Chapter Text
There’s an old bedtime story the mothers in District 4 like to tell their children. A story about how the people of District 4 used to be creatures of the ocean. How they had homes in the corals, played games in the seaweeds, and how the ocean provided everything that they needed whenever they needed it. They never went without, and never asked for more.
But, one day, someone got curious and wanted… more.
He snuck up to the surface, an inch closer every day until his fingers finally broke through the water and into the warm air above. Then he would dive back down to the bottom of the ocean before anyone would notice. Over and over again, he would do that like he was testing it. Like he was trying to decide if the unknown world would harm him, if it was worth leaving the comfort of the ocean.
And eventually, his curiosity won.
He broke through.
When he came back down the following day, they said he seemed different. They asked him what he had seen, what was up there, what was the surface like. And all he could say to explain it was… more. There was more. More light, more space, just… more.
And that was enough.
Soon after there were groups of them going to the surface, inch by inch. Day after day. Daring the other to go a bit higher, stay out of the water a bit longer, bring back something from this ‘more’ for the others to see.
A few minutes on the surface turned into a few hours, which turned into a few days and that turned into a few weeks. Until some of them just…never returned.
The ocean tried to call them back the only way it knew how. It created gentle currents that curled around their ankles, waves that kissed a little higher along the shore, as if coaxing them home.
But they didn’t come back the same way anymore.
They returned less often, and when they did, they didn’t stay long. The water that was once their entire world was now only a piece of it. They built homes out of stone instead of coral, they learned to sleep without the rhythm of the tide beneath them and the children no longer played in seaweed, but in trees.
They moved further inland as their population grew.
And the ocean watched as they left the shores but never once did it stop reaching. The tides rolled in and out, as if it could gather them back if it tried hard enough but it never forced them.
With one final goodbye, the ocean gave them a parting gift.
Tears.
It slipped the salt into them, the same salt they had been born from, the same salt that once filled their lungs and provided everything for them. The ocean wove it into them, so that whenever their chests ached, whenever the world got too complicated and too harsh, it would be there.
A gentle reminder of where they came from, what had loved them first, and how ‘more’ is not always a good thing.
“Finn!”
His eyes peeled open under the harsh sun, a hand coming up out of the water to shield his eyes as he turned his head toward the voice that had interrupted his floating time.
“Finnick! We’re gonna be late!”
Finnick lifted his head some more, rotating around in the water until he was upright and his feet kicking under him. It was Rowan standing there at the edge of the sand, arms waving over his head as if Finnick might somehow miss him if he didn’t make a whole show of it. He looked smaller from way out here where Finnick was, his shape hard to make out with the glare of the sun, but he would have recognized those lanky arms from anywhere.
His eyes flicked up toward the sun where he could tell that it was nearly noon now. “I’m coming!” Finnick shouted back, his voice carried by the waves as he started swimming toward the shore, arms cutting through the water in easy breast strokes. When he reached the slope, he stood up and ran a hand through his hair, shaking it out so the droplets scattered, and he flashed Rowan his biggest grin.
“We have plenty of time,” he told him, stepping fully onto the shore and heading to where he had discarded his shirt and pants earlier. Sand fell from them when he picked them up, and he took a moment to shake the grains free.
“Uh no…. We have, like….less than twenty minutes, Finn. Your dad sent me out here to find you.”
The mention of his dad got his attention more than anything else, solely because his dad didn’t send people to find him unless he really meant it.
He was a good man, his dad. A little strict, yeah, but good. After Finnick’s mom passed, it had been just the two of them. He had been ten when it happened, old enough to understand she wasn’t coming back, young enough that it felt like his entire world had ended.
But after that, they did everything together.
Fishing at dawn, dragging heavy buckets back home at sunset with whatever the ocean decided to give them that day. Most days they came back with enough to sell and enough to eat. Other days they came back with absolutely nothing and just laughed about it, laying on the deck while the boat rocked beneath them.
“I bet I can make it there before you,” he teased while he wiggled his brows at Rowan and shoved a foot into his shoe, grinding it into the sand so it fit right.
“What? No! I’m way faster than you,” Rowan shot back immediately, straightening up as if Finnick had just challenged his entire existence.
They had been best friends since diapers, before either of them could even swim properly, back when their mothers would sit together on the shore and laugh as their two boys toddled through the sand.
Finnick didn’t give Rowan time to argue and took off running as fast as he could.
“Wha— Hey! No fair!” Rowan yelled behind him, and Finnick could hear the way his steps slipped in the sand for half a second before he found his footing and chased after him.
Running on sand wasn’t easy. It shifted under every step, stole your balance if you weren’t careful. But they trained for this. They practiced in it, pushed through it and learned how to move even when it didn’t want to cooperate with them. It was harder than running in dirt, but not as hard as mud. Still, it was fun.
They were laughing carelessly before they even reached the docks, shoving at each other when one started to catch up, grabbing at sleeves and shoulders to drag the other back. For a little while, it didn’t feel like anything important was waiting for them at the end of that run. They were just two fourteen year old boys racing through the afternoon as if they had nothing but time.
As if they had their whole lives ahead of them.
When they reached the square, Finnick threw his arms up, breath coming fast. “I win,” he sang, sticking his tongue out at Rowan who was bent over with his hands on his knees, shaking his head.
“You cheated. You started before I even knew we were playing.”
“No, I was being strategic.”
“Finnick.”
He turned just in time to see his dad stepping toward him from the crowd of parents. His hand came up and went straight to Finnick’s hair like it always did, ruffling it in a way that ruined any effort Finnick had put into looking presentable.
“There you are, boy.” He said as he pulled his hand back, glancing at the dampness left on his palm before wiping it on his pants. “I should’ve known you were out in the water. You were born there and you’ll die there.” It was an old saying, a joke, but there was a weight to it today. He grabbed Finnick’s shoulders to have him face him fully, hands moving to his shirt, fixing the buttons he missed, straightening the collar, smoothing it down and Finnick let him fuss over his appearance.
The outfit was the standard for District 4. White linen, light and breathable in the heat. The pale fabric sat nicely against his tan skin and made his eyes stand out a little more. Finnick knew he was good looking. He took some pride in it, even if it sometimes came off a little cocky.
“One more thing,” his father muttered as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bracelet made of seashells. Finnick recognized it immediately. His mom’s.
Every single day since she passed, his dad had kept her bracelet on him. Always tucked away in his pocket where he could hold onto it when he needed to feel close to her. Finnick had seen him do it while he watched the tide come in, or when the nets came up empty and he stared out at the horizon a little too long. As if he was asking her what to do. As if maybe, somehow, she was out there in the water, listening and watching them.
He didn’t say anything as he took Finnick’s wrist, his hands rough from years of working the nets, and clipped it into place. The shells settled against Finnick’s skin, smooth, warmed from being in his dad’s pocket, and worn down by years of his mom wearing it before today. His fingers rested around Finnick’s wrist, and when Finnick looked up, they just… paused. Sharing a look that only they understood.
He knew Finnick knew why the Games had to happen, why he had to be in them. Finnick knew his dad wished the world was different.
While it was supposed to be an honor to be chosen, his dad had never pretended he felt that way. He nodded when he had to during the reapings. Said the right things when people were listening. But Finnick had seen the way his jaw locked up when the Games were mentioned. He had overheard the conversations his parents had about how terrible it was, year after year. He had seen the way his dad’s eyes went out of focus when they’d watch the Games together, as if he was already imagining how it would be if his son was picked.
Finnick, who was his only son. His only family left.
If he had any say in it, Finnick wouldn’t have been standing there in the square among the thousands of District 4 kids. The two of them would have been out on the boat like every other afternoon, hauling nets and laughing the way they always did no matter the kind of day they had out there.
But that wasn’t how this worked, and neither of them got a say in it.
So instead, his dad cleared his throat as if something was caught in it and his hand came up to Finnick’s hair again, ruffling it a little rougher that time. “Go on, boy. Get in line.” He gave him a small shove forward, then did the same to Rowan. “You too.”
“Yes, sir,” they said at the same time.
They fell into line side by side, their last names putting them together, and the boys around them started to find their places too. The younger ones in front of them couldn’t stay still. They rocked on their heels, twisted their fingers together and chewed at the inside of their cheeks. One of them kept pinching at his thigh over and over, quick sharp squeezes, as if he could turn whatever emotion he was feeling into something physical so today wouldn’t feel as bad.
Behind them, the older boys were different. Some of them really wanted this, Finnick could see it in the way they held themselves, the way their shoulders squared back and their chins lifted just a bit, already picturing what it would look like to hear their name called.
After what felt like forever standing there waiting, the screens around the square flickered to life with that same video they showed every year, the story of Panem told the way they wanted it remembered. Then the reapings began in the other districts, starting at Twelve and working backward like always.
Finnick stood there, the bracelet light on his wrist, the sun pressing down against his shoulders, the smell of salt still clinging faintly to his skin, and he watched with his eyes. His mind, however, drifted back to the ocean without him even trying. He thought about going back after this, running straight from the square down to the shore and diving in again as if nothing had changed.
It had to have been close to one o’clock when the escort stepped onto the stage.
Finnick could tell he was new. It showed in the way he carried himself onto the stage, all eager and excited. His hair was platinum white, long enough to brush the stage when he moved, his unnaturally high cheekbones were painted with a red hue, and his eyes were an unnatural shade of purple.
He was already smiling before the cameras fully settled on him, speaking to one of the crew and pointing toward sections of the crowd, directing attention, deciding where the focus should fall. He moved as though he understood exactly how this was meant to look, how it should feel for the people watching.
“Alright! We are live in 5, 4, 3, 2—”
They got into positions, the white-haired man standing center stage with all the lights directed onto him.
“Welcome to the Reaping of the 65th Hunger Games!” His voice carried over the speakers and through the crowd, his arms spread out wide, welcoming, as though he was greeting honored guests at a fancy party instead of standing in front of two children who were waiting for their death sentence. “I’m Loch! And I’m happy to be here today. It’s a glorious, glorious, glorious day in the beautiful, beautiful, beautiful District 4! And today, one boy and one girl will be selected to represent your District and bring glory and honor to District 4!” He clapped for himself. “It’s an absolute honor to be the escort for District 4! There is a wonderful lifestyle here, so relaxed and posh compared to other districts.”
Finnick pressed his lips together, forcing himself to hold back the laugh that threatened to break the silence around them. Rowan’s elbow nudged his side, but the two refused to make eye contact with each other because if they did, there would have been no way to keep the laughter inside.
“Ladies first!” The bowl for the girls was brought forward and Lochs hovered over it, drawing out the moment, fingers brushing over the slips before finally dipping his hand in. He moved painfully slow, trying to stretch the on-air time they were required to fill.
“Octavia Lakeson!”
Every head in her section turned at once, the movement rippling inward. The cameras overhead shifted, zooming in and locking onto her.
She was only fifteen with pretty sun-bleached hair and dark freckles that danced across her face and shoulders. She had lost her older sister to the Games not long ago. Her mother had let the ocean carry her out to sea, and her father had become the town’s drunk after losing both his wife and eldest daughter.
And Finnick didn’t really know her well, mostly through Rowan, who had a habit of talking about her more than he realized and would leave freshly caught fish at her door at least once a week.
There was a flash of shock in her face, it didn’t take her under. She gathered herself before it could and slipped her finger away from the girl beside her. Her friend looked more upset than she did, and Finnick wondered if it was because Octavia had nothing to lose by this… She had no real family anymore, not with her dad always nursing a bottle of whatever he could find. If she died, she died…
His eyes shifted then to Rowan at his side, where he noticed that the color had drained from his face completely, leaving him pale where he usually was tan, and any humor that had been sitting in his eyes before was gone now.
A peacekeeper fell in behind her as she made her way to the stage, boots striking the ground in time with her steps. The crowd stayed silent, watching as she climbed the steps and came to a stop beneath the bright lights.
Lochs’ expression never changed as she came to stand by him, he continued to look amused and completely out of touch with reality. “And repeat your name for those at home, my dear.” he told her, moving the microphone to her.
“Octavia Lakeson."
“Octavia Lakeson,” he repeated, drawing it out as if tasting it. “A lovely name for a lovely, lovely, lovely girl.” His eyes moved over her, assessing her with a toothy grin. “And those eyes…” He leaned, peering at her as though she were an object on a shelf. “Such a rich brown. So honest.”
She didn’t respond. She just continued to stand there with hands balled into fists at her sides.
Lochs sighed softly into the microphone, almost wistful. “You know, when I was your age, I had eyes just like that..” His smile widened as he looked back into the camera with an almost sinister grin. “Of course, that was before I had the means to become something a bit more… unique.” There was a light laugh from him, as though he had made a clever joke.
Octavia didn’t laugh. No one in District 4 laughed. It was unclear whether he had complimented her or insulted her.
“Anyway!” Lochs chirped, the moment already slipping from his attention as he straightened and turned back toward the bowls as the boys’ bowl was brought forward.
He reached in again with the same pace, the same painfully slow movements as he dragged it out for the cameras.
Finnick’s heartbeat picked up and he could hear a faint ringing in the back of his ears as he watched the fingers dangle and dip into the bowl. He watched as each piece of paper was touched, some picked up and then dropped again, as Lochs played around in the bowl.
His fingers flexed at his sides, curling and uncurling as he forced himself to take a breath. In. Out. He clung to the thought of the ocean, to the way it always steadied him, always pulled him back into himself. When this was over, he would go back. He would step into the water and let it quiet everything down again, let it take this feeling out of his chest and carry it away.
He kept his eyes on Lochs’ hand as it drifted through the bowl, brushing over slip after slip. Some were lifted, toyed with, then dropped again. Drawn out. Stretched thin.
Then one was taken, held up for the crowd to see and then opened, slowly, corner by corner.
“Finnick Odair.”
The name landed, and everything inside him dropped. It felt as though he was sinking, drowning under the ocean waves. The roar in his ears grew, the waves crashing louder, louder, until it drowned everything else out.
All he could do was stare at the piece of paper in Loch’s hand, at the name that was written there… His name.
Rowan turned toward him with all the color drained from his face and looking almost green in the afternoon light. His expression pulled twisted in a way Finnick had never seen before. For a second, Finnick thought he might actually throw up. Then his own stomach turned and he wasn’t so sure he was any better off.
Finnick took a deep breath through his nose as his mind jumped to his dad somewhere in the crowd, to the weight of his hand earlier, and to the bracelet resting against his skin.
Then he stepped forward.
The line broke around him, boys shifting out of his way as he passed. He could feel it, the attention settling in, every set of eyes following him as he moved toward the stage. There wasn’t any point in hesitating now. No point in letting the fear show, not here, not with all of them watching. Not with his dad watching.
So he didn’t.
He straightened as he walked, lifting his chin, setting his shoulders into place just like the older boys in line had done. If people were going to look at him, then he would give them something worth seeing. He swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat down, and let a smirk take its place on his lips.
When he reached the steps, Lochs was watching his every move, his smile widening as he came closer.
“My, my, my!” he whistled as Finnick stepped up beside him. “Look at who we have here!”
His arm wrapped around Finnick’s shoulders, pulling him in tight. His grip was firm, fingers pressing into his arm as if he was daring Finnick to pull away… as if Finnick belonged to him already. “I didn’t know District 4 made them this good looking!”
Lochs turned him a bit, angling his body more towards the audience and the cameras. “Let them get a better look at you back at the Capital," he purred and his hand slid from Finnick’s shoulder to his upper arm, guiding him, positioning him like he was a toy. Lochs hummed, circling him half a step,“and those eyes… look at that color!,” he went on about Finnick’s looks, tilting his head, studying him as though he were a rare shell pulled straight from the sea. “And that hair! Sun kissed, of course. You’ve been out on the water, haven’t you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“Of course you have,” Lochs continued, pleased with himself as his hand returned to Finnick’s arm. “And strong too! I wish you could feel all this, Panem,” he added, glancing toward the cameras as if they could somehow share in it. “Firm. Well developed for a boy his age. District 4 certainly knows how to raise them.”
Lochs smiled wider. “Yes… they’re going to love love love you,” he said, almost to himself.
Finnick didn’t move.
On the outside, Finnick continued to stand there with his chin up and a cheeky smirk on his lips.
On the inside, his skin felt like it was crawling with sea fleas.
“This is Finnick Odair, ladies and gentlemen. Your boy tribute from District 4.”