It was another quiet day in a house that doesn't quite feel like home.

        I can vaguely hear my mother's footsteps pacing just outside the door of my private study. Her slippers lightly tap against the hardwood floor in the hallway, a consistent and strangely comforting sound. I assume that she wants to talk to me, but can't quite figure out how to approach it. I'm grateful, in some awful and twisted way, that she's struggling. The last thing I want is to have another serious conversation about my sick brain with her.

        It's been about two months since I made it home, but healing with time is still a foreign concept to me. I go to bed every night exhausted with the menial events of the day, and wake from nightmares that don't let me find rest. My throat is sore from crying out in my sleep so much, and all the mugs of tea in the world can't seem to soothe it, nor me. I wonder about the other Victors, especially the ones that have grown old. Why am I the only one that's still so broken? Why am I the only one struggling to find the energy to get out of bed every morning? Why am I the only one that considers taking my life every waking moment? Why are they all seemingly okay, and how can I trick myself into thinking the same?

        My eyes follow the waves that crash against the private Victors' beach. At the very back of the independent study that I'd claimed as my own, a wide window stretches from wall to wall. It provides a perfect view of the ocean and beach, so I'd pushed one of the couches to sit underneath the sill for my daily entertainment. I rest there now with a blanket wrapped around me, trying to find sleep for my drained bones. Sleep, however, has plans of its own— it doesn't want to visit me, not even when the sun slowly starts to set and my mother's comforting footsteps are nowhere to be heard. I listen to the water and try not to think about how eerily similar it is to those final moments before Lux, when the arena was flooded as a final push to end our Game. Everything eventually goes back to that point— I don't know why I try to fight it so much.

        There's a knock at the door, and I consider the amount of energy it would take for me to get to my feet and open up for my mother. I decide that I can't, and with a hoarse voice, I reluctantly call out: "It's unlocked."

        I witness the twist of the knob, preparing to see the familiar form of my mother entering the room. Instead, it's a tall boy with bronze hair that steps in, pushing the door shut behind him. He smiles at me when he sees me, and something about how he doesn't immediately treat me like a wounded animal makes me feel good inside. I know I'm a mess, but it's nice to be treated otherwise every one in awhile.

         "Finnick," I say, tone slightly surprised. "To what do I owe the honour?" I say sarcastically. He snorts, leaning back against the door frame.

         "I'm here collecting taxes," he tells me. I raise my eyebrows.

         "Taxes," I repeat. Finnick smiles.

         "Yes, taxes. There's the Proximity Tax, in which you have pay to be in the same room as me so frequently..." Finnick almost breaks when he sees the look on my face, managing to push on. "There's also the Neighbour Tax. Can't be neighbours with Finnick Odair for free, can you? What example would you be setting for the children?"

         I shake my head, amazed by how bold he is. "You're the worst," I say, and he smiles before he pushes himself off the door frame.

         "Your mom says you've been in here all day," Finnick says, walking further into the room with curious eyes. He scans the furnishings of the study briefly, his gaze finding me again at once.

         "It's nice in here," I tell him. He pulls the large executive chair that sits behind the wooden desk towards where I sit, dropping into the leather seat with an exhale. He crosses his arms comfortably over his chest, kicking his feet up onto my couch. "Get your feet off," I say, shoving his sock-covered feet away from me playfully. Finnick laughs, loud and beautiful, and puts his legs down.

         "You're so mean," he says.

         "Am not," I say sharply. "Just tired, and I don't need your gross socks near my face."

         "Are you getting sick?" He asks suddenly, referring to my weak voice. I shake my head. He frowns, studying me intensely. He's obviously caught on quickly. "When was the last time you slept?"

        "I can't," I say. "It's hard."

         Finnick eyes me for a moment, the silence passing between us easily. I wonder what he's thinking. I don't need an intervention, not when I can't even process my own thoughts yet. I just need more time— more space to put between me and everything I want to forget happened. Finally, he speaks again. "Mags is here. She brought all of her knitting supplies, so if you want to come and join us making scarves... I think it would be good for you."

        I look down at my lap, fingers fidgeting as I consider the offer. I want to join them— it'd be the most normal evening I've had in a while. But I also want to stay here, curled up in my blanket, because I don't have the energy to hold up a façade for everyone else's benefit. "What colour yarn did she bring?" I ask timidly, and Finnick smiles when he realizes I'm leaning towards the idea.

        "All the primary colours," he says smoothly. "Secondary, too, and some extra shades in between. It's a whole basket, you'd be amazed."

         I rub my hands against my face, a slight smile tugging at my lips. "I want to join, but I'm too tired."

          Finnick nods his head, disappointment clear on his face. "Don't feel pressured. Come down whenever— if you're ready." I nod my head in agreement, and Finnick only lingers for a few moments more before he gets to his feet and pats my leg in passing. He leaves the door slightly ajar, and while that would normally peeve me, I think that he did it as a silent beckoning. I lean back against the sofa cushion behind me and blow out a slow exhale, staring back out the window. The water seems gentle as it laps against the sandy beach, but I can't help but remember the violence of it in the arena; the strength of the current as I tried to climb away. My chest feels tight and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the memory away.

         Eventually, I decide I don't want to be alone anymore.

         I tug a pair of socks on and slip into a large sweater before I decide to leave my study. The door makes a soft click as I shut it behind me, and the floorboards creak slightly underfoot as I walk the halls. I pay attention to all of the little sounds, letting it ground me as I move slowly throughout the house. I'm nervous as I approach the living room, knowing that everyone has congregated down there and knowing everyone will pay attention to me the moment I make my presence known. Still, I swallow my anxieties and force myself to take the last few steps.

         "Reverie!" My mother says excitedly, her eyes bright when she sees me pause in the doorway of the large lounge. On the far end of the room, she sits next to Mags with a ball of grey yarn sitting in her lap and two knitting needles in her hands. Mags smiles wide when she notices me as well, quickly waving me to come over. There's a basket by her feet, numerous balls of full yarn stacked on top of each other. "Come choose something! We're making scarves, it'll be fun!"

         I look over at Finnick, who sits on the other sofa staring intensely at his needles as he twists red string carefully. When he lifts his head, he smiles— relief? "Do you actually know how to knit?" He asks me curiously.

          I nod my head. "I used to knit for the kids at the daycare."

          Finnick raises his eyebrows, surprised at the information. "Wow. You ever think about going back?"

         I shrug my shoulders, looking down at my feet. "Sometimes."

          "You should," Mags tells me, kindness in her eyes. "I'm sure the kids miss you." I shake my head, a shy smile twisting my lips.

           "Come choose something," my mom says again, picking two long needles out for me. I hesitantly step further into the lounge, feet against the carpeted ground now, and crouch in front of the basket. I look through the different colours, finally deciding on a pretty shade of pink. My mom hands me the pair of needles, and I thank her quietly before turning around and heading towards the other couch. I drop down against the cushions next to Finnick, who leans closer to me to watch how I set up the scarf. He doesn't say anything, but after a moment of silently observing my quick fingers move and complete a few lines, he goes back to his knitting and tries again. Everyone speaks in loud voices as they talk about everything and anything, and while I don't have the energy to pay attention and pitch in to the various conversations that generate lots of laughter, it's comforting for me.

         "You're fast," Finnick mumbles, sounding a bit dejected, and I surprise myself when a laugh tumbles from my lips. I pretend I don't notice the surprised expressions that crosses everyone else's faces.

           "Or maybe you just suck," I reply. I don't look up to see his reaction, but I can tell my easy speech is something unexpected.

          "I want to argue against that," Finnick says slowly, "but you're kind of right, so..." He smiles over at me easily, dimples prominent in his cheeks, and I roll my eyes as I turn back to my knitting.

          "You're good at other things, it's okay." I say quietly, twisting my yarn once more to start another line. "Keep trying."

          I'm not sure how long we spend working on the scarves, but eventually Mags announces that she's tired and my mother offers to walk her back to her house before Finnick can. Mags kisses Finnick on the cheek goodbye, and I'm surprised when she leans down and presses a peck to my forehead as well. I meet her eyes, startled, and she smiles sadly at me. "It was nice to hear you laugh today," she tells me. I feel my heart break in my chest a little bit, and then she's setting off with my mother and leaving Finnick and me alone.

          Finnick frowns down at the ball of yarn in his lap, the botched attempt at a scarf abandoned next to his leg. Mags left us with our needles and yarn in the hopes it would keep us busy, but it seems to frustrate Finnick the longer he looks at it. "You're not used to being bad at something," I say decidedly. Finnick lifts his head and looks at me, eyes tired.

          "I'm that easy to read, huh," he says in a low voice. I shake my head quickly.

          "You only pretend like you are," I tell him. "Maybe as a survival instinct. It's what makes you hard to read. I sometimes can't tell if the Finnick I'm talking to is real."

            Finnick averts his gaze, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. "And what about right now?"

            I shrug my shoulders. "You seem pretty real, but I could be wrong."

            Finnick twists to look at me again, and the intensity of his green eyes startles me. He's close— almost too close. I remind myself to breathe. "I feel pretty real right now."

          I nod my head, the movement small and hesitant. "That's good to hear."

         Finnick smiles cutely, his eyes flickering as he searches for something in me that I don't know about. I wonder if he's trying to charm me, or if I actually have the ability to pull such a smile from him. "How about we make a deal?"

          I raise my eyebrows, careful. "It depends."

          "No more being fake." He tells me. "None of that stuff we do outside so everyone thinks we're who we're supposed to be. What if we're always real with each other?"

          I don't have to think about it. "I'd like that."

          Finnick shifts, leaning his elbow against the back of the sofa and resting his face against his hand. "So about your sleeping, then."

           I scoff loudly, amazed. "You did all that just to interrogate me, huh?" Finnick laughs loudly, the sound beautiful and infectious all the same. I grin at him, cheeks unused to being stretched so far, and Finnick ducks his head for a moment in an attempt to compose himself.

          "I did." Finnick says around a smile. "Because we should talk about it."

           I roll my eyes, but concede. "I'm okay, really. Just some dreams, it's nothing I can't handle." Finnick looks at me for a long moment, eyes focused, and I wonder what he's thinking about. I decide to ask him.

           Finnick blinks slowly as he considers my question. "Your voice is shot. And I don't want to seem like I'm questioning your resiliency, but I think you might need a bit of help, is all. There's nothing wrong with getting a bit of help."

          I shift in my seat, leaning back against the chair and focusing my eyes on the carpeted floor instead of Finnick's prying eyes. "I know."

         "But you won't do it," he hypothesizes, and I nod my head in confirmation. "Why?"

         "Because as long as I can put enough distance between the Games and this new life of mine... If enough time passes, I think I'll be okay. I have to be." I say this confidently, but I don't know if I believe myself entirely. "I don't want some stranger digging around in my head if I can help it."

          "It doesn't have to be a stranger," Finnick tells me. "Listen, I see someone. Not here in 4, but in the Capitol, there are some great psychologists. There's no shame in a little help if it helps you function better, Rev." I nod my head, still not convinced.

         "I'll be okay, Finnick." I say gently. "Don't stress about it."

         Finnick observes me sadly, and I wish I could change the wounded look that shines behind his beautiful eyes. "I'm always gonna stress about it, Rev."