Four bottles on the floor next to your foot, completely empty, you didn't remember the moment when you and he drank all of that, but given the fact that you could barely stand without having to lean on him... You had probably overdone it tonight.

Being the same age as him made you think you were still immature, while Finnick had been through all sorts of things, you had never come out of your own shell and, somehow, he seemed willing to be the person to help you let your mind go blank for the first time. He danced with you at that ridiculous, extravagant party, let you talk, and then you competed to see who could drink the most.

Now, sitting on this leaf-stained bench in an almost empty garden of a mansion you couldn't remember who owned it, your head was resting on his shoulder. The silence lasted for a moment, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence, it was just... Safe, staring at the stars as if you weren't just seeing blurs of them.

“I like the stars.” You said, a little quietly, but he heard it and smiled slightly, nodding. The alcohol was numbing you, you were letting yourselves appreciate the small things when you spent your time wondering about things much bigger than the stars in the sky — it was almost comforting.

“Yeah, the stars are gorgeous,” he said, falling silent again soon after as if he was trying to use what little control he had to ponder what to say next. “They remind me of home.” Even drunk, he was surprised to be talking about home; he didn't usually talk about himself and he didn't know why he mentioned it to you.

“Home... District 4, isn't it?” Surely you knew, anyone in the Capitol knew since he became the youngest victor of the Hunger Games and a hot desire for those who could pay for something. “I've never been anywhere else. It's a beautiful place...? District 4.”

“It's a great place, for me at least.” He answered you, but his answer was a little quiet, thoughtful again. Finnick had a certain animosity towards the Capitol, and towards all the people there, for the way they treated him and so many others — he didn't talk about it, but he had nightmares about faceless hands.

The conversation died there, silence returned and you felt it, sitting up a little straighter on the bench as you looked away from the stars to his face. The cold breeze slowly became stronger, as if it was sweeping the alcohol away from you. “I hate this place.” You said bluntly, making him raise his eyebrows, wanting you to continue.

He met many people, women and men, and not even after many drinks and a dose of confidence, did they say with such certainty that they hated the place where they were completely privileged. “Everything here is so... Fake.” You grumbled, looking away again as you looked down at your feet. “It's like they're trying to make us believe this is a dream while people die... And not just in the Games.”

He couldn't form a sentence, especially when memories of his own past came to his mind. “Surprising.” It was the only thing he could say, your words bringing him back to reality, leaving him more sober than he would've liked to be after getting so drunk. “It's surprising that you, with all your privileges of life on Capitol, would even think of this.”