once upon a time • finnick odair

xxiii. with your feet on the air

Finnick leaned against the cold stone wall, his fingers curling into the rough surface, grounding himself in the harsh reality around him. The echoes of laughter and celebration drifted from the large hall, where the rebels were reveling in their victory. Cheers rang out, accompanied by the sounds of glasses clinking and people shouting in joy. To them, it seemed that the Capitol was falling, its walls crumbling. The end of the regime was here. For the first time, it seemed like they might actually be free.

But Finnick knew it was only the beginning.

Besides, none of it felt real to Finnick. None of it felt like victory. Not for him. Not after everything that had happened.

He scanned the scene in front of him—the faces of the people of District 13, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and relief. They deserved to feel the triumph of victory, to breathe in the small air of freedom they had fought so hard to secure. But Finnick couldn't share in their joy. The emptiness inside him was too vast, too suffocating, to allow him even a shred of happiness.

His heart still ached, a dull, persistent pain that refused to be shaken. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see Devon's broken face, the way the man had looked when Finnick found him after all these months. It should have been a reunion, a moment of relief, of healing. Instead, it had felt like a nightmare.

Devon had been so frail, so different from the man Finnick remembered—broken, but sure in himself, strong, now a shadow of himself, his mind fractured by the horrors he had endured. Finnick had thought, when he finally laid eyes on him again, that everything would make sense. That it would all fall into place. He had imagined that holding Devon in his arms would wash away the guilt, the fear, the grief of the months they had spent apart. But it hadn't. It had only deepened the wound.

The slap to his face had been like a physical blow. The anger in Devon's eyes, the confusion—it had shattered something inside of Finnick, something he hadn't even known was fragile. It had hurt worse than any injury he'd sustained in the arena, worse than any wound inflicted in the name of survival. Because this wasn't something that could be fixed by time or by healing salves. This was a wound that went deeper than flesh, deeper than bone. This was a betrayal of trust, a betrayal Finnick had never imagined he'd be capable of.

He had failed Devon.

And in failing him, he had failed them all.

The guilt settled over him like a thick fog, a weight that he couldn't shake. It felt as though it were pulling him deeper, dragging him down into the darkness where the victory celebrations couldn't reach him. He was a part of this rebellion, part of the plan that planned to bring the Capitol to its knees. He fought alongside the others to bring about change, to overthrow a system that had oppressed them all for so long. But what did it mean? What would they truly achieve if it meant leaving so many people behind, so many people who had been broken beyond recognition?

Even if they won the war, what cost would it come at?

Finnick's eyes burned as he dragged a hand across his face, trying to push the thoughts aside. He should be happy. Although it was a small step, they had done it. They had "rescued" the victors, had had them in their safety. They had a chance now—maybe even the best chance Panem had ever had—to build something better. But all he could feel was the weight of his own guilt.

"Finnick?"

The sound of boots against the stone floor drew his attention, and he turned, expecting to see Haymitch. Sure enough, the older man's familiar form emerged from the shadows, looking like he aged more in the past few days than he had in the past year.

"Still brooding, are we?" Haymitch's voice had a sharp edge to it, but beneath the sarcasm, Finnick could hear the concern, barely masked.

Finnick didn't turn to face him. Instead, he stared out at the crowd, his gaze distant. His voice came out low, bitter. "How do you do it, Haymitch? How do you live with all of this? All the people we've lost... All the things we've done?"

Haymitch stepped closer, leaning against the wall beside him, his expression unreadable. He didn't say anything at first, just stared out at the celebration, his eyes narrowing as though trying to make sense of the noise, the chaos. Then, after a long moment of silence, he spoke. "You think I don't carry the same weight? You think I don't regret every damn decision I made that led us here?"

Finnick turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of the older man's profile. There was no false bravado in Haymitch's voice, no pretension. His words weren't flippant, and they weren't meant to brush off Finnick's pain. There was honesty there—an understanding.

"I regret it," Haymitch continued, his voice dropping in volume, hardening. "I regret bringing Lucian into this, bringing Devon into this, hell, even bringing you into this. But you can't let it destroy you. If you do, then they win. Snow wins."

Finnick's jaw tightened, and he looked back toward the crowd, his expression hardening. "What's the point of winning if it costs us everything?"

The words hung in the air, heavy and unresolved, as the sounds of victory continued around them. The celebration was reaching its peak, and the world seemed to spin on without care. But Finnick couldn't seem to find a way to enter that world again. He couldn't feel part of it.

"The point," Haymitch said quietly, his voice almost a whisper, "is that we have a chance now. A chance to build something better. Something they can't take from us. But if we let the guilt drown us, if we let it control us, then we're no better than the Capitol. We're just another version of the people we've been fighting against."

Finnick swallowed hard, the weight of Haymitch's words sinking into his chest. He didn't know what was worse: the guilt of their actions or the fear that maybe Haymitch was right. Maybe the future they could build could be better, could be different. But what if it wasn't enough? What if the damage done to people like Devon, to people who had already given so much, couldn't be undone?

"I don't know if I can live with it," Finnick whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't know if I can live with what we've done. What I've done... to him."

There was a long pause. Haymitch didn't speak for a moment, as though weighing the situation carefully, considering his response. Finally, he turned to Finnick, his gaze sharp, intense.

"You mean Devon," Haymitch said flatly, his voice cutting through the silence.

Finnick nodded slowly, feeling the tightness in his chest grow even more. "I thought I was protecting him. But I was just... lying to him. Using him. And now... I've lost him."

Haymitch studied him for a long moment, his eyes hard but not unkind. There was something there—something almost... paternal. A sense of understanding, of shared burden.

"It's not your fault," Haymitch said, his voice low but firm. Finnick could almost hear desperation in Haymitch's voice, as if Haymitch was trying to convince himself too. "It's the Capitol's. You haven't lost him, Finnick. He's been used by the Capitol. But you're still here. You can still fight for him. Show him that you're more than the mistakes you've made."

Finnick's breath hitched, and he could feel the tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He had never been good at this—at talking about the things that mattered, at confronting the painful truths. But he knew, deep down, that Haymitch was right.

It wasn't too late. Maybe he hadn't lost Devon. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance.

He wasn't sure how to fix things. He wasn't sure what he could do to make up for the hurt he had caused, but he knew one thing for certain: he wasn't alone. Not anymore.

Haymitch was right about that. They were all in this together, whether they liked it or not. They had all made mistakes. They had all sacrificed so much. But they had a chance now—maybe the only chance they would ever have—to make things right.

Finnick looked at Haymitch, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let out a long, shaky breath.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice rough.

Haymitch gave him a brief nod, his expression unreadable. "We're all in this together. Just don't forget that."

As Haymitch turned and walked back into the chaos of the celebration, Finnick stood there, leaning against the wall, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him. But for the first time in a long time, there was a flicker of resolve inside him. He didn't know how to fix what was broken. He didn't know what the future held. But he wasn't alone. Not anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. For now.