FAILURE TO COMPLY ┃ f. odair

2.4 healing the hunger

'Dear Finnick,

I'm terrible with words, especially after the games. I find sometimes I can't speak even when I want to. That's probably something you've witnessed already. However, I thought I'd give my hand at writing, considering you didn't give me your number to call instead.

I'm back home now. I tried fishing in the river and it went about as well as you'd expect. I don't know if there aren't fish or if I'm just bad. I managed to hold the rod in the crook of my arm, but then I was reeling in with my right hand and it felt wrong. So I haven't caught anything, but I'll keep trying, I suppose.

On the plus side, I used that mackerel you let me take with me a week and a half ago. I told everyone I was cooking and they acted so scandalised. My Aunt Millie helped me make a fish stew and then an apple pie to eat afterwards. The train stank, but it was delicious. And it felt normal, for once. Even on that stupid train dragging us closer to the Capitol.

Maybe I can't catch my own food, but it's nice to feel in control of it again.

Thanks, Odair.

Sincerely,

Calypso Silva'

Calypso pondered hard over whether or not she should send Finnick the letter. What even were they? Friends? Was she allowed to call them that? The letter had been so annoyingly easy to write, considering how hard it had become lately to communicate verbally without stumbling over her words. On the page, they flowed. That felt good.

Trying not to overthink it, she slipped the letter into the envelope. After a moment's hesitation, she reached across the table for the picture of Maisie that Snow had put on the wall. It felt tainted somehow, but she didn't want to throw it away. Hoping it wouldn't cause Finnick any pain and set their newfound friendship off the rails, she anxiously added it to the envelope and then sealed it.

-

The nights were growing cold again. It reminded Calypso of how warm the days had been in contrast to the freezing nights of the arena. Sitting on the porch of her house, she had a knife tucked neatly inside her boot, as if it could somehow defend her against whatever lurked in the darkness beyond their small collection of lit houses.

Across the way, she could see her father's silhouette behind his closed curtains, either cooking or cleaning in his kitchen. He'd been fine after his brief sickness, if a little lethargic, proving Calypso's paranoia had been for nothing. Even so, she was still scared for him and Porter and even Monica and Vega.

Behind her, the door to her house opened and closed softly, followed by even gentler footsteps meeting her position and sitting down next to her. Porter silently held out a cup of soup, evaporating into steam as it met the cold air. Calypso gave her a grateful smile in return.

"It's nice to spend time with you again," Porter said, striking up a conversation before the silence became too comfortable. "Even if it's not having a homemade meal or doing something special, it's nice to just be here with you, love."

"It's nice to be here with you too, Aunt Millie," Calypso replied quietly. Her eyes were focused on the deep red liquid in the large mug, thick and warm and far too reminiscent of blood. "I'm sorry I've been so distant and combative lately."

"You don't owe me any apologies," Porter sighed, nudging her shoulder against the younger woman's. "Your father was the same with me after his games, and I was the same after mine. I know it feels like no one can understand, and maybe we don't understand a lot of it, but we understand some of it."