Sugarcubes // Finnick Odair - Hunger Games Fanfic

IX.

It seems, I ponder as I walk through the dimly lit hallways on the seventh floor of the Capitol building, that I'm never going to get any sleep.

I just can't seem to be able to trick my mind into relaxing enough to drift off into a world where reality can't touch me. And in the unlikely event that I do manage to enter the realm that has evaded me, my mind always seems to have a ploy to drag me back to the real world. This time, It was Lia. Or rather a virtually and mentally enhanced Lia who wholeheartedly agreed with her childhood best friend, screamed at me, before somehow transforming into president Snow long enough to place a sickly white flower on top of my grave that read "Died in the quarter quell."

The more that I think about it, or maybe it's just my brains foggy lack of sleep thoughts talking, I don't want my tombstone to just read 'Died in a quarter quell.'

And then there will be like a thousand more quarter quells after this one, and with each passing quell my name will be stamped further and further into the pile of dirt that is our history. Maybe until Lia and Danny and Jo and Terry are alive, they'll try to remember me, but after that? I'll sink into nothingness.

I really should try to keep the existential crisis level to a minimum at three in the morning.

I guess the Capitol provokes thoughts questioning the point of one's existence.

I'm so deeply concerned with my philosophical thought processes that I don't hear footsteps approach me. I'm usually apt at knowing when I'm no longer alone. I suppose the Capitol is having a negative impact on my survival skills as well; not favorable taking into regard the place that I'm heading to in a few short weeks, but hopefully it's just the existential thoughts putting me off.

In any case, as I'm asking myself exactly what the point was of me being born into this shitty place, the last thing I expect to hear is footsteps.

I definitely did not expect to see Haymitch round the corner.

So, I suppose, I am completely justified in my reaction.

To put it simply, the three sugar cubes that were being juggled around in my mouth to ease my thoughts (but instead succeeded in invoking even more disturbing ones) are spit at him in record force as I sputter trying to say his name.

He looks unamused and the soberest I've ever seen him as he wipes my spit, the sugary solution, and the bits of sugar off his face and stands in silence waiting for me to finish saying his name.

"Haymitch!" I finally manage, trying to rub the remains of the sweet off his shirt, but instead massaging it further in. He looks at me for a moment before prying my hand off him. "What're you-"

He cuts me off, but I don't feel nearly as annoyed as I would've been seeing as I just sprayed my saliva all over him.

"Not here," He tells me softly, looking up at the ceiling in a glance where I already knows lies a small black dome which contains a camera that sends live input into the control center. The game-makers control over a tribute's life starts much before they get stuffed into an arena to fight each other to the death. I've just not needed to worry about that for the past 8 years.

He leads me down the hallway and into unexplored territory. I've never wanted to explore more of the buildings that houses the victims of the games. I'm always afraid of stumbling upon something that could make my nights even more unpleasant that they already are. But I trust Haymitch. I think.

I'm led into a small and particularly dark nook at the edge of the floor right before the stairs that I didn't know existed, before he pulls me to a stop. We aren't alone. I know that much because more than two pairs of breathing fill the air as we wait in silence for something that Haymitch seems to know is coming but doesn't think it necessary to inform me of.