finnick

FOR FINNICK, the waiting was almost unbearable. It stretched on and on, as the days passed by in a blur of training sessions and tense moments between the tributes. Finnick felt the pressure of it all, the constant unease that settled in his chest every time he watched Liberty and Grayson at District 4's apartments.

They were meant to be training for survival, but for Finnick, it was becoming an exercise in restraint. Calypso, as usual, was relentless in her approach to mentoring Liberty, and the girl was struggling under the weight of it. Calypso's questions, always pointed and sharp, were designed to poke at her weaknesses, to expose the areas where Liberty wasn't measuring up.

She hammered on the girl's lack of fighting skills, pressing her to show more aggression, more fire, more of the deadly precision that the Capitol expected of its tributes.

Finnick could barely contain his irritation. Calypso's style of mentoring was harsh, and demanding, but Liberty wasn't like the other tributes she had mentored. Liberty had a different way of approaching things, a more natural kind of resilience, one that didn't necessarily fit into Calypso's rigid mould of what it meant to be a victor. And then there was Grayson—scoffing and muttering under his breath.

Finnick shot him a look of exasperation. The boy seemed to have no patience for Liberty's struggle, dismissing her with a scoff whenever she failed to meet expectations. Finnick could see the frustration boiling in Grayson's eyes, but it didn't help. Liberty was already under enough pressure. She didn't need someone else adding to it.

When the session finally ended, Liberty slipped away from Calypso's bombardment of questions and retreated to the living room. She was silent, her face tight with frustration as she pulled a rope she stole from the training room and began to practice knots.

It wasn't the most glamorous of tasks, but it was something she could do in peace. Finnick watched her for a moment, taking in the way she twisted and looped the rope in her hands, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was trying so hard, but it was clear she wasn't getting it right. Knots had always been tricky for her. She wasn't bad at them, but compared to her brothers—and, by extension, Finnick himself—she was nowhere near as skilled. She would fumble with the rope, tugging and pulling it in frustration, her face betraying a mixture of determination and resignation.

"Should I pretend you didn't steal that?" Finnick asked, his voice light and teasing, as he walked over and sat beside her.

Liberty didn't look up, but he could see her lips twitch as she continued to try and fail at tying the knot. She sighed deeply, giving the rope another futile tug. "I'm not good at this," she muttered, her voice a bit more defeated than she liked to admit. "I never was."

Finnick's gaze softened as he watched her, noting the cute, almost pouty expression she made when the knot slipped out of place once again. He couldn't help but smile a little. There was something about her, something so genuine and real, even in the midst of all this chaos.

Liberty wasn't a showy fighter like the other tributes. She wasn't someone who easily followed the rules or fit into the Capitol's idea of what a tribute should be. But there was a certain charm to her vulnerability, a kind of rawness that made her stand out in a world full of hardened survivors.

"If you stare any longer, I'll tie this around your neck," Liberty muttered, clearly irritated now, her voice laced with humour and annoyance.

Finnick chuckled, leaning back a little in mock surrender. "You've threatened me like that before," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Liberty shot him a quick, exasperated look. "And this time, I am actually considering doing it." Her voice was low, but there was an edge to it as if she were daring him to challenge her.

Finnick laughed softly, but his amusement faded when he noticed the way Liberty suddenly set the rope down and stood up, walking away from him without saying a word. He watched her, a sinking feeling in his chest.

She was pulling away, distancing herself from him. It wasn't just the frustration of the moment. No, this was something deeper. She didn't want to be near him, not like this. She didn't want to be alone with him because she knew, as well as he did, that it would be too easy to slip into old habits.

To talk, to laugh, to reminisce about the times when they weren't mentors and tributes, when they were just two friends, navigating a world that hadn't yet been ruined by the Games. But now, that was gone. Now, she had to see him as more than just her friend—he was her mentor. And in her eyes, that changed everything.

"No one is around, Libby," Finnick said softly, his voice barely a whisper, as if trying to coax her back, to make her see that it didn't have to be this way.

But Liberty didn't turn to face him. She didn't even acknowledge his words. Instead, she simply shook her head and tossed the rope at him before walking briskly to her room. She didn't meet his gaze, didn't give him any indication that she was considering his offer, that she was anything but determined to avoid him.

Finnick sat there for a moment, the rope resting in his lap, feeling an odd sense of heaviness settle over him. He knew what she was doing. She was pushing him away, keeping her distance because it was easier than facing the reality of their situation. She couldn't afford to be his friend, not anymore. Not with the Games looming just ahead.

And he knew he deserved it.

The next few days felt like an endless loop. Every time Finnick tried to approach her when it was just the two of them, she withdrew. She was cold, distant, and didn't engage with him. Her usual spark of banter, of humour, was gone, replaced with a quiet sadness that Finnick couldn't quite understand. He kept his distance too, letting her have her space, but his eyes never strayed too far from her.

He couldn't help but watch over her, like a silent guardian, hoping that she would eventually come around, that she would remember who he was to her. But the more he watched, the more he realized that things had changed—and maybe, for the first time in a long while, he wasn't sure they ever would be the same again.

On the final morning of training, Finnick felt a rush of anticipation building inside him. He had been waiting for this moment, for Liberty to finally unleash the full extent of her abilities.

He could feel it in the air—today would be different. Today, she would prove herself. Finnick did not doubt that Liberty was ready to show the other tributes, particularly Grayson, exactly what she was made of. He was eager to hear the feedback when they returned to the apartments. He imagined Grayson, who had been so quick to dismiss Liberty's skills in the past, would be forced to rethink his opinion of her after seeing what she could do. Finnick couldn't wait for that moment—he knew it would be a turning point. He was ready to see Liberty shine.

But not everyone shared his excitement. Calypso, who had been keeping her distance and watching from a corner of the room, was clearly irritated by Finnick's enthusiasm. She couldn't understand why he was so eager. To her, it seemed like he was getting ahead of himself, placing too much stock in Liberty's potential. Her sharp eyes narrowed, and her lips curled into a tight line, a clear sign that she wasn't pleased.

Finnick, however, was undeterred by her disapproval. He was sure of Liberty's capabilities, and he couldn't wait to see her prove him right.

Vicente, on the other hand, sat beside Finnick, his usually quiet demeanour offering a sense of calm that balanced Finnick's excitement. The older mentor gave Finnick a small, knowing smile, acknowledging the shared anticipation. "She is going to show them, today," Vicente said in his soft, measured voice, his words carrying a quiet confidence that only made Finnick's hopes grow stronger. Finnick turned to him, his surprise flickering in his eyes, but he quickly masked it, nodding in agreement.

"Yes, it's just like her," Finnick said, his voice full of pride. "Back when we trained, she never showed her true skill until the very last moment. She always kept people guessing." Finnick's gaze shifted as he recalled the memories of their training together. "One time, she lodged her spear right here," he said, tapping his upper arm, a reminiscent smile crossing his face.

Vicente raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Really?" he asked, clearly impressed by the story.

Finnick nodded, his smile widening. "She's always had it in her. People just never saw it coming." He didn't add that she had surprised him more than once, but that was part of what made Liberty so special—her ability to stay under the radar until the moment she chose to reveal her true strength.

From across the room, Calypso, who had been listening intently, suddenly perked up, a look of realization crossing her face. "So she can fight," she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else.

Finnick's smile deepened. "Yes," he said, his tone filled with pride. "And today, she's going to show them what she's capable of. She's going to gain allies, too—mark my words." Finnick's confidence in Liberty was unwavering. She wasn't just a fighter; she had the potential to win over others, to gain the kind of support that could make all the difference in the Games. For a moment he didn't care if she was practically showing favourites.

Calypso, for once, seemed to admit that maybe she had underestimated Liberty. She sighed, her frustration turning into begrudging respect. "Damn, guess I shouldn't have grilled her so hard," she grumbled. "Well, silent but deadly, huh? That seems perfect. Maybe we can use that—get her some sponsors, make sure she gets the recognition she deserves."

Finnick's expression faltered slightly at that. While he wanted Liberty to succeed, to gain sponsors and support, the idea of her earning a title—like the "Golden Boy" title that had been slapped on him all for a year now—made his stomach turn. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort at the thought.

A title meant recognition, yes, but it also meant drawing the attention of people like Snow, the Capitol's ruthless figurehead. He didn't want Liberty to become a pawn in their game, to be marked as something they could manipulate. His protective instincts kicked in, and he silently hoped that things wouldn't go down that path. The thought of her being thrust into the same spotlight he had once been forced into made him uneasy.

Vicente, sensing Finnick's inner turmoil, nodded thoughtfully. He, too, was curious about how everything would unfold. While he didn't speak as often as the others, when he did, his words were always measured and full of insight.

He shared Finnick's hopes for Liberty's success but remained cautious, understanding that the Games could change everything in an instant. He knew that if Liberty somehow managed to break through Grayson's pedestal, it would be Grayson himself who would most likely be the one to report back, revealing whether or not Liberty had shattered the expectations set for her.

Mags, sitting quietly in the corner, continued to watch the conversation unfold. She didn't offer any gestures of wisdom or even a gesture of approval, but Finnick knew she was paying close attention. She had always been a woman of few words, letting her actions speak for themselves. Mags had a deep understanding of the Games, and she had seen enough of the Capitol's cruelty to recognize when someone had real potential. Finnick did not doubt that Mags saw the same thing in Liberty that he did—a fire, an untapped strength that could emerge when the time was right.

As Finnick looked over at Mags, he realized that they had one thing in common: both he and Mags saw in Liberty the same resilience, the same spark of defiance that they themselves had once carried.

They understood what it meant to be underestimated, to be forced to fight against a system that sought to crush them. Liberty had that same fire in her, and Finnick couldn't wait to see it burn brightly on the arena floor. But more than that, he hoped she would never have to endure the things he had—the manipulation, the power games, the struggle to remain human in a world that didn't care about people like them.

Liberty wasn't just another tribute in the Games. To Finnick, she was a symbol of what could be if someone didn't lose themselves in the process. And today, she was going to prove to everyone—Grayson, the other tributes, and even Calypso—that she was more than they could ever have imagined.