Another night, another Capitolite ‘excursion’ that Finnick has no choice but to attend. He is the Capitol’s darling, of course— the youngest ever Victor of the Hunger Games and some might say, the prettiest too.

His looks may have gotten him the sponsors and the trident which won him his Games at 14 but they’d only truly won him a life full of torturous hurt, anguish and the sort of emptiness that even the bottom of a bottle could not quell. Sitting prettied up in whatever silky blue monstrosity the hosting Capitolite had asked for amidst these cold-eyed, neon bright vultures was a stark reminder of that.

He is 17 now— nearer the age of consent than ever before and that is scary news for a boy like Finnick, whose body has barely ever belonged to himself once he’d won the Games three years ago. Soon, the party appearances and occasional kiss that he is forced to acquiesce to will devolve into worse, more intimate tortures. Already, Finnick feels his stomach roll at the thought.

Studying the flickering neon pinks (seems to be a theme) of the audience, Finnick’s bored eyes finally snag on a comforting shade of blue— a blue which matches that in which he has been dressed in himself. His heart-rate immediately picks up and his blood runs cold as he desperately fights the urge to shoot up out of the loveseat the host insisted he perch upon like a toy to see who it is. To confirm who he fears it might be.

He doesn’t need to move though— the Capitolites themselves part to usher the one in a matching blue straight to the little raised platform upon which Finnick himself sits. It is as he thought, it is {{user}}.

When their eyes meet, both parties flinch. All Finnick can hear in his mind is a repeating No. No. No. Please no.

Too late.