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When he'd walked through the door, the sound of a bell nearly deafened Isaac's ears.

When he steps through the door, everything hits him like a rushing tidal wave. He doesn't recognize everything at first, but slowly things start to come to him. That's the jungle gym and there's the hopscotch and he doesn't know why he's worried about some old hotel because it's recess. The door behind Isaac hangs open as his small feet send him running into the schoolyard playground, his lanky limbs bringing him further than the other kids with every step.

It's only when he gets to the middle of the yard that he realizes he doesn't see anyone he knows and Isaac starts to feel a tiny pit in his stomach that feels a lot like being scared. He wants Camden to come and play with him, but Camden has his own older friends and doesn't have time for a six-year-old like Isaac.

Cautiously, Isaac finds his way to the play area and sits down, hoping that maybe he can find someone to play with. After all, it can't be that hard, can it?

[Recess gathering post in the elementary school door! All ages, grades 1-8 welcome, whether they remember who they are or not]

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"Yeah, sure," Finnick says, shrugging his shoulders down at the boy. It's just swings, he figures. While he's not aware of it at this age, he's always been uncannily good at getting along with most people and is too young to be truly discerning in his choice of playmates. His interaction with others kids have been rare lately, and he'll take what he can get on the playground.

"Come on," Finnick says, starting toward the swing set without checking to see if Isaac is following him.

Isaac stands, checking to see if any of the bigger kids are watching (and checking to see if Camden is watching him, because Isaac's not sure whether he wants his brother to be overprotective or not). "What's your name?" he asks, when he thinks it might be okay to just worry about playing and nothing else.

"Finnick," he answers easily as he claims one of the swings as his own. His fingers wrap around the chains hanging on either side and he can't help the surge of triumph he feels. A swing.

"What's yours?" he asks in return.

"Isaac," he says, watching as Finnick takes hold of a swing and doing the same, tugging on the edge of the swing's chain and curling closer as he tries to get comfortable, though his shoulders are still hunched. "Isaac Lahey." He pumps his legs, trying to get himself higher. "Finnick is a funny name. It sounds like you fidget too much," he says.

"I like it," Finnick says with a smile and a shrug. He doesn't think his name is too weird, and it's certainly not that strange back home. He doesn't think he's ever heard that name Isaac before, but he's also not terribly concerned about it at the moment. He kicks up higher, his swing flying forward, and that's what Finnick is more concerned with at the moment. He lets out a peal of laughter that reveals just how much he's enjoying himself.

Isaac shrugs, not sure he cares what other people are named. After all, isn't there that kid in class who's called Stiles? He's really not sure what a Stiles is, so maybe that's the strangest of the names he's ever heard. He watches Finnick on the swings and how much fun he's having. Isaac's having fun too, he is, but he's more reserved about it.

There's a worried part of him that doesn't want it to end. "What other kind of games do you like to play?" he asks, finally feeling a little braver.

Finnick shrugs easily at the question. There aren't many things on a playground that won't entertain him, even if he -- like most of the kids from his district -- are far more accustomed to games played in the water. He recalls a vivid fascination with slides, although he supposes he really is too big for those too.

"I like monkeybars," Finnick says, eyes casting across the expanse of the playground in front of them. "And the thing that spins." He'd like the uncertainty of running around and around before making a desperate leap onto the metal surface, clinging tightly to the nearest bar.

Isaac finds himself reacting without thinking about how he might look or whether he's going to get yelled at for it because at the very first glance he gets at the spinny thing, his smile broadens with childish delight. "I always wanted to go on the spinny thing," he says, his eyes clouded with the potential joy one could experience (ignoring the sick). "Do you wanna go try it?"

Because swings are great and everything, but they don't cause quite the excitement that nausea inducing can.

"You've never been on it?" Finnick asks, his surprise shining through the question. He jams his feet into the ground, beginning to slow himself down -- so that when he's only a few feet off the ground, he releases the chains and goes flying into the air. He laughs and lands on his feet.

He turns, waiting for Isaac. This is a problem he can easily remedy, although he's still not sure how in the world this boy can not have been on the spinny thing before.

Isaac shakes his head, not wanting to bring up the fact that he worries about being physically sick. After all, he doesn't want to scare his friend away. Isaac follows after, though, stumbling a little clumsily though he finds his footing as he runs after Finnick. "We're not going to go too fast, are we?" he asks, even though secretly he kind of wants to.

"Fast as we can go," Finnick answers, flashing a grin over his shoulder. That was half the fun after all, pushing until your legs were about to give out, running and running -- knowing that the more you ran, the better the ride was going to be when you eventually jumped on.

"You can sit in the middle and I'll spin if you want," Finnick offers, taking a hold of one of the bars.

Isaac's always been a tall kid, but now it doesn't feel like the height is such a problem because for the first time in ages, he's not actually thinking about how tall he is or how uncoordinated that might make him. Instead, all he's thinking about is the fact he's made a kind of new friend. Isaac clambers into the middle, preparing himself by gripping the bars tightly. "We can trade after," he says breathlessly, not wanting to be selfish.

Finnick grins, but doesn't yet answer the offer of a trade. After all, he's got every intention of jumping on after he's got it going fast enough. Finnick digs his feet into the ground, muscles lean and prepared from hours upon hours spent swimming. He grips the metal of the nearest bar tightly and then takes off at a sprint, running as fast as he possibly while propelling the carousel into a spin.