finnick

FINNICK CAREFULLY draped a blanket over the mirror in the room he shared with Liberty. Although the Capitol apartments provided them with separate bedrooms, they had silently agreed to share one. Neither of them could endure the nights alone, especially here, in the Capitol, where the ghosts of their worst memories felt almost tangible. The nightmares had a way of creeping in more violently under the Capitol's bright lights and suffocating luxury. Sleeping beside each other wasn't just for comfort—it was survival.

As he adjusted the fabric, Finnick's mind buzzed with irritation. The chariot parade had done its job of captivating the Capitol, but not in the way he had anticipated. The elites, ever hungry for scandal and spectacle, had latched onto the moment he fed Liberty a sugar cube and the way their eyes lingered on each other. By the time the parade ended, rumours were already swirling—Finnick and Liberty, District 4's star-crossed lovers. The Capitol loved the idea, gushing over their supposed romance with a sickening glee.

It wasn't the first time the Capitol fabricated stories about him, but this one felt different. He wasn't worried about the gossip itself—that was inevitable. He was worried about what Snow would think. Everything in the Capitol was about power, and a new narrative could shift dynamics he couldn't yet predict. Would Snow see their "relationship" as an opportunity to exploit, or would he view it as a threat? Finnick didn't know which was worse.

Then there was the personal side of it. As much as he despised the Capitol's meddling, the idea of him and Liberty being paired together in their eyes...it wasn't entirely unwelcome. He liked the sound of it more than he was willing to admit, but he wasn't sure how Liberty felt. They had both made a quiet pact to keep things undefined. This, they had called it. No labels, no expectations—just the strange, unspoken connection that tethered them to one another.

Finnick sighed, leaning against the wall as his thoughts spiralled. He didn't even hear the door open until Liberty stepped in.

Fresh from the shower, her damp hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she was wearing one of the Capitol-issued robes that managed to look extravagant and uncomfortable at the same time. She paused when she saw him, her brows knitting together slightly.

"Covering the mirrors again?" she asked, tossing the towel she'd been using onto a nearby chair.

He offered her a faint smile, though it didn't entirely mask the tension in his expression. "It's for you," he said softly, his gaze flickering to her ears. "I know you hate seeing them."

Liberty smirked faintly as she walked further into the room, her sharp eyes catching the edge of something deeper in his expression. "Let me guess," she said, crossing her arms. "You're brooding over whatever nonsense they're saying about us now."

Finnick huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Caught me. They've already started spinning their latest tale—apparently, we're the Capitol's new favorite love story." He glanced at her, searching for a reaction.

Liberty arched an eyebrow, unbothered. "Oh, great. Because what we really needed was another narrative for them to sink their claws into." Her tone was light, but there was a sharpness beneath it.

"It's not just them talking," Finnick said, his voice quieter now. "You know how Snow works. He doesn't just let things like this stay idle. He'll find a way to use it. Or us."

Liberty's expression hardened slightly as she sat on the edge of the bed. "And let me guess—you're worried about how this whole 'us' thing looks to him."

Finnick hesitated, then nodded. "It's not just that. I'm..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm worried about what it means for you. For us."

Liberty let the words hang in the air for a moment before speaking. "Finnick, we've survived worse than some Capitol gossip. Let them say what they want. Snow can spin his web, but he doesn't control this." She gestured between them, her voice steady but laced with an unspoken determination. "Whatever this is, it's ours. Not his."

Finnick looked at her, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. She always had a way of cutting through his doubts, grounding him when the weight of it all became too much.

"Still," he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "maybe we should put some distance between us. You know, really sell the idea that we're not the Capitol's darling couple."

Liberty snorted. "Yeah, because that'll work. You fed me a sugar cube in front of the entire Capitol, not just at the Chariots where they couldn't see us, but in the middle of the parade, Finnick. You may as well have proposed."

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine. "Fair point. But hey, if I ever did propose, I'd do it with a real sugar cube, not one meant for horses."

"Romantic," Liberty teased, rolling her eyes. But there was a flicker of warmth in her tone, a shared humour that softened the edges of the room's tension.

Finnick crossed the room and sat beside her, the weight of the day still heavy but somehow more bearable. "You're right," he admitted. "We've survived worse. We'll get through this, too."

Liberty leaned back, her eyes briefly flicking to the covered mirror before meeting his. "Damn right, we will."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence they had grown used to—filled with unspoken trust and a mutual understanding that no matter what the Capitol threw at them.

But the thing was—Finnick couldn't shake the thought gnawing at the back of his mind. As his hand curled into a fist, his nails pressed into his palm, grounding him. The Games were only a week away, and every moment felt heavier than the last. The weight of their plans for the rebellion, their subtle manoeuvring, their desperate attempts to stay one step ahead of Snow—it all loomed over him like a storm ready to break.

And yet, in the midst of it all, there was this.

Finnick's gaze drifted to Liberty, her profile illuminated by the muted Capitol lights seeping through the window. She was brushing through her damp hair, her movements slow and methodical, but there was a tension in her shoulders that matched his own. The way her jaw tightened slightly, the furrow in her brow—it told him she was just as consumed by the impossible stakes as he was.

But this. Their undefined, fragile connection. It wasn't just a shield against the nightmares or the Capitol's endless prying. It was something more, something he hadn't allowed himself to fully admit until now.

He thought about the Games, the horrors that awaited them both. Whether their involvement with the rebellion succeeded or not, whether they walked out of the arena alive or died trying—it didn't matter. The Capitol would never stop. Snow would never stop. And yet, in the middle of that chaos, this—what they had—felt like the only real thing in his life.

Finnick tightened his fist further, his knuckles turning white. For so long, he had trained himself to see everything as a game, a performance, a survival tactic. But with Liberty, it was different. She wasn't a move on the board or a strategy to be executed. She was... real. And he wanted this to be real, too.

The idea terrified him.

Because wanting something real meant risking everything. It meant exposing himself in a way he hadn't dared in years. It meant confronting the truth that he didn't just care for Liberty—he needed her. Not as a partner in rebellion, not as a fellow victor fighting for survival, but as someone who made him feel alive in a world designed to crush him.

He glanced at her again, the words forming on his lips but refusing to come out. How could he tell her? How could he make her understand without dragging her further into the mess that was his life?

As if sensing his turmoil, Liberty turned, her eyes meeting his. "You're awfully quiet," she said, her voice soft but laced with curiosity. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Finnick hesitated, forcing himself to relax his hand. "Just thinking about the Games," he said, his tone too light, too practised.

Liberty's brow arched, and she gave him a look that said she didn't believe him for a second. "Finnick, I know you better than that. Spill it."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was just... thinking about us. About this."

Her expression softened, but she didn't say anything, waiting for him to continue.

"I know we said we wouldn't define it," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I... I want it to be real, Liberty. Not just for the cameras or for survival. I want this—whatever it is—to be ours. Something they can't take from us."

Liberty's eyes widened slightly, the weight of his words sinking in. She opened her mouth to respond, but Finnick pressed on before she could.

"I know it's stupid," he said quickly, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. "With everything happening—the rebellion, the arena, Snow breathing down our necks—this isn't the time to want something like that. But I do. I can't help it."

For a moment, the room was silent, the tension between them crackling like electricity. Then Liberty reached out, placing her hand over his clenched fist. Her touch was warm, and steadying, and it made his breath catch.

"It's not stupid," she said, her voice firm but gentle. "Not when it's real."

Finnick's eyes searched hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself hope. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't as fragile as he feared.

Finnick felt his chest tighten as he held her gaze. For so long, everything in his life had been smoke and mirrors—a carefully constructed facade to protect himself and those he cared about. But here, at this moment, there were no games, no Capitol personas, no survival tactics. Just Liberty and him.

He exhaled slowly, his voice barely a murmur. "If it's real, then I'm terrified of losing it. Of losing you."

Liberty's hand tightened around his, her expression softening in a way that made his stomach twist. "Finnick," she began, her voice steady despite the emotion flickering in her eyes, "we're both scared. But that doesn't mean we can't have this. Even if everything else falls apart, this is ours. They can't touch it—not if we don't let them."

Her words struck a chord deep within him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of something dangerously close to peace. The Capitol had taken so much from him—his freedom, his dignity, his choices—but Liberty was a reminder that they hadn't taken everything.

He reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. His thumb lingered on her cheek for a moment longer than necessary. "You're braver than me," he admitted with a faint smile.

Liberty chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Don't give me too much credit. I'm just as scared as you are, Finnick. I'm just better at hiding it."

His lips twitched upward at her honesty, and he felt some of the weight in his chest ease. "Well, you've got me fooled," he teased lightly.

The moment stretched between them, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions too fragile to name. Finally, Liberty broke the silence, her tone more playful now. "So, what's the plan? Pretend to be Capitol sweethearts for the cameras and rebels for the rebellion?"

Finnick smirked, the familiar spark of mischief returning to his eyes. "That sounds about right. We'll give them a show they'll never forget."

Liberty laughed, the sound soft but genuine. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"And yet, you keep me around," Finnick shot back, his grin widening.

Her laughter faded, replaced by a look of quiet determination. "I keep you around because I need you, Finnick. We're in this together—no matter what."

He swallowed hard, her words settling in his chest like a promise. "Together," he echoed the word feeling like an anchor amidst the chaos of their lives.

Liberty nodded, her hand still resting over his. "Always."

For the first time that night, Finnick felt a sense of calm. The Capitol might own their bodies, dictate their fates, and force them into games they didn't want to play, but they couldn't own what mattered most.

Whatever the days ahead held—whether it was the rebellion, the arena, or Snow's wrath—Finnick knew one thing for certain: as long as he had Liberty by his side, he could face it.

They could face it together.