fire kills, finnick odair

15.

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"Tell him I tried" Finnick shot up in his bed, sweat soaking through the white, linen sheets. His hands were trembling as he lifted a glass of water to his mouth, his elbows resting on his knees as he hunched over.

District 4 no longer felt like home, whenever Finnick even caught even a faint aroma of sea salt or warm bread he felt sick. A scent that once made him feel so at peace, now the reason he couldn't sleep at night.

Sleep was hard to come by before, but it was somehow even harder for Finnick now that she was gone. He swears he saw her whenever he closed his eyes, and he swears that he could feel the softness of her lips against his own whenever he started to drift off. He wasn't sure how many more sleepless nights he could take, but he knew he would forever be stuck counting sheep and waking up in panicked cold sweats.

He doesn't blame her, he could never. She tried her hardest to win, kept going through moments that must have torn her apart inside. If anything, he blamed himself. He should have trained her better, taught her how to fight with an edge that sent shivers down her opponent's spine. He should never have agreed to an allyship with Katniss, should never have planted the seed in the first place, nevermind let it grow.

His heart may still be beating, but he knew he would never be the same. He would forever be tainted with what could have been. The old Finnick had died with Bailey, the shell of him left to rot, wondering how much of himself had been lost with her.

He threw on a shirt, not bothering to change from the bottoms he had slept in, and a long coat before braving the cold morning air.

*

Derek Frey was sat at the kitchen table, a half empty bottle of cheap beer clasped in his hand. His hair was even greyer than when Bailey had left, his eyes bloodshot and sunken from where he hadn't slept.

Finnick had let himself into the house when nobody answered the door, sitting down on the wooden chair next to Derek. The house was so different from Finnick's three-story in victor's village, but not so different to what he grew up in.

He had to force himself to speak, the words getting caught in his throat as he realised just how much Bailey looked like her father. The same chocolate brown eyes, the same sandy blonde hair that was just managing to peek through the man's grey.

"Derek?" Finnick whispered, trying not to choke on the strong scent of smoke and alcohol that seemed to fill the house. It had taken Finnick a few weeks to work up the courage to come here, to see Derek. But he had promised Bailey before the games that he would look after her father, and breaking a promise he made to her would feel like a dagger in the chest.

The man didn't say anything, he didn't even react. He just carried on staring straight ahead, his fingers still wrapped around the base of the brown glass.

"I was Bailey's mentor." Finnick explained. He would have liked to have said he was much more than just her mentor, but then, what was he?

Derek hummed, still refusing to look at the sandy brown haired man beside him.

"I'm so sorry." Finnick whispered, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his words. He thought that the numb expression on Derek's face faltered, but he couldn't be sure. Finnick knew that a simple apology would never account for how sorry he truly felt, but it was the best that he could offer.

He wished more than anything that he could bring Bailey back, that he could make it so that she was sitting beside her father instead of him. But he couldn't. And that failure would stay with him forever.

Derek took a swig of his drink, the liquid inside swishing around as he tipped the bottle back. Finnick noticed how his hands were trembling.

"I miss her." He croaked, his words slurred.

Finnick sighed, "So do I."

*

The sea before Finnick was calm, a calamity that made him feel rather on edge. The night sky was dotted with stars, the moon the only illumination as it reflected off the dark blue of the waves.

He was sitting in the exact position he had first sat next to Bailey, the pebbles crunching under his weight. His right arm felt cold without the warmth of her pushing up against him.

His eyes were red and the skin beneath them were painted a purple hue. He had found himself missing the sound of her laugh, the sound of her voice when she spoke, the soft touch of her skin against his. Gripped loosely in his hand was a rather expensive bottle of vintage wine, the liquid inside having failed to numb the dull ache that he constantly felt.

He didn't even have his trident on him; He always used to take it everywhere with him, just in case. But after everything that had happened and after everything he had lost, he could no longer find it in himself to care.

He remembered wishing that he had never met Bailey on the beach the night before the reaping. But then he had to mentor her, had to get to know her, and he fell in love with her. He loved the very essence of her, and it hurt like hell that he never got to tell her that.

Even after everything, he still cherished the time he had spent with Bailey, their conversations haunting his every waking moment. She was too ingrained in his soul, her essence intertwined with the fibres of his muscles and laced within the strands of his sandy brown hair.

Not a single cell in his body regretted any of it, even if this unbearable pain was causing him to drown himself in liquor on a beach with only the memory of Bailey to keep him company.

He barely even knew her, and yet he wanted nothing else in the world than for her to be back with him, alive. He knew from the moment they first met that she would spark a fire in him that he thought was long gone. There was a common phrase among the victors of how nobody ever won the games - but whenever Finnick was with Bailey, he felt as if he had won the world.

Having to watch her fight and slowly lose herself felt as if someone was constantly ripping his heart out of his chest and sewing it back in, just for them to rip it out all over again.

He really thought she was going to win. For him. She had come so close to winning that he could practically taste her lips on his. But, deep down, he knew that this would never have ended poetically, either he would lose her or she would lose herself.

After all, no matter how much she tried, the odds were never in anyone's favour.

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