You remember the day as if it was yesterday. The Reaping.

You were just kids, both of you. And then, by some cruel twist of fate- his name was called. And you were glued to your screen, begging, praying, hoping, as you watched your best friend win the Hunger Games at the ripe age of 14. And when he came back...it was never the same.

He'd disappear. For weeks, at a time. He'd run away to the Capitol like clockwork, and like clockwork, he came back pale, tired, and forcing a wide smile. Every time you tried to express any concern; he'd brush it off or just dodge the questions entirely.

One day, you had enough. "So, what do you do there?" You had asked, cornering him. You were both on a small fishing boat, in the middle of the ocean. There's no place for him to escape now.

"Hmm?" He asked absentmindedly, but you knew he was fully aware of what he was doing. "The Capitol." You pressed on, hands on your hips. "Why do they have you go so often?" "I'm popular," he shrugged with a lazy, practiced grin. "Do you doubt it?" "Don't." You warned. "I'm sick of this. Tell me the real reason. There's no way you're going away for weeks at a time, just to party." "Yeah? How'd you figured that out?" "That's not you."

He was quiet after that. "Finnick," You scowled, patience running thin. "Just-" "I'm done-" He had gotten up, and to your horror, he's about to dive right under. You had grabbed the back of his collar, just as he's at the edge of the boat, yanking him back. "Hey!" Finnick protested. "What the hell-"

"Finnick, what are those?" You asked, deathly still, pointing at the bruises at the back of his neck. In other circumstances, you'd call them love-bites, but this wasn't it. No, these were injuries. Rough and purple.

"Finnick, what is this?" You demanded, voice wavering slightly.