"I can't have you," Finnick whispered, pressing a soft, parting kiss to Rose's forehead, "because you'll always be Snows, not mine."
Rhoswen (Rose) Snow is the daughter of President Snow, who rescued her from a homeless, destitute life in District...
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Finnick Odair hadn't slept in two days. He wasn't entirely sure on the timing, he was sure he hadn't slept for a long time now. Not since the reaping ceremony, not since he was crowned victor, not since his reaping, not since his sister became sick.
Really, he couldn't remember the last time he had ever truly slept well. He guessed it was because he knew it was more important for him to be awake. To be awake if Lizzie needed his hand to hold as she went through a coughing fit. To be awake in case someone snuck up on him when he was vulnerable and killed him during the games. Awake in case one of his "lovers" decided they wanted more and he wasn't alert enough to cleverly weasel his way out of his one assigned session. To be awake in case Rose woke up screaming and sought him out. He knew she probably wouldn't, but it'd be better if he was awake, just in case she did.
He rubbed at his eyes, letting darkness envelope him. Darkness was better than his actual reality, which was sitting, watching, as the two people he cared for most about in this world fought to the death with twenty-two others in an arena set on torturing them. Just another day being a mentor.
"You look like shit, kid," a voice said before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, squeezing. Finnick tried not to shudder at the touch, clamped down his jaw at the onslaught of nausea that bubble up inside of him. He didn't like it when other people touched him, reminded him too much of other people's touches. A thousand other touches, each unwanted, each more revolting than the last.
He felt that way about everyone's touch except for hers. God, Rose. His Rho. What was he thinking when it came to her? But that was the thing, he didn't think when it came to her. All sense of rational thought abandoned ship whenever she was around. And he couldn't say he hated it. His brain seemed to go on a much needed vacation in her presence. Not only did he not hate her touch, he craved it. He craved the warmth of her between his arms, her scent of roses like a beacon, a balm against the ragged mess of fear and nerves that he was.
"You don't look much better yourself, Mitch," Finnick said, not even needing to look at the man to know who it was. He could smell the white liquor coming off of him. He should've had a warning signs for the toxic fumed he was emitting.
"Yeah, well, both my tributes are dead," Haymitch said, coming over to where Finnick sat and plopping himself down onto the couch. Finnick had chosen a spot far, far away from the rest of the watchers and festivities of the games. He could hardly on Rose or Callum whilst half the people in that room were trying to coerce him into bed by casually pressing their hands against his shoulder, or chest, or "accidentally" brushing his backside as they walked past.
"I'm sorry, Haymitch," Finnick said, looking over at the man. His blonde hair was ragged, falling on either side of his face in a greasy, slick manner. He had a bottle in his hand which he offered to Finnick who adamantly waved it away. He couldn't be drunk, his tributes needed his full attention. That and he hated for his senses to be dimmed. He liked to be fully in control of himself. An inebriated state meant he was much easier to take advantage of, to touch, to force.
