This chapter is a bit more abstract due to the material covered and the usage of first-person POV, so grab your reading glasses!

TW: For PTSD and flashbacks

We make our way up to the top floor of the hotel attached to the casino and enter the ginormous suite that takes up almost the entirety of the floor of the hotel. We of course told the other victors before we left where we were going, which naturally resulted in them giving us some strange looks and chuckles. But I ignore their snickers and chuckles, as does Finnick, because we both know that this will probably be our best and possibly last chance of being able to hang out until the next Games uninterrupted.

Finnick opens the door with the key card and I see the massive open-concept room with a huge open fireplace in the middle. The décor has a sleek black motif, the only thing ruining it is something white on the comforter of the bed in the corner of the room. I ignore that, instead heading towards the window. The room has a perfect view of the largest building in the city, the Tribute Tower. The casino's hotel is still quite tall, but even from the top floor of this building, you can tell that it's still a ways off from the feat of height achieved by the Tribute Tower.

"Even from here it still looks terrifying," says Finnick from over my shoulder.

I fold my arms over my chest and nod as I stare out to it. "Thing of nightmares."

"When did they start for you?" he asks.

"As soon as I was out. I got back to the Tower I started having these..." I pause, not knowing how to describe it, "flashbacks. To how I felt when I woke up in the middle of the night and Ruby was on top of me, squeezing my throat, the, the um, panic. The feeling like I was about to die. In the moment part of me knows I'm not actually there, but it's always like I'm right back there. I'd zone out randomly in the middle of the day for who knows how long. Still do."

"Is there anything you can do that helps?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I don't really notice when I do it. Sometimes I even zone out during conversations, but I keep nodding and humming along as if I was listening, which of course, I only realize later I wasn't paying attention and didn't get anything."

"With my nightmares," says Finnick so casually, as if he were talking about recommending a restaurant in the Tower to eat at, "I find it helpful when I can hear Mags in the other room. When I was a kid and I first got out though, she'd stay over at my house and I'd fall asleep on the couch while she'd just sit in this rocking chair I made for her. I'd wake up and she'd tell me to touch five things around me, then find four things to look at, three things to hear, two smells, and finally she'd give me a sugar cube to taste. By the time I got to the last one I always felt...more grounded in where I was. Felt safe again. And then she wouldn't say anything else and she'd go back to knitting this huge blue blanket. Now I sleep with it on my bed back home every night and it's always the first thing I reach for to touch when I wake up from a nightmare. It sounds silly, but the little things help."

I shake my head. "It doesn't sound silly at all." It suddenly occurs to me how much longer Finnick has been at this than I have. For me, I technically haven't even made it over the one-year mark yet because my Games lasted one entire week longer—they went from the final 8 to the victor in less than 24 hours this year. But Finnick? He's had four years of this. Four years of having to come back here. "How do you do it? How do you come back here every time?"

"It's not like there's a choice," he chuckles. "I'd much rather stay on the beach." He catches the unimpressed look on my face before he answers seriously, "Humour. That's how I deal with it. Always have. If you can make a joke about it, suddenly you have a way of letting it all out that's not sitting and crying or bottling it up. Not everyone gets it, but that is not my problem."

"Now you're talking. I'm fluent in sarcasm. I used to get sent to run extra laps for it when I was a kid."

"Also flirting helps. Of course, only when it's people I want to flirt with...or mess with—not like that," he corrects quickly, "I mean like pulling their leg. Either one works."

"So Mags and my grandma?"

"What can I say? The older women love me," he jokes. "But they're harmless. It's all in good fun. They get the flattery, I get to see how their faces light up with the compliments, it's a win-win."

I quirk an eyebrow. "And the younger audience?"

"Still working on that. It seems people who are actually my age, the ones I can stand at least, are resistant to my charm."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Well, the last time I tried she told me to update my moves," he laughs.

I shake my head, my shoulders bobbing as I giggle loudly as I think back on the night I first met Finnick. "I'm sorry, that was you actually trying?"

His mouth falls agape as my cackles grow louder and louder. He shakes his head. "It's not funny," he deadpans, though the chuckle of disbelief in his voice gives it away.

It takes me a moment to process whether or not he's actually joking, or at least if there's any smidgen of truth tucked into his statement and he was actually trying. "I thought you were testing me or something."

"I was. In a way. I don't think I could be friends with someone who wouldn't call me on it right away. And if I remember correctly, you were keeping up with me pretty well that night."

"I'd say I was outwitting you, but you were pretty close."

He ignores the comment. "You're also pretty good at charming the cameras. Not as good as me of course, but in your own way."

I nod. "If I've learned anything from this year, it's that all the victors are certainly...special in their own way." Everyone has their own charms. From Haymitch all the way to Cecelia, they all have their own unique spark—unlike us Careers which seem to be a dime a dozen. A carbon copy from one to the next. My mind flitting to Cecelia reminds me of something I wanted to tell Finnick. "Speaking of which, did you hear? Cecelia is getting married."

He nods. "It's all Mags could talk about once she found out. You'd be surprised how many do. Victors' houses are big and empty. And a lot of people can't stand the silence, so they start a family."

Even though he hasn't asked I answer. "I don't think I could."

He turns to me. "Oh? Why?" He quickly clarifies, "Not that I disagree, I'm just curious to hear your reasoning behind it."

"Well, I just think how do you just get married to someone who's never been through what we've been through? Because you can't just explain it to someone. And kids? How do you have a kid knowing that their name is just going to 'happen' to be picked out of the Reaping bowl? It's messed up. How a parent could do that to their kid, I have no idea." I may have gotten carried away at the end, preoccupied with my own circumstances, but my point still stands. How could you ever raise a child, knowing that this is what they were bound for?

Finnick nods in understanding, "Maybe if things were different I could. But I'm pretty certain if I were to even look at someone back home romantically, they'd end up going 'missing' on their next trip out on a boat. But I do, theoretically like the idea of having a kid. Maybe I'll adopt one from an orphanage back home once the Capitol moves on from me and finds their next boy-toy to play with."

"That's another thing. I don't think I could ever marry someone from 2. Everyone is so...pretentious and obnoxious, and egotistical."

"Wow, you really are from 2 then," he says sarcastically.

I elbow him. Hard. "I don't want to be. But sometimes I can't help it. Everything is a competition there. And everyone is just so...stone cold." My face falls a bit, thinking of home. The people of District 2 are as cold and unfeeling as the slabs of rock we pull from the quarries. And even worse, it's idolized, idealized. Any emotion besides a display of anger is seen as weakness. "If we were allowed to move, I'd pack mine and Gran's bags as soon as I could."

"And where would you go?"

"I hear 4 is pretty nice. Has a few nice people in it too."

"Wouldn't that be something," muses Finnick. "You two could move into the house beside mine. Our backyards face towards the ocean. It's only like, a five-minute walk to the beach. I could teach you how to swim—"

I scoff. "I don't live under a rock. I know how to swim. They've filled in two of the old quarries and made them into swimming holes."

Finnick holds up his hands defensively. "Alright, alright, no swimming lessons required. We can skip straight to the surfing."

"Surfing?" I ask, unfamiliar with the word.

Finnick scratches the back of his head. "Ooh, uh, how do I explain this..." He makes his way over to the desk near the door, grabs the pen and paper pad off it, and plops down on the couch, motioning for me to do the same. He begins to draw carefully on the pad to demonstrate what he's talking about. "Well, when the ocean creates waves that are big enough, you can take a board—it's usually made out of some sort of wood and they put some sort of finishing polish over it so it doesn't become waterlogged—and if you catch it at the right time, the wave will pull you and the board along with it into shore."

The picture he's drawn is a little stick man, standing on top of a nearly rectangular board with rounded noses on either side. I think I understand. "So it's a test of balance."

He tilts his head from side to side. "I guess it could be, but you do it to have fun. They do have that in 2, right? Fun?"

I purse my lips. "Ah, see that's where you've got me. Whenever I leave 2, I end up taking all the fun with me."

Finnick and I continue to talk for what feels like hours with no care or regard for the time. This is the most time we've been able to spend with one another uninterrupted, so I keep talking for fear that someone's going to come in and swoop him away like they always do.

We decide to have a little bit of fun at the expense of the woman who paid for the room, seeing as she deserves it anyway. As we explore the rest of the expansive room, we discover that the bed is covered in white rose petals. Sensing the dismay on Finnick's face, I scoop each and every one of them up, and walk over to the fire pit in the middle of the room. "Bye red-haired bitch." I say as I drop them all down into the fire. A wicked grin crossed Finnick's face as they burn and disappear. Good, I think to myself.

We order some champagne to the room, cheers to the woman with red hair getting arrested, and do the next most mature thing we could think of: jumping on the bed and having a pillow fight that results in the feathers from the pillows flying out and cascading down onto the floor.

After tiring ourselves out like the apparently small children we are, we find our energy levels crashing, and soon we find ourselves sprawled out on the bed in the corner of the room, surrounded by snacks, champagne, and feathers. Finnick ends up turning on some sort of music show to watch—a miracle that he found something that wasn't Hunger Games coverage—and we both absently watch it. Every now and then I'll let my tired voice ask him something or he'll as me something and we'll have a short conversation before being to tired to continue, but the silences in between are comfortable ones.

After a while, out of the corner of my eye to the left of me, I spot the warm light from the firepit in the middle of the room flickering. In my mind's eye, the flicker of the campfire only illuminates the left side of Ruby's face as she stands over me squeezing me. The blood in my veins quickens with panic and I'm filled with an overwhelming sense of doom. I'm going to die. I'm in a hotel room, I know this, I try to remind myself of it because I can see it, yet my brain cannot catch up. It's living in the past.

My thoughts begin to race, without caring to match what I'm physically feeling, she's heavier than I thought she'd be, even though I feel no weight on my chest. Her arms are longer than mine. I can't reach her. She's going to kill me. I am going to die. I am going to die and she is the last face I'm going to see.

Finnick is mumbling about something.

My body is fading from the lack of oxygen. I am getting weak and I want to give up. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. The anxiety clams to an eerie and bone-chilling calm. But death is scary. No one told me that it would hurt this much. No one told me. The anxiety picks back up again as by body reaches high alert again. Is this what they felt when I killed them at the Cornucopia? What have I done?

The knife slices Ruby's neck the blood is everywhere. All over me. But shhhhh I know I have to be quiet, I have to keep her quiet so I don't wake the others. I can't see them, but I know they're there, sleeping. I see my hand—I know it's my hand, but it's also not mine, I can't feel it touch her skin—cover her mouth to keep her from making too much noise as I help her to the ground.

Panic. There's not much time until the cannon goes off. I need to get out of here. I need to leave. I need to run. I don't have much time. She was on watch but I don't have much time. The boy from 1 sleeps away from the group, the fire hits him from the left, flickering, illuminating him as a target. If you don't get him, he'll wake up and get you. I see my hand around the dagger, ready to lodge into his throat and then run. I need to get out of here. I need to kill him or he'll get me. He runs fast. He's blocking doorway out of the abandoned ruin of a house.

"...say 'no' if you can hear me," Finnick says to me.

"No."

"Do you know where we are?" his voice asks.

"We're in the casino at the hotel."

"That's right. You're here with me in the hotel. You're not in the arena anymore, okay? It's over. You're safe. They can't hurt you anymore."

No. No they can't. I'm aware of my surroundings again, I can see the outline of the room in the dark, the sleek black features everywhere, but the flickering of the fire is still there. "The fire pit, can you turn it off?"

After turning it off, he jogs back to the bed and begins to takes me through a list of things. Touch five things: the soft and plush blanket on the bed, a fluffy feather, Finnick's warm hand, the hard plastic of the television remote, and knock on the wooden headboard.

Four things to look at: the television which is currently playing some sort of flashy and colourful music show, the feathers sprawled all over the room, the illuminated Tribute Tower out the window, and Finnick's vibrant green eyes. I notice that my eyes blink, and my mind slowly feels present again.

Three things to hear: the music from the television, and Finnick's voice. I have to search around for a third noise to hear, and manage to pick up the faint noise of the air coming through the vent above us. It feels quieter than before.

Two things to smell: the crisp scent of fresh bedding, and the faded spices of Finnick's cologne.

Now fully back in control of my mind I know that taste is last, so I pre-emptively move onto it without him prompting, and take a swig of the only thing close to me, the champagne.

He reaches over to take the bottle from my hand, albeit gently. "You know, ideally alcohol isn't what we want to go for on the last one, but that's okay, we can work on that."

A small smirk creeps across my face.

He must take this as a sign that my brain is no longer elsewhere because he leans towards me. "You okay?"

"Not really."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really." I pause for a moment, because I do want to talk about it. Just not about what I was seeing. "But just so you know, I didn't hear any of what you said until you said to say no if I could hear you."

"Maybe that could be helpful in the future. If I think you're zoning out, I'll ask you if you can hear me, and if you can, you say 'no'. That way if you're not, people will just think we're being sarcastic and joking around or something."

I nod. "That could work. We've certainly done weirder things, that's for sure."

I sit there in silence for a moment, and perhaps for one of the first times since becoming friends with Finnick that the silence is uncomfortable. I can feel his eyes on me, looking at me. Analyzing me. A part of my brain pesters me, feeling embarrassed for him having to have witnessed me like this. "Thank you," I practically blurt out.

He shakes his head and starts to settle in under the covers bed, turning away from me. "No need to thank me." And he says it so casually. So casually that I almost believe him. Almost.

"Well, thank you anyways." I pause for a moment. "You're not going to..."

He turns back over to face me, "Tell anyone? No. That's for you to decide who you want to know."

I nod once again and watch as he turns back over again, facing towards the window. Now it's me whose staring because I can't take my eyes off of him. Finnick Odair, the one that we used to have to study in class, so casually and nonchalantly manages to deal with so much. And just the same, he helps me while he's at it. As if it's nothing. As if it's not one of the biggest kindnesses someone has ever shown me. As if, especially with Gran's condition these days, he's not the only person in the world who I feel has actually managed to graze the core of who I am.

But for Finnick the social butterfly, am I just one of many close friends?

I'm brought out of my thoughts by Finnick. "Hey, can you turn out the side light?" he asks.

I clear my throat and avert my gaze away from him, even though he can't see me. "Um, sure."

I click the light off and for a moment in the darkness, I consider moving to the couch to sleep but decide against it, knowing that if I even attempted to do so, Finnick would move to take it before I could so I could have the bed. And he looks very comfortable on the other side of the bed. I instead settle under the covers making sure I stick to the opposite edge of the bed and don't disturb him.

Goodnight Finnick.

___________

And tada! There it is! This chapter was very close to my heart, I wasn't sure if I was going to delve into victors and their PTSD, but since I'll be skipping another dark storyline that many of the victors face *cough cough* you know what I'm talking about, it felt fitting to give this more depth instead. Also was an opportunity to include a snippet of what her Games were like.

This chapter also contains a lot of setup for the 75th Hunger Games which in turn has been helping me write those chapters as well. This rewrite has been feeling really good so far and has done wonders for my motivation with this story, so I'm really proud to be able to show it to you all! These chapters have given me the chance to expand on and create a better history to pull from for the 75th Games as well as allow me to retroactively add elements to the story that only came about when writing and planning the 75th Games chapters.

And here's the reason I counted down on New Years, the Chapterly memes: