balloon chair

.::.

She crouches over a white plastic lawn chair, deep in concentration, her clumsy five-year-old fingers struggling to tie a string onto the bright red helium balloon. This was much more difficult than Mags made it look, she grumbles to herself.

"What are you doing?" someone interrupts.

"Ah!" she whirls around in surprise, almost letting the balloon go. Thankfully, she doesn't. "You scared me!" she says, one hand on her heart, glaring at the bronze-haired interrupter that is none other than her neighbor, Finnick Odair. Finnick is two years older than her, although sometimes he acts as if he is ten years older. Nevertheless, they get along fairly well, and Annie knows that Finnick is a good person, most of the time.

"Well, what are you doing?" he repeats, surveying the scene. It's a bit of a strange sight. The tiny brunette girl is standing in her backyard, next to a lawn chair and a wooden table. On the table is a roll of duct tape, a roll of twine, a bag of multicolored balloons, and a pair of black scissors. He raises his eyebrows when he spots a red metal helium tank under the table. "Seriously, Annie? You're playing with balloons?"

"I'm not playing!" she corrects. "I'm going to attach these balloons to the chair, and then I'm going to sit on it, and we're going up into the sky!" She's finally finished up tying her balloon and uses a piece of duct tape to attach the balloon to the back of the lawn chair. She then digs out a purple balloon from her bag and crouches under the table, next to the helium tank.

He snorts. "Are you serious? That's never going to work! And anyway, even if you did, do you know how dangerous that is? What if you floated away and never came down?"

"I thought of that already," says Annie, coming out from under the table with a fully-blown balloon. She gestures towards a silver needle on the table, which Finnick hadn't noticed before. "I'm going to take this needle with me, and when I'm too high, I'll pop a balloon."

He stares at her for a few bewildered seconds, and then bursts into laughter. "Are you serious, Annie?" he chokes out. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! You're just going to fall, and it will hurt. Listen to me, Annie, and stop."

She pouts. That's what she means about Finnick acting like he's ten years older, instead of two. She ignores him and attaches her purple balloon onto the chair, and then moves onto another balloon. This is getting easier.

"Where did you learn how to use a helium tank anyway?"

"I asked Mags to teach me yesterday," she answers tersely.

"And she didn't ask you anything? Like why in the world a kindergartner would want to know how to use a helium tank to blow up balloons?" Finnick asks incredulously.

She shrugs. "You know how she is." She attaches an orange balloon. Now she has three bright helium balloons. But it isn't enough. She works faster, and attaches the balloons one by one under Finnick's amused gaze. This is going to work. The balloons go up one by one. Yellow, blue, green, pink… She shrieks in delight as the chair begins to float ever-so-slightly and tapes on more, working faster. Red, orange, purple, green, red, yellow, blue…

"I think I'm done!" she shrieks in excitement, admiring her handiwork.

"Don't tell me you're still going through with that plan? You're just going to stare at the pretty colors and have fun popping the things and then go back inside, yeah?" Finnick says.

She rolls her eyes. "It's going to fly! And I'm going to fly!"

"And crash," he snorts.

"Why do you keep saying that?" she asks, irritated now. It's going to work.

"Because it's true," Finnick says. His calm, light tone only angers her further. She takes a step towards him, drawing herself to her full height and cursing the fact that he's still at least half a foot taller than her.

"No it isn't," she insists.

"Yeah, it is," he says, still calm. She glares at him, daring him to look away. He stares back. This goes on for maybe thirty seconds, just glaring, when all of a sudden Finnick's green eyes widen.

"Annie, look behind you!"

"Huh?" Hoping that this is not a trick, she temporarily forgets about their glaring match and looks away, and oh, goodness, there's her lawn chair, floating away, without her on it.

She exclaims the first thing that pops into his head. "I knew it'd work! It's flying!"

"Without you on it," Finnick points out.

"Whatever," she says with a wave of her hands. She can't make it seem as if Finnick won, and her balloon-powered lawn chair does look rather beautiful against the blue sky. "Oh, it's going to fly forever!"

"I bet it'll crash in five minutes and land in Mags's lawn or something."

"Oh, but it won't, Finnick," she says dreamily. "It won't."

.::.

He stomps out of the house, away from his father, deciding that he will never enter the house again. Ever. Never, ever, ever. Instead, he heads for the beach, fuming, thinking about what his father said, his fists clenched. He walks first, then speed-walks, then breaks into a full sprint because he needs to get away from his father and towards the beach. He doesn't stop until he feels sand getting into his sneakers and hears the crash of waves.

The beach is almost empty today, except for a nearby cuddling couple and a young toddler that is building sandcastles. Good. He likes it when it's empty. He won't be bothered. He sits down next to the waves and closes his eyes and tries to calm himself down. His father just doesn't know anything—

"Hey, Finn. What's wrong?"

He doesn't have to turn to know who's asking. He recognizes the voice, the tone. "Nothing's wrong, Annie," he says with a sigh, opening his eyes and staring at the waters.

"Don't lie to me, Finn," she says. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees her sit down next to him. "What's wrong? Is high school really that bad?" She turns to him, her forehead crinkled and eyes begging. "Come on, talk to me."

"It's just my dad," he finally says. "Well, there's not really a just about it. You know about, you know, the swim situation?"

"Oh," she says. "You mean your dream of becoming an Olympic swimmer?"

"It's not a dream," he snaps. "That makes it sound stupid or something. It's a plan. My future. Reality."

"Okay. Whatever makes you happy. I think you can do it," Annie says after a brief silence. "Swim in the Olympics, in five years or so."

"I want to do it next year," he blurts out before he thinks better of it. He braces himself for the reaction that he knows is to come.

"You're only thirteen…" Annie begins contemplatively.

"I turn fourteen in a week. So I'm more like thirteen point nine, Annie," he interrupts.

"But if anyone can do it, it's you," she finishes with a wide smile. "I think you should go for it."

"You don't think it's stupid?"

She shakes her head. "I think you can do it. I know you can do it. And even if you can't, I think you should try." She pauses. "That's why you were gone all this summer. Everyone said you'd gone to swim camp or something, but I think it was something a little more intense than that?"

He nods. "I've really thought this through, Annie. I'm not recklessly charging into this, even if that's what my dad thinks."

"When have you recklessly charged into anything?" Annie asks, a teasing tone creeping into her voice. "I can't imagine Finnick Odair doing anything without carefully planning first. The boy that's such a realist that he won't even call his dream, you know, a dream. He'll call it a plan. It's okay to dream, you know."

He laughs. It feels good to laugh. "Better to be a realist than someone who thinks that duct taping balloons onto a lawn chair will help her fly."

"I was five!" she protests.

He shrugs. "Race you to the water!" And with that, he takes off.

"No fair!" he hears her voice behind him. "You had a head start! Wait for me!"

.::.

Almost exactly a year later finds him in almost the exact same spot. He sits there with his head in his arms and wonders how he'll face his father—and Annie—and everyone.

"Finnick?" asks a familiar voice.

"You're not supposed to know I'm here," he says, not looking up, his voice muffled.

"It is you, Finnick!" Annie exclaims, and he looks up when he feels warm arms encasing him in a hug. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow!"

"Early flight."

"Well, why doesn't anyone know you're here? What are you doing mulling on the beach by yourself? Don't you know how much everyone has been waiting? And we were planning a party; oh, now it'll be a day late!" she rambles.

"A party for what?"

"For you, silly!" Annie exclaims with a little laugh. "Who else?"

He frowns. "But I didn't win. I didn't qualify," he says flatly. He wants to say more, explain himself, yell maybe, but there's nothing more to say, really. He didn't qualify. That's that.

"We would throw you a party anyway," Annie says softly after a few seconds. He feels the scent of honey tickle his nose and damp hair tickle his cheek, and he turns his head slightly to meet Annie's green eyes. She lies down next to him, and he feels someone take his hand. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. He closes his eyes and lets himself relax, just for this moment, listening to the waves and her steady breathing.

.::.

Sweat mixing into the blue-green chlorine waters. Pain burning through his muscles and lungs. Foggy vision and muted hearing. There's the wall, prepare to turn, just a few more (hundred) laps and when he goes back into the real world everything will be fixed.

"I knew I'd find you here."

He is jarred out of a what-would-be flawless turn and instead he angrily bursts from underneath and grips onto the wall. Annie Cresta stands at the side of the pool, carrying a fluffy blue towel and a lunch pail, an Amazing Spiderman helmet over her messy brown ponytail. "What the hell, Annie? Pool's closed."

"How come you're here, then?"

His grip tightens. "Mags lets me practice here late. She likes me." Mags is the aging owner of the pool and a former Olympian herself, although she retired a long time ago.

"Well, she must like me too, considering I'm her neighbor and she's the one who told me to check up on you. I think she was getting worried. Come on, Finnick, get out of those waters. How long have you been here? An hour? Two?"

He checks the clock. "Maybe six."

Her eyes pop. "Out. Now." When he glares at her, she urges, "Come on, Finn, if you stay in there any longer the chlorine will get to your hair and it'll turn green, and you don't want your precious bronze locks turning green, do you?"

"Says the girl wearing a Spiderman helmet."

She blushes. "It's Steven's!" Steven is her younger brother. "I couldn't get a ride so I biked here. I took Steven's bike because it was closer, and his stuff has built-in flashlights." She sighs. "It's ten p.m., Finnick. I took a whole lot of trouble to get here, and I'm not going to leave unless you get out of that pool."

He stares at her impatient but concerned eyes and grunts.

Five minutes later, he and Annie are sitting at a nearby table. He's wrapped in Annie's blue towel and downing a huge ham and cheese sandwich, mayo on his lips. God, he's hungry.

"Eat, Finnick, eat," Annie encourages. "Did you eat lunch?"

He ignores her, choosing to take another bite of the sandwich instead.

She takes a Tupperware full of pasta out of her lunch pail. He reaches for it, but she pulls away. "No. Not until you tell me why you're here."

"I'm training," he says. "I do this every day." When he only gains a skeptical glance, he exhales noisily. "Fine. For the pasta. My parents are getting divorced. Now gimme."

She hands over the pasta and lets him eat in peace.

.::.

This is it.

Four years later after being rejected, he's eighteen years old. He's handsome, charming, good with the ladies, and a contender—in the Olympics. 200 meter freestyle.

He sees the flags of the other countries, hears the multiple languages over the speakers, and he can't believe that after so many years of hard work and careful planning (he smiles when he thinks of what Annie would say to that—"dreaming, you mean") it's all paying off, and it's real, right in front of his eyes.

He tries to calm his wildly beating heart; he is not nervous. Just because it's his first Olympics and first race ever doesn't mean he's nervous, nope, not at all. He is ready, staring at the pool ahead of him through his goggles, hearing the roar of the crowd, waiting for the gunshot—

Bang.

And they're off.

Every bit of apprehension is expelled the minute he hits the water. He can do this. The wetness of the water, familiar blue-green, the smell of chlorine—he's home.

.::.

He really goes home a few weeks later.

He remembers the roar of the crowd as he'd surfaced. He remembers the exhilaration, the elation, the slight shock as he heard his name, Odair, being pronounced in a slightly foreign accent and the split second realization that he'd come in first. He remembers what came after too: receiving the gold medal, high fiving his teammate, hugging his coach, ecstatically sending a message to Annie. But what he remembers most, as the best moment, is the split-second shock and elation when he'd touched that wall and burst from the surface of the water.

Most of the team on the plane is asleep; it's been a good hour or two into the flight, and everyone is tired. He's tired too, but right now he's flipping through the photos on the phone: more specifically, the photos of Annie. Her smile is frozen and slightly crooked in one from about three years ago where she's pushing her younger brother Steven on a swing. Now here's one from around a year ago on her fifteenth birthday—she's in a green sundress and twirling around with daisies in her hair. He smiles because that's so Annie. And then there's the most recent one of her in her first car, waving; he remembers she was so excited about finally being sixteen and able to drive.

God, he misses her.

"Girlfriend, Odair?" asks a voice next to him. It's Johanna Mason, a snarky girl who'd won a gold throwing shot puts. Definitely not one to mess with.

"I thought you were asleep!" he exclaims, blushing.

"You thought wrong," she says with a smirk. "So, girlfriend?"

His face reddens more deeply. "J-just a friend," he stammers out.

Johanna rolls her eyes. "Oh, I see. Too chicken to ask her out, you mean?"

He had not thought it possible, but somehow he gets even redder.

Johanna seems to take this as a yes. "Man up, Odair. You got a gold. How can she reject you?"

"She's really special, though. I don't know if… I mean, she's done so much for me." But he smiles feebly, a bit encouraged by Johanna's thoughts. Coming from the prickly girl, it's practically an encouragement. It's almost nice.

But apparently Johanna's done being nice because she gags and says, "Ew, mush. Put it in a bottle and throw it in the Seine or whatever. Or better yet, hurry up and tell your girl. I'm going back to sleep."

.::.

He picks up his luggage at the large spinning conveyer belt, and that's when he hears the squeal. At first he thinks it's another pack of fangirls, but then he feels small, chubby arms wrap around his waist and looks down to see the eager face of his young redheaded cousin.

"Finnick!" he exclaims. "I saw you on TV! On TV!"

"Quinn!" Finnick says, hugging the toddler. "Where are your parents?" Where's Annie? he thinks in his head.

"Quinn, don't run like that again." An older dark-haired woman, his warm and wonderful mother, comes into view. "Finnick! Why, Quinn, you found Finnick!"

"Told you that I could find him, Auntie, told you!" Quinn sing-songs.

He hugs both his cousin and his mother. "Mom, I missed you so much," he says. "Who else came here?" Mainly meaning, where's Annie?

He's answered by his rotund redheaded aunt, Quinn's mother, barreling into view and exclaiming, "Finnick! Give your auntie a hug!" He tries not to make a face as she crushes him in a hug and places a sticky pink kiss on his cheek. When she turns away, he rubs away the stain with his thumb and that's when he catches sight of a tall blonde man with his hands in the pockets of his khakis. With a jolt, he realizes that it's his father.

"I didn't think you'd come," he hears himself saying. They've never got along.

The man turns to him. "Well, I did. For you." It's not an apology, a congratulations, or even a welcome back, but it's a start. They hug, and he can see both his aunt and his mother smiling out of the corner of his eye.

"Thanks, Dad," he whispers. He smiles, truly happy to see everyone, even his father, again.

But something is missing. Or rather, someone. He pulls back from the hug and scrunches up his eyebrows. "Where's Annie?" She'd promised to be there when he got off the plane. He'd Skyped with her, just a day ago.

When no one answers but instead seems to gain a sudden interest in the ground, he frantically repeats the question. "Where's Annie?"

"Finnick," his father begins softly, "there's something I have to tell you."

.::.

He walks through the corridor, following the white-uniformed nurse with the long blonde hair whose name tag reads Annabel Everdeen. He passes by a brightly-colored poster that lists the top ten causes of death in America. Number five is accidents: falls, poisoning, car accidents, etc.

He's not scared. Not at all. He's Finnick Odair. He doesn't get scared.

It's just that this hospital, with its gray speckled walls and heavy air and disinfectant smell, makes him uneasy.

"Here we are," says the nurse. "Room 304: Cresta, Annie. She's sleeping, though."

"It's okay. I only want to see her," he tells the nurse.

The nurse turns to face him for the first time. For a second her blue eyes widen and she begins, "Are you—" But then she stops mid-sentence and says with a pitiful smile, "Well, good luck with her, sir. I'll be outside if you need anything, but you should be okay."

He enters the room, and the first thing he registers is the slow beeping of what appears to be a heart monitor. There's a chart on the gray wall, one with Annie's name and condition, and a window on the wall across, the curtains partially drawn back and the light illuminating Annie's pale face.

She's sleeping, her brown hair splayed across her pillow. She looks rather peaceful, if you ignore the bandage on her head and the tube running up her arm.

"Annie," he whispers. He pulls up a chair and sits next to her bed. He puts his head in his hands and tries not to cry. He doesn't cry, not ever. But he would give over his gold medal to see her alive and well. Anything.

.::.

He visits her over the next three days, with Mrs. Cresta.

She's always sleeping.

.::.

The fifth time he comes to visit her, he's alone. He sits in his chair and stares at her closed eyes, wondering how—if—he can help. He's never felt so helpless. Even swimming doesn't help—at least, not permanently. The truth is, whenever he had a problem, Annie was there. Now he needs her more than ever, and she's not here.

He uses the back of his hand to wipe his eyes.

"Where do you suppose those balloons are now?"

"What?" his head snaps up. "Annie! You're awake!"

She turns her neck to face him, her green eyes dazed and cloudy. "Yes," she says slowly. She observes her surroundings and seems to be confused at what she sees. "I-where's Steven?"

His heart sinks. It figures that she'd wake up and the first thing she'd ask is something like that. How can he tell her something like this? "Annie, there was an accident."

"I know," she says. "I remember. We were… I think I was, yes, I was driving Steven to the beach, White Whale Beach, specifically." She begins to speak faster now, frantically, almost hysterically. "I was driving and singing along to the radio. Steven was telling me to stop. And there was some crash, and screaming, and—"

"A drunk driver rammed into you from the side," he says, as calmly and softly as possible. "And Steven, he got the brunt of the crash."

"But he made it, right?" she asks. "I mean, if I made it, then he must have too, he must have."

"Annie." His heart is breaking for her. He shakes his head softly, and she stares at him wide-eyed and stunned. "I'm so sorry. But, Annie, you're alive, and I'm here now. It's going to be okay…" But he's trying to convince himself more than her.

She continues to stare at him. He worries that she's going to begin crying any second, because if she starts crying, then there's no way that he's going to be able to hold himself together. But instead she turns away from him, and he sees that her eyes are closed.

He thinks she's fallen asleep when he hears her mumble, "I bet it's crashed."

.::.

The next day when he comes to visit Annie, he finds that someone else is already there.

"My garden is going wild without you, Annie. I just can't crouch down and love those plants like I once could." Mags, his elderly yet elegant mentor and Annie's neighbor, sits in a chair next to Annie's bed. She looks up and sees him. "Finnick! I was just about to leave."

"Is she awake?" he asks.

To his surprise, Mags shakes her head, her wispy gray braid swinging.

"Why were you talking to a sleeping person?"

She shrugs. "Why would I not? By the way, Finnick, congratulations. I always knew you could do it.

"Congratulations on what—oh," he says. The gold medal seems like so long ago. He sighs and stares at Annie's sleeping face, and thinks about their semi-conversation yesterday. Turning to Mags, he asks, "Do you… do you think she'll be okay? Be honest."

"Physically, yes, she'll be able to recover. She's young and healthy," Mags replies.

"But?" he urges, because he recognizes the tone. It's the tone that Mags used when she'd told him that his pet rabbit, Bonnie, had died when he was nine.

"She and Steven were close," Mags continues. Finnick looks out the window, staring at the small people and cars below. "Emotionally, it takes a while to heal when you lose someone like that." She speaks as if she knows firsthand. "But Annie's stronger than that, the strongest girl I know, probably. Finnick, look at me."

He tears his gaze from the window and meets Mags's wise sea-blue eyes. She opens up her arms, and he doesn't hesitate to go into them.

"You really think she'll be okay?" he asks. He's taller than her by at least a foot, but right now he feels like a little boy again, vulnerable and needing assurance.

"I know she'll be, Finnick. I know."

He wishes he had half the conviction Mags did.

.::.

It's been a full week since the accident, now, and he's visited every day.

"You don't look so well, Mr. Odair," says the nurse, not even blinking at his last name. It's the same one, Annabel Everdeen.

He shrugs and brushes the nurse off. He supposes he doesn't exactly look nice and healthy. When he's not visiting Annie, he's in the pool, and if it weren't for Mags and his mother, he'd probably forget to eat and sleep and such.

He sits down in his chair and wonders why he does this. She's never awake for him anyway. Mags says that Annie is usually awake for her visits, and Mrs. Cresta has reported the same thing. Meanwhile, he hasn't seen her eyes open since that awful conversation. Why is she always asleep when he visits? She's probably faking it, because she doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to talk to him…

"Where do you suppose those balloons are now, Finnick?"

His head snaps up. She's awake and staring straight at him, her green eyes boring into his soul.

"I-I-what balloons?" he stammers out.

"The ones I tied onto the chair. It floated away. We never saw where it went. You said it'd probably crashed somewhere. I said it'd fly forever," Annie explains, speaking softly. He gapes at her, wondering why she is talking about such a topic, and she hesitates slightly before she adds, "But I was wrong. It must have crashed."

"That was years ago, Annie," he says, regaining his voice. "Why is it important?"

"It crashed," she repeats, and he wonders if she's talking about something else. "I thought it'd fly forever, but it fell. It crashed. You were right."

"No, no, no," he shakes his head. He's not quite sure what she's talking about, but she sounds so desolate and un-hopeful and unlike Annie that it's scaring him. "It's flying, Annie."

"You're the one who said it'd crash," she points out. "You said that reality doesn't lie."

"That was years ago. And there are no facts to support that it crashed either. We never saw where it went. It could still be flying, for all we know. I mean, it has to be."

She stares at him for a few more seconds before closing her eyes again. "Thank you, Finnick." She pauses slightly. "And congratulations on the gold medal. You deserved it."

She doesn't say anything else. He hears her gentle breathing and assumes that she's fallen asleep. He sits there for a few more seconds, stunned. Thank you. And congratulations.

He's so in love.

.::.

His fingers cover Annie's eyes, gentle over her soft skin, and careful not to linger too close to the forehead area. Even though it's been a month and a half since the accident, Finnick remembers seeing the black and blue bruise and the tightly-wound bandages, so he stays away from that area.

"What is this about, Finn?" she asks, sounding slightly impatient but mostly just amused and bubbly, almost like her old self. "I can't see anything."

"That's kind of the point, Annie. It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you," he says.

"Well, I can't see where I'm going, and it can't be practical to lead me while you've got your fingers over my eyes the entire time."

"When did you become so practical? What happened to easygoing dreamy little Annie?" he teases. It slips out of his mouth before he realizes what he's just said. Annie simply says:

"I grew up."

A moment later they've laughed it off. Finnick produces a blindfold and wraps it around her head, fingers brushing her skin and honey-scented hair. He takes her hand and walks her to the ocean.

They make small talk as they walk over. He asks her about school, how is she adjusting after a, um, break? Annie assures him that she's doing fine. She's always been a stellar student, after all. He offers to tutor her if she ever needs it.

They've almost reached their destination when Annie suddenly laughs. "Oh, I know where we are. Gulls, salt, sand. Nice attempt at trying to surprise me though. We're at the beach, aren't—"

She suddenly breaks off as Finnick unties the blindfold. "White Whale Beach, Annie," he says softly.

The girl stares at the faded sign, at the white block letters and the cheesy cartoon whale. She doesn't look at him but instead stares out at the ocean, at people surfing and laughing, girls sunbathing and sleeping, kids making sandcastles. Her eyes then turn to the parking lot, cars of different colors glimmering in the sun, the empty spaces of hot black pavement noted by clear white lines.

"Oh."

Finnick chews his lip nervously, wonders if maybe it's too early. He can't see her face, can't read her expressions, and it kills him not to know what she's thinking. "Annie, if you don't want to…"

She finally turns to him, and he sees that there's a strange steely quality to her eyes. "No, Finnick. I want to." Her face breaks into a huge grin. "Besides, I packed you a surprise too." She takes out of her little red purse a Tupperware full of her famous pasta. When he still looks worried, she reassures him with, "It's just a beach, Finnick. I can do this."

He takes her hand. Mags was right. Annie really is the strongest girl he knows.

.::.

They stay at the beach all day, surfing and swimming and laughing. Annie had brought more things in her purse—like small towels and sandwiches and sunscreen.

"It's almost like you knew I was going to take you to the beach," he comments.

"Correction, I did know you were going to take me to the beach. Really, Finnick, you asked me to bring my swimsuit. Like, subtle much?"

"I could have been taking you to the waterpark or pool," he points out.

She laughs. "That's true."

They stay until the sun begins to set and all the food in Annie's purse is gone. He decides that there's been enough water play for a day and leaves Annie for a moment to return the surfboard. He finds Annie waiting for him on a beach towel on the sand, her brown hair sandy and tangled, all wrapped up in a flowy flower-patterned maxi dress.

They sit peacefully for a while, watching the sunset, when he turns his face to sneak a glance at Annie and realizes that she's looking at him too. Annie stares at him, her cryptic gaze slightly unsettling, and cocks her head. "I keep thinking about that balloon… and that chair. You-you really meant it when you said you thought it was still flying?" He nods. "But why? You always… you never… why?"

He's not sure what Annie wants him to say. She'd seemed so much like her old self again for the entire day, almost as if the accident had never happened. But of course it had, and it was a part of Annie now. And he accepts that, he loves her either way, it's just…

"Well," he says hesitantly. "You taught me how to dream, Annie."

"You kept me grounded, Finnick."

"I guess we… balance each other out."

Somehow they've gotten closer amidst all of this. His heart is drumming so fast that he wonders if it'll pound out of his chest. She's so close that he can see the flecks of hazel and gold in her eyes, the pale brown freckles on her nose, hear her breath catch and feel the short puffs of her breath against his lips…

She pulls back. "But Finnick, you don't need me to dream anymore."

And the moment ends. He turns away from her face, watching the waves crash. "And you don't need me to keep you grounded anymore. So, I guess, it's still a balance in a weird flip-flop way..." There's a sinking feeling in his stomach, and he bites his tongue so that he doesn't say anything else. The sunset seems sour, she is changed and different, and they are changed and different.

"I bet that chair is flying."

He turns when he hears her voice in his ear, turns to face her again. "But… I think that chair is flying."

"Maybe we don't need to balance each other out, not in that way," she says, speaking quickly and quietly. He leans in so that he can catch her next words.

And that's when he decides to take that leap of faith to kiss her and finds that she's met him halfway.

"Maybe we can dream together," he murmurs when they've broken apart.

She leans in again and smiles against his lips.

That ending was cheesy as heck. I was trying to end this happily to break my angst streak but it just came out super corny. Sorry!

To Ella and Lovisa, I hope you liked the fic. I'm very, very sorry that I couldn't write you two individual fics, but I didn't have time within the deadline, and this oneshot came out way longer than I intended.

Also, roughly edited because I was rushing to get it finish. Concrit will be happily taken. c: