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The District Four Hunger Games Training Academy is a buzzkill in many ways, but Annie doesn’t know anyone who does birthdays better.
Birthdays are a big deal at the Academy because every year is precious. That’s why they do what they do. Volunteers keep the young and vulnerable children safe from the arena, and the responsibility is only given to those who can handle it.
That’s what she used to think, anyway. A lot has changed since she left the arena.
Even with all the fuss around birthdays, she’s never actually had to give a present to someone. That was done communally back at the Academy, with everyone pitching in. They didn’t exactly have an excess of gifts, but nobody really cared about that.
Victor’s Village, with more money they could ever need, is a completely different game.
“We could cook her dinner,” Finnick is saying, lounging on Annie’s couch. He’s just returned from an obviously exhausting trip to the Capitol, but happily agreed to help her out. Maybe he needs the distraction. “Or clean her house.”
“Her house is clean,” Annie reminds him. “And we’re trying to give Mags a birthday present, not poison her.”
Finnick shrugs. “Our cooking would be a gift to this earth.”
Annie stifles a laugh. “I’m trying to be serious here. We never gave presents back at the Academy. I don’t even remember how. And everyone in the Village is rich and definitely has a better idea of what to get Mags than I do.”
“It’s not a competition,” he says. “And I’ve known Mags for ten years and I don’t know what to get her.”
Her eyes flicker downward before landing back on Finnick. “That’s different. You’re…busy.”
“So are you,” he counters. “We’ve all been where you are. We all know how long it takes to even start to get better. Nobody’s judging you, I promise.”
“I don’t know,” says Annie, shifting in her seat. “Coral kind of looks like she’s judging me.”
“She looks like that with everyone,” he replies with an easy shrug. How does he make everything seem so effortless? “So that’s either just what she looks like, or she’s judging everyone. Either way, not your problem.”
Annie’s eyes roam the room the way they still do periodically. She’s mentally scanning for threats, watching the exits, that sort of thing. Nothing comes of it anymore. Except today, her eyes land on her piano, sitting quietly across the room. “Finnick,” she says, and he follows her gaze.
“Annie,” he echoes dramatically. “Have I ever told you that you’re a genius?”
“You haven’t,” she says, bubbling with excitement. “But feel free to repeat it as much as you want.”
Annie can’t call herself a musical expert, but she has been playing the piano as her victory talent for months now. Eons ago, before she started training at the Academy, her mother would play. Some of it has stuck with her even all these years later.
She fiddles around with the keys for a while, finding a melody she likes. It can’t be too complicated, but hopefully Mags will appreciate the thought.
“You write poetry, right?” she asks Finnick. At his nod, she says, “Okay, so I write the music and you write the lyrics, then we have a birthday song.”
“I’m happy to use my poetry for such a good cause.”
Writing a song is easier said than done, but it’s a good thing they’re victors with endless time on their hands. Annie nudges Finnick awake when he slumps over the piano keys, and Finnick pulls her out of whatever spiral of self-doubt she’s worked herself into. Who is she to think she can write a song, anyway?
Then again, she did survive the Hunger Games, and this is certainly an easier thing to do.
They go slowly, line by line, until they’ve created a song that’s about one minute in duration. “Do you think Mags will like it?” Annie asks once they’ve finished. “You know her better than I do.”
His responding smile is tired but elated. “I think Mags will be impressed that we managed to pull this off.”
“We could invite her over for dinner to show her the song,” she suggests.
Finnick gives a hum of agreement. “Wait, Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“Can either of us actually sing?”
She looks at him then, and it’s clear they’re both coming to the same realization. The hour is so late that she’s too tired to do anything but dissolve into laughter. “Shit.”