↳ i don't rise from the ashes, i make them...
oc x finnick odair
catching fire - mockingjay pt. 2 (flashbacks included)
TW: Depression, thoughts of suicide, use of drugs/alcohol, use of tobacco, detailed gore, use of weapons, death, and mentions/sug...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛
Isla was brave enough to endure many things, such as the way she was doing a magnificent job keeping her jaw set and not allowing anybody to know how truly terrified she felt. Although maintaining that physical composure, her bravery was halted as soon as it involved admitting to Finnick Odair that he was right.
She continuously wanted to roll her eyes at the thought?
As the week ensued, capturing Isla deeper and deeper in its clutches, she found the unusual routine she entered to be somewhat easy to follow. In the mornings, she woke up to Belisama ushering her out of her bed and into the bathroom for Ezra and the rest of her prep team to make simple preparations as far as her hair and makeup went. It was nothing elaborate, but just enough to bring presentability to the young tribute in the training center.
After being dressed in the uniform, tight training clothes and with her hair sharply slicked back from her face, Isla would seat herself in the dining room for breakfast, which was served in complete silence as soon as the two tributes and their mentors no longer wanted to speak to one another. Isla would catch herself taking quiet, quick glances at Finnick, but each time, was hoping with all of her being that he wouldn't be looking back at her.
Once she had slinked back to her room after their argument on the day she left training, she had nothing to say to the man. His presence alarmed her and she wanted to be rid of any of his personality that had casted a negative shadow on her future outlooks. When returning to her room that afternoon, with red cheeks and burning tears threatening to spill from her eyes, the tight feeling in her chest revealed how greatly she was aware of Finnick's correctness.
She had no chances in the arena and that was becoming blindingly obvious. When she laid in her bed later that night, after refusing dinner and letting her stomach dully naw on itself, she realized how easy it would be to throw her hands in the air and wave her white flag. She would be an easy bloodbath kill, and surely one that would keep the audience occupied and glued to their screens long enough to let her opponents find sanctuary for a couple hours.
And then she imagined little Aylo, curled in her worn blankets on the dilapidating sofa that was more threadbare and filled with dust than anything else. She'd probably be watching from the television at home, waiting in anticipation for her sister to miraculously survive, only to be disappointed when her elimination arrived earlier than anticipated and her rotting corpse was shipped back to District Four in a wooden box.
That would be no way for Aylo to watch her go.
And although she considered Finnick's suggestions and tips to have been correct, she felt in her own mind that she might as well give training a try to better herself for Aylo. Aylo was the answer to her problems, and she would never let Finnick have the credit for such things.
