#so what if she made a different choice after she got the jabberjay

[cutter-kirby]

so um. I’m thinking about tbosas again. and there’s one part after sejanus argues with gaul where coryo thinks to himself that if sejanus isn't too careful then he'll end up as one of her experiments. so. what if that actually happened

[humaling]

Hold Me steady.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: how do you watch the person you love most break in front of you—knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it?

warnings: angst to fluff, a small kiss hehe

word count: 4.8k

not proofread!

But now, that plan was unraveling before your eyes.

The plan was simple: keep the girl from District 12 and her husband alive until Plutarch got you all out of the arena. Every move, every alliance, was carefully calculated to ensure survival.

Finnick had disappeared into the woods, chasing after Katniss the moment she took off. The jabberjays had started their cruel symphony, their shrieks laced with the voices of loved ones lost—or worse, suffering. You knew it wasn’t real. Finnick did, too. But that hadn’t stopped Katniss from running toward the sound of her sister’s cries, and it hadn’t stopped Finnick from chasing after her.

Now, standing alone by the water’s edge, you clenched your fists, your patience thinning with each passing second. The arena was a trap, every moment meant to break you, and you couldn’t afford these kinds of reckless outbursts. Cooperation was your only chance at getting out alive, and right now, it felt like emotions were pulling your group apart faster than the Gamemakers ever could.

The distant echoes of the jabberjays still rang through the trees, but what unsettled you more was the silence that followed. No Finnick. No Katniss.

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around your weapon.

You never signed up to be a babysitter when the Third Quarter Quell was announced. You hadn’t signed up to go back in, either. But when it came down to choosing a tribute from District 4, there was no real choice at all.

Mags was too old. She’s barely recovering from the stroke she had two summers ago, and if the Games didn’t kill her, the strain of simply being here would. Annie? She was fragile in a different way. She was a survivor, yes, but the arena had left her mind in pieces, and everyone in District 4 knew she wasn’t in the right headspace to survive it again. That left you. The only one strong enough, capable enough, sane enough to go through it all over again.

Finnick didn’t see it that way.

You felt his eyes on you the second you stepped forward, volunteering before Mags could. She had tried—of course she had—but you gently held her back, murmuring that it was all right, that she needed to stay and look after Annie. The poor girl was already breaking, barely able to breathe the second her name was called.

Finnick’s head snapped toward you so fast it nearly made you flinch. It was as if he thought his glare alone could undo what had just happened. But then they called his name, too. Whatever protest had been forming on his lips vanished. His expression didn’t waver, but you saw the shift—the way his fingers curled into fists, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

He didn’t like this.

He made that clear from the moment you boarded the train, frustration rolling off him in waves. First, it was sharp words thrown like daggers over dinner—accusations, anger, his voice sharp enough to cut. Then, silence. The kind that settled thick in the air, heavy and suffocating. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. Not even after the parade when you returned to your apartment in the Tribute Center, the golden glow of the Capitol’s skyline mocking you through the window.

If Haymitch hadn’t come in and told you about the plan, you were convinced Finnick wouldn’t have spoken to you again until the arena.

You weren’t unfamiliar with that silence.

You had endured so much since you left that arena alive—forced to perform for the Capitol, to obey Snow’s orders. But it wasn’t enough for them. It never was. You had to sell your body, let them use you like you were nothing more than a toy, an object for their entertainment. It was disgusting, the way human beings were capable of treating others like that. You couldn’t understand it, couldn’t stomach it. It left you shaking, disoriented, closed-off to anyone who tried to help, to understand.

Finnick was relentless. No matter how much you pushed, no matter how cruel your words became, he refused to leave you alone. He lingered at your side like an anchor, steady and unrelenting. And when you shut yourself away from the world after your Victory Tour, he came up with his own solution—moving in with you, forcing his way into your life just so he could make sure you were still breathing.

You never really liked Finnick when you first met him—even started to hate him the second you stepped out of the arena. He never warned you about what happens when a person is pushed to the brink of death, never told you that survival meant throwing away every last piece of yourself. Every moral, every shred of dignity. You had to learn that the hard way.

And you hated him for it.

But hate had a way of twisting into something else. Something softer. Something more than like, a lot like love.

You knew where the line was drawn between you and your mentor. Finnick only had this attachment toward you because you were the first Victor he brought home. That was all. It had to be.

But it was hard—hard to ignore the weight of his presence, hard to pretend you didn’t care when you’d spent so many nights at his side, listening to his nightmares break him apart. Hard to forget the way he clung to you, desperate and exhausted, when the sobs wracked his body between shallow breaths.

A sigh slips past your lips as you tap your foot against the sand, frustration settling deep in your chest. Johanna should have been back by now. You don’t have time to sit around and wait, not when every second wasted could mean something going wrong. When a minute turns into five, you’ve had enough. Without another word, you step into the jungle, Peeta and Beetee following close behind.

The air is thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as you weave through the trees. You move quickly, your mind already cycling through worst-case scenarios, but when you finally spot Johanna standing in a clearing, you hesitate. She isn’t moving. Her posture is rigid, her brown hair damp and sticking to her forehead, but what makes your stomach twist is the way she stares ahead, eyes fixed on something unseen.

“Johanna?” You call her name, voice sharper than intended. “Where are they?”

She turns toward you, but the unease rolling off of her is immediate. She looks like she wants to say something but can’t. Seconds drag on in silence, and your patience starts to thin. Finnick and Katniss should be here. You can’t hear them, can’t see them. Something is wrong. You try to push past Johanna, but the moment you take a step forward, a sharp pain explodes across your forehead. It’s like slamming into a brick wall—except there’s nothing in front of you. The force knocks you back, sending you stumbling before you manage to catch yourself.

“They’re still in there,” Johanna says, her voice uncharacteristically unsteady.

Peeta steps in between the two of you, his frown deepening as he glances between you and the empty space ahead. You rub at your forehead, barely registering the ache as confusion clouds your thoughts. Peeta, still frowning, reaches forward, his fingers pressing against something unseen. His breath hitches as realization dawns on him.

“What’s with the wall?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Before you can respond, movement flickers through the dense jungle beyond the barrier—fast, desperate. Your heart lurches in your chest as you see them.

Finnick and Katniss. Still inside.

“Katniss!”

Peeta’s voice is desperate, thick with panic as he slams his hand against the invisible wall. His palm smacks against the unseen force again and again, his breathing uneven as he tries to get her attention. He keeps calling her name, his voice cracking as he pleads for her to hear him, but she doesn’t react the way she should. Her eyes dart wildly, but there’s no recognition. No relief. The realization settles like a stone in your gut.

“They can’t hear us.” The words barely leave your lips, the weight of them pressing down on your chest as you watch Katniss’s frantic gaze finally meet yours before moving to Peeta’s.

You see the way her eyes glossed, running forward to Peeta. She helplessly bangs against the wall, screaming something at Peeta who continues to give her assurance despite the fact she can’t hear him.

Tears streak down her face, her expression twisted in agony as she pounds helplessly against the barrier. Her mouth moves, screaming something you can’t hear, her hands pressing against the force that keeps her from reaching Peeta. Whatever she’s saying, whatever she’s trying to tell him, it’s lost to the cruel trick of the arena. Peeta doesn’t stop trying, though. He keeps talking, keeps reassuring her, keeps reaching out even though she’ll never hear a word of it.

Your chest tightens, but your focus shifts as you search for someone else. Your heart pounds as your eyes scan the jungle, moving past Katniss and Peeta as fear digs its claws into your stomach. Then, through the gaps in the trees, you find him.

Finnick stumbles through the thick undergrowth, his body tense as the birds swarm him. Their sharp cries echo around him, their wings beating wildly as they dive at him again and again. His arms are raised, shielding his face from the relentless attack, but it’s not the physical assault that’s breaking him—it’s the sounds. The voices. You see the way his shoulders shake, his hands pressing against his ears as if he’s trying to block out something far worse than the flurry of wings around him.

Without thinking, you drop to your knees, your hands trembling as they press against the invisible wall separating you. The smooth, unyielding surface is cold beneath your fingertips, offering no way through, no way to reach him. He’s right there, so close that you can see every detail—the way his sea-green eyes are glossy with unshed tears, the deep crease between his brows, the way his body trembles under the weight of something you can’t take away.

A sinking weight settles in your chest, heavier than anything you’ve felt before. You’ve fought beside Finnick. You’ve seen him at his strongest, his most unshakable, and even his most vulnerable But this? This is different from those nights. The Finnick in front of you is breaking apart, unraveling under the weight of something only he can hear.

You press harder against the wall, your fingers digging into nothing, desperate for any way to reach him. But there’s nothing you can do. No way to stop this. No way to pull him out of it.

And that’s what makes your stomach churn, what makes your heart pound against your ribs with something close to panic. Because for the first time since stepping into this nightmare, you realize that you’re helpless. That no matter how much you want to protect him, no matter how badly you want to pull him away from whatever horror the Capitol is forcing him to relive, you can’t do a damn thing.

The hour stretched endlessly, each second dragging like lead through your veins. You could feel the weight of it pressing down on your chest as you watched Finnick unravel before your eyes. He was barely there anymore—his gaze glassy and unfocused as the screams of the jabberjays clawed through the air, you assume. His arms stayed curled protectively over his head, his body shaking under the relentless assault of sound. Each shriek seemed to chip away at him, stripping him down to nothing but raw nerves and desperation.

Katniss wasn’t faring any better. She was curled up on the ground, her silent screams breaking through the humid air as her mind fractured under the weight of it all. Peeta hovered over the barrier, his voice low and frantic as he whispered reassurances she couldn’t hear, his hands grasping the air in a desperate attempt to anchor her. But it was useless. She was too far gone, lost to the terror of the voices echoing through the trees.

And then there was you—down on your knees in the dirt, your eyes fixed on Finnick as helplessness bloomed in your chest like poison.

You hated this. Hated how useless you felt. You were strong, smart, cunning—those were the traits that had kept you alive in your Games, that had protected you through the worst of it. But now? Now you were nothing but a spectator to Finnick’s unraveling. The only person who had ever pulled you back from the edge, the only person who had ever known how to put you back together, was breaking in front of you. And you couldn’t stop it.

You wanted to return the favor—you wanted so badly to reach through that barrier, to grab his face in your hands and pull him back to you. But you couldn’t even touch him. Your fists curled so tightly at your sides that your knuckles burned, white from the pressure. Your jaw ached from how hard you were clenching it, trying to keep yourself from screaming in frustration.

This was cruel. Sadistic.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip as you lowered your gaze to the dirt beneath you. You hated how fragile you felt, how exposed. Snow had designed this arena to break you, and he was succeeding. Because right now, you weren’t strong, or smart, or cunning. You were just desperate.

You cursed Snow in your head, hatred simmering in your veins as you imagined his cold smile watching from above. If not for him, you and Finnick would be home right now. You’d be down at the beach, your feet buried in the sand as Finnick teased you for being too slow to catch fish. The sun would be on your skin, the salty breeze would be in your hair, and none of this would exist. Just you and him, laughing like the world wasn’t a cruel, rotting thing.

But instead, you were here. On your knees. Watching the person you loved most in the world slip further and further away—and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stop it.

The moment you caught a glimpse of Peeta stumbling through the jungle, his arms frantically reaching out to pull Katniss into his embrace, your body moved before your mind could catch up. Your head shot up, muscles tensing as instinct kicked in. Without thinking, you reached out for Finnick.

But then you froze.

A low, mechanical hum cut through the tension in the air, sharp and invasive. The sound of the cameras. The Capitol was watching. Snow was watching.

Your breath hitched as you hesitated, your hand suspended mid-air. Vulnerability in the arena was a death sentence. Every moment of weakness was a weapon to be used against you later. Your jaw clenched, fingers curling slightly as you weighed the risk. Did you really want to expose yourself like this—to let Panem see the way your heart stammered in your chest at the sight of him breaking?

But it seemed Finnick had already decided for you.

Strong arms wrapped around your torso, the force of it knocking you slightly off balance as a familiar head pressed into your stomach. You sucked in a shaky breath, your gaze dropping to the boy clinging to you like you were the only solid thing in a world of chaos. His breath was uneven, ragged against your skin, and his arms twitched as though he couldn’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let go.

It was such a simple gesture—a basic human need for comfort—but it shattered something in you. Without thinking, you dropped to your knees, your arms automatically sliding around his neck as you pressed him close. His body was tense beneath your touch, his shoulders shaking from the aftermath of whatever the jabberjays had forced him to hear. Your hand slipped into his hair, your fingers threading through the damp strands as you guided his head to the crook of your neck.

“I got you, Finn,” you whispered, your voice soft and unsteady. The nickname slipped from your lips without thought, weighted with familiarity and tenderness you rarely let yourself express. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Finnick’s breath hitched, and his grip on you tightened. His arms locked around you as though he was afraid you’d disappear, his fingers digging into your back with just enough pressure to ground himself. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his face pressing deeper into your neck as if hiding there would make the rest of the world disappear. You felt his lashes flutter against your skin as he squeezed his eyes shut, as though the act of letting go would be too much to bear.

You could feel his heart racing beneath your touch, each frantic beat hammering against your chest. Slowly, carefully, you began to rub small circles on his back, murmuring soft reassurances into his ear. Sweet nothings. Anything that might calm the storm raging inside him.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Little by little, you felt the tension start to ease from his frame. His breathing evened out, his trembling less pronounced. He took in your words like they were the only thing tethering him to the ground. Slowly, the chaos that had overtaken him began to fade—not entirely, but enough. Enough for him to feel you. To believe you.

When Finnick finally pulled away from you, the world around you began to creep back into focus. Johanna’s voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and angry as she screamed at the Gamemakers and Snow, her axe swinging dangerously through the humid air. Her curses were vicious, each one laced with venom, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Normally, you might’ve smirked, maybe teased her for the poor attempt at theatrics, but right now, none of that mattered.

Your attention was fixed on Finnick.

He sat on the ground, his broad shoulders slumping forward, his arms resting limply against his knees. His eyes were distant, glassy as he stared at nothing in particular. You could see the hollowness in his gaze, the same vacant expression you’d seen before—but never quite like this. This wasn’t exhaustion. This was resignation.

Katniss was still on the ground nearby, trembling in Peeta’s arms as he stroked her hair, murmuring reassurances. Peeta’s eyes, despite the tension etched into his brow, flicked toward Johanna’s outburst with a flicker of amusement. But beneath it, you could see the worry—the tightness in his jaw as he held Katniss like he was afraid she might slip through his fingers.

You didn’t bother with them. Your focus stayed on Finnick.

Slowly, you moved to sit beside him. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Your knees brushed the dirt, and you sat quietly, listening to the ragged sound of his breathing. His fingers twitched against his thighs, restless and unsure. His eyes, though unfocused, flickered with emotion—anger, sadness, fear—all bleeding together beneath the surface.

You hesitated, your hand flexing slightly in your lap before you spoke.

“Do you want to go to the beach?” you asked softly. Your voice was light, careful. You didn’t want to push too hard.

Finnick’s head lifted slightly, his gaze shifting toward you. For a moment, he said nothing—just breathed. Then, slowly, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Relief loosened the tension in your chest. Without a word, you rose to your feet, brushing the dirt from your palms. You reached down, picking up his trident from the ground before holding it out to him. His fingers hesitated for a beat before curling around the weapon’s shaft. His grip was shaky, but steady enough.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than a breath.

You gave a small nod, your lips pressing into a thin line as you turned toward the path leading to the beach. Your eyes met Beetee’s across the clearing, and he gave a slight nod, silently signaling that it was all right. You offered him a quick smile before you pushed through the thick curtain of leaves and branches.

Finnick trailed behind you, his footsteps quiet but constant. Every few steps, you glanced over your shoulder to make sure he was still there. You hated how your chest clenched at the thought of losing him, of turning around to find only empty space where he should be. The arena had a way of taking things without warning, and you weren’t sure if you could survive losing him too.

Finally, the thick jungle began to thin, the trees giving way to the soft rustle of sand beneath your boots. A salty breeze swept through the air, cutting through the heavy humidity. The soft crash of waves against the shore echoed in the distance, steady and calm.

You stepped through the last curtain of leaves, the blinding white of the beach stretching out before you. The water sparkled beneath the sunlight, shades of blue and green rippling beneath the tide.

Finnick stepped up beside you, his eyes fixed on the horizon. His chest rose and fell, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. Slowly, his hand brushed against yours—hesitant, unsure. You didn’t move away.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, listening to the waves.

Finnick’s voice was soft, almost hesitant—a quiet vulnerability you weren’t used to hearing from him. "Can I hold your hand?"

It startled you. Not the words themselves, but the way he said them. There was no teasing lilt, no playful edge. Just quiet sincerity, stripped bare of the charm he usually wore like armor. Your instinct was to deflect, to bat it away with a snarky remark, but something about the way his voice sounded—so small, so unsure—made you pause.

Instead of answering, you let your hand drift toward his. Your fingers brushed lightly against his knuckles, and you felt it immediately—the sharp, almost electric jolt that shot up your arm, tightening your chest. His hand was warm despite the lingering chill in the air, rough with the callouses earned from years of fishing and fighting. He didn’t rush. His knuckles grazed against yours, tentative and slow, as though waiting for permission.

Then his palm shifted beneath yours, fingertips ghosting along the curve of your hand before his fingers slid between yours. His touch was careful, almost reverent, and when he interlocks his fingers with yours, his grip was steady but not possessive. It was as if he were memorizing the feel of your hand—every ridge, every scar—like he needed to commit it to memory in case this moment slipped away.

Neither of you spoke as you moved toward the shoreline, your hands still joined. The sun had started to dip toward the horizon, casting shades of orange and pink across the restless water. The sand was soft beneath your feet, the gentle crash of the waves filling the silence between you. When you reached the water’s edge, you both sank down without a word, letting the tide wash over your legs. Your shoulders pressed together, the solid warmth of him grounding you in a way nothing else could.

For the first time in longer than you could remember, you let your guard slip. Your shoulders drooped, the tension you always carried bleeding away as you exhaled. Damn the Capitol. Damn Snow. You knew the cameras were on you. You knew that every quiet touch, every shared glance, would be dissected and weaponized against you later. They’d use this—use him—against you if it suited them. But in this moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Finnick’s thumb stroked the side of your hand, a gentle back-and-forth that sent warmth unraveling through your chest. You could’ve pulled away. You probably should have. But you didn’t. You leaned into him instead, resting your temple lightly against his shoulder as the waves lapped at your legs. His hand tightened around yours—not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you that he was there.

And maybe that was why you didn’t care about the consequences. Maybe it was because Finnick was still sitting beside you, still holding your hand even though he could feel how your pulse hammered beneath his fingertips. They could take everything from you tomorrow, but not this. Not him.

Finnick’s breath hitched, his hand tightening slightly around yours as you leaned into him. The weight of your lips against his shoulder was light, barely more than a touch, but the vulnerability behind it cut through the fragile space between you like glass.

His other hand drifted up, resting gently on your knee. His thumb brushed back and forth in slow, soothing strokes, but you could feel the tension in his grip, the restrained tremor in his fingers.

“You were crying,” Finnick repeated, his voice quieter this time. He wasn’t looking at you now—his gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the water met the darkening sky. “I’ve heard a lot of things in the arena. Screaming. Begging. But nothing—nothing—has ever felt like that.”

Your eyes slid shut, your forehead pressing against the warm fabric of his shirt. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to acknowledge it. Because if you did, it would make it real. You could handle pain. You could handle loss. But the thought of being his weakness—that terrified you.

“Finnick,” you murmured, voice low and unsteady.

“I couldn’t get to you.” His voice cracked, the words raw and exposed. His hand left your knee and curled around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the soft skin beneath your ear. “I kept running, but the closer I got, the louder you screamed.” His head dipped toward you, his forehead brushing against your temple. “And then I realized you weren’t there. That it wasn’t you. But it still—” His breath shuddered against your skin. “It still felt like losing you.”

You forced your eyes open, your gaze catching the way his lashes fluttered against his cheeks. His face was so close now, the salt from the sea mixing with the warmth of his breath. Your chest tightened painfully at the raw emotion etched into his features—the quiet devastation beneath his usually effortless charm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

His eyes opened at that, the sea-green of them catching the dying light of the sunset. His gaze was searching, cautious, like he didn’t know whether to believe you.

“You say that,” he breathed, his thumb brushing along the curve of your jaw. “But you don’t know that. No one ever knows.”

You hated how true that was. He was right. You could promise him everything, swear you’d never leave, but this world was designed to tear you apart. Still, you couldn’t sit here and let him believe you’d already slipped through his fingers.

Your hand drifted from his shoulder to his chest, where his heartbeat hammered beneath your palm. Steady. Alive.

“You’re right,” you said softly. “I don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year.” Your thumb brushed over the hollow dip beneath his collarbone. “But I know that I’m here now. I’m with you. And that’s all that matters.”

Finnick’s eyes searched yours, and you could see the conflict there—the part of him that wanted to believe you and the part that was too scared to let himself. His hand slid to the side of your face, his fingers weaving into your hair as his thumb traced slow patterns along your cheek.

“And what happens when that’s not enough?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

You smiled faintly, your hand sliding up to curl around the back of his neck. “Then we fight. Together.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sound of the ocean filled the silence between you, the steady pull and retreat of the waves. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips inches from yours. Your eyes flicked downward, toward his mouth, before drifting back up.

You didn’t know which one of you moved first, but suddenly his lips were brushing against yours. A soft, hesitant pressure that made your heart stutter. His hand at the back of your neck tightened slightly, and you leaned in, your free hand sliding up his chest to rest at his shoulder. The kiss deepened, slow and careful, the weight of it grounding you more than any weapon ever could.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling between you. His hand lingered against your cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw like he was afraid to let go.

“We survive this,” you murmured. “And then we figure out the rest.”

Finnick’s mouth curled into the faintest smile, but his eyes were still sad, still searching. His hand slipped down to lace through yours again, holding you steady even as the waves threatened to pull you under.

“Together,” he whispered.

You squeezed his hand. “Together.”

[backtothestart02]

Will You Write to Me, Lucy Gray? - 2/? | snowbaird fanfiction

A/N: An update! At 3am! lol

...

Chapter 2 -

The Hob was bustling with an enthusiastic crowd the night before Coriolanus’s departure. He sat in the back, like he usually did, but he still had a great view of Lucy Gray on the stage, as always. She looked beautiful, stunning in her usual garb and a flower in her hair. She was singing that song about them that she’d told him she’d been working on, and it brought a tear to his eye.

Pure as the Driven Snow it was called, and it was all about him and what he meant to her. How she needed, trusted, loved him.

He was going to miss her so much.

How was he going to cope without her?

It had been weighing him down for the past nine days, and he still hadn’t told her. He knew it would break her, and she’d also be mad, like he had a choice in the matter. But she’d probably be madder he hadn’t told her sooner, which was fair, but also, she hadn’t had to live with the knowledge for the past week and a half, and he knew she would appreciate that in the long run.

Maybe they could write to each other.

Would Lucy Gray write to him?

Or maybe she’d send mockingjays to him of her singing, of this song right now, to keep him sane without her company. And he’d send her jabberjays right back, telling her he loved her and missed her…

Had he told her he loved her?

It was plain as day in his eyes whenever he looked at her, but he didn’t think he’d actually said the words. He needed to before he left, in case she never heard the words again, in case she didn’t want to, in case she didn’t believe them when he said them in her anger.

He sighed and got up while she was playing her song the second time through. He knew she was watching him, would see him leaving during their love song, and that would hurt her, but he couldn’t continue to stare lovingly at her, knowing what was to come. And he knew now that if she followed him away from the crowd to ask what was wrong, he would tell her. He didn’t have the strength to withhold it anymore. Not when he was leaving at the crack of dawn the very next day.

And that’s exactly what happened.

Just as he got to the edge of the crowd, his head pounding, his heart aching, tears coming to his eyes for a different reason, he could vaguely hear in the back of his mind Lucy Gray wrapping up her song, and a cheer going up as one of the Covey announced to the crowd let’s hear it for Lucy Gray Baird!

And the crowd cheered as she hopped off the stage, leaving her guitar behind, and the next singer took her place.

She made a beeline for him then, and he turned to face her when she pulled on his arm.

“Hey, what’s up? Something the matter?” And the smile on her face fell the minute she saw his face. “Oh, heavens, what is it? Did something happen?”

“I’m leaving,” he said grimly.

She frowned.

“Oh…kay. I’ll come with you.”

And he wanted to laugh, because that was what he dreamed of, her coming with him when he had to leave. Only she couldn’t. Not this time.

“Not just the Hob, Lucy Gray,” he said softly. “District 12.”

And she froze, her arms falling to her side. She felt a nasty chill rise up her spine, like he’d known about this for a while.

“When?” she asked, swallowing hard. “A-And where? And for how long?”

He leaned back against the wall he was just inches away from and pressed his head to the cold cement.

“Tomorrow morning, and I don’t know how long. It’s for officer training in 2.”

“You’re leaving me?” she asked, and he could hear the anger creeping in but mostly the hurt, like it had been his idea, and maybe that he’d planned on not telling her either.

“I don’t want to,” he said. “I don’t have a choice. They’re shipping me off due to good behavior and my intellect.”

“You are awful smart,” she said bitterly. “So smart that you chose to tell me this nine days after you found out about it,” she put together.

“Lucy Gray…”

“What? Did you think I wouldn’t be able to handle it? That I wouldn’t want to help you carry this burden? That I wouldn’t spend every second of free time we shared being with you instead of writing this god-forsaken song?” She huffed.

He stood back up on both feet and tried to gather her in his arms, but she resisted.

“I didn’t want you to have to,” he said softly.

“Yeah, well, now I know every moment we’ve had for the past nine days has been filled with you lying to me, and that’s how we end our relationship. With lies and mistrust. After I sang about trusting you.” She scoffed.

“Lucy Gray.” He started to panic, but she was backing up, preparing to run.

“So, go on, Coriolanus Snow. Go to district 2, and then go to the capitol when you’re done there. Forget all about District 12 and me and everything we’ve built here. I know it’s what you’ve wanted all along.”

“That’s not true. Lucy Gray!”

But she had turned to leave, and she was running, and if he didn’t follow her, he knew he’d lose her forever.

He had to job to keep up with her, but once outside it wasn’t hard at all to find her. She was pressed against the side of the building crying her eyes out, and it broke his heart.

“Lucy Gray.”

He tried to hold her again, but she pushed him away.

“Leave me alone! Just…just go.” She hiccupped a sob.

But he wasn’t going to grant her request this time. Lucy Gray wasn’t strong after dark. He’d remembered that from during the games. And there were no bars between them now, no cage, and he had his whole body to comfort her with, not just a handkerchief.

So he held her until she stopped fighting him, and he stroked her hair when she fell apart in his arms, sobbing against his chest.

“I love you,” she mumbled, clutching at his shirt.

He nodded and sighed. “I know.”

“I love you, and you’re leaving me.”

He licked his lips. It was now or never.

“I love you, too, Lucy Gray.”

She huffed and looked at him.

“How can you say that? How can you say that when-”

“Because it’s true,” he said, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “I can say it because it’s true.”

She shook her head, closing her eyes as more tears seeped out.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“I-It’s not fair that you’re going when…” Her bottom lip trembled. “You were supposed to be here for twenty years.”

“I know.”

“We could’ve started a life together.”

“Yeah.”

Tears filled his eyes too.

“But maybe we still can.”

She huffed.

“You’ll go to the capitol, and you won’t come back, Coriolanus. It’s your home, where you belong. You told me yourself.”

He clasped his hands on either side of her face.

“Lucy Gray, listen to me. I have to go for officer training in 2. Okay? I have to. But then I’ll come back here, I’ll come back for you. And if you want to stay here, I’ll stay here too.”

“You mean it?”

He nodded, not looking away, never looking away.

“I mean it.” He licked his lips. “And maybe…maybe in the meantime, maybe while I’m away…” he hesitated, suddenly feeling foolish.

“What?” Her brows furrowed.

“Maybe you’ll write to be, Lucy Gray?”

Her lips parted.

“And if you don’t want to do that, maybe you’ll sing to one of those fucking birds and send it to me.”

“Coriolanus.”

“I need your voice to keep me strong, keep me going. Please, Lucy Gray. I can’t go without you completely. I can’t…I can’t. You’re everything to me. You’re-”

And then he kissed her, his words dying with his lips on hers, and he pressed her back against the building, and completely ravished her mouth, pushing his body flush up against hers so she could feel all of him, feel what she was doing to him and what he’d have to go on missing for months maybe. Who knew?

Lucy Gray broke apart from him after a few deliciously hot kisses, and then took his hand.

“Come with me,” she said.

“But, the Covey…” he protested, knowing where her head was at.

“They’ll be in the Hob for another hour at least. Trust me. Do you trust me?”

He nodded. “I trust you.”

And so she squeezed his hand and led him back to her little home, her little bedroom that was now void of anyone else. And they made love there on her squeaky little bed, and he stayed until nearly dawn, wrapped around her body.

No one in heaven or earth could have taken him from her, not that night. And when he finally had to leave come morning break, she reached for him and whispered the words he’d been hoping to hear all night.

“I’ll write to you.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

“Thank you, Lucy Gray.”