Chapter Text
Red and Johanna were sitting together, both of their hands clasped together in a way that would only ever be known to sisters. Their fingers fit together perfectly, a strange comfort forged not by blood, but by shared horror. The television’s glow painted them in pale, flickering light, the kind that made the world feel half-alive. Johanna’s living room was barely furnished — a couch too old to be comfortable, a cracked coffee table, walls stripped of anything personal. She didn’t like reminders, she’d said once. The only decoration sat in the far corner: a single vase of dead flowers, brittle and gray.
Between them rested a bottle of amber-colored liquor, something that smelled like paint thinner and burned going down, but it kept the hands from shaking. They passed it back and forth silently, unspoken understanding in each exchange — the kind of silence only victors knew.
The reaping broadcast had already begun, the escort sent by the capital's voice filling the room in that unnervingly cheerful way that always made Red’s stomach twist. The Capitol feed flickered between shots of the square in District Four, a sea of anxious faces, and the polished stage where the announcer stood smiling like none of it mattered. Red’s heart thudded unevenly. It was hard to breathe.
District Four had so many victors — seasoned killers, trained survivors, faces that still haunted her in the quiet hours before dawn. There were names far more likely to be drawn than his. She told herself that over and over like a mantra.
He only had about a fifteen percent chance of getting his name called. Right?
Her thumb traced the rim of the glass bottle as she stared at the screen.
Unless he did something stupid. Unless he did something noble. Unless he did something Finnick.
Her pulse spiked.
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t that stupid — he couldn’t be that stupid. At least... Red hoped not. She really hoped not.
Because Red had seen enough of what bravery could look like when it was stripped bare. It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t pretty. It was blood and sand and screaming and the Capitol clapping as you tore someone apart. And if Finnick Odair’s name was called — or, if he volunteered — then Red knew she would have to be killed by the boy she adored.
So Red and Johanna watched with bated breath, as the pale fingers of the escort danced in the edges of the glass bowl. Picking up one note slip. "Silas Cove." The escort called out, and the brown haired boy around seventeenish, who Red is pretty sure won the games before those two from District Twelve did, he was also the one that Finnick had one described, as 'eerily quiet' started sobbing. And before anyone could even react. Finnick Odair was talking. "I volunteer as tribute." Were the first words to fall out of his mouth.
Red couldn't breathe.
Why the- 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠 did he volunteer-
Red couldn’t breathe.
It didn’t make sense — it didn’t register. Her lungs seized in protest, her pulse thrummed somewhere behind her ears. The sound of Finnick’s voice echoed again through the speakers, clear and confident, almost too smooth, too controlled, too him. The Capitol crowd on-screen roared like a sea breaking against rocks, wild and celebratory, as if they hadn’t just witnessed something cruel and irreversible.
“Finnick Odair!” the escort repeated, gleeful, her voice pitched high like this was some shining moment.
It wasn’t. It was a funeral bell.
“That son of a bitch—” Johanna’s chair screeched backward as she stood, already pacing, her hands trembling around the bottle she hadn’t even realized she’d grabbed. But Red didn’t move. She sat completely still, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the couch, eyes locked on the screen like if she blinked, he’d vanish.
The camera cut to him — him. Finnick stood in the square, that familiar posture, that mask of calm he’d perfected over the years. The golden boy of District Four. The Capitol’s darling. The living proof that victory didn’t mean freedom.
He was smiling. Of course he was.
But it wasn’t the kind of smile that reached his eyes. Red could tell — she always could. The corners of his mouth twitched just slightly too long, his jaw tight beneath it, that tiny muscle near his temple flexing like he was grinding his teeth.
He was terrified.
And he’d done it anyway.
“Why would he—” Red’s voice cracked before she could finish. Her throat burned like she’d swallowed glass. She tried to stand, but her legs didn’t work right. They buckled, and she sank forward, elbows on her knees, breath coming in short, violent bursts. “He’s not—he wouldn’t—”
“Briar.” Johanna’s voice was sharper than usual, slicing through the air like an axe splitting wood. “Hey. Look at me.” But Red couldn’t. Her eyes were glued to the screen, where the camera was already panning back to the boy Finnick had replaced — Silas — who was sobbing openly, shoulders shaking, relief written all over his face. The Capitol would spin that, of course. The noble sacrifice. Finnick Odair, hero of the sea, savior of the young.
But Red knew better.
She knew that kind of courage didn’t come from goodness. It came from suicide. Finnick knew Red was being pulled into the arena and he decided he would go with her whether or not she wanted him too. “Red—” Johanna’s voice softened now, but she didn’t touch her. She knew better than to try. Johanna's hands were shaking so hard she dropped the bottle. It hit the floor, shattered, the liquor seeping into the cracks in the wood like blood through sand. The smell was sharp, stinging, familiar.
“Why would he do that?” Her voice broke again. It came out small this time. Lost. “Why would he do that, Jo?”
Johanna didn’t answer right away. She just pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, staring at the broken glass. “Because he’s an idiot,” she muttered finally. “Because he thinks he can fix it. Because he’s Finnick.” That made Red choke out something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so much like a sob. She pushed herself up, pacing now, hands in her hair. “He—he can’t—he can’t go back in there.” Her voice was trembling, then rising. “I already told him if they ever—if they ever—”
She stopped. Words failed. Her breath hitched hard, a sharp, desperate sound that tore straight out of her.
Johanna just watched, jaw tight, letting her unravel. Red was pacing like a caged animal now, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. Her hair stuck to her face, damp from sweat or tears — she couldn’t tell which. Her heart pounded so fast it hurt, like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest.
She could still hear his voice echoing in her skull — I volunteer as tribute.
She wanted to punch something. Throw something. Tear the Capitol apart with her bare hands.
But there was nothing to hit except the walls, and they’d only bruise her knuckles, so she kept pacing, muttering to herself. “He promised—he promised me he wouldn’t—” Johanna, still standing by the counter, crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. “Promises don’t mean shit to the Capitol.” Red stopped dead. Slowly, she turned, staring at the TV again. The escort was still speaking, but the words blurred together into meaningless noise. The image had switched to Finnick being led offstage, cameras following him from every angle, the audience chanting his name like it was something sacred.
He was waving now, smiling for the cameras.
He was performing.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything.
Because she knew the second those cameras cut away, that mask would fall. Her body went slack. She dropped back onto the couch with a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp. For a long moment, the only sound in the house was the faint hum of the television and the quiet clink of Johanna setting the bottle shards into the sink.
Then, so softly she almost didn’t hear it, Johanna whispered, “We're next, wolfie.”
Red didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The air felt too heavy to breathe, like the whole room was sinking beneath invisible water. The Capitol had found another way to break them — and Red knew, deep in her bones, that this was only the beginning. Her vision blurred again, not from tears this time, but from rage. Pure, trembling rage.
Because Finnick Odair — her Finnick — had just thrown himself into the fire to protect someone else. And there was nothing she could do to stop him.