a/n: double update-- i lied.

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        He's waiting for me when I get back, when my mother has gone to a friend's and I had spent the morning's sunrise by the water.

        He's in my independent study, sitting patiently behind the large oak desk and inspecting the novel I'd left discarded there. It's one of Mags' favourite underground books, a story about a young girl that dares to dream for more in a mundane world, and he sets it down gently when I step into the room, eyes brightening with interest. My heart rate skyrockets upon seeing him there, his grubby fingerprints covering my belongings. An unnaturally scented white rose sits in a vase beside him.

        "Good morning, Miss Bloom." He says with a smile, and I have to remind myself to be respectful even after everything. "Have a seat, would you?"

        "President Snow," I say, slowly moving into the room towards the chair sitting across from him. "To what do I owe this honour?"

        He bares his teeth pleasantly, observing me with cold and calculating eyes. "The thing about books that I dislike most... it often conceals a final, overarching lesson, teaching the reader about the importance of ethics and morality by the end. Perhaps, inciting inspiration as well."

        I swallow thickly, my throat dry and tongue heavy. I sit down in the chair, feeling strangely like a guest in the space I'd carved out for myself to escape the very world this man had created. "I would consider that to be one of the more positive aspects of literature, sir."

        President Snow lets out a bark-like laugh, feigning amusement. "Positive, perhaps. Until it inspires the belief that there is more to life than I have said there is."

        "Why do you still allow them to exist if they pose such a threat?" I ask, aware that I may be overstepping my boundaries by questioning the President. Snow observes me, arrogant face and inquisitive eyes. He is sizing me up, deciding if I am a threat to his interpretation of society.

        "Because, Miss Bloom, it is better to control the form of entertainment they consume than to simply ban it. That would lead to black markets, the smuggling of radical ideas within the districts. Humanity desires entertainment to remain pacified— television, parties, gossip magazines, literature. They are useful devices, precisely when regulated." Snow watches me, interpreting my silence as disagreement. "You do not agree." He states.

       "Literature has clearly not been regulated effectively," I say, voice levelled. I look at the book on the table, the name of the author absent to protect her identity. "It still exists. The human condition, though flawed, is persistent. You cannot control every aspect of their lives."

        Snow hums, aged fingers landing on the book once more. He traces the abstract cover with his pointer finger almost absently. "Perhaps not, but with the right level of distraction, I will not need to. Those in the districts have so few hours in the day to complete their work obligations, or to tend to their struggling, meagre families... the Games is the only form of entertainment that they regularly consume. Reading books is a luxury rarely afforded in the districts." I don't speak, sure that any other words I express further on the topic would paint a target on my back. It turns out that I do not have to. Snow changes the conversation on his own accord. "You've been up to a great deal since you've won your Games." I wonder how much he knows about my life, and I figure that he has eyes everywhere. "You and Mr. Odair recently rebuilt a little orphanage, yes?"

        I worry for a moment that we aren't supposed to share our wealth, but there wasn't exactly a fineprint to tell me not to when I'd won. I'm more careful in picking my words this time. "Yes. It was falling apart, and the children deserved to live in better conditions."

        President Snow hums in agreement, and I visibly relax for a brief second. "Public favour has been on your side recently, Miss Bloom."

        "Has it?" I ask. I am not aware of what occurs in the Capitol. My days since returning have been consumed with Finnick, Mags, my mother, and the orphanage.

        "There are people in the Capitol that would pay handsomely to be in your company." He smiles eerily, calm and collected while my mind sprints a marathon in a desperate bid to interpret his words. Pay for my company? What is that supposed to mean?

        "I'm afraid I don't really understand—" I start to say, but Snow raises a hand to effectively cut me off.

        "You will find that the people interested occupy spaces of immense power, Miss Bloom, and you are seen as... increasingly desirable." Snow explains further. There's a certain pitch to his voice that makes me want to turn and run out the door. "I would desire to keep them happy and fulfilled. You should understand, however, that I am not requesting anything of you." He waits, a lethal pause in which he allows me to absorb the weight of his words.

        I swallow thickly. "You aren't requesting anything, sir?" I have a sinking feeling that my intuitions are correct, the anxiety coiling in my gut as I stare him head on.

        "I am not requesting." President Snow enunciates his vowels completely, teeth bared. "You will accompany those that I instruct you to."

        I blink rapidly, my heart thudding in my ears. "Accompany." I repeat.

        "You will be performing a valuable service to the people of the Capitol." President Snow says coldly, eyes narrowing in on me. The way he speaks makes me feel stupid. "Rest assured, this will include performing favours of the explicit kind."

        "I'm not comfortable with that sort of exchange, sir." I try to say as Snow focuses his steel gaze on the rose beside him. He plucks it from the translucent vase and slowly rises to his feet, walking around the oakwood desk to my side. I stare straight ahead at the window, not wanting to meet his eyes this time; feeling strangely as prey. I can see the beach from here, the water lapping at the shore and crashing against the rocks repetitively. It's a gorgeous sight. He holds the flower out to me, and with shaking hands, I will myself to accept it.

         "You will learn to be," he tells me, "as your mother would like to live long enough to see her daughter marry one day, yes?" I understand the meaning of his words a beat too late, but I've already hesitantly nodded by that point. The terror seizes me in place, and President Snow seems to relish in my response. "I'm glad we see eye-to-eye then. Do give Mr. Odair my greetings. Have a lovely day, Miss Bloom. We will be in conversation very soon." I sit frozen in fear, only capable of listening to his steady retreat. I don't know how long I remain in place for, the scent of the rose eventually growing too strong for me to deal with.

        I set the flower down on the desk, wiping my hands against my pants leg, before I push myself up to my feet. My cheeks feel hot and it's only when I brush the back of my hand against it that I feel it slick with tears. He'd threatened my mother's life, the only living relative I have left, if I don't do what? Be a Capitol prostitute? I feel nauseous at the thought, stumbling out of the study and down the hallway. The deal was that I get to live in peace if I win, yes? How was this peace? What about this was supposed to be peace?

        I leave the house and lock the door behind me with shaking fingers. I didn't feel safe in there anymore, not after he'd invaded my space and demanded things of me that I didn't want to give. It's by pure muscle memory alone that I walk to Finnick's house, deciding upon arrival that he could have useful advice on the situation. I manage to convince myself along the way that I'm not only there just to seek his comfort.

        It's late morning when I knock on his door, and there's a small delay as I stand anxiously on his porch. I try to steady my breathing, but the reality of my conversation with Snow seems to attack me with every passing second that I lie in wait. The nausea grows harder to ignore. By the time Finnick answers the door, my face is coated with tears and my eyes are burning. He doesn't say anything at first, staring at me with confusion and concern warping his features. "Reverie," he says cautiously, hand stretching out to me, but my stomach suddenly lurches and I drop off the porch to force my face into the bushes.

        I don't mean to throw up, but the insistence of it is so strong that I'm only able to sink to my knees in effort of remaining conscious. I am trapped inside a dizzying loop of crying, these gut-wrenching sounds tugging from my chest, and retching violently. The ground is torn up from beneath me, rapid water surrounding me on all ends, and it's like I suddenly don't remember how to swim. I don't remember how to breathe either, arms bracing against either side of my head in a desperate bid to focus in on the one feeling of pressure. I can feel my mind slipping, teetering on the brink of sanity and its stark opposite, but Finnick is there to pull me back. He's always there to pull me back. Finnick is behind me in a second, and I can't feel him despite needing to. He's holding me, arms strong and grounding, but I can't feel him. I can only feel terror; seizing terror that I can't move past. I can't remember a feeling before this. I don't believe any feeling can come after this.

        "I've got you, I've got you," his voice slides through, dancing amidst the haze of my mind and trying to gather me up. I cry harder, desperation growing. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. The water is stronger now, the current merciless as it tries to sweep me away from the promise of nearby shore. Finnick is there though, strong and resilient, and he doesn't let my head go under for longer than I can bare. "It's okay, you're safe with me. I've got you. I've got you."

        Time no longer makes sense. I don't know how much of it has logically passed from when I'd stopped breathing and when I started again. I don't know how much of it has transpired from when my face was in a bush with vomit dribbling down my chin, and when it was pressed against Finnick's warm neck. I'm breathing rapidly, struggling to stay calm, but Finnick tells me it's okay so I try my best to believe him. His arms are strong. His resolve is even stronger. I can feel him. 

        "It's okay, breathe for me." I listen to his instructions, but the motion is shaky and I choke back another sob. His hand is on my back, steadying, and he promises me it's okay to cry. He tells me I'm doing so good. I think that he might be lying, but honesty isn't the best policy anyways. 

        "He threatened to kill my mom." I don't know when the words escape my mouth, or if they're even fully intelligible. There's an acrid taste on my tongue. I can't tell if it's from the vomit or the words I speak. Finnick manages to pull me up and into his house without another word.

         "Drink." He tells me. He holds out a glass with amber liquid, filled only a quarter way from the bottom. I look up at Finnick, face carefully masked, from where I'm curled up on his sofa. A blanket is all that keeps me from unravelling again. "It'll help," he says, quieter this time, and I believe him.

        My fingers wrap around the glass, and without apprehension, I swallow the liquid before my tastebuds get the opportunity to fully register it. It burns going down, but I suppose the pain and discomfort of it is part of why everyone drinks it. I consider that nothing ever hurts as badly as it did before anyway.

         "When did he come to you?" He asks, cautious, settling down on the floor in front of me.

         I answer quietly. "He was already in my house when I came back from the beach."

         Finnick doesn't seem the clueless type, but he asks me questions anyways as if he doesn't know what this all leads up to. "And his exact words?"

         I inhale shakily, and to keep the dark thoughts at bay for a little while longer, I drink a little more. Finnick waits, not pushing any further than I'm willing to give. I finally force the truth out, only to confront the reality of it all myself. "He said that the Capitol likes me, because of all the charity we've done, I guess." Finnick crosses his arms over his chest and breathes slowly, squeezing his eyes shut. "He said that people want to pay... to spend time with me. And I told him I wasn't— that I'm not comfortable with that... so he gave me a rose, a stupid white rose, and said my mother deserves to get the chance... she should want to see me marry one day." Finnick looks hurt, a pained look crossing his face, and he leans forward with elbows over his knees as he covers his face. I hear him breathe in deeply, preparing himself. I decide to prepare myself too with some more liquid courage, seeing as I'm in short supply.

         "He wants to sell you... your body." Finnick rubs the tension lines in his forehead. I blow out a long breath. Hearing him reiterate it so plainly makes it feel more real— somehow, more terrifying. "I'm sorry, I never told you. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. You were doing so well... and I didn't want to interfere with your progress."

        "What do you mean?" I ask him carefully, eyeing the older boy in front of me.

        "I was hoping they'd leave you alone for longer, especially because you were having trouble coping. I guess... I guess not. It's... it's what we all end up doing." Finnick pulls his hands from his face, heaving out a shaky breath, and then he's meeting my eyes and the words I never thought I'd be hearing fall from his lips. "At least for me, since I was 16. Like clockwork, they had me showing up in the Capitol to give to whoever wanted me. I play a character on the world stage for him— a stupid charade. In return, Mags and I get to stay alive and comfy for a little longer." I stare at Finnick, something of remorse overwhelming me. He says all this in a long breath, but his eyes glint and settle on the bottle before him in a way that breaks my heart. For all the time I thought I knew everything there is to know about him, our idea of being completely truthful on all levels, I was oblivious to something happening on this massive of a scale. What kind of friend was I?

       "I'm sorry," I say, because I have no other words. "I'm so sorry, Finnick. You don't deserve this." My eyes are burning with tears, and Finnick— sad, nineteen year-old Finnick— brandishes a void smile.

        "I told you there aren't any real winners." He says, and after a beat, he decides to speak more. "I refused at first. I gave him a hard no. And then... my family died." Finnick doesn't seem fazed, at least not entirely, and that makes his admission worse. He rubs his forehead almost absently, eyes dull, and I feel a pang in my chest. Here I was, breaking down on his front porch about a mere threat when he'd been through so much more. His tone borders something of resignation as he speaks. "Either way, Reverie, Snow will have you do this. For your mother's sake..."

        I realize that my hands are trembling stupidly, and I press them down flat as I attempt to calm my breathing. I want them to stop shaking, but the anxiety burrowing deep in my gut doesn't let up. Finnick reaches up, for my glass, I think, but then his hand is grasping mine and I meet his gaze.

        Only months prior, he'd prepared me for certain death in an arena full of twenty-three other kids. He couldn't have expected me to live. But now, we're somehow able to call ourselves the youngest Victors from District 4. It doesn't feel like we'd won anything great in particular.

         "Do you think it'd be better if we died?" When Finnick doesn't answer me immediately, my mouth opens again, desperate to paint a different picture. "My mother would mourn me, I guess, but that's it. It'd be rest."

        Finnick looks down, swallowing thickly before he responds. "Sometimes. But like I said, it's better not to give into it. Mags says everything happens for a reason. A greater purpose or something."

        I want to believe that— I so desperately want to believe that I'm here because I'm useful in some sort of way to others. And maybe I have been, but the future only looks bleak now. "We're puppets, Finnick. Our purpose is to entertain the Capitol." Finnick lets go of my hands, picking up the bottle by his side and knocking the lid off with ease. He brings the rim to his lips, throwing his head back and swallowing the alcohol quickly and seemingly painfully.

        He winces as he sets the bottle back down, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I can't afford to think like that, Rev. If I did, I'd kill myself."

        I think then that he's right to avoid the same sort of thought process that I engage in— the constant suicidal ideation gets exhausting at some point.