Chapter Text
He knew those screams of distress were futile; they put a smile on his face. He was going home.
The westerly sun cast a shadow on the squirming form: an underdog, the last tribute, hailing from District 9, who managed to slip through the cracks. He bared his teeth to her, imagining the cameras at home and in the Capitol zooming in on their most favored tribute as he secures his victory. ‘ I wouldn’t have been able to do it without all of you,’ he’ll say to the audience, Caesar holding the mic to him. He stepped closer to her, catching a glimpse of her face through the gaps in his hand-crafted netting. Seeing him, she stopped her struggling and, even in realizing her fate, put on a brave face.
Stepping forward slowly, Finnick set his booted foot down onto the girl's wrist, continuing to add pressure until she released her grip on her final defense: her scythe. He raised his trident in the sky, again putting on his best show for the invisible cameras, before lodging it deep in the chest of the woman below. Blood sputtered out around the glinting silver prongs of his trident as the tribute’s arm groped for it blindly. With a tug, Finnick drew his trident off the girl’s chest and raised it to the sky once more, uncaring as blood dripped down his arm and onto his face. The sound of a cannon rumbled across all of the small islands as Finnick took a seat amongst the seaweed, cradling his weapon in his arms.
Ladies and Gentleman, may I present the winner of the 65th annual Hunger Games.
・・・Ψ・・・
His skin was raw under the sheer chiffon shirt, the dark tint of the fabric the only thing hiding his rashes from where they had scrubbed the arena from his body. From the moment the hovercraft had touched ground there were people surrounding him, touching him, shooting questions at him. He only put on the charm, trying to get used to seeing a person and not a threat. Mags was the only one kind enough to pull him to the side, giving him a moment's rest before the chaos continued. He was alive , he reminded himself, and for now that would be enough.
On in 3…2…
Finnick’s hands flew to his ears as the audience roared from the auditorium.
Ladies and gentleman, your master of ceremonies, Caesar Flickerman!
A hand patted his back and urged him forward towards the very edge of the curtain as he had been less than a month before.
Thank you! Thank you! I won’t have you wait a minute longer! It’s time for you to meet your victor of the 65ths annual Hunger Games. From District 4…Finnick Odair!
The lights blinded Finnick as he stepped on to the stage, every one of his senses overwhelmed and as the audience stood to cheer for him. He righted himself swiftly, puffing out his chest and standing tall as he strutted on to the stage. Screams flowed from in between the clapping as he waved and blew kisses as he had been taught. In the arena his survival was his strength, out here it was his looks, his charisma.
“Settle down, settle down,” Caesar crooned, showing off each of his perfectly white, perfectly fake teeth, “I know you all want a piece of the boy but why don’t we hear what our champion has to say, huh?”
Finnick smiled out at the crowd and waved as he sat down, the air buzzing with excitement around him. “It’s lovely to be back here and to see you all again,” Finnick’s eyes flicked from face to face.
“Well It’s lovely to have you back too my boy!” Caesar laughed. “Isn’t it folks?” He riled up the audience again and Finnick felt a bead of sweat drip down his back. “Now how about a few questions regarding your glorious victory. What were your first few moments in the arena like?”
Terrifying, horrible. “Exhilarating, truly exhilarating. It had already been an honor to be chosen to volunteer and I had no doubts I would win,” I thought I was going to be the first to go. “But to finally be out there and one minute away from my future was…” the worst moment of my life “...the best moment of my life.” Despite the stylists washing him four times over he could still taste the saltwater in his mouth, feel the blood of the girl from District 9 dried under his nails.
“How charming, your love for the games and pride you have for your district is genuinely moving,” Caesar faux teared up. “Isn’t it moving?” He turned to the audience once again and they all went wild. Caesar smiled until the applause quieted down before turning to Finnick. “So as we all know you are the youngest ever victor, what would you say was the key to your success?”
They taught me how to kill. “Caesar, I have to say it was…all the gifts from you !’ Finnick gestured out into the crowd. “The sponsors, without the people of the Capital, I wouldn't be sitting here with you all today.” Without you, I wouldn’t need to be here.
As the noise of the crowd fell to a murmur, Caesar leaned forward, leveling with Finnick. He lowered his voice to a conversational level, as if they were the only two people in the room. Looking into Caesar’s dark, nearly black, eyes, the image of life draining from the other tributes flashed within his mind.
“Now, Finnick,” Caesar began, his voice tinged with something akin to sympathy, “there’s one last thing the Capitol and the folks at home have been dying to know.” The lights seemed to shine brighter, the heat of them boring down on him. He began to sweat, briefly rubbing his palms on his hands before leaning into the man, into the mic. How does it feel to take someone’s life? Do you realize you’re a monster? Caesar smirked.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
・・・Ψ・・・
“Congratulations, Mr. Odair.”
Finnick snapped back into focus, President Snow in front of him, golden crown in hand. The day had been a whirlwind of dressing, interviews, smiling and waving but now he was one task on an infinite to-do list away from returning home; he could already smell the salt in the air, on his skin.
“Thank you, sir,” He replied, bowing his head. The cool metal of the crown sent a chill down his spine as the President adorned him. A smell of rose overtook Finnick’s daydream as Snow leaned into his ear.
“You know, I’d say you’ve rather won over the heart of our Capitol,” Snow whispered, his voice a low rattling hiss like a snake in the wind, “There’s certainly a place for you here and I can show you where you fit.” A hand, rigid with time, gripped his shoulder a measured touch over the boundary between comfortable and painful.
“Thank you again, sir, truly but…” Finnick hesitated, the refined ice cold stare cutting into him, “I’ve been away from my family too long.”
“Ah yes, family,” A knowing look crossed over Snow’s face, “but I have a feeling you’ll be back. I can be very persuasive.”
Despite the pit worn deep in his stomach, Finnick turned to the crowd, giving a final wave before the peacekeepers urged him back into the foyer. Again, he was presented with a change of clothes, though this time only a simple pair of trousers and tunic for his journey home. Home.
District 4 may have been one of the better off districts but the technology of the Capitol, its transportation, never failed to amaze Finnick. He sat on one of the well cushioned benches of the Capitol train and watched the districts pass him by at over 100mph, never feeling more than an occasional sway of the train car. Before him, he was presented with carts decked out with any food he could conjure in his mind, the abundance of it an affront to the people of most districts who went days without more than a loaf of bread.
When the crowds had been roaring around him, when the numerous outfits exploited what little privacy he had, when the President had been close enough to whisper in his ear, he had wanted nothing more to return home but now, trapped in the silence, he was alone to think about the reality of what he had done for all of Panem to see, for his family to see. When he was chosen to volunteer, even with all his training, he never thought he’d return home but now he was left with the consequences of what he had to do to return. Would his family be happy to see him? Or would his mother tremble in his presence, knowing what he had done to women younger than she? Would his father, who had taught him the skills he had used to ruthlessly slaughter the other children around him, because that’s what they were, children , regret how he had raised him? It didn’t matter if they were from a career district, he was a murderer through and through.
The only people in his life who could possibly understand would be Mags and the other victors, most of whom drank themselves to sleep every night to escape their games. Finnick didn’t want that. His mind raced but he was exhausted, his body heavy with fatigue and the gentle lull of the train nearly putting him to sleep. There were cabin cars where plush beds sat perfectly tucked in and windows dimmed at your command but Finnick opted to instead, stretch himself across the bench and doze.
A slight pressure on his shoulder startled him from his in-between state and, on instinct, he reared his fist back, ready to strike. Thankfully his eyes caught up before his fist could make contact with the sternum of his Capitol escort. He hadn’t bothered to learn their name, thinking he wouldn’t need to remember anyway but now that he had won, he guessed they’d be spending much more time together.
“Sorry,” Finnick huffed, trying to laugh it off, “Some killer instinct, huh?” He ran a hand through his hair and moved to a sitting position, taking a deep breath before following after his escort. Ahead of him, they were wearing something akin to that of a sea slug, their outfits often mimicking an ocean theme and although he couldn’t understand the fashion, he supposed it was an attempt at making them something of a cohesive team.
Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the familiar shore that he had called home and his heart began to race. He could already hear the thundering of the applause outside but it was different this time; they were his district, his people, his family . They didn’t want something from him, they were proud of him and what he was able to accomplish for them all.
He hadn’t been alive when the last victor had won so being able to bring home winnings for his district was important, not only to him but to the lives of many. Finnick shielded his eyes from the harsh rays of the sun as he descended the stairs of the train, nearly tripping on his escort's long skirt.
He could finally see the faces of the crowd, his friends, teachers and family all smiling back at him as he felt his eyes begin to well up with tears. Although he could see the cameras behind everyone filming his every move he, for once, couldn’t find it in himself to put on an act. Finnick sobbed as he made his way blindly towards his parents, his arms outstretched and his knees trembling.
“Oh, my boy!” His mother cried, enveloping him in her arms as his father encircled them both. “You came home.”
She was kissing his forehead and smoothing back his hair to look at him while his father clapped a hand on the back of his neck, his eyes misty as well. Finnick could only stare in awe at the faces of the two people he had most longed to see while in the arena.
“I won for you,” He found the words as he went, “I-I promised you I’d try and…and win to come home… for you !” He began crying in earnest again, the shame of what he’d done bubbling back up. He looked up at his father who’s tears were now freely flowing down his face. “I did it for you!”
“We know, son,” Finnick’s father reassured. “You’re home and that’s all that matters. We love you so much. That’s never going to change.” His father’s hands cradled his face, the same hands that held his own as he learned to walk, that would later teach him to fish, and eventually to kill, now wiped away his tears.
A boy of fourteen, now a victor, Finnick Odair had come home.