Chapter Text
District 4 always smelled like salt and fish. Finnick swore it got into his skin, into his bones, like he could scrub himself raw and it would still cling. Some people loved it—the ocean breeze, the sting of salt drying on your cheeks, the way the sun baked you until you cracked like driftwood. Finnick was one of those people.
He liked the docks. He liked the way kids dared each other to jump first, to dive the deepest, to fight over bait like it was gold. He liked that feeling of hurling himself into the water, staying under until his lungs burned, and it almost felt like he was free.
Finnick always jumped first.
Finnick was eight and a half, but he had already trained with the older kids in the Career hall. The older boys at the training center had already started muttering about him.
"Prodigy," they said. Always with tight jaws and clipped tones. He was faster than them, stronger. He could hurl a trident farther than most grown men, and he could gut a fish blindfolded. But none of that made the reaping any less real. It didn't help when he heard his mother crying through the paper-thin walls at night.
He knew why. The Games were getting closer. They were always getting closer. He skipped training that day, just once. It was summer, and the year-round prep for the games was exhausting. The lessons he was taught were far too easy for him anyway, and he needed to breathe somewhere people didn't look at him with envy. He scaled the jagged rocks on the far end of the beach and made his way to his secret spot, only someone was already there.
A boy.
He was hunched on the flattest stone, picking at a torn net with intense curiosity. He didn't belong. That much was obvious. His skin wasn't burned by the sun, and his hands were clumsy with the net and uncalloused. Finnick squinted.
"You lost?" Finnick asked flatly, because what else do you say when someone's in your secret spot?
The boy didn't flinch; he didn't even look up. "No, I'm just looking at the ocean."
Finnick blinked. Nobody ever ignored him like that. Most people got nervous when he challenged them. "You're not from here," Finnick said, narrowing his eyes.
"I am now."
"This isn't your beach."
"I didn't see your name written in the sand."
Finnick scowled but dropped down next to him anyway, close enough to make a point. "It's my spot."
Finally, the boy looked up. His eyes were dark and unreadable. "Guess it's ours now." They sat in silence after that. The waves talked enough for both of them.
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Riven hadn't planned on being on the beach for long. But the water helped him breathe.
He wasn't from the docks. He was from further inland in District 4, where the air smelled like wet rust instead of salt. He lived closer to the old storage fields and canning shacks than the sea. That's where his parents died during the summer two weeks ago. Nobody explained how, not really. One day, they were alive. The next, they just weren't.
Now he lived in Uncle Harlen's shack, with Uncle Harlen's rules. He'd be up before dawn, gutting fish that weren't theirs, loading boats that didn't belong to them. Harlen Vex spoke in yells or not at all. He smelled like salt and cheap liquor, and left Riven counting hours till school started for the day.
That morning, Riven needed to disappear. So he took a broken net and climbed rocks that probably weren't safe. And then he showed up.
Finnick Odair.
That was his name. Riven recognized him from the training hall, even if they'd never talked. Everyone knew him. He was the golden boy. People whispered like he'd already won the Games, even though he was far from eligible to even be reaped.
Riven didn't like him. He was too perfect, too untouchable.
Still, when Finnick sat beside him, he didn't move. He didn't know why. Maybe because Finnick was so quiet compared to his uncle.
Finnick came back the next day.
And the next.
He always seemed to find Riven, whether it was at their spot (Finnick was still adamant it was his spot) or the boats or some shady corner of the dock where Harlan had him selling bait. He never offered help, and Riven never asked. They'd just sit, flicking fish bones into the surf and talking about nothing at all.
Sometimes they challenged each other. Riven would dare Finnick to climb the mast on an old shipwreck without using his legs. Finnick once made him eat raw octopus. They bet on crab races, argued over how to tie knots faster, and counted how many gulls passed overhead without blinking.
People started to notice. "You and the new kid glued together or what?" one of the older trainees sneered at Finnick during combat drills.
Finnick just shrugged. "He's less annoying than the rest of you."
When Riven heard about it, he rolled his eyes. "Don't get soft on me."
"You're not exactly cuddly either," Finnick shot back, grinning. But he kept showing up. Every day. And Riven didn't tell him to stop.
They didn't talk about the Games or family. Everyone had pain here; it was like air—always there, always pressing on your chest. They didn't need to discuss it.
Instead, they talked about tide pools and fish, and once, briefly, about what it might feel like to leave District 4 behind. Riven said he'd want to see the mountains. Finnick said he'd want to sail until he was far away from the maps in the career halls.
Riven didn't say it, but they both knew neither of them was getting out.
Still, it was nice to pretend.
By the end of summer, they were just there—a part of the harbor like rusted anchors and faded sails. If you saw one, the other was never far. If anyone asked where they were, the answer was easy.
Check the rocks. Or the docks. Or the place where children would go with their stolen goods from the market.
If you wanted to find Finnick, you looked for Riven.
If you wanted Riven, you followed the sound of Finnick's laugh echoing off the rocks.
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Finnick was nine when he realized Riven Therrow was a walking disaster. He had scabbed knees, a blackened thumbnail, and a split lip that kept cracking every time he smiled too widely. Which, for some reason, he still did. He moved like every second was a race only he knew about, twitchy and fast, never quite steady.
That morning, the docks were busy, fishermen hauled in nets heavy with yesterday's catch, and gulls screamed over scraps. Most adults were too exhausted to notice two boys dragging a tackle box that was definitely not theirs and a bucket of sardines that smelled like death toward a boat that belonged to nobody.
Well. Technically, Riven's uncle owned it. But Riven's uncle had stopped using it two seasons ago, after a storm left it half-sunk and leaning. It still floated (mostly), and that was enough.
"Push," Finnick grunted, shoulder braced against the hull.
"I am pushing," Riven hissed back, slipping slightly in the wet sand.
They shoved until water swallowed their ankles, then scrambled in before the tide could change its mind. The oars groaned with every stroke, but they made it out past the breakers, just far enough that the noise of the district faded behind them.
Finnick leaned over the edge to knot off the bait net, sardines slick and sliding through his fingers. He could feel Riven behind him, holding fishing rod that looked too big for him, his arms locked tight around the grip like it might wriggle free.
"You're holding it wrong," Finnick muttered, not bothering to look back. "The line's gonna snap."
"I got it," Riven said defiantly.
Finnick squinted into the water. "Sure you do."
Snap.
There was a whip of motion. Then a sharp, surprised gasp.
Finnick spun, heart dropping to his stomach. The rod lay abandoned on the floorboards, and Riven stood there frozen, his hand clamped against the side of his neck. Blood was already threading between his fingers.
"Riven?"
There was no answer.
Finnick stepped closer. There was blood. Not a lot, but enough. A sharp line of red emerged just under the jaw, skin split clean where the hook must've caught and whipped back.
"Let me see."
"I'm fine," Riven muttered, fingers tightening around the spot.
"You're not."
"I said—"
"Let me."
Something in Finnick's tone must've landed because Riven's hand finally dropped. The cut was shallow but long, too close to important things. Blood slid in crooked trails down his throat, making Finnick's stomach twist. It bled steadily, painting his skin red in crooked rivulets.
Finnick hissed through his teeth and yanked the bottom of his shirt up. He pressed the fabric against the wound with more pressure than was probably necessary.
"Hold still."
"It doesn't hurt that bad," Riven said.
"Don't be stupid."
"Too late."
Finnick rolled his eyes but didn't argue. The boat creaked beneath them as it shifted with the tide. Gulls circled overhead, quieter now. The whole world felt like it had gone still.
"You're not allowed to die before me," Finnick said suddenly, unthinking.
Riven looked at him sideways. "What?"
Finnick looked at him, jaw set. "I mean it. You can't go getting hooked in the neck and bleeding out like an idiot. I wouldn't forgive you."
Something flickered in Riven's eyes, a look Finnick couldn't read, like he'd just said something bigger than he realized. Then Riven let out a breath of a laugh, small and crooked. "You're the one who told me to bring the rod."
"I didn't tell you to swing it like a sword."
They sat there like that, Finnick pressing a bloody piece of cloth to his best friend's neck, both of them a little too quiet for a little too long.
"Do you think it'll scar?" Riven asked eventually.
"Yeah," Finnick said. "Definitely."
"Cool."
"You're weird."
"You're dramatic."
They let the silence stretch out again. Finnick dipped the shirt into the bucket, wrung it out, and started wiping the blood off more carefully. Riven winced but didn't say anything. The cut had stopped bleeding for the most part, but it still looked raw and angry.
"You should probably lie down," Finnick said.
"I'm fine."
"You're pale."
"I'm always pale."
That got a snort.
"Harlen's gonna kill me," Riven muttered, touching the edge of the wound gently.
"He'll just yell, right?"
"He always just yells."
Finnick nodded. He didn't know much about Harlen Vex beyond what he saw from a distance—a tall, broad man with a face like cracked stone and hands that never stopped working. The kind of guy who didn't have much use for words that weren't orders or curses.
"Do you want me to say it was my fault?"
Riven looked at him. "You'd do that?"
Finnick shrugged again. "You're the one who's bleeding everywhere. It feels like the least I could do."
Riven smiled at that—small and tired, but real. "You're not that bad, Odair."
"Don't let that get around."
They sat for a while longer before Finnick reeled in the line and emptied the bait back into the sea. They didn't catch anything.
When they pulled the boat back in and Riven limped a little while climbing out, Finnick didn't mention it. He just offered an arm without saying anything and pretended not to notice when Riven leaned on it for balance.
Later that week, the scab had turned dark and angry, but it stopped bleeding. Riven pulled the bandage off during lunch at the edge of the wharf and pointed to it proudly. "Do you still think it'll scar?" he asked.
Finnick gave it a bored look. "Yeah. You'll be hideous."
"Chicks dig scars."
"Not when they think you got it from losing a fight with your own fishing rod."
Riven grinned. "I'll tell them it was a shark."
"No one's gonna believe that."
"You would."
Finnick paused. "Yeah. I guess I would."
They didn't say anything else for a while. The sun burned higher in the sky. Somewhere below the dock, something splashed. Finnick leaned back on his elbows and glanced over at the boy beside him, "Next time we take the boat, you're bringing a smaller rod."
"You're not banning me from fishing, are you?"
"I am if you plan to hook your throat again."
"Hey! That wasn't my plan. It just kinda sorta... happened."
"Whatever. Next time you bleed, I'm using you as bait for a big catch like...swordfish!"
Riven wrinkled his nose. "I'm kind of insulted that I'm not good enough to hook a shark."
"Fine, I'll use you as bait for a great white."
"Deal."
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The rain came down hard enough to drown out thought. It slammed the tin roof of the old fishing shed that Riven and Finnick had ducked into moments ago. Each raindrop was sharp and echoing. The place reeked of wet rope, fish, and rusted hooks. Water dripped steadily into a bucket in the corner. It should've felt miserable. Riven wrung out the hem of his shirt again, not that it helped. His hair clung to his forehead, and his bare feet squelched against the soaked floorboards.
Finnick, restless as always, bounced his leg against the floor in rhythm with the rain.
"Would it kill you to sit still?" Riven muttered, elbowing his knee without looking up.
Finnick didn't miss a beat. "Probably. I'm not built for stillness."
"No, you were built for irritating everyone within fifty feet."
Finnick grinned like that was the highest compliment he could receive. "Thank you."
"That wasn't—whatever."
They were perched on overturned crates, soaked to the bone after sprinting from the docks when the storm broke. Finnick had dragged them in here—"it's a shortcut," he'd said, five seconds before the clouds split open and dumped their contents on their heads. Finnick glanced sideways, eyes sparkling even in the dimness. "You look like a drowned rat."
"You look like a wet squirrel."
"I'll take it. Squirrels are agile. And adorable."
"I change my mind. You're a soggy possum."
Finnick clutched his chest like he'd been wounded. "Brutal. Is this how you treat your best friend?"
Riven snorted. "Who says you're my best friend?"
Finnick nudged his knee again. "You do. That's why you've put up with me for 2 years. Actions speak louder than words, you know."
Thunder cracked overhead, and the walls of the shed trembled. Riven flinched. Not enough to notice—except, of course, Finnick noticed everything. He didn't say anything. Instead, he just shifted closer until their shoulders bumped. The warmth, even through their wet clothes helped.
"Have you ever thought about living somewhere else?" Finnick asked after a moment, voice lower than usual. "Like... somewhere dry. Somewhere that doesn't smell like salt and rain all the time?"
Riven shrugged. "Storms aren't so bad."
"They're loud."
"So are you."
Finnick tilted his head, considering. " I guess you're right."
The rain blurred everything outside. The beach, the boats, the lines of the district all smudged into grey. But inside the shed, it felt almost quiet. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't exactly cold either. It was just them.
"I stole something," Finnick said suddenly, as if the thought had just elbowed its way to the front of his brain.
Riven turned to him. "You what?"
Finnick reached into his jacket, still soaked, and pulled out a crumpled bit of waxed paper. Inside were two mango slices. Sticky and slightly squashed.
"From old Merna's stall. She didn't see me."
Riven stared at the fruit. "You're an idiot."
"I'm a provider," Finnick corrected, holding one slice out. "You want it or not?"
Riven hesitated, then took it. It was soft and too sweet and probably covered in jacket lint, but he didn't care. Mango was rare—imported, expensive, and mostly reserved for Capitol workers. He hadn't tasted it in over a year. Mangoes were his favorite and he knew Finnick knew that. "You could've been caught."
"But I wasn't."
"One day you're gonna get nailed by a Peacekeeper."
Finnick shrugged. "Worth it."
They chewed in silence. The rain hammered on the roof. "You really think we're best friends?" Riven asked, voice quieter now.
Finnick blinked at him. "Yeah, duh."
"Even though I don't laugh at your jokes?"
"You do. You just hide it."
Riven hesitated. "Even though I'm... you know. Weird?"
"You're the weirdest person I've ever met," Finnick said matter-of-factly. "But you're also the only one who's shared stolen mango with me in a thunderstorm. That's gotta be like... sacred."
Riven rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He didn't smile fully. But Finnick had gotten good at spotting the almost-ones.
"You're stuck with me," Finnick said, bumping their shoulders again. "Rain or shine."
Thunder cracked again, closer this time. The bucket in the corner overflowed.
The moment hung there, full of things unsaid. Then Finnick, true to form, shattered it.
"I bet I could tackle you right now and win."
"You're soaked and uncoordinated."
"I'm nimble."
"You're gonna break your spine."
"You're just scared."
Riven didn't even get to answer before Finnick lunged. It started with a half-hearted shove, but then Riven grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him down. It turned into a tangle of limbs and laughter and curses on the floorboards, Riven wrestling him down with a grip on his shirt collar, Finnick yelping and kicking out like a startled puppy. Something metal clanged off a shelf and hit the ground, but neither of them stopped.
"You're so bony!" Finnick shouted, half-laughing.
"Get your elbow out of my ribs, possum boy." Riven shot back.
The floorboards groaned under their weight. Something metallic fell off a shelf behind them and clanged to the ground. Neither of them moved to check what it was.
They lay there, panting, limbs tangled, rain still pounding above like war drums.
"Tell me again," Riven said, voice low.
"What?"
"That I'm your best friend."
Finnick didn't hesitate. "You're my best friend."
"You're mine too."
That shut them up for a moment.
Then Finnick said, "But I still won the wrestling match."
"No, you didn't."
"I had the high ground."
"You screamed when you fell of the crate."
"It was a battle cry."
"It was a squeal at best."
Riven laughed—genuine, sudden, and louder than anything else in the room. Finnick blinked like he hadn't heard that sound from him in a while. Maybe ever. They didn't move until the storm eased, and even then, it took a while. Eventually, they dragged the crates back into place and opened the door to a world soaked in dewdrops. Mist clung to everything. The sand had turned to slush.
"You owe me new shoes," Riven said as they stepped into the muck.
"You owe me your life," Finnick replied.
"For what?"
"The mango."
"You stole the mango."
"I risked my life for you."
"You risked your life for the sugar rush."
Finnick just grinned. They walked the rest of the way home barefoot, shoes be damned, clothes dripping, every step sloshing. And if Finnick kept glancing sideways to make sure Riven was still beside him, neither of them mentioned it.
Rain or shine.
That was the deal.