She was a capitol elite.
He was the youngest victor in history.
Their friendship was frowned upon, but their love was forbidden.
Extended Summary Inside
--
Finnick x OC
Pre- hunger games - Mockingjay
Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins. All rights...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Finnick Odair was drowning.
Not literally, of course. He was known for his combat skills in water, after all. But every time he closed his eyes, he could see the shores of the arena around him. He could feel the life being choked out of him.
Finnick's last kill had been his hardest. It was hand-to-hand combat against the tribute from One. Quinn had almost gotten the better of him, forcing his head under the waves and choking him, his hands squeezing harder and harder around Finnick's neck.
It was only when Finnick kicked his already injured leg, raised up his trident, and brought it down on the boy's neck that he was declared the winner of the 65th Hunger Games.
He could still feel the struggle of the tribute beneath him. Finnick saw the split second of fear and anguish right before he died.
He remembered the moment of silence just after the final canon. It was barely three seconds before he was announced the winner. He slumped back into the water and touched his throat, the feel of the dead tribute's hands lingering.
Now, six months after he was sent home, he still woke up gasping for breath. The covers were pressing him down, and it felt like he was a hostage all over again. More often than not, he threw them off and fell to the floor.
He always looked to the window. He looked at the bright moon that was so far away.
He would take deep breaths, trying to keep his breath as steady and quiet as possible.
He knew Mags always wanted him to come to her, but he never could. Mags had already done so much for him. The last thing he wanted was to pull her from her sleep night after night.
Instead, he looked out at the moon. It was full that night. In order to keep it as dark as possible in the arena, the game makers elected not to put a moon in his arena. He hated every second of that darkness, and in the last few months, the moon had become his solace.
He was not in the arena.
He was not in the arena.
He was not in the arena.
It was the same thing he repeated every night until his brain grew so tired he was able to crawl back into bed. Sometimes, however, Mags would walk in the next morning to see him leaning up against his window, fast asleep.
That night, however, he chose to stare at the moon just a little longer than he usually would. His victory tour would start in the morning. He would be poked and prodded and displayed like a trophy for the world to cheer for and admire.
To them, he won a game. To him, he would forever remember every kill he made during his time in the arena. His hands were soaked in blood, and that was something that was never going to change.
What he didn't know was that sitting in the Capitol, looking out her bedroom window up at the very same moon was Amara White.
Unlike him, she wasn't awoken from nightmares. No, she rarely got nightmares.
