𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐋𝐋 𝐉𝐔𝐌𝐏 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑.
What District 2 victor, Saffron Creek, and prodigy, Finnick Odair, share is the very antithesis of what has been stolen from them. They test the edges of the rules that construct t...
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first time flirtations . . . . .
Finnick spots her over the head of the girl he is talking to. Saffron tips her drink at him first, so he winks, again. He interrupts the girl mid-sentence to excuse himself, and she looks ruffled for an instant before scurrying away.
Saffron laughs at the shine in Finnick's eyes. It is like he is anticipating enjoying her company. It is as if it could possibly be his desire to speak with her instead of a political obligation.
"I didn't take you as a lemon girl," he says as he plucks a difficult glass from the elaborately decorated table. Deep orange and afflicted by a copious number of bubbles, it emits thin tendrils of vapor that slide over its rim.
Around them, the crowd undulates to observe them. She forgets them in favor of the charming boy before her.
"You don't know me."
Saffron crosses her arm and places her other hand beneath her chin. Her fingernails are painted with translucent, shimmering polish that catches the dim light as she moves. She draws his attention to the slight of her neck and the structure of her clavicle. He knows what she is doing. He is not stupid, but he is willing to let her trap him. A smile grows wider on his lips, teasing.
"That's a shame," he says. Then, he presents his hand to shake. "Finnick Odair."
Accepting his hand, she shakes it in that way her mentors had made her practice again and again. Light and noncommittal.
"I know."
In an instant he pulls her towards him, their fingers still intertwined. His lips hover against her ear, giddiness blooms in her chest maniacally. Even among the scent of roses and expensive perfume he smells like the sea.
"You're meant to say, 'It's a pleasure'."
Saffron undoes their entanglement, shifts her glass into the other hand, and lifts Finnick's drink—his hand following—to her lips. The drink is revolting. It slides down her throat both smoky and sweet.
"Is it, though?"
She releases his wrist and shifts away from the table and is absorbed into the crowd. Joining another conversation seamlessly, she all but disappears. And, as she exits the golden boy's gravity, she thinks she can still feel his gaze on her shoulder blades.
Finnick Odair runs a hand through his hair.
Dozens of encounters follow their first meeting. At parties they chance upon each other so frequently it is no longer a coincidence. Through the years it becomes unspoken in Capitol high-society that they must be invited as a pair. It was not unlikely that they would become friends, but lucky all the same. And Snow allows them this, for a time, surely because of his citizens' engrossment in their relationship. The story of two attractive victors, one from District 2, the other hailing from District 4—it's easy entertainment.
Together they are made to appear in publicity acts streamed to the twelve districts and are photographed stealing around street corners where nothing but Capitol newscasters await. It is staged and it is their obligation, but to them, it doesn't feel so much like work.
In the middle of one event—it is a Friday, eleven-thirty at night—they sit shoulder-to-shoulder on a granite floor.
She is tired and her thoughts are tinged with the haze of exhaustion.
"I never saw you before that event," she says, more of a question than a statement. It is a sudden burst of conversation in the middle of silence.
"Which event?"
"The one we met at."
"Oh."
His face twists into a not-quite grimace.
"After my Victory Tour I was kept quiet. Sometimes I was brought to the Capitol. I guess it was..." Finnick purses his lips and picks at his cuticles.
"Grooming," Saffron says.
Wincing, he flicks lint off his suit jacket. "That's kind of harsh, sweet."
