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defectivevillain · 3 days ago

Text

of circumstance

pairing: Finnick Odair/Reader

The reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

“That was too pessimistic,” Finnick chides you after you finish your interview with Caesar Flickerman. You continue walking quickly, forcing your mentor to quicken his pace. “I’m just being realistic,” you maintain, struggling to make sense of everything that just happened. To think, a mere week ago, you were a normal citizen in District 4. Now, you’re a sacrifice. You feel a shiver roll down your spine. “I’m probably going to die.” Your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. You’re not at peace with it, not in the slightest. But you also know that living with false hope is pointless.

word count: 10.5k | ao3 version | dystopia playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood/violence, suicidal ideation, helplessness/hopelessness, survivor's guilt

author's notes: This is Finnick/Reader focused. Finnick is the District 4 mentor and the reader is an adult tribute. I’m weak for charismatic & popular characters being met with people who don’t fall at their feet or treat them differently. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, if you will.

The reader’s race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. The other tribute is female, but feel free to ignore that “one male tribute & one female tribute” bullshit if you choose.

There will be some canon divergent and non-compliant details. For example, I forgot tributes are literally children… And I didn’t realize that until I already had 14 pages of this written… So just pretend this Games has adults, for some reason. Also, Annie doesn’t exist, because I said so.

enjoy <3

You’re one of two tributes chosen to represent District 4 in the Hunger Games. The Capitol tries to play it off as an honor… a chance to do your district and home proud. But you’re not that deluded, and you recognize the Games for what they are: a sickening bloodsport performed for the highest echelons of Panem’s society. Selfishly speaking, you don’t want any part in that. Of course, the universe has other plans for you—as your name is pulled from the Reaping bowl.

Now, you’re sitting on a train speeding down the rails through the Panem countryside, to the facility where you will train in preparation for the Games. The other District 4 tribute sits across from you, clearly just as distressed as you are. Neither of you have bothered to speak to one another, too busy attempting to piece together what little remains of your futures.

The sound of footsteps reaches your ears and you look up to find a man with bronze hair, tanned skin, and vibrant green eyes. He looks familiar, but it isn’t until he introduces himself that you can place the feeling. “Finnick Odair,” he states, his eyes flitting from the other tribute to you as he evidently scrutinizes both of you. “I’ll be your mentor for the Games.”

The other tribute warms up to him rather easily, introducing herself and speaking with Finnick about his experience at the Games. You’re content to watch from the sidelines, trying to gather information on both of them. It’s unfortunate, but you don’t think the other tribute will be anything more than an enemy to you. You don’t intend to make an alliance with her, so you don’t really see the point in pretending as if this week at the Capitol will be even mildly enjoyable. You’re already dreading the training, interviews, style consultations…

As if sensing your negative thoughts, Finnick turns towards you. “And you are?” He hums. You want to believe that he doesn’t know who you are, but since he’s the District 4 mentor, you suspect he was watching the broadcast of the Reaping. Something ticks in your jaw and you mutter your name, if only to placate him.

Finnick stares at you for a long moment. You stare back. “Not very talkative, hm?” He eventually hums.

“Just thinking about my impending doom.” You say wryly. You hide your shaking hands in your pockets and stare ahead at the darkened windows, watching as the passing mountains blur around you. Finnick blinks at you in surprise, before laughing. He doesn’t seem to realize you’re being serious. After all, being a tribute in the Hunger Games is practically a death sentence. There can only be one victor, amongst twenty four tributes. Your chances at survival are increasingly low.

Finnick continues on, unaware of how quickly your thoughts are spiraling. He explains the process leading up to the Games themselves and provides you with a general idea of the schedule for the next week. The other tribute is quick to ask him questions about his strategy and how he survived, while you just sit there in silence. You can’t help but think that most of Finnick’s advice won’t be particularly relevant.

Some of the guidance he provides is helpful, you have to admit. Yet you can’t help but be reminded by the stark differences between your perspectives. Finnick is almost endlessly optimistic, speaking in hypotheticals and asking the two of you what you will do with your winnings. Meanwhile, you’re unable to suppress the voices in your mind, reminding you of how the odds are decidedly not in your favor.

You keep those thoughts to yourself for the first few days. But there’s only so much you can hold back. Delusion and unfounded optimism seems to be the other tribute’s ways of coping, while yours seem to be uncomfortable dread and grief in hindsight. You can only fake appearances for so long—you’re fighting against increasingly large waves, and you will soon fall under the surface.

Somehow, you manage to make it through the Tribute Parade unscathed. The stylist chose clothing that’s a bit gaudy, but you’re just grateful you weren’t sent out there wearing anything scandalous. In the days after the Tribute Parade, all the tributes take part in mandatory training sessions—involving everything from archery to camouflage and fire-starting. You’re not particularly talented at anything; although by the end, you feel confident enough to wield a knife correctly and distinguish between poisonous and nontoxic berries. Of course, those skills will mean jack shit if you don’t play your cards right. Plus, there’s no telling what the arena will look like. There have been tough years when the arena was a desert or a snow-covered forest. You can only hope you won’t be dropped into something like that.

The training days pass rather quickly, leaving you only two days before the Games begin. Each tribute now has to appear in front of the Capitol (and all the Districts watching through a broadcast). The thought makes your stomach stew in unease and disgust. You hate how the Games are treated as nothing more than entertainment. Your death will be broadcast for the whole world to see. Your survival will be gambled and bet on. It’s disgusting, and you hate that you’re forced to be a participant.

You soon find yourself standing backstage, watching the District 1-3 tributes interview with Caesar Flickerman. Finnick stands at your side, a relentless presence despite the unapproachable aura you’re trying to exude. You don’t want to talk to him—don’t want to pretend that everything is okay. Your mentor doesn’t seem to care, as he tries to give you advice on how to succeed in the interview. “Just be charming,” he suggests. Then a mischievous smirk rises on his lips. “I know that’s going to be hard for you.” He taunts.

You just scoff at him. Being charming to the Capitol citizens—who are practically the reason you’re here—is the least of your priorities. That sentiment must be apparent on your face, because your mentor just sighs. “It’s only thirty minutes,” he tries to reassure you.

That’s not the point, you think to yourself. You decide to keep quiet, if only to appease Finnick. Yet he seems to sense that you’re a bit frustrated, because he shoots you a sympathetic smile before you’re accosted by your stylist and forced to change into a needlessly extravagant outfit.

Your fellow District 4 tribute has her interview and she does rather well. You’re happy for her, but nervous for yourself. You know you’re not the best at speaking in large groups—let alone in front of the entire country. You can’t get rid of your anxiety. You’ve had no media training, aside from those brief remarks from Finnick.

Dread, revulsion, and shame are coursing through you as you walk up to the steps and greet Caesar, before sitting down across from him. His questions start off rather innocuous, as if he senses that you’re nervous. But the subject of the conversation soon becomes your thoughts on the Games. And despite your knowledge that these interviews are important for securing sponsors, you can’t quite filter your thoughts well enough.

When Caesar asks you about your thoughts on victory, you lose any credibility you built. “Do I think I’m going to win?” You repeat the question, something ugly building in your throat. You feel like you’re going to throw up. He nods and you feel the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Probably not. The odds are slim.” You see Finnick frowning out of the corner of your eye. But all you can focus on is the ugly stewing feeling in your chest and the bright spotlight that almost seems to sear in your skin.

“The odds are ever in your favor,” Caesar says, attempting to remain optimistic as he shares a smile with the audience.

Your brows furrow. “I don’t think they are.” You mutter. Your hands are shaking furiously at your sides, just barely hidden by the arms of the armchair you’re sitting in. Caesar seemingly doesn’t expect your negative answer, because he blinks for a moment before quickly diverting the audience’s attention.

“You have quite a popular mentor, though!” The camera pans over to Finnick and he smiles, causing raucous applause. Frustration courses through your blood. It’s just so easy for him, isn’t it? Caesar continues on, immune to your internal conflict. “He’s a crowd favorite, I’d say.”

“Sure,” you acquiesce, if only to please the audience. “But he’s not the one in the arena.” Not to mention, there are tributes who have spent their entire lives training for this very moment. The Careers were born for this very moment. You, on the other hand, are nothing more than an unprepared victim.

“You heard it here first, folks,” Caesar smiles at the camera awkwardly, clearly sensing the tension that seems to fizzle in the air between you. He turns towards you and plasters on a brighter smile. “Thank you for your participation; I believe that’s all the time we have.”

You murmur a word of gratitude and practically storm off the set, shoving your hands in your pockets and striding to the backstage area. You’re walking so fast that you don’t notice Finnick attempting to beckon your attention, until he’s falling in step next to you.

“That was too pessimistic,” Finnick chides you. You continue walking quickly, forcing him to speed up to quicken his pace.

“I’m just being realistic,” you maintain, struggling to make sense of everything that just happened. To think, a mere week ago, you were a normal citizen in District 4. Now, you’re a sacrifice. You feel a shiver roll down your spine. “I’m probably going to die.” Your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. You’re not at peace with it, not in the slightest. But you also know that living with false hope is pointless.

“Don’t say that,” Finnick chastises you. The two of you have consistently clashed on how you’re supposed to present yourself. While you don’t particularly care enough to maintain pretense, Finnick has been adamant that you appear charismatic to gain the Capitol’s approval and boost their interest.

“Why shouldn’t I say it?” You frown, confused by the troubled expression on his face. Finnick isn’t new to this song and dance: he’s lost tributes before. You’re not sure why this time would be any different; if anything, you’re just preparing him for what’s to come.

Finnick is silent for a moment, the muscle in his jaw working as he seems to grit his teeth. “You won’t get any sponsorships by acting so macabre.” He eventually says after several seconds. Somehow, you get the feeling that wasn’t exactly what he meant to say. You grit your teeth.

“Sponsorships only prolong the inevitable.” You murmur, stepping into the quarters allocated to District 4. Finnick closes the door behind the two of you, and you can see the moment he truly processes the gravity of your remark.

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” He snaps furiously. The juxtaposition between his public persona and what you see now is… startling. Suddenly emotions are warring across Finnick’s face, and he looks genuinely frustrated. “Why do I even fucking bother?! I’ve had difficult tributes before, but none were so morbid!”

“It’s not morbid to acknowledge the hopelessness of this situation.” You try to defend yourself. “I can only do so much! I’ll try my fucking best, but there’s a good chance it just won’t be enough. There’s no use in pretending otherwise.”

“Right, because why would you try to capitalize on the time you do have left?” Finnick hisses sarcastically. There’s a stark silence drawn across the needlessly luxurious living space. The ornate silverware remains neglected on the dining table. “Why would you try to actually change that, when you can just roll over and accept your fate?”

You storm off to your bedroom, not intent on fighting a losing battle any longer. For whatever reason, Finnick is intent on ignoring the realities of the situation. That’s his prerogative, and there’s nothing necessarily wrong with that. But you don’t have the luxury to pretend as if your survival is guaranteed. That notion is what will keep you alive in the arena. Because if you’re not wary or paranoid, you’re complacent.

That night, things between you and Finnick are tense, to say the least. He doesn’t offer any more advice on being charismatic and approachable , as if he senses it’s a lost cause. In return, you’ve stopped making such “morbid” remarks. The two of you barely even speak to one another. You go to meals and pretend everything is fine, despite the voice in the back of your head berating you for pushing away your only ally.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Because Finnick may be an ally in terms of sponsorships, but he won’t be in the arena with you. You’ll be entirely alone. If anything, it’s better to get used to that feeling now. Right?

From the moment you wake the next morning, though, your heart is thrumming quickly. It’s the day you’ve been dreading: when you’ll be loaded into a glass capsule and transported to an unknown arena, where you’ll spend your remaining days fighting for your life and survival. For a long moment, you contemplate staying under the covers. It’s an illusion of choice, a fleeting glimpse at power. But you know you can’t do that. The Capitol and the Gamekeepers don’t care how much or little you desire to be a participant. They will force you to be a tribute in these Games, regardless of how much you may try to fight it. That’s your fate, after all.

There’s a knock on your door. You blink away traces of sleep and get to your feet, walking over to the door and opening it to find Finnick standing there. He looks sheepish for a moment, before resolve passes over his face and he nods at you. “Ready?” He asks.

“No,” you admit in a huff. Finnick frowns in sympathy and you’re forced to remember that he just may be the only person who truly understands how you feel right now. The tense argument from yesterday seems to fade into obscurity, as you both seem to realize the gravity of the situation. Together, the two of you make your way to the train—which takes you to the Launch Room. Your heart is steadily thudding in your chest, your hands unable to stop restlessly fidgeting.

When you arrive, you’re dressed in black clothing—a small number 4 emblazoned on the left side of your chest. You try to scrutinize the fabric to get a hint of what’s to come, but it’s frustratingly nondescript. Finnick senses what you’re doing, evidently remembering when he was in your position.

A monotone, pre-recorded message explains that you have five minutes until you’ll step on the pedestal and rise into the arena. Five minutes of normalcy, until your life will change forever. You take a shuddering breath, feeling your hands trembling at your sides. You can feel Finnick’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you pretend not to notice. This moment right here, shared between the two of you, will be the last fleeting glimpse you’ll have at privacy—before millions of people watch your every move in the arena.

Finnick places a hand on your shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. You drag your eyes towards him, despite every nerve in your body wanting to shrivel up into a ball on the floor. His grip is strong, anchoring you to this horrid reality.

There is nothing to say. No condolences, no apologies, no words of affirmation, no motivating speech. Instead, there is only the grating hum of the fluorescent lights above and the measured breaths of your mentor, interspersed with your significantly less collected breaths. Your eyes meet and before you can attempt to break the silence, Finnick is pulling you into a hug. His hand rises to cradle your head and you hesitantly embrace him back, knowing this is likely the last human contact you will have.

You’re not sure how long you stand there—all you know is that, at some point, the automated voice announces you have one minute to get on the pod. Finnick releases his grip after several seconds, looking torn for a split second before maintaining a calm façade. You step over to the pod and helplessly look up, seeing nothing but darkness.

The countdown is beginning. In ten seconds, your pod will rise to the arena. You dig your nails into the palms of your hands, your heart thundering in your chest and roaring in your ears. Finnick locks eyes with you. “You’re not alone,” he says, his gaze intense. “Remember that.”

The most you can manage is a silent nod, before the pod is careening upwards and transporting you to the arena. You feel tears building in your eyes and a burning sensation at the back of your throat and you quickly wipe them away, summoning some composure for the arena. You will not show the other tributes your distress.

The pod finally shudders to a stop and the pedestal beneath your feet rises. The harsh sunlight burns into your eyes and you blink dazedly. It takes a moment for your vision to clear, revealing the tributes arranged in a circle around a massive rock formation crawling through the air and evidently digging deep into the ground below. There’s the mouth of a cave right in front of you, and you can see two or three tributes on each side of you. It appears this formation is a lot more spread out than the ones in the past. This arena must be huge. That doesn’t necessarily help the nerves stewing in your chest.

You then realize that the cornucopia isn’t right in front of you, like you expected. In every Games, the cornucopia is located right in the middle of the tributes. Frowning, you drag your eyes up, up, up, and your ears start ringing at what you find. The cornucopia isn’t just far away—it’s also pretty high up, dangling precariously on the rock formation that stretches into the sky. You estimate it would take nearly an hour to get all the way up there; plus, falling would promise an instant death. The more you look at the cornucopia, the less convinced you are that you should even run for it.

The mouth of the cave in front of you looks increasingly enticing. As the countdown continues, you try to plan your first move. The cornucopia doesn’t feel like a practical option, which leaves you with no choice but to go for the cave in front of you. The darkness will help you—if you’re quiet enough, you can avoid confrontation. You glance behind you to make sure you didn’t miss anything, only to find impossibly high rock walls enclosing the tributes in the elaborate rock formation and attached cave system. It seems the entrance to the cave is your only real option.

When the countdown reaches ten, you hear a loud explosion and your chest starts to hurt. One of the tributes must’ve left their platform too early and triggered the mine system beneath it. The unmistakable sound of a cannon firing confirms your suspicions. Your stomach churns at the thought, but the ensuing countdown quickly recaptures your attention. Five… four… three… two… one.

Let the Games begin.

You sprint for the opening of the cave and nearly sigh in relief as the cool darkness gives you a reprieve from the boiling hot sun. You’re immediately sure that what you’ve just entered is far more than a single cave, but instead an interconnected system of hundreds (perhaps even thousands) of caverns. You can just barely make out your surroundings, and you immediately decide to go as far in as possible. There’s nothing back at the pedestals that would make the starting area worth returning to, so you can only hope this cave system has pockets of sunlight and air above ground. You have to think that’s the case, unless the Gamemakers want everyone to die of suffocation.

A backpack on the ground immediately catches your eye. You quickly grab it and duck down a corner, your hands practically shaking as you open it to find water, a few nutrient blocks, and a flashlight. It’s not much, but it’s certainly a helpful start. You throw the backpack on and are about to keep going when you hear footsteps in the distance. Immediately, you freeze and hold a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing.

The footsteps draw ever closer and, for a horrible moment, you think you’ll be spotted. But the tribute seems to turn down another path, taking them further into the cave and away from you. You’re not sure how long you stand there paralyzed, before shaking yourself out of it with the realization that you need to keep looking for supplies.

One thing’s for sure: you need a weapon to defend yourself with. It takes you a painfully long time to look at the stalactites above and rip one from the ceiling. You look for the sharpest one before reaching out and giving it a harsh tug, freeing it from its confines. You look down at it in your hand, testing the point of the fashioned weapon and confirming that it’s rather sharp. You suppose this will have to do for now.

As you continue exploring, you find supplies scattered about—water bottles; bits of food, just barely big enough to count as a snack; and some sort of jacket, tucked behind a pillar of rock. You fold it and place it in your bag, suspecting it’ll get cold at night. You’ve been walking for hours and haven’t come across sunlight or a water source, which concerns you. Moreover, you’re suspicious of the cave’s oxygen supply—your head has already started to pound, which isn’t a good sign.

You sleep fitfully that night, unable to let your guard down enough to truly rest. Every minute noise sinks into your mind. You’re constantly torn from slumber by the slightest of sensations: a brief chill, a rock crumbling down the wall. It’s torturous. You know you need rest if you want to survive, but you can’t quite seem to suppress your paranoia. You’re a quiet sleeper, fortunately—but still. Nothing can rid you of the knowledge that there are nearly twenty other tributes scattered throughout this cave system, willing to do whatever it takes to survive.

You slowly manage to build a routine as the days pass. You spend most of the day moving, descending deeper into the cave and searching for supplies. Each night, the Capitol broadcast seems to buzz and hum through the rocky walls. You suspect there to be holograms painted over the night sky, but you haven’t gotten a breath of fresh air since the Games first started. A few tributes die each night. You’re not sure if you should feel grateful for your survival or envious that they escaped from this whole mess.

This year’s Hunger Games is different from the others: you can tell that much. The arena was designed for long periods of solitude. This will take much longer than the other years. You will be here for several days—maybe even weeks. Why is the Capitol suddenly so patient? Why are the Gamemakers so insistent on broadcasting your every waking moment, regardless of how boring or mundane it may seem?

You quickly learn that you’ve grown complacent in your solitude, as you catch a flicker of movement across your vision. You’re not alone anymore, it seems. Before you can even begin to contemplate your next move, you’re being roughly thrown to the ground. You hiss and kick at the other tribute, but the other tribute is big and brutish—they’re quick to throw you back down, their hands gripping your throat and tearing the breath from your chest. You’re writhing in their grip, attempting to knee them in the gut or scratch at their eyes or do something-

But your vision is sputtering and morphing around you. You can’t even see the tribute’s face, but you can still sense the anger and righteous fear pushing them to rip your life away from you. You don’t have much longer. Your hands fall from their wrists and you desperately explore the ground around you. For a moment, you genuinely think you aren’t going to make it—and you’re forced to accept your demise at the hands of this faceless assailant.

Then, your hand finds the sharpened stalactite you fashioned on the first day… and you strike. Your makeshift knife finds their neck and you stab them, finally throwing their grip as they scream in pain and release you. You quickly scramble to embrace air greeting your lungs, maneuvering into a sort of kneeling position as you suck in air. Your hand shakes around your weapon as you try to fight off the dizziness threatening to send you toppling.

But, of course, because things are never easy, you recognize the tribute moving out of the corner of your eye. Against all odds, they survived that deadly blow. Their hand is pressed to their neck and they’re glaring at you furiously. Pure fear runs through your bones, prickling down your skin as you try to come to terms with the situation you’re in. It’s either you or them. Only one of you will survive.

You stumble to your feet and just barely throw yourself to the side as they barrel at you. The tribute only whips around and reaches out, punching you in the face and sending you staggering. Their movements are sluggish—and as they reach out again, you manage to yank them forward with your free hand and bury your stalactite into their neck once more. They yowl and kick a leg out as they fall, tripping you and sending you to ground with them. Their free hand finds a blunt stalactite and they strike at you, puncturing skin and digging into your ribs. You just barely hide a scream, letting out a frustrated and helpless sound as your arm reels back and you stab them yet again. A third time, a fourth, a fifth. Until they stop heaving, until their form falls limp. Until all you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your own labored breaths.

Your hands are shaking as you mechanically bend down and dig through their pack, looking for anything that could be useful. You take their rations and the bundled up jacket they had, stuffing it into your own backpack before pushing yourself to your feet unsteadily. Your hand finds your aching side and blood drips across your skin, confirming your suspicions that they had inflicted a sizable wound.

You stare down at the tribute, an undignified sound crawling from your lips when you hear the distant sound of a cannon. They’re dead now—and you were the one to kill them. You swallow hard as you look down at them, your neck aching from their attempts to strangle you. They tried to kill you. You shouldn’t pity them. But… you would’ve done the same.

This tribute has a family—or friends—waiting for them back home, you’re sure. And that family just saw you snuff the life from their eyes. That district just watched as their neighbor, friend, met their end in this dark and dank cave system.

You’re not sure what compels you to do it, but you bend down and close their eyes. It’s a small mercy, hardly worth anything given the fact that the entire Capitol just witnessed their death. There is nothing resembling dignity in these Games. And yet… you feel compelled to give them this small gesture, this tiny allowance.

Then you’re thrown back into reality as pain ripples through your side, dripping up your back and across your ribs. You need to get moving now. You tear your eyes away from the victim—your victim—and start to walk away. The effort is painful and slower than usual. Your free hand finds the wall of the cave system and you brace yourself as you walk, your breaths still not nearly as calm as you want them to be. You’re not sure how you get yourself to keep moving. You almost just want to sink down to the ground and give up right there. None of this is worth it. You’re not sure you even want to live anymore.

You don’t know how long you traverse the cave system. You just know that, at some point, your legs start to wobble under you and you have to accept that you need to rest. There’s a stretch of winding tunnels now, and you follow one of them until you find a corner with enough rocks and stalagmites to keep you hidden. You’re trembling as you slowly lower yourself to the ground, your body giving out as you lean against the wall and finally stop moving. Your heart is still racing; your head is pounding and pulsing; and your throat is very dry. But the pain is ushering in a whole new sense of exhaustion and fatigue; and soon, a tear slips down your face as you finally surrender to unconsciousness.

Unsurprisingly, when you wake to the Capitol broadcast, you find that the pain has barely gone away. You’re going to have to treat the wound to ensure it doesn't get infected. The dead tribute’s name is announced as you’re digging through your backpack to find the alcohol wipes you swiped off of their corpse. You finally convince yourself to look down at your wound, and you suck in a startled breath at just how bad it looks. There’s blood everywhere, coloring the surrounding fabric of your shirt and staining a murky crimson across your hands. It takes you a few moments to convince yourself to bring the wipe down to your skin, and you have to put the collar of your shirt in your mouth to stifle your pained screams. The alcohol wipe is a necessary evil, but damn it, it’s causing some of the worst pain you’ve ever experienced. Your vision is greying as you wipe at your wound.

It takes you a long time to finish cleaning the wound, as you’re forced to take intermittent breaks to keep yourself from passing out. When you’re finally done, you’re left feeling… helpless. You’ve cleaned the wound. Now what? You don’t have any other supplies save for bandages. Is this really the best you can do?

A fluttering sound breaks you out of your thoughts. A short distance away, there’s a parcel with a parachute attached to it. It’s stuck between a few stalagmites, the parachute occasionally fluttering as it evidently settles. You stare at the parcel for a long moment, half-convinced you’re seeing things. Eventually, you manage to push yourself up and walk over to it. This must be a sponsor gift.

But how in the hell did it get here? Usually the gifts fall through the air with parachutes. But this one almost appears as if someone placed it here. You frown and look up at the ceiling, half-expecting to find a conveniently placed hole. But there’s only rock. You reach down to grab the parcel, realizing you need to focus on treating your wound. Upon closer examination, it appears to be a metal capsule. With quivering hands, you hesitantly peel it open to find a tube of ointment. After a moment’s contemplation, you press the ointment to your wound, wincing at the cool temperature before leaning your head back at the relief it gives you. Thanks, Finnick, you think to yourself. His last words to you ring in your ears: “You’re not alone. Remember that.” That reassures you far more than you’d like it to.

You idly wonder what he’s doing now. Well, he’s getting you sponsorships, apparently. Finnick is probably watching the broadcast just as everyone else. Perhaps he’s even attending parties and social events, if only to give you a fighting chance. You feel uncharacteristically thankful for his efforts. And the air in the caves must be getting to your head, because you swear you almost miss him. You shake off the thought.

The next few days, against all odds, are unremarkable. You explore the cave system and routinely treat your wound, slowly returning to your normal pace. You manage to find a cave with a water source in it, which proves to be a lifesaver. After some more exploration, you find a water treatment device and return to the cave to get yourself some drinkable water. Aside from that, you mostly spend the time divvying up your resources and exploring the surrounding tunnels. You develop a marking system of sorts, notching the walls that you pass by. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t do something so loud and risky—but more tributes have been dying each night, leaving you with less competitors. More importantly, you can’t lose your way back to the small spring you found. You will not die of malnourishment or dehydration—you refuse.

As you slowly recuperate, you think back to your time at the Capitol preparing for the Games. You wonder how Finnick will react when you inevitably die. The odds are still against you, after all. He got you a good chunk of the way through the Games, though. There are, what, seven or eight tributes left aside from you? That’s a lot better than you thought you’d do. Four of those tributes are the Careers, and you can only hope you never run into them. Hopefully, they’ll begin to fracture as time passes.

You’re finally starting to feel better, though. Your side barely hurts anymore—that ointment must be pretty powerful. You have some scarring along your ribs, but you’re not particularly bothered by that. You’re just thankful that Finnick got you what you needed. If you make it out of here alive, you’ll thank him, you think. Maybe.

A few more days pass and you’re soon one of four tributes remaining. And it seems the Gamemakers are growing impatient, because you can hear the walls shifting and collapsing around you as the arena begins to shift and shrink. They’re forcing you all towards the center of the cave system for a final conflict, you suspect.

You don’t want to fight, as selfish and naive as it may sound. Your plan is a bit different: just hide in the shadows until they eliminate themselves. Is it cowardly? Sure. But you don’t want to participate in the bloodbath unless you absolutely have to. Finnick’s voice echoes in your mind: Don’t engage. Stay alive at all costs.

You hear a commotion and immediately realize there are at least two tributes in the tunnel ahead. Something like clarity passes over you as you hear them fighting. You feel like a bystander, an observer—which just reminds you of how many people are watching across the Capitol and Districts. And you are nothing more than entertainment to them: a deer encircled by hungry lions. They are waiting for your demise with salivating maws.

You’re so frustrated. You think of the Capitol citizens, cozied up in their sharp buildings of glass and metal… draped in fine, bright fabrics… eating decadent bites of food and discussing your fates as if you’re horses in some sort of race. It makes you sick to your stomach. You don’t want to participate in this at all—don’t want to give them the satisfaction of a good show.

But that’s the dilemma: you have to participate if you want to survive. Giving up won’t give you your life back. It won’t bring back all of the tributes who died. You’ve made it this far—there’s no choice but to keep going. With that in mind, you slowly sneak down the tunnel, peeking around the corners as you continue.

You soon find yourself hiding near the mouth of the tunnel, which opens up into a large enclosed clearing of rock. There are two tributes fighting, and a third attempting to enter the fray. You frown and try to give yourself a moment to think. You stand no chance of surviving if you have to fight more than one person: you know your limits. That single fight with that tribute from before is proof of that—you barely even survived. If you get stuck in a hand-to-hand fight, you’re screwed.

You need to find a way around that, then. The tributes are too distracted right now to notice you lurking near the mouth of the cave, which gives you just a little time to think. It’s not nearly enough, but you’ll have to make it work.

There has to be some way for you to hurt them at a distance like this. You don’t have a bow and arrow or any long-distance weapon, but there’s got to be something you can do. You frown at the pressure building in your temples, a dull ache radiating down your face and sliding through your cheekbones. Maybe you weren’t as healed as you thought you were, because that dizziness and vertigo from earlier is returning. You bring your shirt collar to your mouth, uncomfortable with the thickness that almost seems to permeate the air.

The other tributes seem too busy to notice, but you can tell by their labored breathing that they’re also affected. The pieces of this particular puzzle suddenly slam together. It’s a cave system—there’s natural gas. The Gamemakers purposely led you all into an area that was volatile and ready to collapse at any moment, to ensure that the Games would have a swift end.

You explore the walls of the cave system, suddenly coming to an idea. If you can find a way to sway the uneasy structure of this space even more, then the ceiling will cave in. You can already see the telltale signs of stress: the cracks spreading through the walls, the small chunks of rock occasionally falling from the ceiling. If you can just find a weak spot, you can eliminate your opponents from here.

The ground is practically shaking. The Gamemakers must be having fun with this, you think wryly. You feel that familiar fury rising in your chest again, but you refocus your thoughts and survey the area around you.

In your distraction, you forget to keep yourself hidden—and one of the tributes sees you. Shit, they’re running at you now. You manage to duck to the side and run past them before they can hit you, looking around at the rock walls for a sizable crack or unsteady area. Unfortunately, the other tribute is faster than you expect, and they’re soon shoving you to the ground and reeling their arm back to stab you in the head. You manage to block the blow but the knife grows through your hand. You scream and try to shove them off, but they only tug their grip down and exert force to send the knife even closer to your skin. The blade is almost kissing the skin between your eyebrows. It takes all of your effort to keep them from sinking the knife into you, and with a harsh tug, they manage to slice down your face. It’s a shallow cut but it stings and burns in the dense air.

You can’t even contemplate your next move before the tribute’s grip is slackening and the knife is slipping from their hands. Suddenly the energy and resistance seems to leave their body and they fall onto you, their eyes almost empty as a knife protrudes from the back of their head. You look up to find another tribute standing over you, and quickly shove the corpse off of you and scramble to your feet. You glance around the space once more, realizing that it’s just the two of you now.

“I need to win.” The tribute says, breaking through the tense silence. He’s standing a little unsteadily and there’s blood splattered across his skin, but you get the feeling it isn’t his. He looks largely unharmed. That’s not good.

“I do too.” You say, if only to keep him talking as you study the cave walls. There’s a crack here, a crevice there… You’re about to give up on the ceiling collapse idea when you suddenly find a large rift on the edge of the wall near one of the branching tunnels.

Everything seems to freeze as you catalogue your next steps in your head. The other tribute is clearly losing patience, as he starts for you. You take action and whip around, running away from him and heading towards the fissure. The stalactite in your hand should be enough to upend the cave system, if you strike at the weak area hard enough.

Every muscle in your body is burning as you sprint towards the far tunnel, the other tribute hot on your heels. You lunge forward, using all of your momentum to pull your arm back and digging your sharpened stalactite into the wall of the cave. You rip it out and yank at the crack a few more times, before turning around and just barely dodging the other tribute’s assault. The ground beneath your feet is almost roaring now and you race for the tunnel, picking at the interior wall near the space for good measure. The tribute is running for you, and for an awful moment, you think he’s going to make it to the tunnel and survive to kill you.

But then the ceiling caves in, and rocks of all sizes rain down on him. You suck in a startled breath as you hear his pained scream, knowing he’s being crushed under the debris. The other tributes must be dead too, as the cannon fires three times in short succession. For what feels like far too long, you’re just standing there, warm blood trickling down your face as you stare at the pile of boulders currently blocking off the mouth of the tunnel. You’re breathing hard and wavering on your feet, your headache insistent.

May I present… the winner of the Hunger Games.

The Capitol broadcast echoes through the walls of the cave, nearly ringing in your ears. It takes you several moments to come to terms with what you just heard: …you won. Your adrenaline is quickly fading at the confirmation that you’ve survived. Your vision is spiraling as you lean against the wall. Exhaustion and relief are quickly winning the battle against your fear and dread, making your balance uneasy as you struggle to keep conscious. You don’t want to be vulnerable. But your body doesn’t care—and you’re soon falling to the ground, your vision fading to black as you try to come to terms with your survival.

From there, you catch glimpses through bleary eyes. The rocks are crumbling and shattering around you, breaking away to reveal the blinding sun. You’re picked up by some sort of helicopter, with medics waiting for you. There’s a pricking sensation on your arm. Some shouting. And then… nothing.

You wake to aches and pains all across your body. There’s an oxygen mask fixed to your face, an IV dripping at your side, and bandages across your arms. You’re reclined on what feels like a hospital bed, in a space that is blindingly white. You try to shift and sit up a bit, the movement hurting far more than it should. A tired exhale leaves your lips and, somehow, that seems to be enough to inform the person at your bedside of your consciousness.

“Don’t do that to me ever again.” A familiar voice says. You squint as your vision slowly starts to adjust to the brightness of the room, revealing a presence at your bedside. Finnick is sitting next to you, his hands shaking as he studiously wipes the blood from your fingers. In an impromptu move, you clasp his hand weakly. The strength of his returning grip is nearly enough to bruise, as if he needs the physical reminder of your presence.

Your mentor looks… well. As close to horrible as a person like him can look. Finnick just appears so horribly exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is messier than usual and his gaze shoots about the room impatiently. His entire body seems to thrum in restlessness.

“You look tired.” You frown. Your voice is a bit raspy—likely from neglect. How long have you been unconscious?

Finnick stares at you in complete disbelief. “Me?” He asks incredulously. “Look at you.” He scoffs, the strength of his grip on your hand betraying his concern.

He’s right, of course. You’re so incredibly exhausted. It takes every ounce of energy you have to keep your eyes open and meet his gaze. Finnick scrutinizes your form, taking in the dirt and blood scattered across your skin. “Thanks.” You remember to respond sarcastically.

Finnick rolls his eyes, interlacing your fingers. “That was smart.” He says a few moments later, his eye contact firm and unrelenting. “Collapsing the caves. Reckless, but smart.” There seems to be something unspoken in the gleam of his eyes and the rapt attention with which he studies you, scrutinizing your form and searching for injuries.

“Thanks.” You manage to choke out, when you realize he’s waiting for a response.

“It was quite the ending.” Finnick admits, a strained smile on his face. It’s like he’s trying to poke fun at the situation, but can’t quite bear to do it. You understand the feeling. “Very dramatic.” He nods. He looks weirdly fidgety and restless now.

“That’s what I was going for,” you huff wryly. Both of you know that’s not the truth. Finnick recognizes that—recognizes that you despise the Capitol’s commodification of life and survival. He shakes his head. You swallow hard, your throat feeling dry. He’s quick to press a glass of water into your hand and you drink it, the liquid soothing your throat. “I didn’t want to fight.” You eventually say, after the silence starts to drag on for too long.

“I don’t blame you.” Finnick nods. “Your fight with the District 6 tribute was…”

“Rough.” You supplement. You bring a tired hand up to rub your face. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it for a second there.” You don’t quite notice the distressed expression that passes over Finnick’s face as you continue. “But thanks for the ointment.”

“No need to thank me.” Finnick says easily. “I’m glad it helped.”

You just nod in agreement. It’s growing more and more difficult for you to keep yourself awake. You feel incredibly stiff and dazed—you must be on a few painkillers. When you blink, Finnick’s face blurs and the walls almost seem to curve towards him. You blink again, wetting your dry eyes.

Finnick’s hand is still on yours. When you notice and look at his hand, he still doesn’t remove it. Instead he briefly squeezes your hand. Your eyes are drawn to your joined hands and you realize there’s still blood under your fingernails. It sickens you. “You should rest,” Finnick suggests, successfully distracting you from the blood on your hands (both literal and metaphorical). “I’ll be here.”

“You don’t have to be,” you hum, leaning back against the pillow again. Finnick’s hand is still on yours. You must’ve given him quite the scare. You would attempt to reassure him if you weren’t so fatigued. And you’re sure you don’t paint a great picture now: somewhat malnourished, bruised and scratched up, vulnerable. The thought discomfits you.

Finnick doesn’t budge. You don’t have the energy to say anything more, instead surrendering to the exhaustion creeping into the edges of your vision.

It takes a few days for you to return to anything resembling normal strength. For a while there, you’re relegated to bland meals—bananas, rice—as you regain your stamina. The medications you’re on must be helping, in addition to the attentive medical care you’ve received since the end of the Games. But slowly but surely, you start to recuperate. You can soon walk around the room, albeit slowly. When you’re feeling a bit stir-crazy, Finnick will stop by and walk around the facility with you. He’s never quite far from you, which you secretly appreciate. You’d never admit it, but his presence is comforting.

Unfortunately, once you’re healed, you’re forced to participate in the “victory tour”: where the victor visits every District and undergoes several interviews with Caesar Flickerman. The entire thing bothers you. You don’t want to visit the Districts who lost tributes—don’t want to have to look the parents of your victims in the eyes. It’s not fair. None of it is fair. The Capitol is painting you out to be some kind of hero. But you’re only a survivor.

Fortunately, you’re not alone—as Finnick accompanies you on the tour. He’s pretty popular with the Capitol population, and since he was your mentor, he shares a part of your victory. Supposedly. You won’t deny that the ointment he got for you likely saved your life. It’s helpful to have someone else there with you, someone who understands the unfortunate mix of survivor’s guilt, dread, and frustration running through you.

Throughout your tour, you have many taxing individual interviews—and a few joint ones with Finnick. Finnick is his typically charismatic self, albeit with a withdrawn sense of uncharacteristic quiet. It’s not until he’s faced with the question of how he felt watching the Games… that his façade begins to crack.

“I could hardly sleep,” Finnick admits. “I- I didn’t want to think about what could happen if I wasn’t watching.” You raise your brows from your position backstage, squinting at him on stage. He’s a pretty good actor—he looks genuinely unnerved. But it’s got to be an act, right? There’s no way he actually felt worried for you. You’re taken back to the look on his face when you first woke—the relief flickering in his eyes, the way his hand found yours and never let go.

Caesar Flickerman nods in sympathy. “And the final battle…” He says, breaking you from your thoughts. You tune back into the conversation.

Finnick shakes his head for a moment in a wordless gesture. “I felt like I was going to throw up.” The only tangible sign of his torment is the tightness with which he’s clenching his fists—a gesture that is only visible from where you’re standing backstage.

Thankfully, Caesar soon moves onto lighter subjects. You watch as the conversation slowly wraps up. When Finnick walks off stage, he seems lost in his thoughts. You can’t tell if you should approach him or not, and by the time you attempt to make a decision, he’s already retreating.

After a few more minutes of contemplation, you decide to check up on him. It’s not like Finnick to walk off without any warning or explanation. He’s a seasoned professional when it comes to these interviews, after all. Typically he can go through them with ease. But something about this one seemed to bother him. “Finnick?” You ask as you knock on his dressing room door.

The door falls open and Finnick’s standing on the other side. “What are you doing here?” He blinks.

“Checking on you,” you decide to answer truthfully, studying him. He looks a little frazzled. “Are you alright?”

A plethora of emotions flicker across Finnick’s face, none of them remaining long enough for you to identify them. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” You question lightly. “That was unlike you.” Finnick’s gaze snaps up to you and he almost looks offended. You quickly try to elaborate. “I just mean… you’re usually pretty private on camera.” A muscle works in his jaw and you watch as his gaze flits about your form, before settling on your eyes.

“You concealed it well,” you say helplessly, trying to reassure him. You just know him well enough to know when he’s suppressing his emotions. “The audience didn’t notice that you seemed…” You just trail off, not quite sure what to say.

Finnick gets up silently, inexplicably breaking the distance between you until he’s standing rather close. His gaze flits about your face, before settling on the jagged scar carving a path through the side of your face. It’s a testament to your trust in Finnick that you don’t flinch when he reaches out and runs a finger along your cheek. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“The medics offered to heal it,” you choke out, desperate to dissipate the tension settling in the air. “But I wanted the reminder.” You don’t want to forget how you felt during the Games. You don’t want to forget the Capitol’s brutality and manipulations. You will never forget that bone-deep desperation.

There’s a whisper of a self-deprecating laugh. “You’re far more suited to this than I am.” Finnick remarks. His gaze explores your face for a long moment, his finger running down the length of the scar and ending near your jaw.

You frown at the statement. “That’s not true.”

“You are,” Finnick continues. “You’re honest. You didn’t conform to the Capitol’s pressures, and you have the scars to prove it.”

“That’s not a fair comparison to make,” you say, catching on to what he’s trying to say. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

“I’ve spent this entire time pretending,” Finnick states, his hand slipping from your face. “Pretending to be this- this heartthrob,” he breaks off, his voice dripping with venom as he recounts the title the Capitol has given him. “Pretending to be unaffected by the Games and the suffering they inflict.”

“I was jealous of you,” Finnick continues, his knuckles whitening as he clenches his fist. “Envious that you could acknowledge the truth, and still keep fighting. That you could stand firm and unrelenting… That you could scorn the Capitol’s citizens and still force them to pay attention to you.”

You’re surprised at the admission. There’s nothing for him to be jealous of. And, more importantly… “You were just a kid, Finnick,” you remind him. “Don’t fault yourself for that.”

Finnick just shakes his head, looking tortured. He takes a deep breath and continues. “As I grew to know you, I realized it was more than jealousy,” he says, averting his eyes briefly. He looks uncharacteristically hesitant. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I knew it would be selfish. It would be a distraction.” You stare at him in silence, patiently waiting for him to continue. Truthfully, you really have no idea what he’s going to say next. But whatever it is, it seems to be troubling him greatly. “I-”

Whatever he means to say falls to silence, as Caesar Flickerman bursts through the door with perfectly unfortunate timing. You immediately step away from Finnick, but Caesar is perceptive. “It appears I’ve interrupted something.” You shoot a helpless glance at Finnick, who looks irritated for a moment. Caesar continues speaking, although his eyes keep shooting between the two of you with interest. “The audience is just ravenous, and I was wondering if the two of you would be willing to come out together for a quick final interview.” His eyes are glittering and there’s a warm smile on his face. Despite his manners, it’s clear Finnick and you have no choice in the matter.

The two of you soon find yourselves back to the stage, where you’re both seated on matching armchairs. Finnick looks entirely at ease—or, at least, to the untrained eye. But you’d venture to think he’s a bit frustrated from being interrupted. Admittedly, you’re a bit irritated too—if only because whatever Finnick had to say seemed important to him.

It’s immediately clear that this last interview is solely for the audience. And while you’d done a rather excellent job at avoiding gossip and rumors during your interviews before the Games, you now find yourself faced with rather uncomfortable personal questions. Caesar is relentless, as if scrambling for some sort of secret that will capture the citizens’ attention. In particular, he seems particularly interested in your romantic pursuits. The Capitol always seems to want a love story. You will never give them one.

“Surely you have someone to go home to,” he continues to press you, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You can’t help but be annoyed with him, despite knowing that he’s just doing his job. This dogged persistence is uncharacteristic of him—he’s usually a bit more subtle. “We’re just dying to know. An eligible young victor such as yourself has suitors lined up around the block, surely!” He shares a smile with the audience and cheers resound.

Before you can respond, there’s a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye. You glance over to find Finnick standing up and promptly walking off the set. You stare after him in perplexment, a bit worried for his sudden departure. You thought you caught a pained expression on his face, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

The crowd seems disappointed that Finnick left, but their whispers are effectively silenced by Caesar. “Oh, I’m afraid I pushed the lad too hard,” the host says with a click of his tongue. He shares a conspiring smile with the audience. “Terribly sorry.”

“Finnick isn’t feeling well,” you immediately fib, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any speculation about the cause of his departure.

“I’m sure,” Caesar responds with a wink. You blink at him, wondering what he knows that you don’t. You’re about to elaborate—conjure up a story about Finnick being sick—when Caesar continues. “Regardless, that’s all the time we have. Thank you!” He chirps. Finally, you’re dismissed and you can go backstage.

You don’t see Finnick for the rest of the day. He’s uncharacteristically quiet at dinner, and once you’re all released to enjoy your evenings, you find yourself looking for your mentor. He’s been acting a bit strangely, ever since that interview earlier today.

Your first inclination is to look in his room, but he isn’t there. He isn’t standing on the balcony outside or sitting in the common area. After checking the usual areas and coming up with nothing, you realize you’ve been neglecting one easy answer: the training room. Finnick could be working with his trident, letting off some steam.

The first thing that strikes you upon entering the space is its unsettling resemblance to the training grounds from the beginning of the Games. You hear the harsh sound of fists colliding against something and frown, exploring the area before your eyes land on Finnick in the corner. He’s going at the punching bag rather fiercely. For a moment, you’re just stuck staring—both impressed with his forms and concerned by his focus.

After a few seconds, you decide to approach him. “Hey, Finnick,” you greet him as you head over. You watch the relentless way he’s assaulting the punching bag and you’re unable to hold back a teasing remark. “What’d that punching bag ever do to you?” You say with a lopsided smile, trying to get rid of the tension settling in the air.

Finnick quietly grabs it and straightens up, evidently finished with his workout. He doesn’t respond to the jab, or to your initial greeting. You scrutinize him for several moments, taking note of the tension drawing his shoulders together and the firm pull to his lips. “Are you okay?” You ask, concerned by the uncharacteristic silence.

He takes a slow breath. “We need to talk,” Finnick then says, his heated gaze falling to you. He looks a little breathless and his hair is plastered to his forehead. “I didn’t get to finish what I was saying earlier.”

“Right,” you remember, looking at him expectantly.

You watch as Finnick glances about the space, as if making sure there’s no one nearby to interrupt. “It’s been driving me crazy,” he admits breathlessly. He waits a moment to catch his breath. “I feel like I just need to get it out.” You patiently wait for him to continue, admittedly a bit worried by the sheer apprehension on his face. Finnick looks genuinely nervous. “To put it simply… I care about you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“I think Caesar picked up on it earlier,” Finnick says, something like frustration pulling his lips together. “He kept asking you those questions to get a reaction out of me. And it worked. Because… I want to be the one you return home to.”

You’re staring at him in disbelief and bewilderment. What did he just say?

“You don’t believe me.” Finnick realizes with a frown.

“I just don’t understand.” You clarify, squinting at him and studying his expression. He looks perfectly sincere. “Why me?” You nearly sputter.

“What do you mean?” He squints at you, looking at you like you’re crazy.

“I just mean…” You trail off, your eyes flitting about the room restlessly as you try to comprehend what you just heard. “I’m me. And you’re… you know, you.” Finnick is outgoing, charismatic, and popular. And you’re nothing of the sort.

“I’m not following,” He frowns again.

“I don’t think I’m the kind of person you’re looking for.” You settle for saying. The reality of the situation, from your eyes, is that Finnick is way out of your league. You thought that would be obvious.

“Of course you’re the person I’m looking for.” Finnick asserts, squinting at you disbelievingly. “I’ve always wanted you.” Always? He takes a step forward and the distance between you is slowly shrinking.

“Why do you think I reacted the way I did, after your first interview with Caesar?” Finnick continues. “Because I didn’t want to think about you dying. I couldn’t stomach it. I still can’t.” You’re staring at him with wide eyes, searching his face for a hint of dishonesty or amusement. But there’s nothing to be found. Still, Finnick notices your doubt. “Let me prove it to you.” He says.

“You don’t need to prove anything,” you say with a shake of your head, realizing your mistake. “I trust you, I believe you. And… I care about you too.” You choke out, feeling restless and nervous as you admit your feelings.

“You do?” It’s Finnick’s turn to be surprised.

“Of course,” you blink at him. His cool green eyes find yours and you suddenly feel as if everything around you fades to black. You blink again and try to sort your thoughts into a more comprehensible statement. “When I was in the arena, I kept thinking about what you said to me. And it was… nice… to know I wasn’t alone. That someone was looking out for me.”

“I was hoping…” you choke out, feeling awkward and embarrassed and nervous all at once. “…that interaction, in the transport facility, wouldn’t be our last.”

Finnick’s pulling you into a hug before you can say anything more, his grasp strong but comforting. “I hoped it wouldn’t be, either.” He admits quietly. You both remain there for a while, nearly tangled in each other’s holds. Two victims of the Capitol’s vicious entertainment, victims of circumstance—but victors nonetheless.

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