Annie Cresta has hands that wield a paintbrush with ease, is notoriously easy to lose in a crowd, rumoured to be insane.

Finnick Odair has a tongue full of wit and pretty words, is notoriously hard to find, rumoured to be too much.

Annie and Finnick last met face-to-face two years ago. November 3, 2015. Athens, Greece. They ran into each other just outside the Acropolis Museum, and toured it together. The Archaic Acropolis Gallery was Annie's favourite. She enjoyed the extra-ordinary feeling of the statues that depicted how people were so long ago.

After the museum, they went to Little Tree Books & Coffee just behind the museum. They ate Greek food, drank coffee, and stumbled their way through history that was ancient, to even them.

Now, Annie is on a flight to Dubai for the museum The Third Line, Finnick's postcard about it from the bookstore Politeia tucked into her bag. Now, Finnick wanders The Metropolitan Museum of Art, finds a cue card behind the watercolour Seascape-Fishing Boats by the Shore by Henry Pember Smith.

The cards are both tests on how well they know each other and gifts to the other. Annie peers through bookstores and libraries, finding notes and cards slipped between Shakespeare and Atwood. Finnick wanders art galleries, eyes scanning for little pieces of paper poking out behind watercolours and oil paintings.

Once, once… "Hello," she said. She was strawberry-blonde, eyes like the sea, looked delicate and sweet. "My name is Clara."

"Francis," he told her. "Pleasure to meet you." Slicked back chestnut hair, whiskey eyes, a handsome face.

He left to fight in World War II, recruited by the French government, and he wrote her. Clara wrote back, kept his letters in a box in a drawer beside her bed. In that lifetime, she was wealthy-money bought her family a solid estate, small safe houses, the promise of a good life.

Francis, out in the battlefield, wondered what it would be like if she was there beside him. He was born into a wealthy French family too, except he was crouching in trenches and doing rifle drills while Annie sat in petticoats, putting rouge on and clenching her fists.

'I dressed as a man and fought as one in World War I,' she wrote.

'You can shoot better than half the idiots here,' he told her. Latin was what they used to write to each other in, but of course French was what they spoke.

"Mon amour," Francis smiled, explaining to his fellow soldiers as he kept her letters close.

"Mon amour," Clara said to her parents, soft, as she received his letters.

In Paris, after the war, the world slowly healed as Francis and Clara reunited. They never got married, which was very unusual, but they fled instead. Their parents didn't want to be seen in society with unwed outcasts, so they let them run and gave them money monthly to compensate.

Switzerland was where they ended up. Clara painted, hung her work up along the walls, and filled a room with paints and paper. Francis wrote about his experiences, about his love, filling up journals with his messy scrawl. They made friends with the locals, went for long walks, and spoke a mix of Latin and French to each other.

"I have to teach you how to cook," Clara said, because she had liked to help her family's cook out in her spare time, and Francis hadn't really learned how to cook or bake yet.

She taught him how to make eggs, bread, and pastries. Croissants that tasted like home, warm and buttery, melted in their mouths. Francis laughed and kissed her, egg yolk smeared on his fingers like the paint usually smeared on hers.

"A few years to forty, and you don't know how to make good eggs," Clara laughed. "It's like art. You've got to feel it in your bones."

"You've got a way with words, my love," Francis said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Even if you're a horrid teacher."

They die within three months of each other, seventy years old: first Francis, it's always Francis first, and then Clara.

Then, of course, as always, they're reborn.

Bangkok, Thailand in late May is where they meet again. Annie is there to look at streetart, sent to Thailand by a note found in the Musée de l'Orangerie. Finnick is there to swim at the beaches, maybe browse some books, after finding the destination written for him in a Belizean journal.

They occasionally mix things up, letting the other wander without sending them to a bookstore for Annie or gallery for Finnick. They always know where to look. They know each other, and sometimes, it's written on the cards.

"Long time, no see," Finnick says behind her, his voice amused. Annie spins around. The hotel lobby is full of tourists, but Finnick stands close, like an unmoving rock in a flowing river. He's bronzed, eyes like sea-glass, and he's attractive enough to attract second looks from other people.

Annie looks him in the eye, quivers where's she standing, then stills with an exhale. She's been trying to think of what painting he looks like, what artist would do him justice. Monet is out, Water Lilies is too serene and still for his ruthless streak, it comes with all Immortals, even though he looks calm.

"Now you see me," she says, "now you don't."

"You know you love me, XOXO." Gossip Girl by Cecily von Ziegesar. Terrible book series. Far too dramatic for his taste. Reminded him of bad memories of women and men in silk wear, mouths and hands smothering his protests, hidden corners of bedrooms and ballrooms.

Annie softens, like she knows what he's thinking. The Water Lilies collection of paintings is one of her favourites for a reason.

The liking and expression of art is a reflection of oneself, Finnick remembers penning, watching Annie, Clara, paint Lake Geneva. Water Lilies is soft and mystical, beautiful and legendary.

She reaches over, and Finnick meets her halfway. Their fingers curl together. Her nails are bitten to the bed. His hands are calloused.

"Have dinner with me," Finnick requests.

"I know a place," Annie replies.

Annie's "place" turns out to be the streets. They buy delicious street food. Finnick gets egg noodle soup with chicken. Annie gets Pad Thai, and adds extra spice.

"Does it taste good?" Finnick asks. He's never really liked spicy food, but he can handle it well.

"It tastes how life should be," Annie tells him, and Finnick quirks a brow, a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Life isn't kind, and we rarely get what we want out of it," Finnick quotes. Katherine Allred, The Sweet Gum Tree. Quotes like that hit close to home, hits things that Finnick and Annie know too well, but the book is good.

Annie looks at him. "I haven't read that book yet." She can always tell when he's quoting something. She said it was because he sounded different, the words didn't seem to be his, and Finnick pulled her closer when she told him.

"If you want to," Finnick begins, then stops.

"It's okay," Annie says, reassuring. Finnick has never believed in life being okay eventually, but he holds on to life being good while it is.

Later, they strip to their bathing suits and spend long hours on a warm beach, swimming. Annie's russet hair becomes auburn. Finnick looks like a son of Poseidon. They race each other into the sea, and return to the hotel damp.

Going back home, Finnick writes on a postcard, stuck on a shelf in a small store in Chefchaouen, Morocco. There's his address printed along the lines. Annie tucks it away, thinks about how she last sent him to Venice to visit Libreria Acqua Alta, an underwater bookstore. She heads out into the small town, where everything is blue.

Irony is a funny thing.

Immortals live full lifetimes, and when they "die", they're reborn as new people. Everyone else can choose to be reborn or to live a peaceful life in the Afterlife. If they are reborn, they can choose to have their memories wiped. Immortals are different, they don't get a choice, they don't have any choices.

Finnick was born as Finnick, actually, such an old name revived in the twenty-first century, but it's nice to have his original name back. He was Francis both after and before he became Finnick, isn't that a thought, the concept barely making a dent in what counts as strange in his mind.

Similarly, Annie was born as Annie and is Annie again now. She used to be a few years younger than Finnick, but now she's the same age as him.

Finnick knew her in the olden days. The golden days, the Immortals his real age say, because there were grand balls, beautiful clothes, but all Finnick hears is prejudice and disgusting acts that were okay as long as they were fucking behind closed doors.

It's been long enough that Finnick gathers information on how Immortals are made: they're all chosen by Snow. Snow, who Finnick knows is a shapeshifter, is a fucking snake, likes to play God and mess around with those who pique the interest of "the public" or get in his way.

There's Cashmere and Gloss, born a few years before Finnick in the olden days. They were wealthy, beautiful, and married each other, and Snow made them a deal to make it all work out like that. Finnick was the man (no, he was the boy) of the olden days, who loved working hard and succeeding, who Snow blackmailed and used, then punished when Finnick tried to get away. Annie was a prodigy, like Finnick, who didn't go along with Snow's plans, didn't die like he wanted so he could spin a nice tale for the public to soak up, so Snow made sure she never could die.

Immortality is not a blessing; it's a curse.

Finnick enjoys Venice, then gets a flight back to California, where he owns a spacious condo in San Diego. His parents of this lifetime, Brian and Vanessa, live in the suburbs of Los Angeles.

Snow, at the very least, provides Immortals with a big cheque in their bank account monthly. Finnick has enough to keep his condo, to travel, to eat out. His "parents" don't know exactly what his job is, but they think he's some sort of businessman, which Finnick can live with.

On one of the flights back to Cali, Finnick runs into Katniss, a younger Immortal, in First Class.

"Gave in to capitalism?" he asks, smirking, and Katniss glowers as she drops into the seat beside him.

"Peeta bought the tickets," she says, and doesn't that explain a lot. It explains the necklace she's wearing, which is a popular gold bar necklace that he's seen everywhere in media, and that Katniss would never buy for herself.

"You found him?"

"He found me. He and Gale. They're step-brothers," Katniss tells him, looking simultaneously horrified and amused. "I'm surprised they didn't rip each others throats out by now."

"If you give anything enough time and a bit of a push," Finnick suggests, trailing off. He knows this trick inside and out. Katniss rolls her eyes at him.

"We're good," she says, then, "how're you and Annie? Have you seen Johanna lately?"

"Good, she's in Morocco right now. I haven't seen Jo lately, but we text," he says. "She's good, fighting for justice, you know." This lifetime, Johanna was born in Alberta, Canada as Hannah. She's in politics, part of the Liberal party. She wears her hair short, and refuses to wear heels.

Katniss half-smiles. "She hates the spotlight," she says, a statement rather than question.

"She says she doesn't know how she gets into these things," Finnick says, but he sometimes wonders about that too. Life can be a bitch, throwing you into places you don't want to be, and can't escape.

However, Finnick knows that Jo is okay with being part of a political party, not exactly happy, but okay, and her situation is fine. Shut the fuck up, Odair, I can take care of myself, she told him, and he knows.

Finnick and Katniss talk about life, touch on Immortality, share anecdotes about their respective significant others.

"Where have you been?" Katniss asks, after sharing tales about Central and South America.

Finnick looks at her, steady. "Everywhere," he says, smiling conspiratorially, and winks.

Katniss looks at him, silent and understanding. She sees right through his charismatic front.

Annie goes home to California, San Francisco not San Diego, and Finnick Skypes her.

"Hi," he says, "how are you?" He's asking genuinely, actually interested in her wellbeing. Annie takes a deep breath to calm herself as she feels a rush of emotion. Her parents this lifetime go by Leon and Helen, they're both psychiatrists, and she's learned how to breathe while living with them.

"I'm, doing okay," she says. Thinks about her panic attack two days ago. "How are you?"

"Good," Finnick says, flashing one of his charming, blinding grins. Annie frowns at him until his face relaxes into something more natural. "I'm good," he says again. "Are you in San Francisco?"

Annie looks around. Her apartment is small, nice and clean, and she still doesn't quite feel like this is home. "Yes," she says, "You're in your apartment?" She doesn't say home, because she knows his condo isn't really "home" for him either.

"San Diego," Finnick confirms. "Do you want to meet up?" He doesn't stutter, because Finnick Odair doesn't stutter, but he really wants to see her again. He wants to hold and love her. Her face contorts on the computer screen for a second, turns into an expressionist painting, before going back to normal.

"Where do you want to meet?" Annie asks. She looks out of her window at the hilly landscape of the city that she's supposed to call home.

"Here?" Finnick suggests. "There are better beaches. We can surf, if you want." With Finnick, it's almost always if you want, or do you want. Annie breathes in, deep, like she can smell in the salt of the sea, and fingers the frayed ends of her sweater sleeves. "Do you want to try meeting up?"

"Do you?" Annie counters, soft, because Finnick aches, and sometimes, that ache turns into something he doesn't want but feels like he needs to do. She knows this because she used to feel that ache, knows this because she knows Finnick.

However, he doesn't even hesitate when he says, "Yes."

Finnick chews on a sugarcube at the airport, waiting for Annie's flight to land. He checks his watch. There's 10 minutes until the flight lands. He slows his chewing, lets time draw out around him.

"Finnick Odair," a voice purrs, and Finnick knows who it is instantly. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"Cashmere," he says. "Hello." In public alone, confronted, Finnick makes himself look less like himself: more charming, smiley, seductive and attractive. He lets his voice drop a couple of octaves, and pastes on a photoshopped smile.

Cashmere raises a brow at him, her own smile close-lipped and cherry red. They both know each other's games. They've both been pawns of Snow. They know each other because they were each others crutches for a while. They were together in a tough period of time, in a tough lifetime, and that experience and bond has transcended to present day.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here?" she asks, delicate, her words sour-sweet.

"Waiting for Annie."

"Still playing that game?" Cashmere simpers, voice like honey, concern painted across her face. Finnick smiles a little wider, tilts his head bashfully.

"Oh, yes," he says, smooth as silk. He lowers his lashes, rolls his shoulders back because he knows it makes his muscles look good. "I haven't asked about you yet. How are you and Gloss?" It's a casual sentence, meant to shift the conversation a bit, and it's also a low blow.

"Gloss gomes by Grant right now," Cashmere tells him, tossing her hair. "We're both modelling. We're fine."

She and Finnick trade understanding looks. They aren't friends, but they understand each other. It always takes a while, though, to reestablish the connection. It's been about five years of no contact.

Finnick's eyes stray to a clock. Annie's flight lands in four minutes.

"I've got to go," Finnick says, gesturing to the baggage claim.

Cashmere nods, her face turning older: crisper, softer, her glossy smile and sparkling eyes fading. "I'll see you later," she says, turning away. They don't hug, but Finnick spares a second to watch her drag her suitcase as she walks away.

Later might be a couple of months, a couple of years, even another lifetime. However, Finnick is going to see Annie in a couple of minutes and that is far more important to him.

Annie steps of the escalator, and all that's in her possession is a carry-on. She looks so lost for a second that Finnick aches. She's so obvious to him in the swarm of people, but Finnick has had practice in finding her.

The moment Finnick is within earshot, he says, "Not all those who wander are lost."

"Fragonard, The Swing," Annie says. "The philosophers of the Enlightenment wanted more serious depictions. Things that would show the nobility of men." It's a piece of art displayed in the Wallace Collection in London. Finnick knows because he sent Annie there to see it. She texted him, They say it's frivolous. It depicts an intrusive thing. Modern society still has catcalling, but it protects this sort of privacy.

"Not all men are noble," Finnick says, thinking of himself, of Snow. "Neither are all women." He thinks of Cashmere, her red smile, her old eyes.

Annie looks at him, her eyes so clear. "Just because you've made bad decisions, doesn't necessarily make you a bad person." This is something Finnick drilled into her in the olden days, something that Finnick wrote out and left her with three years ago in Rio.

"Thank you," he says, gentle, and Annie's mouth twitches.

"Who says I'm talking about you," she says, and Finnick brightens, smiles nicely involuntarily, and he forgot that was a thing his mouth could do.

"Come on," he urges, offering her his hand. "Let's go."

Annie takes it, and he walks beside her, not in front, through the aitport doors.

In every lifetime, they have loved the water.

Finnick and Annie hit the beaches, first. Annie swims far out, Finnick lingering behind until he gives in and follows her. It's a chase around the ocean, deeper and deeper, further and further, until Finnick catches her. It's nice being so far out, no people bothering them. The water is cool against their sun-warm skin.

They eventually swim back, Finnick coaxing Annie into returning to shore. They wrap themselves in blankets, and drive back to Finnick's place.

(His car smells like sea salt for days after.)

Finnick offers Annie the first shower when they get into his condo, ushers her in when she dips her head in acknowledgement, and politely closes the door off behind her. He's the ideal gentleman.

A slut, a cold voice says, creeping in from the depths of her mind, a monster, and Annie knows exactly who that voice belongs to. It's been decades upon decades since she's heard those words. Annie tells the voice inside her head to shut the fuck up, and strips to shower.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder coating the skin, an iron will that holds the spine straight, and memories like water that many different paintbrushes have been dipped in; welcome to the life of an Immortal, she thinks, suddenly nostalgic and bone-tired.

Finnick must sense her change of mood when Annie steps out of the bathroom. His eyes search her face carefully, his face going unreadable, and Annie shakes her head, gestures to the bathroom silently.

While he's showering off the sea, she fixes them drinks. Coffee for him, rich and dark, and tea for her, light and honeyed.

Finnick comes out, and they fix dinner in silence. They prepare tacos, made how they're supposed to be made: flour tortillas, homemade salsa that Annie brought with her, served with sides of refried beans and rice.

"Do you ever get tired?" Annie asks after dinner, as they're washing up, and Finnick doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, doesn't pretend to be full of life. He looks hollow and solid, like there's nothing left for him to feel but like there's everything inside of him.

"Yes," he says, quiet, and then, "I'm sorry." I'm sorry that you're here too, is what he means, because he knows she's tired too. It's funny, that even after centuries, he's still apologizing that she's here with him.

Annie shakes her head, her hair falling around her face, soft and shiny and frayed. "Don't apologize," she tells him. "I enjoy being here with you."

She had to learn to love herself before learning to love Finnick, and she hadn't stopped loving herself or him for centuries. She hadn't stopped appreciating the time they spent together, hadn't stopped traveling the world and pushing away societal expectations with him in a long time.

They curl up in front of the television, Big Hero 6 playing on Netflix. It's an old favourite. The sounds of Hiro and Baymax lull them to sleep, Finnick's lips grazing Annie's temple, bodies warm against the other.

The third night Annie is in San Diego, she has a nightmare. She screams and screams, sounding mad, sounding frantic, and Finnick bursts through her door, wakes her up and has to pin her wrists to the bed so she doesn't hurt herself or him.

She wakes up with her heart in her throat, her own screams echoing inside her head.

"Annie," he says, urgent, "Annie." He recites five different recipes to her mindlessly to distract her only after soothing her by repeating my name is Finnick Odair, your name is Annie Cresta, we are both alive, we are in San Diego, it's the twenty-first century, the date is July 2nd, 2017.

He leaves her in the guest room, comes back with a blanket covered with constellations and a silk blanket the colour of the ocean. They were gifts from Mags, an Immortal whose life was cut by Snow a couple of years ago. She gave the blankets to them a few years before her death.

Finnick crawls into bed with her, points out constellations and recites soft mythical stories to Annie until her hands stop shaking as much and the sun has risen. They make eggs together, with lots of butter, salt and pepper cracked on top. They're good eggs, made the way Annie taught him a long time ago.

Finnick washes up quietly while Annie curls up on his balcony, within his eyesight, repeating places, paintings and dates under her breath like she's remembering herself.

Two days after Annie's nightmare, Finnick wakes up silently. He's drenched in cold sweat, eyes wide and alert, chest heaving until he catches his breath, making himself go still. He waits in the dull quiet of his bedroom for threats, scans the area. He slides a knife from his bedside drawer, does a lap around his bedroom, around the apartment, checking the balcony.

Annie is awake when he peeks into the guest room. "Finnick," she says, tired but certain. "What are you doing?" Excet she knows exactly what he's doing, but does he know?

Finnick blinks at her. "Hi," he says. "I'm just finishing up some stuff." Not a lie, an omission. Finnick Odair: reformed liar, charmer, hider of secrets. However, his armour is cracked, his rib-cage gaping open, he can't hide from Annie.

There's still a knife in his hand. He sets it down by his feet, kicks the handle so it skids away from him. He won't appear as a threat to Annie-he won't.

Annie blinks back at him. Her hair is mussed. Her pyjama top is ill-fitting and doesn't match with her flannel shorts. She looks achingly beautiful. "Come here," she says, a request colouring her voice.

He goes, sitting on the bed beside her. She pressed his fingers to the pulse point on her wrist, and makes him breathe with her.

"I'm alive," she tells him, "you're alive. Nobody is hunting us," because she can't promise safety or if life will be okay or if they'll both be sane or alive in two years but there is a now and Annie has always tried to hold onto the threads of hard reality in the present.

Finnick breathes in, breathes out, disassociates and comes back to life with a heartbeat in his ears and a sense of being grounded.

A week turns into two, turns into three, turns into sunny days and nightmares blending together, like the life by Lake Geneva, like all the happy endings before that. Annie thinks about her apartment San Francisco, empty and small, and about her lease there. She also thinks about the beaches, the art galleries, the brunch places, and the bookstores that Finnick drags her to.

By Finnick's smile and the light in his eyes, he's thinking about all the places they're exploring too, in San Diego nonetheless, and he's also thinking about her.

Mont Sainte-Victoire by Cézanne is written on a sticky note, posted on the wall of Finnick's, of Finnick and Annie's, bedroom. Annie looks at it, takes it off the wall, then goes back out into the living room.

"Shrek is funny," he says, his way of saying I want to watch this. He senses her presence the moment she walks into the same room as him. Finnick twists around on the sofa to see Annie's face. He doesn't falter with concern, because he's learned better, but the air around him becomes more tense. "Annie?"

"Finnick," Annie says, her voice arching. She is soft and strong. She is exasperated, never angry, always tired. "You always leave. You're always leaving first." She holds out the stick note pointedly, unfurling her hand like a rose unfurls its petals: slowly, softly.

Finnick looks away. "I thought," he begins, "you might want to continue traveling. It's not an order, it's not a request, but it is an option. In case-"

"Don't tell me in case of scenarios," Annie says, "if I didn't want to leave you, I wouldn't."

"You were talking about touring America," Finnick says. He doesn't close his eyes, has never been able to shy away when he feels uncomfortable after centuries of always being uncomfortable. "I wanted to give you a starting point. If you want it, you can accept it."

"Give me all your starting points," Annie tells him. "I find myself first, then I find you, then I find art. You come before art. You always have."

"Lovers think quite different thoughts while lying side by side," Finnick quotes, his voice steady, as he looks her in the eye.

"I Shall Not Be Moved by Maya Angelou," Annie guesses, and is correct. Finnick raises an eyebrow. Annie shakes out her hair, rolls a shoulder back. "I discovered it a while ago." It's on her bookshelf in San Francisco, between Milk & Honey by Rupi Kaur and a silver tin of green tea leaves from Japan.

Finnick ripples, vulnerable and out of his confidence zone. Annie decides, in that moment, abruptly, that there is no artist who could shade this boy, this man, quite right.

"Annie," he says, swallowing a lump in his throat subtly. "I never want to leave you hurting." In one or two lifetimes, he's wanted to leave her, because he needed to leave her to make sure she's safe, but he felt her hurt in his lungs and he always wants her to be happy, healthy, safe.

Annie looks at him, steady, and says, "Stay, please."

Finnick smiles, rare and genuine and blinding, and says, "Okay."

disclaimer: i don't own the hunger games series, all rights to suzanne collins. i also don't own any books, art or restaurants/bookstroes mentioned in this fic.

all of them are real, though, because i did my research. inspired by "we could jump the state lines (we only get the one life)" by notcaycepollard on ao3.

for you, iris.