Chapter Text
The victory tour’s stop in twelve granted Annie the first glimpse of snow, and it was almost enough to pull her from a sedative induced stupor. When she reached out to touch it, the world fuzzy around the edges in an attempt to keep a verifiably unstable victor from acting out on live television, the cold, wet shock sent her stumbling back. He was there to catch her. He had just laughed and insisted she put on gloves. Finnick was always kind, she wished she could say she’d been the same.
When the drugs wear off before bed, they have their best conversations. Both nurse a glass of a drink Annie describes as “dangerous,” something honeyed and warm and lemony that numbed her senses in a more natural way.
“It has anise in it,” he said, “have you really never had one?”
“Never. My mama didn’t let me drink at home.”
“Mags made one for me on my trip. It’ll keep you from getting sick.”
“Good, I could use some help,”
Annie doesn’t ask why Mags was making Finnick cocktails at fourteen on his victory tour. She knows the answer. This trip would be impossible to complete sober.
More than two drinks prior, they’d retired from the bar cart to her room. One more drink, and then they’d part ways. Conversation would still be there in the morning, at least before her stylist insisted she take her prescribed medicine.
Annie hated her. Thetis probably hated her, too. A winning girl from four should have catapulted her career, especially one so beautiful. Instead, the blossoming sex pot came out of the arena too fragile to enjoy the spoils of the Capitol. Puff sleeves and modest hemlines replaced Thetis’ dreams of sea nymphs and water-thin dresses for Annie, who didn’t mind one bit.
Still, with Thetis and Mags and every other bit of adult supervision asleep, Finnick and Annie were free to keep each other company well into the early hours. It was the aftermath of district seven— another snow covered hellscape, as Annie put it— that placed them under the covers. It was so easily avoidable that it was almost funny. Almost, but not quite.
She was cold, and he was too, even if more accustomed to it, so he didn’t need any convincing to agree to stay. Their separate heats helped to maintain the mattress, and having another trusted body in the room could soothe even the most restless souls. When they woke, his face was full of perfumed waves and his arms were wrapped around a partially unfamiliar frame.
It didn’t take more than a moment to ground himself. The body was his friend, their bodies took matters into their own hands once sleep found them, and he was, unfortunately, still a teenage boy. Waking up with warmth already swelling at his hips wasn’t entirely uncommon, but at this moment, he experienced a rare bit of embarrassment. Different visceral, disgusting images shot through his head, wanting to will his body to calm itself before bringing any attention to himself by moving. Usually, the task was to keep up as long as possible or else, which made the opposite a challenge.
It doesn’t take too awfully long, he hopes, before he finds success. Annie’s backside ceases total contact with him, and he carefully slips out of the bed. In his rush, fueled by embarrassment and worry, he neglects to remember that Annie had always been an early riser. For the remainder of the day, they stutter and hesitate and shy away. It isn’t fun. They do not share a bed for the remainder of the trip.