oceandust + finnick odair

.1

The bright colours of the Capitol no longer seem to entrance me as I'm muscled through the crowds of cheering citizens, whistles and pleas for attention filling the air. They can't seem to calm down at the sight of me. I hear my name being called desperately, the word twisted into an ear-shattering chant as their hands reach towards me. For a moment, I want to pull away and ask for everyone to lower their voices, but it dawns on me that I am as much theirs as I am my own.

I feel no less than a puppet on strings, suspended mid-air to dance for the people of the Capitol at the President's behest— just like I had inside the Arena. Their eyes devour me for all that I am, taking more than I have left to give and yet, still demanding more. Smile for me! They insist. I bare my teeth pleasantly, and the screams grow louder. I feel like a fish out of water, gasping for air as I wade through a swarm that they tell me is a celebration. Only when I'm on the train and the doors shut behind me do I breathe.

I realize then that I'd been holding my breath since the Reaping almost a lifetime ago.

I look out the window, eyes hardly focused on the mass of people standing below. They nearly stampede over one another to catch a glimpse at me through the glass. It's different than all those weeks ago— before, I was just a tribute; a terrified young girl who had no chance of surviving the most brutal kind of game. I was a filler character in their main event, no bets being made on me as I wasn't worth enough. Their lips move quickly now, the sound vaguely reaching my ears— Reverie Bloom, they're crying out. Our Victor of the 70th Hunger Games!

I sink into a plush blue chair at the end of the cart, fingers tracing velvet, and force myself to breathe again. The word victor seems foreign to my ears— is it something that even truly exists? Is winning supposed to feel this way? I stare at the table ahead of me, intricately prepared for a feast that I can't fathom stomaching. Xander had eaten here. He had touched these chairs, he had laughed, he had lived. What could have made him less worthy of life than me?

It feels like there are no real winners in these games; just those unfortunate enough to survive, cursed to carry the memory of twenty-three other souls that couldn't make it out. I'd rather have died, I realize then. Anything is better than this purgatory.

The sound of the doors opening once more registers in my ears, but I don't turn to look. I catch the tail end of a different name being shouted before the doors shut again. My chest feels tight and the grief that hangs over me seems to grow heavier as the seconds pass. I don't have to look up to notice my mentor's lingering gaze. "You look horrible." He states. The words fall flat.

My eyes are focused on a teacup, in all of its mundane simplicity. Xander might have once drank from it. I finally avert my gaze to meet sea-green eyes and exhale slowly, seeking to calm myself down. "Is this what winning feels like?" I ask.

Finnick Odair turns his head to glance out the window, and he withdraws his hand from his jacket to wave at the crowd outside. The people seem ecstatic to have garnered his brief attention, and their arms extend pathetically as the train slowly begins to pull out of the station. We're only homebound now. "There aren't any real winners in the districts." He says, low, as our cart is dragged away into the darkness of the tunnel.

I pull my fist to my mouth, inclined to chew on my fingernail, but the memory of what I've done with these hands stops me inches from my lips. I blink rapidly, forcing back tears I hadn't realized were building up. He starts to walk over. "You're the first person to not congratulate me." I note dumbly.

Finnick's hand comes down on my shoulder, and I have to force every cell in my body to not jump reflexively. He pulls his hand away quickly, thinking better of it. His voice is somber as he speaks, a stark contrast to his frequently flirtatious and distracting nature. "It wasn't really something I'd wanted to hear when I came out of the Arena. And you don't need me to lie to you anymore."

I nod in agreement, mulling over his words. "You were watching my Games." I state, albeit in a small voice.

Finnick crouches down to my level, bracing his elbows on the armrest for balance. "Every minute." He says slowly, his eyes trained on me.

I swallow thickly, not wanting to meet his gaze. "And you saw... you saw what I did. What I've done."

"What you had to do." Finnick corrects me with ease. "Yeah, Rev, I did."

I close my eyes and breathe in once more. "Does it ever get easier?"

Finnick's hand ghosts against the side of my face, his finger brushing against a tear that I didn't notice escaped. "No." He says truthfully. "It only gets harder from here, I think."

"Thank you for not congratulating me then." I tell him. "And not lying." Finnick nods his head, a frown settling on his face. He retracts his hand and pushes himself back up to his feet, knees cracking slightly.

"Get some rest." He advises, and I nod. The concept seems more appealing than it ever has. A temporary state of rest is a temporary state of death.

I find it odd that I went into the Arena praying for my survival, yet here I am left wishing for my death.