you can always bleed a little more.

I've always liked the time before dawn
because there's no one to remind me
of who I'm supposed to be /
so it's easier to remember who I am.

TRUSTING SOUL / BRIAN ANDREAS

﹙ chapter twenty, act two ﹚

tribute tower, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    THE SMILE IS PRACTICALLY FUSED TO HIS FACE. He tries to ignore the way she looks at him, like meat on a platter, the way he knows how tonight will end. Finnick puts himself into that quiet, undisturbed corner of mind, detached from his body. He may go through the motions, the words, but it's not really him. The Capitol simply adores him, and he morphs himself into whatever is expected, a toy thrown around between owners. He's not sure what parts of him are still there from before, and which have faded beyond memory ever since after. Except, the line between the two has blurred so much he can't remember a time not like this.

                    Finnick doesn't have time for this, for drowning again. There's a client to entertain. Features arranged into a signature smirk, his facial muscles ache with the effort of keeping it there. "Technically," he says, "it's not allowed. But I'll make it work for you."

                    Lucretia Pyre, the woman who has temporarily bought him, simpers at the idea. She's a particular fan of the Hunger Games ─── and what is usually a rare free period during his time at the Capitol has been taken by her. "Would you?"

                    A careless hand on her shoulder; his own capability for self-betrayal poisons him. A deep breath through his mouth. This isn't really him. It's only for a few more days. "Of course."

                    She squeals and claps her hands together. Hands, he notes bitterly, that have never done a day's work in their life and seem to be magnetically attracted to his skin. He would've been a sailor, were it not for the games. Years ago ─── has it been seven, he wonders; it's hard not to remember when his life spiralled out of his own control ─── he thought the worst fate was death. But that hadn't mattered. His name wasn't supposed to be called, and it shouldn't have been a problem, even if it had. Chosen as the Career for that year, Malik Dunn was supposed to volunteer for whoever was reaped.

                    Evidently, he didn't.

                    Because here he is, giving his client a late night tour of the tribute tower. Clients are all they ever are, though they tend to lie to themselves and believe the affection is genuine rather than bought ─── clients are what Snow called them when he first told Finnick at sixteen to begin to curate his public image. They couldn't have their hands on him for another two years, but he was to prepare for that. Capitolites like Lucretia are not his lovers the way the tabloids coin each relationship. Just clients. Just a transaction.

                    "Now," he says, voice hushed. "Each floor is assigned to each district, from One just above us to Twelve at the top."

                    "And Four's floor?" Lucretia asks in faux innocence, batting her eyelashes.

                    He lets the suggestion slide past. "No different from the rest, I'll be honest."

                    He leads her down the corridors towards the training gymnasium, which is dark and empty, and part of him wishes he could be swallowed up into the shadows. It would be easier than entertaining the likes of Lucretia ─── who, for someone so eager for this private tour, has barely taken her eyes off him.

                    She totters beside him on heels far too high to be comfortable, her dyed and curled hair piled on itself to the point where it reaches just a little higher than him. "This is all so exciting!" She sounds more like a child than a grown woman, voice still high and pitchy, though he wouldn't dare let her know his actual thoughts. Finnick has a part to play.

                    In some sense, he is always performing, whether it be on the screen or the subject of suggestive glances. An interview, or a client. He spends more time on a stage, in this new and hellish arena, than home. The watchful eye of the media has a liking for him. The tabloids are cruel, the paparazzi invasive, and he is painted and sculpted as they see fit; put on a pedestal. Lucretia will talk about him to her friends for hours, but she doesn't even know his favourite colour.

                    They approach the end of the corridor, her clinging to his arm. Really, she's not too bad compared to previous clients ─── for all her suggestiveness, she only wants his attention. Wants his validation, his compliments. At least for now. He's her companion for another few days until the bloodbath. But where the gymnasium should be empty, there are some lights on in the far corner.

                    Lucretia motions for him to be quiet. "I wonder who it is," she giddily bounces around, barely able to contain herself, and he wonders how she doesn't sprain her ankles. "I'm seeing a tribute actually training!"

                    Sometimes he's sickened by how far she's removed from reality.

                    The two get closer, and he can immediately pick out a head of dark braids from across the room, and the sound of blades clattering against the floor. Reassuring murmurs as another dark shape, just a bit too far to make out the details or defining features, collects them. Private training is a grey area: it pales when compared to the Careers, and there's nothing actually preventing it, but it's still rare. Still frowned upon. Most mentors can't afford to care enough to devote extra time, extra energy for tributes who probably won't survive. Then again, she's completely new to the game.

                    If he could afford to care, maybe he'd pity Mara Cayden.

                    Lucretia, about to have more gossip she's so notorious for, is eager to find out everything she can. "What are you doing here?" She calls out in that irritating voice of hers; both Mara and her tribute's head whip up, startled, to see them.

                    "As I live and die," he says as he saunters over and casually picks up one of the knives they've been throwing. Not his weapon of choice, but Finnick is hideously good at almost everything he does; he flips the blade between his fingers with ease, not even having to look. "Mara Cayden, breaking the rules."

                    Her tribute ─── whose name he can't remember ─── watches, transfixed at the way the steel glints under the dim lights. He grins at the boy, but his mentor is unimpressed. She sets her stance and folds her arms over her chest, highlighting how small the battered jacket is on her ─── though it's better than the stupid sparkly dresses she wears during the day. "Sure, and bringing your . . . friend is fine too."

                    Her pause before the word friend lets him know exactly what she thinks of Lucretia, and perhaps of himself as well.

                    Lucretia doesn't seem to catch on to the subtext, her wooden brown eyes darting between the two, dyed eyebrows raised. So instead, she creates her own: "And what are you two doing here alone?"

                    "Is it not obvious? I'm teaching him to throw knives." Mara drawls, dodging the suggestion with a sort of naturalness, like water sliding off a duck's back. It almost makes him wonder if she might just survive after all. "For the games." She says slowly, as if explaining to a child. "The killing games."

                    Lucretia isn't convinced, giggling behind her hand. The look Mara gives her is so disgusted that it slowly subsides. Even once she's stopped shaking from suppressed laughter, Mara carries on staring her down. The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees; Lucretia shifts around awkwardly.

                    "You can go now." She says coldly, breaking the glare to direct it at him, then turning back to the boy ─── Oren, that was his name ─── and giving more pointers.

                    He incentivises her with the thought of privacy, and the two leave the gymnasium to the sound of metal on metal after it's passed through the holographic opponents. Lucretia huffs. "So rude," she complains as they go up the lift; she wants to see the view from the roof. "Mind you, that lot usually are."

                    It's strangely enjoyable not to be a desired object to her. While Lucretia talks and kisses him, his mind wanders back to her hateful, maybe even deserved glares of Mara Cayden. He prefers it to this, no doubt about it.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

tribute tower, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    EVERYTHING IS CONSTRICTING. The vice has been there so long, Finnick can go for a long time without remembering it's there ─── but certain nights, like the one with Lucretia, open up every wound he thought had healed. It's the final day of training, and it's strange how short the days before the games are, how they slip away like sand between his fingers. How everything seems out of his grasp. Finnick is a figurine in a music box, dancing away to the melodies, little plastic arms molded in place. It doesn't matter how much he aches.

                    Dawn filters in through the window; he must have forgotten to shut the blinds as he stumbled into bed during the early hours of the morning. Whatever brief time he got to himself is over as sleep stubbornly stays away and he gives up trying. He drags himself up and goes into the main living area of their floor. It's empty and still, though he can faintly hear Mags' snoring. Too tired to do anything, he sits on the couch, languidly crossing his arms over his chest and lets out a breath once his back hits the cushion. Most of the time, the perfect image is plastered onto his bronze features; but everything about the past few hours has stripped any dignity away from him. There's no one to keep up the charade with.

                    He can reveal his misery for a little while, numbly staring up at the ceiling. Something other than flirtation painted onto his face. He lays there, stewing in the silence of the early Capitol morning.

                    One victor. What happened to the twenty-three others? Voices, both various district accents and pitched Capitol twang, ask him. They press against the sides of his skull. You became the enemy. You fuck them for money. How could you?

                    He squeezes his eyes shut, and finds a barrier. Everything is streaming at him, vividly, painfully. The first image that comes to mind is the walls of the harbours at home ─── layers upon layers of unscalable rock. Higher, further; he pushes himself behind all of it, heaving and crying and screaming until at last, it's quiet. He's safe.

                    Mags, also a light sleeper, comes down first, light footsteps pattering on the floor. Finnick lifts up his head to see it's her, then lets himself lean back. "Sleep?" She signs to him.

                    "No," he murmurs. "Not tonight."

                    She nods sadly, a tight smile on her lips. There are few other comforts she can offer him.

                    By the time the escort and Reeve arrive, he's collected himself and waits at the table. They decide not to wait for Kaia, the female tribute, who takes a little longer. She tends to fall into long bouts of silence and blank expressions when she's not being spoken to, and no matter how Mags tells her that she is proficient enough with weapons, she doesn't believe it. Kaia keeps herself composed, much the way he did, and marches to her death. She'll come when she's ready.

                    Reeve, on the other hand, is behaving like all his dreams have come true. ( Which, sickeningly enough, they have. )

                    Mags signs something to Kaia once she arrives, while they're sitting at the table. The girl signs back, fluent in articulating with her hands ─── from what he's been able to pick up, and he hasn't been able to be very present, she comes from a family of deep sea sailors. The open ocean is where storms are violent and the wind is so loud ordinary voices can't be heard; therefore the hand motions were developed. He remembers telling Mara about it while she was on her victory tour.

                    However, his gaze falls to Reeve. Strong, eighteen, and irked that he can't understand. Finnick can tell by the clenching of his jaw that he's not far away from demanding to know what they're saying to each other, but he keeps himself in check. He's already done that once ─── and he made sure that Reeve was told he didn't know better than his mentors.

                    Still a child, still inevitably dead. Finnick won't be able to convince him otherwise, and even if he could, it wouldn't change anything.

                    "Have you given any thought to what you want to show the Gamemakers for scoring this afternoon?" He asks, buttering a piece of toast, though he doesn't bother trying to eat it. His skin crawls, cold and clammy, and he can barely stomach looking at the sheer feast laid out for breakfast.

                    Reeve scoffs, quirking a brow dismissively. He's made it clear he has little care for Finnick and his advice, though he yearns to tell him that the instructor he had at the academy has never actually won the games. "Obviously."

                    "Care to elaborate?"

                    He doesn't need to think about it, raising his fair eyebrows. "No."

                    He is awfully stereotypical in the way he speaks and presents himself ─── arrogant, outlandish, confident. The Capitol laps it up like spilled honey, though; he already has enough sponsors to send him a small gift, and the scoring hasn't even happened yet. Favoured by the odds and the viewers, whose shallow imitation of empathy towards him outshines all others.

                    Despite how awful it is, part of Finnick hopes he won't win ─── Reeve would be considered desirable in a heartbeat the moment he won. He's already eighteen. There would be nothing stopping them.

                    Mags clears her throat. She's had troubles with it for years ─── slipping in and out of speech for years until barely speaking at all ─── so it must hurt. He can tell by the way her eyes crease and become glassy as she looks at him. "Yeah?" He asks.

                    She defers to Kaia, who shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her gaze, icy blue, darts around nervously but settles on him. She has that wide-eyed look of an animal about to be hunted, but a determined slash of a mouth. "I'd like to ally with someone. And I need you to tell her mentor."

                    Finnick straightens himself. There is a job to be done, a role to be played. He's used to this by now. "Who?"

                    This is where Kaia hesitates, the tip of her nose flushing a little. She murmurs something too quiet to hear, then repeats: "Johanna Mason."

                    There is dead silence, then Reeve bursts into laughter. His face breaks into a boyish grin and he seems to leave the persona of Career for a moment. "You're not serious. No way."

                    Kaia shrinks back into herself a little. "Why wouldn't I be?"

                    "I'll sort it out." He assures her. "Ignore him."

                    "That girl is a snivelling idiot," he declares while motioning to an Avox to carry away his meal. "And you're not much better."

                    "Reeve,───" he warns.

                    "Makes it easier though. I'll hunt you down together."

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

city circle, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    THIS IS THE PART OF THE GAMES HE HATES THE MOST. The spotlight shines ─── for once, not on him ─── the music blares, and the sheer energy in the open stage is almost unbearable. Finnick can hardly hear the interviews for all the shouting and cheering and laughter. He watches the Careers charm their way through the interviews, knowing exactly how they're going to play this game. It sickens him to think this has been sold to them as a glory. Even more to think that they believe it.

                    It's one thing to be plucked from the masses, listening to the heavy silence of no one volunteering to take your place, knowing you are about to die. To be taken onto a train then stripped of everything, paraded, and trained up for several days to make sure the entertainment doesn't end too quickly. To know it's probably the last days of your life.

                    But by now, the tears have dried, and the intimate cruelty of the games becomes perfectly clear. Maybe that's why he cannot breathe, it seems: they all must pretend to enjoy this. No choice but to keep quiet and play the part they want. They have stolen his mouth and he needs to scream. They have stolen his body and he needs to make them bleed. But Finnick has been helpless the moment his name left the escort's lips, and he's been doomed ever since. To kill, to live, to watch helplessly as it happens again.

                    Over and over, over and over.

                    The applause dimly registers somewhere in his mind; it's only Mags' gentle prod that brings him back to reality. Zure, the girl from Two, has just left the stage with a swish of her dress and a delighted smile. Voices from the Capitolites behind him praise her eagerly, raving about her beauty, her long raven curls and gorgeous jewels for eyes. Not so much her score of nine, but it comes up.

                    The stage has been set up in the middle of the city circle, and of course Finnick ─── along with all the other mentors ─── have been given front row seats. It's supposed to be an honour, but it's more of a humiliation. Just before the boy from Three, Mallory, walks on, when the lights are dimmed between the shifts, a very flushed Mara Cayden and Chaff hurry in.

                    The latter drags the alcoholic behind her. It's almost comedic how she pulls him along when Chaff is simply so much more massive than her, but any traces of amusement are wiped when he sees her expression. Chaff hasn't gone to any of the interviews in previous years, and it's clear he doesn't want to now, as he resists her pushing him onto the first seat she finds. How her lip quivers, embarrassed, as they start to whisper. In the end, she stops bothering and leaves him in the aisle to search for one for herself.

                    Because this row has been reserved for mentors, none of his fans can try and get close ─── leaving an empty space on his other side.

                    Mara's deep brown eyes scan over the row, and narrow as she doesn't like what she sees. "Cashmere," she whispers, "can I take your seat?"

                    Guilt crosses the blonde's face briefly, glancing between the two. She moves to get up but before she can reply, he puts on his most teasing, sultriest voice: "Do you not want to sit next to me, Mara dearest?"

                    She scoffs. Her mouth curves into a sneer and the look of disgust she gives him elicits a laugh from him. "I would rather───" she glances around. They are still watching, looking down their noses at her.

                    And there's no time. Mallory has walked on stage, so ─── looking very displeased with the seating arrangement ─── she sits next to him. He sits and begins to speak with Caesar, mostly about his family back home. Finnick's eyes stray over to Mara, stewing in her humiliation, and he distracts himself by thinking up of all the ways she could've ended that sentence. He doesn't realise he's watching her until he notices the exact moment she realises she's slouching and straightens herself. He averts his eyes and finds that Mallory's interview has finished, and now it's Tess, the girl from Three, who is halfway through her own interview.

                    His stomach coils with dread as Reeve walks onto the stage next; taking his time and grinning widely at the audience, whose excitement grows tenfold the moment he enters. He swells with pride as his name is called from across the city circle ─── it really must feel like godhood. But when he makes eye contact with Finnick, some of that deflates a little. Maybe he went too far this morning after the comment about Kaia and Johanna, but seeing how he's worshipped, Finnick thinks he was right to remind him of his place in the games.

                    Of his own fragile mortality.

                    "Reeve, Reeve, Reeve!" Caesar calls out eagerly once the Career sits down. "My goodness, have I heard great things about you!"

                    The boy smirks. "They're probably true."

                    "How are you today, my friend?"

                    "Oh, it's all been wonderful here, Caesar. But I'll feel better when I have a sword in my hand and a crown that's mine." He says, the words that must have been practised with their even cadence, but seem to flow so naturally. Several women a few rows away scream, and some small part of him dies at hearing it.

                    "So confident, I love it!"

                    "I've wanted this my whole life, Caesar, from when I was just a little child. I'd always watch and say ─── one day, that will be me. And now I have made that happen. These Games are the greatest challenge and honour of my life."

                    Mara leans over to him, eyes still on the stage, not bothering to deign him a glance. "It must be like seeing a younger version of yourself."

                    "I was only fourteen." Finnick isn't sure where the rawness in his voice comes from so suddenly, but he's never said that out loud before. And he's not sure why he chooses to say it to her, of all people; here, of all places. Saying it makes it real. "I was a child."

                    Her head turns and her eyes meet his, like she's seeing him for the first time. For once, she's silent, studying him. Half her face is shone upon by lights, the other cast in shadows. A slacken expression on her features. "I take it back." She murmurs. "I'm───"

                    "Don't pity me." He warns her, voice low, feeling like an open wound out of nowhere. "I don't want it."

                    "Good. You won't get it. For the longest time, I've hated you." she says, gazing toward the stage and casting him a sideways glance. She twists a ring on her finger, a rusted metal band. "I still do." She adds.

                    He can't stand pity, or wallowing in this misery. Pivot, he says to himself, separate yourself from it. He props up a grin on his face. "Oh, you make a man feel special."

                    She doesn't respond, knowing it's fake just as well as he does.

                    The next tribute walks onstage. It should be Kaia, but he realises they've been talking for so long that it's now the boy from Seven, Romy. A head of curly hair and a few quips the audience appreciates, talk of his axe training as a lumberjack, not much more. Three minutes is no time at all to sell yourself to sponsors. Most tributes are set up to fail.

                    Then it's Johanna, and he can't help but doubt Kaia's choice in allyship. She can't get a coherent answer out, choking over her words. Wide-set brown eyes drowning in tears. The Capitolites behind Finnick are particularly disgusted by the sight. Still, though, he went to meet with Blight and set up the joint account for pooling together sponsors for the two. Caesar tries to spin it off in a more positive light, but it's no secret: Johanna Mason only has a day before her death.

                    Mara watches her intently, a strange expression on her face; a mix between suspicion and sorrow. Unfazed by how uselessly she spends those three vital minutes. "You too?" He murmurs to himself ─── she glances at him, confused for a moment then wiping her expression and looking away. Maybe there is something to Johanna Mason he is not seeing.

                    She trips as she leaves the stage. Maybe not.

                    More tributes. He leans back on his seat, trying to appear as if he's enjoying himself ─── even if he isn't the main focus of the evening, some small part of the tabloids will always be dedicated to him. Pictures he wasn't aware were taken. Articles scrutinising every last detail, every last word of his. Eight, Nine, Ten. He loses track, the names and faces blurring into each other.

                    Oren, the boy Mara trained with knives, comes onto the stage. "Oren, it is a pleasure to have you here tonight." Caesar says warmly.

                    "Thank you." The boy replies tightly, not quite agreeing. He then talks about all the things the Capitol has, how enraptured he is by them. How the food is the best he's ever had. How the technology here is beyond his dreams. There's a slight pang in his voice as he says these things, as he praises the people who have put him to death ─── but what other choice is there?

                    A reward for his gratitude may keep him alive in the arena. A thin sliver of hope, just enough to be feasible, keeps him in place. Finnick would recognise that look of self-hatred anywhere.

                    But it is when Sommer, the female from that district, comes on stage that Mara wilts beside him. He nudges her; she shakes her head and refuses to look his way, singularly focusing on Sommer, who sits with no grace in her posture and a plain dress he can imagine the criticism for. "Welcome, my dear." Caesar tells her.

                    She says nothing, a tight-lipped frown on her features. Sommer keeps quiet as he asks her more questions, tries to elicit some kind of conversation. The three minutes drag on as the entire world watches this tribute who refuses to play the game ─── she refuses to even react to him, face carved from stone. "Why isn't she saying anything?" Finnick hears the low rumble of whispered complaints behind him.

                    But she'll still end up dead, won't she? Oh, how history moves in such vicious circles. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4, 322 words ! )

well  well we've been  introduced to a  shitload
 of trauma that mara/most people have no clue
about! lucretia pyre, finnick's client, is part of a
family that makes me violently ill and will make
more problems later on. i have tried to keep the
interactions tasteful and not explicit,, thoughts?
inured is dark but i don't want it to be too much 
 anyways, a lot to process! kaia is choosing to ally
with a sobbing girl named johanna who utterly
botches the interview?? reeve says he'll kill both
 of them?? the plot thickens 🤔as the games get
 closer & we end with interviews. silent sommer,
 oren parallelling avens with how he speaks and
finnick suddenly having a (very) brief moment of
vulnerability with mara? just future love interest
things🤭

thank you for reading, don't forget to vote and
 maybe even comment if you enjoyed <33