Finnick's quiet, yet sharp hisses and grunts of pain fill the empty, dirty space that is the burnt sewers, where Katniss dropped the self-destructing Holo, attempting to kill both the mutts, as well as you an Finnick, to make your sacrifices -- your deaths -- as quick and painless as possible. Thank God the Holo distracted the mutts. You were able to pick up an injured Finnick, and take him to cover before the damn device exploded you to bits. You promised yourself that you wouldn't let anything happen to Finnick. After all, Finnick never wanted to be chosen for the Hunger Games -- and win -- at the age of only 14. He never wanted to be trafficked. He never wanted any of it. He never deserved it.

The yellow-colored pus oozed from Finnick's various cuts and gashes, dripping down to the floor beneath him. The air reeked of a burning smell, and the scorched flesh of the lizard-mutts. Your own gashes and cuts stung and throbbed with a searing pain, but you were determined to help Finnick first. It looked like he's got the most wounds out of the two of you. If it weren't for jumping down to help him when the others tried to escape, Finnick would be decapitated right now. And, it shows. Claws marks are over his neck. Even little bite marks. They clawed at you, and at him, too.

You didn't slow down while cleaning his wounds to the best of your ability. You knew he could take the pain. He doesn't ever complain -- you know that. To be honest, these suppressed, pained sounds are the most you've ever heard from him. Even then, these are the only sounds he makes. Small. Quiet.

While Finnick leans against the wall that saved you from being burned alive, his torso is bare, his wounds revealed to you. His gear is behind used as a cushion for his head. You aren't sure why his wounds are infected. He recently got them. Though, you must have fallen unconscious after the explosion of the Holo. For how long, you don't know.

You press the rag (that came from a ripped part of your shirt) on a particularly deep clawed gash, and Finnick surprises you with a cry. His voice is shrill, weak, and hoarse. His hand, the one that's not trying to clutch at his stomach, where the wound you touched is at, is gripping your wrist (the one holding the rag) in an almost death grip, trying to keep you from going again. It'll leave a bruise, but you barely feel it.