Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Almost twenty- five.
Naked most of the time.
A fucker, and for lack of a better word, a whore.
And Finnick Odair has never made love.
After his interview with Cesar, he watches with the other Victors as Peeta tells the whole world that Katniss is pregnant. He pictures Peeta and Katniss having sex, but it's not quite like sex. He sees them with their legs tangled together, their heads resting on each others chests, their eyes closed, their eyes opene, their movements slow. The imagery leaves him feeling heavy and wrong because that is something he doesn't know at all. It's really wishful thinking- that sex can be something other than bodies upon bodies, lips making awful, embarrassing sounds, and having to think so much and perfect everything so that your partner is pleased with you.
Later in the night, he stirs in his bed in the suite at the Training Center. He should be asleep, preparing for all kinds of battle, but he's got sex on the brain. He doesn't want to reach under the sheets, he doesn't want to go find some pretty servant boy in the kitchens. He wonders more about Peeta and Katniss…if they're together right now in Katniss's suite. He's fixated on it, for some reason.
Ten minutes later, he decides to walk. It's very seldom that he gets to be alone. Very seldom that he gets to walk alone without a patron hanging off his side, touching his ass, trailed by a camera crew. The hallways lead him to rooms that are mostly all locked, but he finally opens a door to a smaller version of the large sitting area. And he's not the only one who's found this place, it seems.
"Hello, Finnick." Cinna's sitting in a way that Finnick never imagined proper, collected Cinna to sit; with his legs swung over one end of a large, plush chair and his hands running through his hair every couple of seconds. There's a sketch pad abandoned on the coffee table, a kohl pencil behind one of Cinna's ears.
"Did I wake you?" Finnick asks, wondering if Cinna is only so leisurely when he's sleepy. He doesn't know Cinna all that well, but he's sympathetic to the cause- a spy for the rebels, maybe. Finnick wasn't told very many details about the operation, about the people involved. If it hadn't of been for the mockingjay dress that Katniss had worn, he would have assumed Cinna to be just another Capitol stylist.
"No, no…I wasn't asleep. You should be, though," Cinna says quietly, staring towards the fireplace.
Finnick steps into the room further, shutting the door with a small click. "Sleep doesn't really come all that easily in this place," he says.
"I know what you mean." Cinna rubs the back of his neck in a way that alarms Finnick. He's distressed...distressed...and then Finnick remembers the mockingjay and the dress, and the punishment for these things they should be doing under the radar. He wants to talk to Cinna about it, but he can't quite say it- there could be Capitol bugs in the room.
So Finnick just says, "Cinna, that dress…"
And Cinna says, "I know."
And that is all they say about that.
Finnick takes a seat in the chair across from Cinna and begins to rub the back of his neck in distress the way that Cinna did. He sometimes has a habit of copying others, their mannerisms, maybe to get people to like him, but Cinna doesn't seem to notice. After a moment, Finnick feels sleepier.
"I could die tomorrow," he says suddenly, remembering how he was nearly stabbed to death in the 65th Games. He'd been sleeping in the lame cover of the forest, next to a stream, unable to defeat the drowsiness. The next thing he felt was a random, searing pain in his side and the weight of a small person on top of him, dark ribbons of hair her hair in his face, making him blind. She almost had him, but then he had reached for his trident...
Cinna grimaces lightly, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other. "Yes…you could die."
He could die. The plan could fail. They might not be able to communicate with Plutarch, and they might fuck everything up. Katniss and Peeta, sweet lovers, could die. Finnick could die. He leans back into the chair as more images of Peeta and Katniss surface. He shakes his head, suddenly wanting to cry. "I'll die a virgin," he says.
Cinna's head shoots up in surprise because it's quite an odd thing to say. An odder thing to confess. Then he chuckles, saying,"you're the Sex God of Panem, Finnick."
Finnick snickers a little; he's always found that term hilarious. It's what the really satisfied customers call him: A God. "I guess you're right."Cinna stares at him for a moment, obviously confused. Finnick also has a habit of being desperate, and so he sometimes lets the thoughts in his mind trickle out like a leaky cup of water. "I don't mean virgin," he says.
"What do you mean, then?"
Annie's hair, Annie's lips, Annie's naked body swimming in the shallow water by the docks. The body he promised not to touch until it was right. "Never even touched her…" he says, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eye sockets.
"Who?" Cinna asks.
Who indeed. Annie's odd laughter rings in his ears, Annie's innocent kisses sting all the way down to his stomach; where he told her to stop. "Her," Finnick says, not willing to say her name in this place. He looks to Cinna for understanding, though he wouldn't have a clue about Annie, no one does (except Snow). Her is a relative term; Cinna might have a her or a him himself.
Cinna smiles and looks back at the fireplace. "Her," he says. "Maybe you will make it back. I'm sure she's counting on it."
Finnick gets up, deciding that he can finally sleep. The longing is still there, so much so that he almost wants to ask Cinna to fuck him. Slowly, so that it's as close to the fantasy as possible. He doesn't love Cinna, though, and it wouldn't work. It would be the same as all the others.
He whispers goodnight and refuses to think about what might happen to Cinna after the whole dress incident. And in the hallways, on his way back to his bed, he passes Katniss's room. He's sure Peeta must be there, sleeping or not sleeping. Right there and then, he silently vows to save them. Even if he dies.
Because the world might be a better place if there were more love-makers and less fuckers.