He’s more than beautiful, Finnick thinks. He’s radiant.
Now that he thinks about it, Finnick can’t remember the last time he’s seen a baby. Victors were averse to having them, of course. But that level of caution isn’t necessary anymore. They can bring new life into the world all they want.
That’s not to say that his son will live life unharmed. Nobody does. But his son is being born into a world renewed, and that’s the best any of them can ask for.