Seafoam and Stars

▬▬ 𝟎𝟓 ∙ 𝗙𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽

˚✩ ⋆｡ ✩┊ 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐟𝐨𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 ┊✦ ˚ · .

▬▬ 05 ∙ 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

IT IS much too dark to be morning when I wake up. I'm too groggy to read the time on the clock, nor do I feel like moving from my place in bed. Briefly, I wonder why I had woken up—as far as I know, I haven't had any nightmares yet.

I can feel Finnick shifting in bed beside me, then getting up. Through the darkness, I can make out him being careful not to move the blankets or the bed too much—and failing.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and I close my eyes when he looks back at me just in case he can tell that I'm awake. When I dare open my eyes, he's looking at the wall again. His breathing is deep, like he's trying to calm himself down, and there's a slight tremor in his hands. Occasionally, he runs a hand through his hair and taps his feet against the floor lightly.

I watch him for what feels like a few minutes before he gets up and leaves the compartment. Where is he going? I debate leaving him alone, but I also have a sneaking suspicion that I know the cause of him waking up, and if I'm right, then perhaps solitary is the last thing he wants.

I slip into my night shoes and slide the door open, walking down the carpeted hallway. White, fluorescent lights blind me momentarily as I adjust to the brightness, then reach back and close the door. When I pass Brennan and Nova's rooms, I have to stifle the overwhelming urge to check in on them, even if it is at the dead of night. They are Tributes, but they are so much more than just sacrifices for the Capitol's vile entertainment, more than just instruments in Snow's precarious game of control.

I shake my head and keep walking, reminding myself of who I'm looking for. I check every room Finnick might be in, which doesn't end up being many—his room, the kitchen, or the last train car. I find him at the end of the hallway, sitting with his head leaning against the wall. It's surrounded by windows on nearly all the sides, making it the only compartment with a decent view outside. Considering he's cooped up in a train for hours going to the Capitol where women will be paying for his body, I can't imagine him wanting to go anywhere else than the place where he might actually be able to imagine escaping—or at least glimpse the outside world.

"Finnick?"

I'm a little surprised that he didn't notice when I opened the door—sure, I was trying to be quiet, but I wasn't silent by any means—but he doesn't seem too startled by my voice.

He turns around, fingers twisting around the edge of his shirt, lip bitten, eyes rimmed with red. "You shouldn't be here," he says, like he's trying to convince himself to believe it at the same time.

"Need I remind you that technically, neither of us should be here at two in the morning?" I move to sit on the seats next to him, relieved when he doesn't protest, pressing my palms in between my legs so they don't go out of control. "Nightmare?"

He looks down. "Yeah."

I barely seem to know when Finnick's having nightmares, despite it probably being a nightly occurrence, and I instantly feel guilty. "Want to talk about it?"

"No," he says dully, his voice void of its usual life. I shouldn't have expected him to anyway—we rarely, if ever, talk about our nightmares. They, like our Games, go unspoken. Anything to prevent having to relive them He looks away, fixing his attention back outside. But his shoulders relax and he breathes a little easier.