Archive of Our Own

"There's my beautiful boy," Seamus murmurs, softly tugging on the perfect little golden brown curl sitting on his son's forehead. 

Finnick's chin tucks to his chest bashfully, sea-green eyes gazing at him as a dimpled smile graces his gentle features. Seamus' knee aches from his position on the hard floor but he ignores it to stitch the final tear on his son's grey dress-shirt. An old one of his. The fabric is worn and the checkered pattern fading, but his little boy can make anything look swell. 

 "I'm taller than you now," Finnick says with an impish grin, taking in their height difference with Seamus kneeling in front of him while he stands.

"Uh huh." Seamus nods along, smirking. He's a large man, likely one of the most imposing in their district. His children are tall too but not his little Finnick just yet. At fourteen, his older brothers were taller. 

Seamus begins to rise with a grunt. "And what happens if I—"

"No!" Finnick giggles, pressing down on his shoulders to keep him on the ground. "I'm taller."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I apologize, Your Majesty," Seamus says in a pretentious Capitol accent, making his son laugh some more. 

They're swiftly interrupted by the impatient squawk of a bird Seamus wishes dearly he could kill with a stone. Finnick gasps and rushes over to the bedroom window, ready to greet his friend— why can't his son have real, human friends— and almost pecked in the eye by the long beak of a scruffy pelican. 

It's a dirty little thing, stained a muddy brown where it should be white, with enough feathers missing for it to be unable to fly straight. The tip of its orange beak is gone, the very reason Finnick had come crying with it in his arms four years ago, begging Mommy and Daddy to help. 

Considering they saved its damn life, Seamus fails to understand why the ugly thing can't be kinder to him. But no, all it does every time they lock eyes is squawk like Seamus is the ugly one. It acts all sweet and lovely with Finnick though, so he supposes he shouldn't be too upset. 

"Morning, Shelly!" his son greets, reaching out to pet its feathers. "Whatcha have for me?"

The pelican opens its stretchy mouth, letting Finnick take a look inside. Seamus wrinkles his nose when he sees its a soggy slice of cake— a special Capitol-made cake only for the Peacekeepers. Finnick has a different reaction, grinning delightedly and patting his feathered friend harder for a job well done. 

"I wish I saw the look on Mr. Trent's face when you stole his precious cake right from under his nose, Shelly!" And there's no doubt that the bird stole it from Lock Trent, District Four's Head Peacekeeper, because he's the only one out of the other Peacekeepers who regularly flaunts his sugary treat in the faces of civilians barred from eating anything from the Capitol. 

He especially likes to eat in front of the little ones, knowing they're too young to understand he won't give them a slice and is only taunting them. 

"Enjoy, girl," Finnick says enthusiastically, ignoring Seamus' warning against kissing its head.

He shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. "Come along now. It's time for breakfast. No Shelly's allowed."

Finnick pouts but doesn't argue, saying goodbye to the bird before hurrying to their small living room. While District Four is far from the poorest district— in fact, they fare much better than every district other than One and Two— the Odair house is still small. Most houses in their part of the district are. It's only natural that all civilians in the Capitol are varying states of rich but people within a single district are varying states of poor.

Unfortunately, his family are on the lower end. Still, they don't have to worry about tesserae like the other districts. Their food provisions are enough and they have endless access to the sea for fish. District Four reaps its benefits from being so important to the Capitol for food supply. Without tesserae, all children in their district have fairer odds in the reaping. 

Today, at fourteen years old, his Finnick will have his name in the pool only six times and their district's eligible-children population is well over five thousand. The odds are in his favour, just as they were for Finnick's older brothers who no longer have to participate in the reaping. The twins are nineteen and his oldest is twenty-four, engaged to be wed. 

And when Finnick is finally nineteen, the Odairs will never have to worry about the reaping again. All his children will be safe.

"Oh, sorry, I think that piece is for me," Colin says, scooping Finnick up and trying to eat his bread.

"No, it's not!" Finnick squeals, smiling wide as he holds the bread high above his head. Unfortunately for him, Conor snatches it right out of his hands from behind and takes a big bite.

"Hey!" Finnick protests. He scrambles out of Colin's grip and runs to his mother. "Ma, that was mine!"

Seamus takes a seat at the table and exchanges a tired but amused look with his wife, Ester. 

"Oh, calm down, short stack," Conor says, rolling his eyes playfully. It doesn't help that he's saying those words around a mouthful of Finnick's bread. Normally, Seamus wouldn't let this slide (nor would it happen), but they all know something Finnick doesn't so he lets it go.

On cue, he front door opens with a swing. "Don't go too hard on him, guppy. I think I have something much better than some bread. And it's all yours."

"Desmond!" Finnick cheers, tackling his oldest brother in a hug like they haven't seen each other in years. 

"You saw him two days ago," Colin laughs.

Finnick's bottom lip juts out. "Yeah, but he was busy with Rosanne."

"I thought you liked Rose," Ester comments as she sets the table. 

"We'll see," Finnick answers with an upturned nose.

"Hey," Desmond says, nudging him sternly even though there's a smile on his lips. "That's my future wife you're talking about."

"You're my Des first," Finnick huffs. Seamus watches as his oldest looks at his youngest with the warmest expression he's ever seen on him, his own heart melting at the words. 

"Yes, I am," Desmond responds softly, brushing Finnick's hair back. He receives a delighted smile. Seamus and Ester knew from the moment Finnick was born, just from the glimmer in Desmond's eyes, that he wouldn't only be their baby. "Now, would you like to see what I brought you or do you want to continue being a jealous little brat?"

"Am not!"

"Are too," the twins say together. 

Yesterday afternoon, Desmond caught some bluefin tuna, a valuable species of fish that was immediately given to the Peacekeepers to pass along to the Capitol due to its rich belly fat. The civilians of District Four are only allowed to keep and eat regular fish. Anything with greater nutritional value is for the Capitol. 

Desmond managed to steal a few for himself. Finnick needs a good start to the morning of Reaping Day after all. 

Reaping Day.

Seamus knows his children and wife are telling themselves not to worry— that their youngest will be safe because the chances of him being chosen are so infinitesimal. 

And District Four is a career district. Maybe not as intense as One and Two, where volunteering to be tribute is seen as an honour, but there's still an academy here that prepares the children, which is more than can be said for the other districts. Finnick attends, as did his brothers. 

Finnick is special. Time and time again, his teachers have praised him for his exceptional skills— swimming, trident-wielding, sprinting— he's the best in his age group for almost everything. 

But that's just it— he's the best in his age group. He hasn't hit his growth spurt yet. He's so small compared to the older kids. He doesn't pack as many muscles as the older teens do. His voice hasn't even dropped yet.

His voice hasn't dropped yet. 

Seamus finds it difficult to swallow all of a sudden. Six slips out of tens of thousands. The odds are in his favour. 

The words repeat in his head like a mantra. 

Desmond watches as Finnick skips a rock into the waters, sitting back in a squat on the sand. He steps forward and places a hand on those soft, bronze curls his fingers are so familiar with. Until he turned eight, Finnick couldn't fall asleep unless Desmond was running his fingers through his hair. It was quite a tedious task for a seventeen year old who would've rather spent his evenings with his girl and friends, but he didn't realize how much he loved doing it until Finnick didn't need him anymore. 

The idea of his sweet baby brother one day not needing him still feels like a punch to the gut. He's growing up fast, no longer wanting to be attached to his hip every waking moment. The independence is expected of a teenager but it doesn't make it hurt any less. 

Ma used to joke that Finny was more his baby than hers and Pa's. 

And maybe that's true because Desmond sometimes finds himself resenting his parents for bringing his sweet boy into this unjust world. Why didn't they stop with him? He asks questions he already knows the answers to. The Capitol forces district civilians to breed children for their entertainment.

He clenches his jaw, thinking about the promise he and Rosanne made to not have any children. Really, it's not up to them. 

They, too, would inevitably have children whose names would end up in a pool of candidates. Like Finnick's. 

"You'll get your clothes all sandy," Desmond says, gently scratching Finnick's full head of hair.

"Who cares?" comes the sullen response. "It's all stupid anyway. Why should I respect them?"

Desmond glances around wearily. The port is crowded, fishers returning from their early morning shifts since they won't be allowed to work for the rest of the day. Peacekeepers, however, are spread out thinly. District Four is never under too much surveillance but it's still risky to speak against the Capital out loud. 

He crouches down beside his little brother, hand lowering to squeeze the back of his neck in comfort. "I'm not asking you to respect them, guppy. But we have to obey or else someone gets hurt."

Old Laney was publicly flogged last year for refusing to be present during the Reaping. Only terminally ill people were allowed to stay home and Laney was working just fine. He'd refused because his only living relative, his sixteen year old granddaughter, had been a tribute the year before and died a brutal death. The Capitol hadn't even been able to return her body. 

Not a single bit of compassion was spared for the old man. He died three lashes in, too old to hold on. 

So no, he doesn't need Finnick to respect them and mean it, but he does need him to obey the rules. 

"And what if I get reaped? Do I still have to obey their rules then? Even if it means dying for their fun?" Finnick counters angrily, furrowed gaze trained on the rocks in his hands. 

Desmond releases a slow and careful breath, doing everything in his power to keep it from trembling. They're questions he can't answer and Finnick knows that. 

But Desmond can read between the lines. Finnick is scared. He's afraid of being chosen. People, his classmates and teachers, have probably told him that he'd do great in the arena if he ever got reaped. Others in District Four likely think the exact same. Perhaps they've even hoped that it's Finnick who gets chosen because he'd do better than their own children.

Hell, Desmond might even agree if just the thought of his little guppy stepping a single foot in an arena didn't make him sick to his very stomach. 

"I don't wanna be a tribute, Des," Finnick whispers, curling into himself. "My classmates are nuts, bragging about how strong they are and how well they'd do if they went in. Why would anyone want that? Who would willingly do this? I don't wanna kill people."

"Hey..," Desmond murmurs, turning his brother's face towards him. 

His beautiful green eyes are wet with unshed tears and the sight breaks his heart. If there's one thing he can't handle, it's his brothers upset. It's that failure, knowing he can't keep them happy all the time. 

"I don't wanna," Finnick hiccups, a tear rolling down his flushed cheek. 

"Oh, baby, I know," Desmond whispers, pulling him into his arms like he's six years old again. 

This reaction was missing during his first time in the reaping. Because of his training and his superior grades in the academy, Finnick seemed ready to prove himself that first year. But, after being spared, the previous two years' Games were the only ones he'd watched while being an actual eligible contender. As every year passes, more slips enter the pool. 

It's real now. 

"You guys think my chances are really low, right?" Finnick asks desperately and Desmond can only stare. They are low, but it's chance they're talking about and those chances are higher than they were last year when he only had three slips. "You don't think I'll be chosen, right, Des?"

No, he doesn't. It's almost impossible for Finnick to be chosen. 

Almost.

"Promise me, Des. Please." Sweet, wide green eyes look up at him, pleading. A promise only a child would ask to be made.

Desmond's never been able to tell Finnick no.

"I promise, guppy."

It's the sound of their mother falling to her knees that makes the world stop spinning, allowing noise to rush back into him like a wave. 

"Finnick Odair? Come on up, sweetie," the Capitol escort calls out in a shrill voice, their ridiculous wig shaking as they turn their head every which way.  

It's quiet around the town square. Nobody volunteers. District Four is a career district and nobody volunteers because Finnick Odair has a high chance of survival already. 

Even though he's only fourteen years old.

The crowd of children parts for one boy and Desmond watches, unable to move, unable to comfort his distraught parents and siblings, as a head of golden curls moves up to the stage. There's nothing he can do. Desmond can't volunteer anymore. Neither can the twins and he wouldn't want them to anyway. 

Nobody except for a handful of the older teens in District Four has a better chance of surviving this year's Games than Finnick, but District Four isn't like One or Two. What's the point in making a worthy kid volunteer in Finnick's place if Finnick is already good enough? It'll just be seen as a waste of a future Tribute— a waste of resources.

Desmond's foot takes an unconscious step forward, trembling. It doesn't move any further. Begging them to spare Finnick, to draw a different name, would be pointless. In the history of the Games, the Capitol has never given anyone an out. Not even the children with mental disabilities who have the intellect of a three year old. 

If Desmond dared to voice his protest, he'd only endanger the rest of his family. 

Desmond can't protect the boy he's protected since the moment he came into this world, crying and reaching for the sky. 

"Seems we have a looker this year," the escort giggles, reaching out to hold Finnick's hand. Desmond wants to rip the bitch's eyes out of their sockets. Wants to cut off their hands for daring to touch his boy. 

Their words are a compliment to Finnick as much as they are an insult to the seventeen year old female volunteer on the other side of the stage. Everyone knows Camille, remembers the day their heftiest fishing hook had gotten out of someone's control and latched onto her face, ripping her open from forehead to chin. Her sunburnt skin looks like somebody stitched two halves of a face together. 

"Ladies and gentlemen of District Four, your tributes for the 65th Hunger Games!"

For the first time in their lives, the Odairs are silent. The twins are huddled close, seeking each other's comfort because Desmond and their parents can't bring themselves to be the ones to offer it. Not today. Their mother stares into space and their father has his eyes shut tight, like he's warding off a headache, as they all stand around in the town square.

The Peacekeepers had let them return to their homes for a few hours before calling everybody back outside for mandatory viewing of the opening ceremony. It's a sick joke to force the families of the tributes to watch as their children are paraded into the Capitol for their impending slaughter.

To watch and listen as the Capitol audience cheers like there's something so amazingly entertaining about children being dressed up before their deaths. And in three days time, they'll be forced to watch the interviews as well.

The Panem anthem plays, signalling the start to the event. Rosanne is a rock by his side, clutching his hand tight. As much as Finnick gets jealous of her for stealing him away, Desmond knows he loves her. Like she's his older sister, he always looks forward to hanging out with her when she's not busy working. 

They have their own secret handshake. Desmond's seen it exactly once by accident and it was so complicated that he had to wonder how they manage to remember it. 

Caesar Flickerman's dramatic voice blares throughout the district, his hair a glittery pink to match his makeup. He grins at the camera, seated at a table with Claudius Templesmith as the screen behind them flickers between showing the audience, President Snow, the Gamemakers, and the location of the ceremony. 

"Welcome, everybody, to the opening ceremony of the 65th Hunger Games!" he greets brightly. The eccentric audience follows with loud, enthusiastic cheers. 

"It's been too long, hasn't it, Claudius?" 

"Far too long, Caesar!"

They say this like the same amount of time doesn't pass between each Games. If the Capitol had it their way, they would probably make the districts play to the death every month. Yet they say the district civilians are the animals. 

"Oh, but I heard we have quite a few interesting contenders in the ring this year," Caesar says and the screen behind them changes to showcase the Games-ready photographs of the twenty-four tributes. 

Desmond's heart squeezes when he instantly finds his little guppy in the middle row, a smile on his face and both his name and district number below him. The smile is forced— that, his entire family understood in a second. A real smile would've made the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkle and his freckled button nose scrunch.

"You know, the Career Tributes are quite large this year," Claudius notes. "Cobo Thornway is from District One and he's six foot three, two hundred and five pounds. Wow. Wouldn't wanna face off that guy."

Caesar laughs, delighted. "Angie Hawktail from District Two is even taller!" He pretends to whisper, leaning in. "And I hear she's got nails as sharp as talons. Talk about living up to the name!"

If they're Career tributes from One and Two, they're likely older teens who volunteered— all of them seventeen or eighteen, if Desmond has to guess. Even though their pictures are just face shots, he can still tell they're as large as the hosts say. The grins they wear are unsettling, hungry. 

"Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen. The tributes this year come in all different shapes and sizes," Caesar says, like he's selling produce at the market and not innocent children. "District Nine's Spring Lumine is fifteen years old but, my goodness, she's about the size of a kitten!"

"Don't write her off too soon, Caesar," Claudius chimes in. "The smaller you are, the easier it is to stay hidden. She may just be this year's winner!"

"Wise judgement, Claudius," the pink-haired man praises, nodding his head. He pauses for a moment, looking down at the desk and touching some papers for show before raising his gaze. "Although, I do think we have someone the Capitol is rooting for to be the winner already..."

"Truly?" 

"Truly!"

Desmond and his family jolt back to life a little when their Finnick's photo takes up the screen. Heads from around the town square turn to glance at them.

"Ah, yes! District Four's Finnick Odair. Only fourteen years old! Incredible! Why do you think the Capitol is rooting for him? His stats, while impressive for his age and given that he's from a Career district, are still inferior to the other Careers and a handful of the older tributes," Claudius converses, leaning back in his chair.

The reminder that Finnick has tough competition makes Desmond's stomach twirl. 

Caesar smirks, shaking his head. "Now, Claudius. Is that really a question? Look at him!"

The two laugh like they're sharing a joke, like they aren't discussing a fourteen year old child's attractiveness. Desmond feels sick.

Finnick's beauty being a topic of discussion is nothing new. He's radiant in a way that isn't common and yet the rest of the Odairs could be described as plain. Finnick has received more compliments about his appearance in his thirteen years of life than about anything else.

They're all well-aware how beautiful their youngest is. It's just never been a site of danger before. Now, it feels like it might be. 

"You're right, of course. Such beauty!" Claudius says with awe.

"And we haven't even seen him in person yet!" Caesar guffaws. The trumpets sound, interrupting them. "Ah, but we will soon! Here our tributes come, folks!"

Pair by pair, district after distract arrive in their horse-drawn chariots, dressed to represent the primary labour of their district. 

Like every year, District One is fashioned spectacularly and they're the most hard-on-the-eyes with all the reflective gems clinging to their clothing. District Two's pair are dressed in dark grey and black to represent their weapon manufacturing, but they still somehow stand out. District Three's pair are a little on the small and lanky side— their clothing designed intricately to likely represent the complexities of technology.

But the roars of the audience really start up when District Four makes their entrance. 

"Marvellous!" Caesar gasps.

"Holy shit," Conor mumbles. 

"District Four has truly outdone themselves this year!" Claudius claps. "Mermaids! What a splendid idea!"

Finnick and Camille are dressed like mythical sea creatures. Their chariot and horses are both painted a deep blue to match the theme. Woven through Finnick's curls are pieces of a shimmering, sharp crown. His torso is bare but his shoulders are covered in a sheer blue net and golden cuffs circle his forearms like armour. 

His hips and waist are also bare, only waist beads and dangling necklaces wrapped around the glittery skin to accentuate his slim figure. All that covers his intimate areas is a loincloth and a fashionable fishing net that barely reaches his mid-thighs. Trailing behind him is a long, flowing fabric designed to look like the waves of the ocean, the tail of a mermaid. Sandals and anklets finish the look.

Camille is dressed similarly but with a fabric to cover her breasts. 

Desmond wants to drown every single stylist who approved this. His fourteen year old brother is barely wearing clothes while being paraded around in front of millions of people. 

Their father steps away for a moment.  

"District Four has undoubtably stolen the show tonight, folks!" Caesar applauds. "Listen to that crowd!"

But all Desmond can focus on is the way his little guppy's smile struggles to stay on his face.

Seamus knows the feeling of helplessness. He's felt it as a child when his best friend lost his mother to sickness and he couldn't figure out how to comfort him. He's felt it when he stood in line every year from twelve to eighteen on Reaping Day.

But helplessness is a different feeling entirely when one is a father and they cannot do the sole thing they're supposed to do for their children— protect them. He's never felt this helpless, this stuck, before. The feeling always went away when his boys continuously escaped, unharmed, every Reaping Day, when he was able to hold them close afterwards, but this?

This isn't going away. It never will because his little boy is a Tribute now and he might only come home to him in a wooden box. Seamus couldn't stop the Capitol from snatching his child away from him on Reaping Day. He can't stop them from getting him ready for slaughter. He can't stop them from dumping him into an arena full of fatal dangers entirely under their control. 

And he can't stop them from dressing his child up in provocative clothes.

Because that's what it is, isn't it? Provocative? This is all on purpose because the Capitol does nothing without purpose when it comes to the districts' children. 

"Welcome, Finnick!" Caesar Flickerman greets with a large smile, standing up to offer his hand. "I think I speak for everyone when I say we've been dying to meet you."

As if on cue, the Capitol audience makes their noise, cheering and screaming, desperate for a child's attention. 

"It's nice to meet you all too," Finnick says sweetly, smiling at the crowd with all the confidence of a performer as his smaller hand rests in Caesar's large one.

Only Seamus hears the tremble in his son's voice, the coaching behind the line delivery. Finnick's always been a confident boy, but there's a difference between being the centre of attention of his father's fishermen friends who adore him like he's their own child and a group of leering strangers who want to see him kill other children. 

"You look absolutely lovely, darling," Caesar compliments, guiding Finnick to take a seat.

"Thank you, Caesar," Finnick replies with a blush that makes the crowd audibly swoon. Seamus' fingernails dig into his palms. 

"And am I correct to assume you're dressed as a sailor right now? Pardon me, I'm not very educated on the activities of District Four. I have to admit, I'm only concerned with stuffing my face with the delicious fish your people catch!"

The audience laughs and Finnick giggles too. The familiar sound, like the sway of the wind chime attached to their boat, makes Seamus' heart squeeze. "We do have the best seafood. And yes, I am a sailor. My stylist, Lovla, worked really hard to get me ready for tonight."

"Well, I guess hard work truly does pay off," Caesar praises again.

His son is literally dressed like a sailor, except no sailor looks like this. No sailor wears shorts so tiny that every shift threatens to expose their bottom. Nor do they wear boots that reach their calves and white stockings that squeeze the middle of their thighs. What sailor wears a sleeveless collared top so tight that every curve of the torso can be seen? 

The even more sickening touch is the innocent scarf tied around his neck and the little sailor hat atop his precious curls. 

The Capitol wants him to look pure but desirable. They're promoting his little boy as a picture of corruptible innocence. 

"What the fuck is he wearing?" Desmond spits, fists clenched. Rosanne squeezes his shoulder but his disgust is reflected in her face. 

Colin and Conor glance at Seamus as if he can somehow do something about this but he can't. Helpless. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised by this, considering many other Tributes over the years have been dressed inappropriately for their interviews and opening ceremonies. But he swears it's never been this bad— this obvious.

Finnick's the youngest one they've done this to. From twelve to fifteen, the Tributes are usually dressed their age. 

Maybe they've finally dropped all pretences. What's the point in dressing the children according to their ages if they'll be going into an arena to brutally murder each other less than twenty four hours later anyways? The Capitol doesn't see them as children then.

"Now, Finnick," Caesar begins as the crowd quietens. "You're from a Career District yet nobody volunteered to take your place. Why is that? Could it be that you're already so strong that nobody older felt the need to step in?"

Finnick's hands are politely folded in his lap. An impish smile presses onto his glossy lips. "Oh, I can't reveal my secrets that early, Mister."

Caesar chuckles, dazzled by the charm. "It was worth a try. Then, tell us about your family. You have quite a large one, don't you? During the reaping, the cameras showed your parents, brothers, and sister."

Finnick nods, his curls bouncing gently. "Yeah, but Rosanne isn't my sister. She's my oldest brother's fiancée."

"Congratulations to your brother. I'm sure you view her as a sister then. She looked upset to see you go, so the bond between you two must be strong," Caesar digs and Seamus watches as his son's persona flickers. The longing he feels to be together again is reflected so clearly in his little boy's eyes.

It's Desmond who comforts Rosanne this time, taking her hand from his shoulder to his lips. 

Caesar easily switches to another topic when he sees he's failed to keep Finnick entertaining to the audience. If he were any other Tribute, Seamus knows he would've continued poking at the wound because that's what the Capitol would've wanted to see. But Finnick is clearly meant to entertain with his beauty and charm.

There's no charm in an upset child. 

Seamus has to take a deep breath.

"Finnick, I think you've noticed how many fans you've gained over the last four days," Caesar says and once again, the audience roars. High-pitched squeals sound and the camera shifts to momentarily focus on a group of young girls. They're jumping up and down, waving their hands in hopes for Finnick to notice them.

"Definitely," Finnick answers, a little arrogantly, with a grin, and so unlike him. 

"I mean, seriously, do they want to show the real Finn or some fake personality?" Ester comments angrily, fingers buried in her dress. Arrogance has never been permitted in the Odair household. Their boys were to behave with humility at all times. 

"It's probably a tactic to make him appeal to potential sponsors," Conor says, rubbing her arm comfortingly. Seamus knows that's the truth too. "It'll help him stay alive, Ma."

Ester crumbles again, her face twisting as she sobs at those words. 'Stay alive.' 

"Yeah, like with that fucking outfit?" Colin mutters. Nobody responds to that.

"I bet the girls were all over you back home," Caesar grins, leaning into Finnick's space.

The real Finnick returns as the comment makes him duck his head shyly, cheeks aflame. "Uhm, no. Nothing like that."

"No? I don't believe that for a second! Do you, guys?"

The audience loudly shouts 'no'.

Finnick giggles, embarrassed. "It's true!" 

And, oh, he sounds so much like Seamus' little angel when his brothers would tease him that he has to rub his hand over his chest to get rid of the painful ache. 

Caesar looks positively enamoured. The audience isn't faring any better. "You're telling me that a beautiful boy like you has no girls waiting for him back home? How is that even possible?"

Finnick tilts his head and bites his lip as if he's thinking. It's with great strength that Seamus ignores the catcall from a member in the audience and the resounding laughter that follows. 

"Well... I guess there is someone."

Caesar's eyes widen dramatically. "We knew it! Do tell, darling..."

"Her name's Shelly."

For the first time since Finnick's name was called at the Reaping, the Odairs laugh. Seamus can feel the tension release, albeit if only by the slightest. 

"Describe her! We need every detail!" Caesar says over the mixture of disappointed and curious shouts. 

"For starters," Finnick begins. "She's a pelican."

There's a pause before the audience breaks out into another laughing fit. Seamus smiles too, already missing those annoying jokes and playful lies. 

As they calm down, Caesar speaks up. "You got me there, Finnick. You really got me. Now, before we wrap up this wonderful time, can you tell us one thing, besides, erm, you know, the killing, that you're least looking forward to when you enter the arena? Some of your fellow tributes said it was the inevitable hunger, others said having to find shelter. What about you?"

Of course the Capitol wants to hear how else the children will be miserable. It's like they need to rub it in their faces that killing and trying to escape being killed won't be the only obstacles. 

"Maybe using the bathroom? I don't imagine it'll be easy to pee, especially with all the cameras watching me."

It takes a moment to register for Seamus but when it does, he almost throws up. 

Finnick says those last words like he's purring, head lowered bashfully but looking up from under his lashes with his thighs pressed together. His fourteen year old child says that like an invitation. It's a practiced line, as if he knew Caesar would ask that. 

The thought is confirmed when the response comes.

"You know, Finnick, what will be least enjoyable to you might actually be everybody else's favourite moments in the entire Games," he says, smirking knowingly at the audience, who immediately start to cheer louder than ever before. 

Desmond storms out of the square suddenly and the Peacekeepers don't even try to stop him. Everybody in District Four looks equally disturbed. 

Seamus can't move. Neither can his wife. 

"Finnick Odair, everyone!" 

The Games started less than six hours ago and Finnick is all alone. 

In the hour they got to say goodbye to him, Desmond had insisted he find allies in Districts One and Two. They're blood-thirsty freaks but they would've kept Finnick safe until their competition dwindled down. Being from a Career District himself, Finnick should've been with them.

But instead, he's walking around the fog-covered forest trying to find water without a single ally by his side. He looks so small wearing the large pack on his back and clutching a machete in his hand. The moment the Games started, Finnick ran towards the cornucopia but only to grab both a bag and a weapon nearest to him before he took off into the trees. 

Desmond couldn't describe the relief he'd felt at that moment. It was so strong, he almost lost consciousness, growing lightheaded. The cornucopia is where the bloodshed happens without fail every year. Eleven kids died in the battle within the first ten minutes of this game. 

All the fallen kids were taken out by the larger teens. If Finnick had been there...

A soft ping brings Desmond out of his head and he watches as a gift slowly drops from the sky towards Finnick. 

"Already?" Colin asks, sitting up in his chair. 

Everyone's allowed to watch from their homes now, no longer required to stand around in the town square. Most people have gone back to their work and home lives, probably paying less attention to the Games now. The only people intensely watching are the Tributes' families. 

"Has anyone ever gotten a gift so early?" Rosanne asks with a raised brow.

Their mother answers, shaking her head. "Not from a single game I've watched."

Desmond locks eyes with his father, who looks as disturbed as him. They don't want to say it out loud but they both understood immediately why Finnick has achieved what nobody else has likely in the history of the Games. 

Finnick lets out a little gasp when he sees the parachute through the fog. The fog must be the defining trait of this year's arena. There's so much of it that the Tributes can't see above or more than a few feet around them.

Like the child he is, Finnick rushes over with outstretched arms to catch the gift, relief all over his face. Dimples press into his ruddy cheeks as he smiles gratefully. He opens the latch to release the metal bottle of water and doesn't waste any time gulping a good amount down. The cameras watch him carefully as he drinks, and in Finnick's hurry to quench his thirst, some of the water drips down the stretch of his throat. 

Almost immediately, there's another soft chime and a second parachute floats down.

Desmond briefly turns his gaze to the kitchen table, jaw clenched.

Finnick quickly puts his bottle into his pack before catching the next gift. It's a metal box this time and he opens it to reveal steaming rolls of bread.

"Wow." He looks up at the sky and whispers, "Thank you."

Their parents let out a sigh of relief, holding each other close as they watch Finnick find a safe place to hunker down before digging into one of the rolls. Desmond wants to feel relieved too, and maybe he does, but it's hard when the only reason he got these gifts is because a bunch of Capitol freaks are attracted to him. He hasn't done anything impressive, like kill another Tribute as the other Careers already have, to warrant this. 

"Two gifts on the first day and the sun hasn't even began to set yet!" Caesar Flickerman comments in awe. He comes and goes, only speaking when something interesting happens. He and Claudius had quite the time when a hulking eighteen year old from District Seven beheaded another kid with her ax. 

Desmond tunes him out in favour of watching his little guppy stuff his cheeks. He's curled up behind a large rock, hidden well out of sight. The fog helps. There are five rolls in total and he eats one for now. His pack has food too but nothing as fuelling as carbs. 

"Hey, Conor. Remember when you ate my bread on Reaping day?" Finnick asks, not raising his head to seek out any cameras. Just talking. Like they're all together right now. He grins, wagging his finger. "Just because Des made it up to me doesn't mean I've forgotten."

Conor cracks up, laughing until he starts crying. Desmond pulls him close, rubbing his back. Their father reaches out to hold his hand and somehow, in that moment, their little Finnick who's stuck in an arena with dangers lurking all around him, is being braver than all of them.

The second day comes and Desmond doesn't feel tired despite having stayed awake the whole night watching Finnick restlessly sleep. As if he can somehow protect him by keeping watch from miles and miles away. He does this for the next three days too, in which two more kids die and bring the remainder to eleven. 

Finnick stays safe for the most part, keeping out of sight, hunting small critters with a snare he crafted out of strips of inner bark, and making sure he's always in close proximity to a small stream he found. Desmond's heart jumped when Finnick first found the stream, thinking he'd immediately drink from it, but his brother is smart. He waited to see an animal drink from it, followed it around for a few hours, and then finally deemed the water drinkable when the critter survived. 

The Gamemakers didn't shy away from broadcasting Finnick using his bottle to scoop up water before pouring it over his head. The clip wasn't long at all— it was short enough to make it seem like they just happened along him and used the moment as an opportunity to show how some Tributes might clean themselves. But nobody in the districts are as stupid as the Capitol thinks they are.

The Gamemakers deliberately showed Finnick as water poured down his hair and face— the way his eyes closed, his brows furrowed, and he pressed his lips together because of the cold temperature? They showed that damn clip on purpose. 

Maybe whatever District Four victor is mentoring Finnick banked on all this so that sponsors would continue spending money on him to keep him alive. Maybe they got the crew to do things like this on purpose. 

And if Finnick makes it back home to them, are Desmond and his family supposed to be grateful to that victor?

It's on the seventh day that the calm Finnick has been allowed is disrupted and he kills his first Tribute. 

It's a different kind of feeling of uselessness to have to watch a loved one be blissfully unaware of an incoming danger, knowing there's absolutely nothing you can do to warn them. That's how it feels watching as a another tribute creeps up on Finnick from behind a tree with a knife while he fills up his bottle. The rushing of the stream must be too loud for him to notice the threat. 

If the tribute had a bow and arrow, Finnick would've been...

"No," their mother begins to sob, hands over her mouth. "No, no, no."

"Come on, Finnick," their father mutters, knuckles turning white from his grip on the table's edge. "Turn around, baby. Come on."

As if he heard him, Finnick's entire body tenses up. In a second, he's dropping his bottle, grabbing his machete, and whirling around to face the other Tribute. Unfortunately, the other boy takes that as his moment to launch at him, sending them both into the dirt. 

Finnick yelps, sounding so much like that six year old boy who got his foot stepped on by their father's heavy boots because he'd been too tiny to spot, as he tries to fight the other off. Hertz, Desmond thinks his name is. Bigger than Finnick.

Everyone is bigger than Finnick.

Hertz straddles him as he raises his knife and Finnick just barely blocks him with his machete, arms trembling. 

"You can do it, Finny," Colin starts to mutter, over and over again. Everyone in the house holds their breath. They all remind themselves that Finnick is strong, that he's a stellar student at the academy, that he's trained for moments like this.

Finnick shoves the other boy off with a grunt, getting up immediately so he's not at a disadvantage on the ground. As he attacks next, Hertz counters quickly. They exchange blows, steel clashing against steel. Hertz gets a lucky hit in, slamming his arm into Finnick's face and sending him to the floor again. 

He's too small.

Desmond clutches his stomach, feeling like he's going to be sick. He ignores Rosanne's hand on his bicep. 

"Just stay down, kid," Hertz hisses shakily, kicking the machete away. He swears when Finnick manages to knock his knife out of his hands too, leaving them both weaponless. "Damnit!"

They roll around on the grass, but in a show of sudden strength, Hertz manages to get a good grip on Finnick and drags him closer to the stream. He straddles him again but this time, he dunks Finnick's head underwater. 

Desmond's heart is pounding so loud he almost can't hear anything other than the thumping in his ears. 

Finnick thrashes, clawing and kicking blindly at the other boy. Even though his scratches must sting, Hertz doesn't relent, plunging him deeper through gritted teeth. This goes on for four minutes.

Finnick goes limp. 

Their mother lets out a horrified scream, falling to the ground like someone cut her strings. Rosanne wraps her arms around her because the rest of them can't. The twins are sobbing too and their father has gone silent and still, face perfectly blank.

"No! My baby!" their mother wails. 

Desmond catches himself against the table before he can drop. Is this it? Is this real? 

He promised. He promised his little guppy he'd be safe.

"The canon hasn't gone off," Rosanne says, trying to comfort them. But it will eventually. Finnick's unconscious and at this point, his heart will be beating so dangerously slow that he won't even be able to find the strength to twitch a finger. 

Hertz looks up at the sky anxiously, waiting for the canon as well. Even though he keeps his hold on Finnick, it starts to loosen.

All of a sudden, Finnick's pushes out of the water and slams a rock against the side of Hertz's head. Upon impact, the boy's skull caves in and the canon booms. 

Desmond gapes at the screen, knocking his hip hard into the table as his knees crumble. "What?"

"Finnick!" their parents shout, both of them startling out of their shock.

Finnick drops the bloody rock, coughing hard and gasping like he can't get enough air inside his desperate lungs. His fingers twist into the dirt as he keels over, retching into the grass. 

"Amazing!" comes Caesar's thrilled voice. "Did Finnick Odair just pretend to die to get the jump on Hertz Flannigan? What insane breath control! We should expect nothing less from District Four!"

Desmond slumps against his chair, watching his little brother pant against the grass, cheeks slowly regaining their colour. Of course. Of course— how could he have forgotten? Finnick can hold his breath underwater for exactly seven minutes and eleven seconds. He knows, they all know, because Finnick couldn't wait to tell them the second school rang out last year. It was his new record. 

Nobody in their family has had to watch a loved one participate in the Hunger Games so maybe that's why the closest call to death made them lose all sensibilities. They can't keep forgetting how intelligent and relentless their boy is. Finnick needs their unwavering belief that he'll make it— that he'll win.

"Fuck," Colin groans out, dropping his forehead to the table. "That was terrifying. I'm gonna beat that kid's ass for this when he gets home."

They all smile— even bigger when their mother slaps the back of his head. 

By day eleven, seventeen kids have died and seven remain. Since the day Finnick killed Hertz, the others who died were killed by the gamemakers' muttations. One of the kids were killed by a nightmarish mosquito the size of their head that sucked every ounce of their blood out. The other two were killed by a mudslide that Finnick just narrowly escaped since he could only use sound to detect where it was coming from due to the fog. 

The entire Career pack, which Camille had managed to get on where Finnick failed to, is still alive. As Caesar summarized, this means the pairs from District One, Two, and Four are all alive. The seventh and final remaining Tribute is an exceptionally burly eighteen year old from District Ten. 

"You know," Caesar begins, turning in his seat to face Claudius. "I was wondering why the Careers chose not to ally with Lennox Stark. I mean, he's a big kid and clearly useful if he scored a ten in training. He also has more individual kills than any other Career."

"True," Claudius agrees. "He could've been helpful to them."

"Could've," Caesar chuckles awkwardly, dramatically yanking at his collar. "But I think I know now why they didn't choose him..."

The camera shows the boy muttering under his breath to himself, eyes bloodshot and hair a mess as he stalks through the forest. His bag has been abandoned, no food or water remaining. He was doing fine the first few days but then some kind of hallucinogenic insect bit him and he transformed into someone slowly losing their mind. 

But even before this, Desmond never thought he was likely pleasant to be around. During his interview, he was a straight asshole but not in a way that suggested he was simply pissed off at the Capitol and didn't want to give them a show, like the girl from Eleven. No, he was just... abrasive. Bragging like a District One tribute but not even half as charming.

He was almost sadistic with his kills, taking the time to really hurt the other Tributes like he's a Capitol muttation himself. He even killed his own District partner. The second the game started, he went straight for her. Didn't even use a weapon. Just snapped her neck.

Like it was personal. 

Desmond desperately hopes the Careers take care of him before Finnick stumbles upon him, but even he knows he's asking for too much.

Seamus doesn't realize he dozed off until he startles awake at the sound of his baby letting out a cry. Desmond rushes into the room not a second later, hair dripping from the shower.

"What's going on?" he demands.

"I don't—" Seamus begins, disoriented. That District Ten boy, Lennox, has found Finnick in the middle of the night. 

"Oh, God," Ester whispers.

Lennox is pale in the face, body sweating and shaking like he's suffering from withdrawals. How long are the effects of that insect's venom going to last? It's obvious no sponsor has given him treatment for it, or anything, for that matter. He towers over Finnick, appearing even more menacing under the moonlight. 

For someone who was taken by surprise and just moments earlier asleep, Finnick expertly slashes at Lennox with his knife and successfully cuts him across his abdomen. The older boy curses in pain before striking Finnick across the cheek with a meaty fist.

The blow is so powerful that Seamus' little boy can only let out a squeak as he falls to the ground. Recovering quickly though, Finnick lays on his back and draws his knees up to his chest so that when Lennox darts forward to grab him, he instead kicks him as hard as he can in the chest. The impact sends the other stumbling back a few steps but not far enough, given their size difference. 

Finnick jumps back up to his feet and Seamus prays he'll make a run for it, but his baby has never run away from a fight. No matter how difficult something is, he never gives up. Doesn't even entertain the thought of it. He pushes through even if the odds are stacked against him, even if he's scared, and, oh, how can a quality that used to be the source of Seamus' pride now fill him with so much dread?

Lennox shakes his head like a dog with fleas, blinking rapidly and sniffing hard. Finnick takes another swipe at him with his machete but Lennox can somehow still fight well despite whatever's going on in his mind. 

"What's wrong with you, big guy?" Finnick asks, curious but it comes across as a taunt to the other boy. 

"Shut up, you little brat," Lennox spits, sneering. He charges at Finnick, who can't dodge fast enough, and body-slams him into the ground. "This is all your fault!"

Seamus feels the same alarmed confusion as Finnick. 

"My fault? What are you talking about?!" Finnick shouts back before doing an impressive twist to get himself out of the other boy's hold. Good. He's using his academy training. Although he asked the question, Finnick doesn't wait for an answer as he raises his machete. Only Seamus and Desmond can see the tremble in his grip.

Lennox rolls out of the way but Finnick still manages to stab him in the upper arm. The boy yells out in pain and again when the knife is yanked out. It must be some sudden surge of adrenaline that allows Lennox to then tackle Finnick's legs, rise to his feet to haul him over his shoulder, and then slam him down on the ground.

Finnick's head hits the forest floor hard.

Seamus' heart is in his throat. Desmond and Ester are watching with baited breaths beside him. 

Finnick loses his grip on his knife as he lays sprawled out, groaning softly. His eyes are unfocused and he's evidently concussed. Yet he still tries to fight back.

"You did this to me!" Lennox roars, straddling him and fisting his collar. "I haven't been able to think or see or feel fucking straight for days! And here you are with a bag full of sponsor gifts!"

Finnick fumbles around for his machete.

"You think I don't know how you did it?" Lennox asks, getting right in Finnick's face and baring his teeth at him. "You were practically fucking bending over for them during your interview. I bet you spread your legs for the gamemakers too, you little cocksucker. That's how you got all these gifts, isn't it? This was all part of your big plan to win the Games!"

Seamus stares at the screen with wide eyes, taken aback by the delirious accusations and crude language. His oldest son is his exact opposite and it almost frightens him, the way Desmond is staring at the screen. 

"I don't—" Finnick tries to say but Lennox slams him back against the ground. Seamus has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out.

Then, something in the District Ten boy changes. He stops shouting, breathing heavily as he stares down at a still-struggling Finnick.

Seamus' brain stutters.

Lennox slowly leans over him until his nose touches the side of Finnick's bruised face. And then, he takes a deep breath, smelling him like one would a flower. 

"Get off me!" Finnick shouts, using all his strength to push the older boy off but to no avail. He's too disoriented from the numerous hits to his head. Lennox easily restrains his wrists, nosing him further. A true mutt. "Stop it! I said get off!"

The gamemakers surely won't let this continue. This can't be allowed. 

But no voice from a speaker interrupts. 

Seamus can barely feel his wife's nails digging into his arm.

"Why? You've used your beauty to get what you want so far, so use it to get out of me killing you," Lennox murmurs, lowering his mouth to Finnick's neck. The hand not restraining Finnick's wrists lower to his pants.

"No! Stop it!" Finnick yells, trying to break free. 

Lennox shushes him, pawing at his body.

At Seamus' baby's body. 

His ears start to ring.

Before Seamus even realizes what he's doing, he's out of the house and grabbing a Peacekeeper by their shoulders, screaming in their face.

"Get them to stop this, do you hear me?!" he shouts, spit flying out of his mouth. He can feel the veins bulging out of his neck and forehead. "Get that bastard off my baby right now or I'll fucking kill you! I'll kill all of you!"

Multiple pairs of hands grab him, trying to pull him back, but it's like his vision tunnels and all he can see is a piece of the Capitol responsible for this torture standing in front of him. All he can hear is his little boy sobbing in fear. 

The canon goes off.

Lennox was saying something when the tides turned suddenly. At the time, Desmond almost couldn't make it out. He could hear everything but couldn't understand what the words meant.

"You whored yourself out to the gamemakers and sponsors, didn't you?" Lennox says in Finnick's ear as he gropes him, ignoring the way he squirms. 

The District Ten boy continues, cracked, colourless lips stretching into a maniac grin. "I almost didn't believe it at first, but you're getting a head start, aren't you? I heard only some victors have to do it but you haven't even won and you're already—"

Lennox lets out a tortured yell suddenly, arms raising to swing in front of him like there's something attacking him even though the forest is still. 

"Get away!" he bellows, eyes wide and terrified. "Get—"

Desmond doesn't think he'll ever forget the resounding squelch and thud of Finnick's machete ripping open the side of Lennox's neck. 

The boy barely has enough time to gurgle on his own blood before Finnick is raising his knife and bringing it back down on his neck. Again and again. He hacks away at Lennox's throat, snapping the cervical, which gives with a horrifying crunch, and tearing open muscles. 

In under a minute, Lennox's head is separated from his body as the forest floor slowly turns a dark red.

It's like Desmond is seeing an entirely different person as he stares at his little brother through the screen. His sweet boy is covered in blood and chunks of muscle, his doe green eyes that sparkle brighter than the ocean now dull and emotionless. His golden brown curls are stained red like the Capitol's new hair colour of the month.

Sitting back on his ankles, Finnick holds his bloody machete in his bloodier hands and doesn't move an inch. He's shut down completely, mind turned off. 

It isn't the gory sight that makes Desmond gag. 

The canon goes off, delayed. Perhaps everyone in the Capitol is just as shocked. 

Only seconds later, there's a soft ping and a parachute falls from the sky. What lands in front of Finnick, atop the decapitated body of Lennox Stark, is a beautiful golden trident. 

The games are over by the next morning and Finnick is crowned Victor of the 65th Hunger Games.

Desmond and his family wait at the train station for Finnick's return. The game ended eight days ago and they'd been told that he was recovering for the first four days in their best medical facility. The remaining four days were for Victor celebrations— his Victor interview, President Snow crowning him, the ball, whatever other bullshit they can come up with.

Because anything was more important than returning a deeply missed, traumatized district child to their worried parents.

When the train finally arrives and the doors slide open with a hiss, the current District Four mentors reveal themselves. Mags Flanagan, an elderly lady who jumpstarted District Four's popularity and success in the games, holds the arm of their district's last winner, Labyrinth Sullivan. He won three years earlier at eighteen years old, a volunteer. 

Desmond knows they're good people, although he's never personally met them. They do good for the district and make sure the upcoming tributes are always well-prepared. Mags is at retiring age and there are a handful of younger District Four winners to take up mentoring, but she insists on continuing. She produces good results so nobody tries to stop her. Labyrinth, while more reserved than outgoing Mags, especially due to his mutism, is still a kind man. 

Desmond wonders which one of them decided to present his little brother in the way that he was. 

Finnick steps off the train next, shoulders curled into himself like he's trying to appear smaller than he really is. Like he's trying to hide. Physically, he doesn't look any different from when he left. In fact, he looks better— tanned skin glowing healthily and extra weight on his body. But the practiced smile that was on his face throughout every broadcasted ceremony is missing now, replaced with the blank face he'd worn as he'd killed all six of his remaining contenders. Including the girl from their own district. 

He doesn't even glance at them as he walks forward. The overwhelming relief of seeing his brother again in the flesh after a hard three weeks apart battles with the sudden unsureness he feels about how to handle this new version of him. 

He's already failing again.

Their parents rush towards him first, finding their footing before everyone else. Their mother cups his cheeks in her trembling hands, eyes wet, but she stays strong for him as she pulls him into her arms. Their father wraps his arms around both of them, raising a hand to run his fingers through Finnick's soft curls. 

"My brave boy," their father whispers against his hair. 

Their mother must mouth something, likely words of gratitude for bringing her child home, to Mags and Labyrinth over Finnick's head because they nod back solemnly. There's another child's body in a box waiting in that train. 

When their parents reluctantly pull away, Finnick slowly raises his head and drags those dull eyes from the ground to meet Desmond's gaze. They stare at each for a while, their hair blowing gently in the salt-scented wind as waves pull and push against the shore in the distance. 

Desmond had made his promise to Finnick there— the promise that he'd be safe. 

Finnick runs to him.

Desmond meets him halfway and lifts him into his arms, holding him as tight as he can. Small arms wrap around his shoulders, a little face shoving into his neck like he wants to burrow inside for safety. Finnick starts to cry, loud and pained. Tortured.

Desmond kisses every inch of skin his lips can reach, eyes shut so tight that red starts to burst behind his lids. 

"I'm here, baby, I'm here," he whispers, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I won't let anyone hurt you ever again. I promise, Finnick."

He should know better by now than to make promises he can't keep.