𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑶𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒓

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄.

He Bleeds

It was a tale as old as time. From the Vikings through to today, there's a right of passage for teenagers if they so choose—getting way too drunk, laughing and stumbling.

Rosie was very drunk. Finnick was very drunk.

When Kit found them both laughing on the balcony, Finnick lying on the tiles, and Rosie twirling her holographic heels around her finger, walking on a row of tiles, pretending to balance but stumbling each step, with Finnick laughing each time she had to start again, the man knew they needed to be discreetly taken from the party. The optics weren't great if Rosie vomited on her freshly-cut birthday cake. It even had a picture of her on it; she was thankful it wasn't the one of her bloody and beaten when they announced her victory.

The pair had torn themselves from the privacy of their balcony to cut the cake, then they slipped back once more; snagging a bottle of glittery purple alcohol on the way. The drink tasted too good, and by the time the effect kicked in they were too drunk to care that they couldn't walk straight or were one trip from vomiting their guts up. None of it mattered, not when they had each other and the alcohol that made everything else melt away. The worry of judgement and stress of having to put in a façade for millions of people. Because the second they stopped being puppets their heads were on the chopping block.

It took a team effort to get the duo out without anyone picking up on it, they snuck out the back and took a car back to the accommodation. Kit wanted to vomit as the teenagers who were slowly becoming each other's person laughed at nothing—anything was an excuse to laugh and giggle until they ran out of air and coughed, and then the cycle continued.

Eventually, they said goodbye, with the promise to see each other soon, but neither could actually be sure that would happen. If Snow so pleased they would never lay eyes on the other ever again.

Kit managed to convince Rosie to get changed and go to bed, but it was a fight he wanted to stop fighting multiple times. Once she was in bed it didn't take long for her to knock out. By that time an annoyed Zavir sat on the sofa, tutting at the teenager's action. Kit muttered something about how Zavir would never understand what Rosie had gone through—in Zavir's entire life, from birth to death, she never will have gone through more than Rosie had at fifteen. The woman excused herself shortly after that and the apartment was blanketed in silence.

After the way she felt having alcohol coursing through her veins she officially understood how Kit, Haymitch and her Uncle found themselves in the situations that they did, the complete numbness she felt to her situation and the way when she slept, she saw nothing haunting her. She was just asleep—then she was awoken by Zavir swinging the door open.

"Up! Up, little lady!" Zavir walked to the end of the bed and yanked the sheets down, Rosie didn't move, her cheek plastered to the pillow. Zavir ripped open the blinds. "President Snow wants to see you in his office in half an hour, so get out of bed and get ready."

The name sent shivers down Rosie's spine, the interactions she'd had with the man were either at a great distance or—thankfully—fleeting, such as when he put the crown on her head and officially crowned her Victor of the 67th Annual Hunger Games.

Rosie lay there, staring at the ceiling before five minutes later Zavir grew impatient and threw a glass of water on her. "What the fuck was that for!" The teenager shrieked, sitting upright, shaking her arms to get the frigid liquid off. "I was getting up!"

The teenager was all but dragged from her bed, and forced into the shower she scrubbed her body to rid it of the stale scent of alcohol that lingered on her skin. Once out she was dressed; nothing over the top, a simple dress that covered enough that Rosie herself was comfortable, plain shoes and Zavir simply braided her hair.