- F A L L E N -

17

Lifting my head above water, I first saw Finnick a few feet away from me, slowing his strides to a stop, his gaze enthralled by the nameless body. Katniss's expression was repressed with fear that it was Peeta, her eyes twitched and feared and hoped in just one look. But Peeta dove out of the water a few moments later, terrified and gasping for air, and her face softened.

"OK, c'mon, we need to go now", Finnick concluded after letting Peeta catch his breath, his tone was masculine and stern and reverberated between Katniss, Peeta and I in a semi triangle of tributes, with Finnick's body cast in the center. He then brushed his fingers against my forearm under the water, slowly and gently, refraining from looking at me as he did, as both of us were afraid to slip up in our gaze and show the world we cared. Finnick and I went into the games very wary of the fact the Capitol was going to be watching our every move, our every breath and reaction, and that we must behave like friends only, maybe even less. And in those moments of climbing out of the water, my dread for the rest of the games and my relief Peeta was alive blended together to create a queasy unease in my stomach. I tried to detach from my confused emotional state and hone in on the aching pain of my cheeks and lower stomach instead as we ran in a line into the wild, dewy, jungle. Back home, if I had these bruises, if I had a smelting inflammation on my cheeks, I would probably cover my face in one of Finnicks ice packs on the couch and halfheartedly attempt to read while background music played and played. I'd be slightly uncomfortable, my focus would be constantly being betrayed by the itchiness of the ice pack on my skin, but the lights would be cozy, and as for my wounds, the chill of the cold would hurt them and be pleasing all the same. Finnick would notice my absence and come over in the same army-green jacket he always did. I'd hear his footsteps up my porch, it would secretly make me smile to myself, then I'd fake laugh in agony about how much it hurt to smile with the wounds on my cheeks. He'd enter my house without asking, and I'd wait for him to call my name before I responded to him from the living room. I always waited for him to call me first, I always liked hearing my name drawn from his voice. I liked how that part of me was always claimed and reclaimed in his words. I liked the way "y/n" floated off his tongue, as if he had learned to say it with ease by a thousand memories of practice. Well, I guess it just all reminded me that I mattered.

--