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The house was larger than Finnick had been expecting. Two - maybe three, it was hard to tell from the outside - stories high, windows on either side of the front door. It had a yard too. In its construction, at least, it looked just like every other house in this neighbourhood, each one copy-and-pasted, rinse-and-repeat. It was the boarded-up windows in one, the child’s bike on the porch of another, the dreamcatcher in the window of the next one, the novelty mailbox in the yard of the one across the street… those small details were what made them distinctive. That and the house number, of course.
65. His social worker, Prunella, rang the doorbell, stepping back as they waited for a reply.
Neither of them spoke. She knew better than to tell him this house would work out for him, and he simply couldn’t be bothered asking any questions. Not anymore. Whatever would happen, would happen, regardless of whether he knew about it in advance or not, whether or not he could see it coming, whether he wanted it or not. He’d given up on fighting the system, fighting fate, years ago. He was seventeen, each day got him closer and closer to ageing out. And after that… well. He was sure fate had plans for that too.
With a clunk and creaky swishing noise, the door swung open to reveal Finnick’s newest foster father. Bedraggled, dirty-blonde hair, stubbled chin, wrinkled shirt. His voice was rough when he spoke. “So. You must be Prunella - and this must be Finnick.”
“That’s correct,” Prunella replied pleasantly. “May we come inside?”
“Knock yourselves out,” the man said, opening the door wider. Prunella walked in with Finnick shuffling after her, trying not to react at the sound of the door closing heavily behind him. “We can talk at the table.”
Finnick trailed after the two of them as they made their way through the hall and into what was, clearly, the kitchen. Clean enough at a glance, but, before he had time to do a more thorough inspection, he was sitting at the dining table and Prunella was saying his name. “So, as I told you on the phone, this is Finnick Odair - he’s seventeen and he likes swimming.”
Finnick cringed internally. She still introduced him the way she had when he was seven. Stars. He hadn’t been that little boy in a long time.
The man cocked an eyebrow at him. “Right.”
Finnick supposed he should probably say something. “Right.”
The man leaned back in his chair. “Did she tell you about me?” he asked, still addressing Finnick, which surprised him a little. Most people preferred to speak to Prunella until she was gone and they were left with no choice but to deal directly with the withdrawn teenager in their house.
He shrugged. “A little.” The truth was, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t really been inhabiting his own body on the drive over here - Prunella had almost certainly told him the man’s name, but Finnick couldn’t remember it for the life of him.
“Well, I’m Haymitch,” the man said lazily. “I’m in my forties, and I do not like swimming.” He waved a hand in the direction of the hallway. “I have two other foster kids in the house. Katniss and Primrose - they’re sisters. Biological, I mean.’
Finnick blinked, unsure of how to respond to that. He was certain Prunella would have mentioned something like that in the car, and the warning would have been nice, but as it was he was simply left to absorb the new information immediately. “O-oh. Cool.”
Prunella clapped. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed, though it rang hollow. “Well, that’s you two introduced. Finnick, I’ll let you get settled in - I have to dash I’m afraid, something’s come up, one of the younger children, you know what it’s like…”
“Totally,” Finnick said dryly. She did this every time, and he couldn’t really blame her. He didn’t need the careful, slow transitions reserved for actual children. He was an adult in every way but one. He just had to get on with it.
Prunella rose from the table, looking expectantly at Haymitch, who sighed, standing. “Alright, let me walk you out.”
They left the room, Prunella leading the way this time. Finnick took the opportunity to study the room he was in a little more closely, without moving from his seat. This would be the last chance he had to try to anticipate what Haymitch might be like before he was left here.
Though the kitchen was clean where it mattered, it wasn’t tidy. There were dishes in the sink, boxes and packets scattered along the countertops, a crumpled dish towel on the floor. The bins were close to full, especially the recycling. The green plastic bin was filled almost to the point of overflowing.
And almost every item in there was a can of beer, crushed flat.
Beside it, a smaller glass recycling bin was similarly filled with empty bottles of wine and cider. There was no attempt made to cover the contents with cardboard or anything - it was all out in the open. Finnick wondered if Prunella had somehow missed it… or whether she had noticed it, and chosen to turn a blind eye. He knew which was more likely.
So. Haymitch was clearly an alcoholic - one not even trying to hide it. Though, Finnick supposed, the general appearance of the house, and the fact that all of the bottles and cans had made it into the recycling at all, suggested that he perhaps was a high-functioning one. Or maybe that meant nothing. Perhaps he’d tidied before Prunella’s arrival. Or perhaps the sisters had, maybe they were the ones picking up after him. He hadn’t seemed drunk greeting them, though that could mean nothing.
He hadn’t smelled like alcohol. Finnick was all too familiar with that - though he hadn’t really gotten close enough to the man to be sure. He didn’t want to get close enough. Alcoholics were dangerous, unpredictable, angry and violent when they weren’t passed out in a pool of their own vomit, spitting at the sun for daring to rise before their hangover had passed, throwing an empty bottle at their foster kid’s head while reaching for the next one -
The sound of footsteps approaching snapped Finnick out of his head. He took a steadying breath. It could be worse. He could cope with an alcoholic. He had to. Maybe he’d get lucky, and alcohol would be Haymitch’s only vice. Maybe the only thing he would want from Finnick would be another bottle.
Haymitch stauntered back into the room. He didn’t sit down this time, choosing to lean against the counter instead, looking down on Finnick with an unreadable expression. Finnick fought the urge to stand up, in case the man took it as a challenge. Better to stay still but stay alert. At least Haymitch was on the other side of the table.
After a long, tense moment, Haymitch spoke. “You do drugs? Smoke?”
Finnick shook his head quickly. “No sir.”
Haymitch rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that. Not in the f*ckin’ army. You drink?”
“No,” Finnick replied honestly.
“Good. Don’t start either. Don’t do anything illegal; if you do, don’t get caught. I’m not bailing you out of trouble. Got it?”
“Got it,” Finnick nodded. He wasn’t about to point out the hypocrisy - he was sure the man was already aware of it. How could he not be? He didn’t look like the sort to have drunk himself oblivious.
Haymitch folded his arms. “Good.”
Finnick nearly bit his lip before catching himself. “Can I - can I ask about the other - the sisters? Katniss and…?”
“Primrose,” Haymitch finished for him.
“I - when can I - when will I meet them?” Finnick asked carefully.
“Why not get it over with?” Haymitch shrugged, shifting, rolling his shoulders back and stepping towards the kitchen doorway. “Katniss! Prim!”
From somewhere above them came the sound of pattering footsteps, then bare feet against a wooden staircase.
“What is it?”
“New foster’s here. Wants to meet you,” Haymitch replied casually, stepping back out of the doorway, allowing Finnick a better look at the person entering the room.
He started. If he hadn’t known better, he might have assumed the girl was his sister. Blonde hair and eyes the colour of the sea, though hers leaned more blue than his. She was small too, short and slight, her hair split into two braids on either side of her head, a white blouse tucked into a flower-patterned skirt. She couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven.
Finnick offered her a small smile. “Hi. I’m Finnick.”
The girl smiled back. “I’m Primrose.” She walked further into the room, past Haymitch. “Are you gonna be here long?”
Finnick avoided looking at Haymitch. “I don’t know yet.”
Primrose gave him a thoughtful look. “Well, I hope you are.”
Finnick felt his eyebrows lift in surprise, his smile growing a little wider, a little more genuine. He knew she was young, and she didn’t even know anything about him, but… it was still nice to hear someone express that they wanted him around. It didn’t happen often (or, when it did, it usually wasn’t said by anyone Finnick wanted to stay around). He leaned forward. “Thanks. How - how old are you?”
“Twelve,” Primrose replied. “Nearly thirteen! In… two months, I think.”
Oh. Older than I thought. “You must be in middle school then, right?”
Primrose nodded. “Yeah, seventh grade.”
Finnick took note of that. It was unusual for a foster kid to manage to remain in the correct grade for their age; they moved around so often. “Oh really? Do you have a favourite subject?”
“Biology - but not the plant stuff. I think I want to be a nurse. Or maybe a vet,” Primrose said, bouncing slightly on her toes. “I want a cat for my birthday.”
Before Finnick could reply, Haymitch cleared his throat. “Where’s your sister?”
“Here.”
Finnick’s attention snapped back to the doorway. The girl - Katniss, it must be - had moved so quietly he hadn’t heard her approach. Impressive.
For some reason, he had expected Katniss to be younger than her sister. Perhaps simply because he had met Primrose first, or because Haymitch had asked her where her sister was. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. Katniss was at least sixteen, perhaps even older. Her hair was just as dark as her eyes, her gaze quickly latching onto Finnick and hovering there, a scrutinising look that Finnick recognised all too well.
She came up behind Primrose, placing a protective hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I’m Katniss.”
Finnick swallowed. “Finnick.”
Katniss narrowed her eyes and, for a moment, Finnick worried that he had somehow met her before, that she knew him, everything he tried to bury and forget about, her gaze was so piercing. It made him want to wrap his arms across his chest and avert his eyes. It was as though she could somehow see all the things he was ashamed of.
But that was impossible, he knew. She was simply a foster kid suspicious of the new arrival who had been talking with her little sister. She had every right to be - in fact, if she really knew Finnick, she’d have even more reason to be opposed to his presence. He fought the urge to shrink, and though he found he couldn’t quite meet her glare head-on - and frankly, that might have made things worse - he managed to avoid lowering his head and giving her the impression that he was weak.
“I’m sixteen,” Katniss said eventually. “Been here since I was thirteen.” Foster kid code for I was here first.
“Seventeen,” Finnick responded calmly. “First time here.”
Haymitch looked between them, a vaguely amused expression on his face. “Great. Now we’re all introduced.”
Katniss looked over at him. “You didn’t tell me it was going to be some guy older than me.”
Haymitch shrugged. “Didn’t know. He likes swimming, y’know.”
Finnick wanted to sink into the floor as Katniss looked back at him. “Great.”
Primrose looked up at her sister. “Maybe we can all go swimming! We haven’t gone swimming in years.”
“Maybe,” Katniss said flatly. “I’m going back upstairs. C’mon Prim.”
She strode out, Primrose following her, after giving Finnick a small parting wave. Haymitch looked back at him. “You can go find your own room if you want. First door on the right when you come up the stairs.”
It was an out, and Finnick was too grateful to have one to interrogate it for traps. “Sure. Thanks.”
He hurried out, backpack over one shoulder, letting it drop to the floor when he opened the door to his new bedroom, closing it firmly behind him. There was no lock on it. That could mean nothing. He hoped it did.
He sat on the bed. So far, other than the alcoholism and the lack of a lock on the bedroom door, there weren’t too many red flags. He could cope with this. He’d been in far worse situations.
And he’d keep an eye out for Primrose, too. She was only twelve, and though her sister obviously - probably rightfully - didn’t want Finnick around her, that didn’t mean Finnick couldn’t try to look out for her. With an alcoholic in the house, it paid to be careful. Four eyes were better than two.
And… well, he’d protect Katniss too. He was certain she wouldn’t appreciate that sentiment, given the proof way in which she carried herself, but she didn’t have to know what he was doing. He would do his best to make sure that history didn’t repeat itself here. It was far too late for him… but perhaps he could shield the sisters. He could try, at least.
o→←o
Haymitch wasn’t what Finnick had feared he’d be. In all honesty, the man wasn’t really what he’d expected at all.
He was certainly an alcoholic; he had been right about that part. He rarely saw his foster father without a drink in his hand, no matter the time of day. When he wasn’t holding one, it was usually only because he was asleep. He didn’t drive - the household had no car, he must have had a job, though Finnick had no idea what it was or how he kept it, considering that he seemed to be constantly pouring liquor down his throat. His liver must be a walnut by now.
But… that seemed to be the extent of the problem. Haymitch would occasionally pass out on the couch, instead of his bed, and one of them - Katniss usually - would simply turn the light out and leave him there for the night. Finnick had seen her drape a blanket over him once. She shot him a defensive glare when she caught him watching.
But that was it. There was no anger, no beer-fueled rage that sent the household fleeing for safety, no flying bottles and cutting words bellowed at a volume that shook the walls. There were no slurred words and gleaming eyes.
Finnick didn’t know what to make of it. It was a relief, of course it was… but it just didn’t feel right. There had to be more to this place than that. Things were never this easy. There was something going on here that he didn’t know about. He was just waiting to find out what it was.
o→←o
He supposed Katniss must trust him, at least a little, now that a few weeks had passed. She’d left him alone with Primrose while she went on a walk - something she did often, though she usually brought her sister with her. Finnick wondered whether she had only started bringing her when he had arrived. Though surely she must know better than to risk leaving her sister alone with Haymitch?
Finnick opted to stay out of the girl’s way. He liked Primrose - she was a sweet kid, with a fervent love for animals and the arrogance that only twelve-year-olds had, a firm belief in her ability to create anything from scratch, ‘if I just had the right material for it! If I had a goat I’m sure I could make goat cheese; it’s not that hard.’ She was the best cook in the household, too. Katniss had done well protecting her. She acted like a normal girl in almost every way, albeit perhaps a little more dedicated to self-reliance than your typical twelve-year-old.
And that was why Finnick tried to stay away from her. It was… hard. To be around a kid so full of life, like he had been at twelve, swimming every day after school, determined to be something one day. Back then, he still had hope he would be adopted. Primrose was everything Finnick used to be, everything he would never be again, and Finnick was certain that associating himself with her would do nothing but damage the girl. He kept an eye on her - kept an eye on Haymitch - but that was it. There was nothing more he could do for her without getting close to her… and he wouldn’t do that to the girl. She deserved better than that.
So, while he was in the house alone with her, he stayed in his room, slowly slogging his way through school assignments. When he was younger he had been good in school, determined to keep his grades up and make his way to college through a swimming scholarship. Now he was barely scraping by. Frankly he didn’t deserve to graduate this year at all - though, in all honesty, he expected he likely would be allowed to. Holding him back would require someone to give a sh*t. Finnick certainly didn’t - so why would he expect anyone else to?
His pen was creating a small puddle of ink on his math textbook when he was jolted from his rumination by a smashing sound and a startled yelp from downstairs.
Instantly, Finnick was on his feet. He crossed the room in a few steps and hurried down the stairs, rounding the corner of the hallway and into the kitchen, where he was confronted with exactly the sight he had feared. Primrose was standing over the remains of a broken white mug, shards of glazed ceramic scattered across the floor. The girl was frozen still, bare feet pale against the linoleum floor, hands still lifted in surprise.
And Katniss wasn’t here.
It was just Finnick in the house, just him and Primrose, and Katniss was trusting him to look after her - she must be, otherwise she would never have left her sister alone with him. She was relying on him, and Finnick moved without thinking, rushing into the kitchen with a harried “It’s alright kid - I’m here. I’ll sort it out.”
Primrose looked up at him. “I - uh - I don’t want to stand on it -”
“I’ve got you,” Finnick said quickly. Reaching out he placed his hands beneath the girl’s armpits and lifted her into the air, depositing her in the doorway, out of harm’s way. She blinked at him and Finnick offered her his signature smile - the one that had convinced countless foster parents and social workers and police officers that everything was fine. “You’re okay. I’ll handle this, don’t worry.”
He dropped to his knees and scooped the broken pieces into his hand, barely feeling the sting as one of the sharper bits cut into his palm. If he had been more careful he could have gotten away with no injuries at all but he didn’t know when Haymitch would get back and he had to be quick, had to be thorough, had to ensure no evidence was left behind -
“You - you don’t have to -”
Finnick shook his head, standing to deposit the remains of the mug in the bin, covering them with the plastic part of a pack of six beer cans. “It’s alright kid - it’s going to be okay - if - if he asks, if he notices, you tell him it was me, okay?” He ran a hand through his hair. “He - he might not, it’s just one mug - b-but if he does, you tell him that, got it?”
“You - your hand…” Primrose’s eyes were wide and unsure and Finnick cursed himself internally. He didn’t want to scare her - how had Katniss managed to do this without scaring her?
“It’s - don’t worry about that,” Finnick said. He wasn’t good at this stuff. He could take a beating, or whatever it was that Haymitch would do, but he couldn’t - he didn’t know how to reassure her. Honestly, he had assumed she wouldn’t care all that much what happened to him. They didn’t really know each other. “Just - just worry about yourself, alright? I can -”
At that moment, the front door opened and the two of them froze. Sh*t. Finnick’s eyes darted to the stairs, debating whether it was too late to tell the girl to hurry up them before Haymitch entered. With Finnick’s hand still bleeding it would be obvious something had happened, and it would be better for the only lie he told to be the one about who broke the mug if he wanted Haymitch to believe him. But he didn’t want Primrose to see it happen - but he didn’t want to scare her by implying that it might happen… though it was probably too late for that already, wasn’t it? Judging by the way she was looking at him, eyes wide as saucers, hands wringing -
“Prim?”
Finnick felt the breath escape his body at the sound of her voice. Primrose turned and rushed into the hallway. “Katniss!”
“Prim!” Her voice changed, growing hard. “What? What is it? What happened?”
“It’s - it’s Finnick, he’s - he’s acting…”
Finnick knew Katniss would understand what he was doing - she must have done it herself before, judging by how innocent Primrose seemed. He just hoped she wouldn’t hate him for accidentally giving it away - he simply couldn’t fathom how she’d managed to do all of it without upsetting her sister.
Katniss rounded the doorway, pulled along by her sister, who was clinging onto her wrist tightly. Finnick bit his lip and met Katniss’s eyes, which were hard and flinty. “I. Uh. She dropped a mug.”
Katniss’s gaze defied the bounds of possibility by somehow growing sharper. “So?”
Primrose tugged on her arm. “He cut his hand!”
Katniss blinked. “How?”
Finnick lifted his eyebrows meaningfully. “I was cleaning up the broken pieces.”
Katniss gave him a strange look. “We have a dustpan and brush, y’know.”
“I - I wasn’t sure where,” Finnick explained, trying not to look as impatient as he felt. “And I - there wasn’t time. I - I wasn’t sure when he’d get back.”
Katniss narrowed her eyes. “When he’d - oh,” she breathed, sudden clarity washing over her gaze. “O-oh. I see.”
Finnick saw the way her posture loosened, how the corners of her eyes crinkled, how her head tipped, very slightly, to the side. Understanding and something like sympathy blooming in her expression.
And he hated it.
The realisation of what he had done slammed into him all at once, like a bucket of ice water being dumped over his body, setting each of his nerves ablaze. He had assumed what Haymitch would do, he had assumed wrong, if the reactions of the two sisters was anything to go by. He had - without meaning to he had given them a piece of his past, far more than he was comfortable with. Humiliation tightened in his chest and he couldn’t look at them, couldn’t look at Katniss, whose piercing gaze had just been further sharpened by his own stupidity. He could feel her eyes on him, analysing him with the new information she now possessed. What else was she now realising? What else could she see? What else did she know?
Finnick didn’t want to stick around to find out. He wanted out. He made a beeline for the door, shoving past the sisters as he raced up the stairs.
o→←o
The sun had set half an hour ago or so, and the day was gradually growing darker, the stars beginning to appear in the sky. Finnick sat on the roof, toes curled in humiliation against the cold tiles, arms resting on his knees, stare blank. His hand was wrapped now, strips of an old t-shirt he had shredded while on his knees in his bedroom, trying to keep himself together, trying to focus on treating his hand so he couldn’t think about Primrose and Katniss and what she now knew and what she must think of him and -
He shivered. Though it was still late summer, the night air was cool, and he couldn’t stay out here forever. He should have taken a hoodie with him or something, but he had been too desperate to get out, and now, if he went back inside, it would be pointless to go back out again. Unwise. Haymitch was home now. It would just draw unwanted attention.
He should go back in and sleep, really. He didn’t want to though.
He jerked as the sound of a window unlatching came from his left, attention snapping to the source. A hand emerged from it first, followed by a head with a long dark braid draped over one shoulder.
Finnick felt his shoulders tense, looking away from her deliberately. He really didn’t want to speak to her right now.
It seemed it didn’t matter what he wanted. When has it ever? Katniss swung her legs out and onto the tiles, fixing him with a stare he could feel without seeing it. “Oh. You’re here. I thought you might’ve run away.”
Finnick turned to glare at her. “What, were you going to come track me down?”
The ghost of a smile darted across her face. “Maybe.” She settled down beside him, though keeping more than a few feet between them - enough that, even if she stretched out, her fingertips still wouldn’t so much as brush his arm. Finnick wasn’t sure whether she was doing it for his sake or hers. Either way, he didn’t like it.
He waited for her to say something - say anything. After all, she was the one to come up here after seeing him; if she had something to say, surely she would say it now, where no one could hear them? Surely if she had nothing to say, she would have gone back inside? So she must want to say something, and Finnick had to brace for it, prepare for it, so that it wouldn’t hurt, so that he could flash a smile at her pity or roll his eyes at her derision and let whatever she was about to say slide off of him. She was just a teenage girl, nothing she could say could hurt worse than the things he played in his head on repeat every night. So he wasn’t afraid of what her next words might be.
But she didn’t speak. The minutes passed - and they truly were minutes, Finnick was counting - and she didn’t say a word. She didn’t even inhale as though about to speak before changing her mind - in fact, when Finnick snuck a glance in her direction, it appeared as though she had nothing to say at all, leaning back on her elbows and looking up at the sky, breathing steadily. She looked for all the world as though she might be content to lie there all night.
Finnick bit his lip, looking back down at his feet. Perhaps she was waiting for him to say something? It was possible, though what exactly she wanted he wasn’t sure. If it was what he feared she wanted, he wasn’t willing to give her that either. She knew too much already.
He waited, counting the seconds as they passed. When he hit four hundred and twenty, he found himself wetting his lips and breaking the silence. “Look, I - I’m sorry about Primrose.”
Katniss blinked, pushing herself upright. “Hm?”
Finnick inhaled between his teeth. “I… I didn’t mean to scare her. I’m sorry.”
Katniss gave him a flat look. “You didn’t scare her. She was just… worried for you.”
Finnick privately thought those things could be considered one and the same, but he didn’t want to push it. He lapsed back into silence, left without anything else he was willing to talk about. If she wanted to be here, she could damn well fill the awkward silence.
To his surprise, before a full minute had passed, she did, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Our mother,” she began stiffly. “She, uh… she used to do that sort of thing. Worse, actually - she’d forget where she was, try to hurt herself, or one of us…” she swallowed, looking down at her knees, which she had drawn up against her chest. “It was bad. Prim saw more of it than she should’ve. So I just - I mean, she’s seen worse. Tougher than she looks. You didn’t scare her.”
Finnick opened his mouth, but Katniss shot him a sharp look. “Don’t say you’re sorry.” The heat in her eyes faded as quickly as it had appeared. “It doesn’t solve anything.”
“No. It doesn’t,” Finnick acknowledged quietly. “But… I don’t know what else to say. You didn’t have to tell me that.”
Katniss shrugged. “Just… seemed fair. Since I know your past now.”
Finnick scowled. “You don’t know my past.”
“Some of your past then,” she amended. “It just seemed fair.”
Finnick narrowed his eyes at her. What she had seen wasn’t the whole story - it wasn’t even part of his story, really, more like a recurring theme, a running joke. It wasn’t how he’d wound up in foster care. It wasn’t what had led to him quitting swimming, giving up on school. He could list the five worst moments of his life… he didn’t think any of the times he’d been forced to flee after damaging something would even make the top ten. It was a minor thing, really.
But it was still something. More than he had revealed to most people. It was a glimpse into the life he had lived, where violence was more commonplace than forgiveness, where the choices he had were not whether someone was going to get hurt but whom. It was a part of his story - a small part, but part of it nonetheless. And Katniss was smart. He was sure she could extrapolate even more about his life from the pieces of information she did have.
So she did know something of his past now. He could acknowledge that. And…
And he could acknowledge that it felt… okay. To have someone know. To have her know. Katniss wasn’t a particularly emotional person, nor was she nosy for information. She hadn’t tried to pry any further, hadn’t reacted with contempt or sickening sympathy. She had offered something completely unique instead - understanding. She had reached out and shared a piece of herself in exchange. They were still equal.
He didn’t want anyone to know. But maybe Katniss knowing wasn’t quite as bad as he had feared.
His furrowed brows smoothed out. “Well. Thanks.”
Katniss, who had been looking at him look at her with a blank expression on her face, gave him a brief nod, pulling her gaze away from him. Finnick watched as she squared her shoulders, exhaling slowly, before turning back to face him. “Look. You… you should give Haymitch a chance.”
Finnick felt his expression shutter. “No.”
Katniss rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say. But I - I just wanted you to know. You don’t have to be afraid of him.”
Finnick gave her a deadpan look. “He’s an alcoholic. And a single foster dad.” He bit down on his lip as soon as the words left his mouth, swallowing hard. Damn it. Clamp a lid on it, Finnick.
Katniss’s lips thinned. Finnick could feel the edge in her gaze as she looked at him, though when she spoke, her voice was casual. “Yeah. I know. But…” she leaned back, elbows propped up against the black tile. “Look, he went through something. Years ago, when he was younger. Never really talks about it, but I… I know him. I can tell. He has these photos of people I’ve never met… whatever happened with them, it really messed him up. He told me once that he got into the habit of drinking when he was young, and just never really got out of it. It’s a dependency, definitely… but he’s not dangerous Finnick. Careful not to be, actually.”
Finnick let out a humourless breath of laughter. “You don’t know that for sure.”
Katniss folded her arms. “Been here three years, remember? Been in the system longer. You think I don’t know what dangerous looks like?”
Finnick shook his head. “I - I guess not. But… I do too.”
Katniss lifted her eyebrows. “Great. Then you’ll know when to start running. But you won’t have to.”
“Wasn’t gonna,” Finnick said flatly. Running away would involve taking a stand. He was past that.
“Then why not try to give him a chance?” Katniss suggested, pushing herself back up. “Since you’re gonna be here anyway?”
Finnick side-eyed her from where he sat. “I…”
“Test him against whatever criteria you have in there,” Katniss continued, pointing at his forehead. “You think I didn’t do the same? That I’d keep Prim here for three years without making sure he was safe to be around?”
And that… that was a good point. If there was one thing Finnick was sure of, it was that Katniss loved and protected her sister fiercely. If Haymitch was truly dangerous… well. He doubted the sisters would be living here.
“Give him a chance,” Katniss repeated. “Find out what he’s like.”
“...Maybe,” Finnick replied, an air of finality in his voice. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
Though he thought he’d successfully shut down the conversation, victory still flashed in Katniss’s eyes and she nodded - whether it was to him or to herself, Finnick wasn’t sure. She let out a long, slow breath. “I’m glad you didn’t run off.” Finnick raised an eyebrow. Katniss looked out at the backyard. “Always wanted an older brother.”
She nudged his shoulder.
And Finnick realised, to his shock, that he hadn’t noticed her getting closer.