FAILURE TO COMPLY ┃ f. odair

4.2 the cold comfort of unachievable death

Finnick Odair had lost many people in his life. He'd seen his mother's dead body after the Capitol killed her. He'd watched Maisie die in her games and watched Mags run off into a deadly fog. It was all nothing compared to the feeling he had knowing someone he loved was alive and imprisoned. God, he wished Calypso was dead. He knew her well enough to know she'd say just that. Death was better than most things in life.

Monica didn't believe such a thing and she'd made sure to tell Finnick at every moment possible that Calypso was eternally irritating for all her pessimistic comments and behaviours. She didn't understand the life of a victor, but she did understand her cousin. He had to give her that. Even with all her ignorance about other people's trauma, Monica only wanted the best for Calypso and she believed that to be achievable freedom.

"You know, I could get over losing the nails and the lipstick," the girl complained as she gently kicked a chair across her room. It scraped loudly across the cement floor and Finnick caught it before it could hit the wall. "But taking away my only dress and putting me in this horrific jumpsuit is a crime."

"The dress had puffy sleeves bigger than your head," he remarked, pushing the chair back towards the desk it had come from. The woman had rearranged any moveable furniture at least four times now and still hadn't come to a satisfying conclusion on its placement. "There are bigger things to worry about than that."

"This is why I'm glad I'm bunking with Annie and not you," she practically hissed. If Finnick hadn't grown used to her so quickly, it might've offended him. "You're just like her in that way, always thinking of the next big problem instead of enjoying life."

"Annie?"

"Calypso," she reiterated, sitting down on the bed and twirling a piece of fiery red hair around her fingers. She pursed her lips as her demeanour became more serious and thoughtful. "Granted, you kind of pulled her away from that for a while. She has this turbulence that only stills when she's with you. Now that she's not here, you're the turbulent one."

Finnick stayed quiet. He didn't want to think about the fact that Calypso was not here and that he had somehow taken her absence like it was a heavy weight upon his shoulders. He couldn't bear it. Sitting down next to Monica, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the worn length of rope he couldn't let go of for more than five minutes. It dragged around and in between his fingers, giving them a slight burn when he pulled tight enough.

"I don't know how to stop it," he sighed. "I think for a long time I thought I was the one helping her because she was new to it all. Somewhere along the way, I think she became the one helping me. She just had so much more of a hold on things than everyone else."

"Has," Monica corrected. "She has... A hold on everything but her own mind. We keep that in check for her."

He thought about it. Calypso was a leader, there was no doubt about it. She was a leader, a warrior, a victor, a friend, a lover. She was so good at being so many things, looking after them and looking after people. The one thing she'd never quite figured out was what to do with herself. Nothing about herself ever quite sat right with her. No matter what she did, she always found something else wrong.

"Yeah, we do," he agreed. He gripped the rope tight. "She always spoke highly of you, you know. She said you irritated her to no end, but you're family. She loved you."

"Loves," Monica corrected again. She lowered her head to hide her smile. "She irritates me too, but I grew to love her. You know, I was thinking about ways I could help her. I'm going to train to be a soldier here, Finnick."

He almost laughed at that. The perfectly prissy Monica Feather-Creed as a fighter? She was a fighter with her words when she scolded people for their flawed sense of fashion or poor punctuality. He couldn't imagine her wielding a gun, or any other weapon for that matter.