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Disclaimer: Not my books. Title from Ellie Goulding's Starry Eyed.
Summary: Five things you didn't know about Annie Cresta. These are the important bits, she thinks, or at least the special ones, so don't tell. Peripheral Finnick/Annie.
AN: This is really, really indulgent. I really, really love Annie. All, like, five lines of her. And I wanted an Annie story that wasn't entirely a love story about Finnick, though they're tangled up enough that he's in here plenty. Also, feel free to point out anything that doesn't make sense--this is written in the background zorabet and I made up. We got bored and made up a class system for Four and it's probably her fault Annie's mother is a teen mom. #teameverythingissarah'sfault.



One) As a child, Annie Cresta had the luxury of two toys. Her first was a small, fuzzy stuffed bear; Camille Cresta had been 18 years old, on her own for months now with an infant, and just hours past her last reaping. Small and fussy baby Annie had reached for the bear—it was more than they could afford, but Camille managed. It was worth it, because Annie slept with the damn thing til long after it was scraps.

As she grew older, Annie and her mother built up a collection of seashells, carefully considering the odd and the beautiful. It built up this attention for detail— for really seeing things— Annie would learn to highly prize. She’d spend hours rearranging and sorting them and leaving them in different places for her mother to find. When she was nine, she was carefully sorting through her latest finds on the beach when a big, stupid, tanned foot came tripping, stumbling, crashing down, crushing the most delicate shells. She’d glared something wicked as the boy wiped the shards from his feet, laughing out a sorry as he headed off to join his friends.

This is how Annie Cresta first met Finnick Odair.

Two) She likes coffee, and she likes it black.

She tried coffee once before her Games. She’d gone to Finnick’s house, early enough to see him before she had to be at the docks and he had to be on a train for his Capitol visit. He’d been practically inhaling the stuff, and when she’d asked what he was drinking, he’d let her taste it. It was so sickeningly sweet, she’d almost spit it out all over him.

“Sugar makes it taste better,” he’d said, defensively, when she’d given him a Look.

“What, a whole barrel of it? How does it really taste?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

He’d smirked and given her a cup of her own, black as night and practically spilling over the brim. It was bitter and made her wrinkle her nose, but she drank every last drop, just so he couldn’t say I told you so.

Someone had handed her a cup on her Victory tour, an early morning prep session, and she’d sipped it absently, let the bitter aftertaste remind her of a time she was safe—safer

She began asking for it enough that Finnick kept the house stocked with the stuff. It never really made her feel much better for more than a few minutes, but even a few minutes are better than nothing.

Three) She is exactly five feet and one and a quarter inches tall. She found that out when she was 17; she saw it written on her stylist’s notes, before the Games. She’d peaked after he grumbled that she was shorter than he realized.

Finnick is six feet and one half inch tall. She asked him to check with the stylist one time, during her victory tour, in a desperate fit of some sort; she can’t remember why she needed to know so badly. This makes him exactly eleven and three quarter inches taller than her. When he hugs her, her head fits square against the center of his chest; sometimes, he’ll reach down and wrap her legs ‘round his waist like it’s nothing, lifting her up so he can press his forehead against hers. She likes this.

Four) It’s just been Annie and her mother for as long as she can remember—she’s not even really sure who her dad is, though she knows he’s one of the trawler workers; her dark hair had to have come from somewhere, and her mother was born up on the shore, grew up on a small boat captained by her father. Her mother would tell her who her father was, if she asked—she just doesn’t care enough to.

Her mother is sick, when Annie becomes a tribute. By time Annie comes back, she is dead. Finnick tells her gently, like it hurts him to tell her anything else awful. And it does hurt, but she can hardly tell. She was already screaming.

Years later, when the madness and pain are less fresh, she begins to hate the Capitol all over again for this—denying her the chance to really grieve.

Five) She’s not sure if she’s the best swimmer in the district, but she’s always known she has a special knack for it, even for someone from Four. She’s faster than most of the other kids her age, can handle the waves and tides and currents of moving water easier—even Finnick rarely beats her in a race.

Swimming saved her life, when it came down to it. Destroyed it, too—left her gasping and wet to live with the aftermath.

She’ll never tell Finnick this, because it upsets him when she thinks about these things, but it’s sort of like Finnick being so beautiful. He’s more beautiful than anyone else she’s ever seen, and she figures it must be the same for the people in the Capitol, because it saved his life. And then it kept on hurting him.

She watches most of the 74th Games curled up on Mags’ couch. She watches the Starcrossed Lovers, she sees the berries, she focuses in on their clasped hands. She holds her breath as they win and thinks—oh no.

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
zorabet
May. 1st, 2011 01:08 am (UTC)
This is ~good enough for the Gallery.
fragilesymphony
May. 1st, 2011 10:47 pm (UTC)
ily.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )