#but cinna???? cinna caused more trouble than you think in some places

[gutfaced]

and here's the meat of it really: cinna cared about katniss, in his fashions to change and accentuate her beauty and flair, in his kindness and friendship, but when it came down to it, he — like every other adult in her life who wasn't someone like plutarch, boggs or haymitch (and previously her late father) ultimately, continued to fail her.

cinna's from capitol roots. he's a young man whose muse may of came from the beauty of the arena and looking at the heritage of each district and their ways. while he is against the way the capitol works, it's way of churning out child fighters to vie for the crown in an annual massacre which garners country-wide entertainment, he is complict in then turning katniss into a child soldier.

not only that, but in the scene where katniss is unconscious and is barely able to listen to a man's voice yelling in the ‘rougher cadences of home,’ how did cinna de-escalate? was he the one to try and wedge in a compromise? haymitch was the protector there; many mentors could see their tributes as a pawn in the games for the sake of their own reputation, but haymitch is able to humanise and care deeply for his kids. so much so, that he challenges the gamemakers head on, not just complaining, but yelling, fighting back in disagreement. giving his tribute her rightful autonomy even while unconcious. that is rebellion. what cinna says to katniss as they're putting on the child-like dress (which already feels sexualizing enough with the accentuated features paired with this teen that both looks so young and younger still,) he doesn't seem like he was involved. haymitch ‘got into a huge fight with them about it.’ not cinna. and while he's not a mentor, it seems bystander-ish for a man who was lowkey in the rebellion all along. the compromise was still sexualization through padding and cinching and so, and while the capitol's powers are hard-pressing, saying no to that would've been the right way to rebel.

when it came to the wedding dress stunt, yes, it was a good touch of rebellion on his part. but this could've put katniss’ life in so much more danger. snow could've easily punished her for his deeds (and while he was ultimately tortured and killed,) who's to say that he couldn't turn around and harm ms. everdeen and prim on behalf of cinna's traitorous workings?

something else about cinna. he creates a label for katniss (‘the girl on fire,’) as a weapon for the rebellion. he'd been stagecoaching the idea of a figurehead long before the war. and by putting in the suicide pill, designing her battle outfit, he knew what she would become. he did not stop her from becoming utilized as a means to an end, he encouraged it, knowing that she would be hurt eventually. that doesn't mean that he wanted what happened to the prep team to occur, per say — but cinna isn't the greatest person that many attempt to make him out to be. there's something morally grey about stylists attempting to fuel their careers with the idea of dressing up tributes for the butcher's as it is, and while cinna doesn't inherently do that, he does things of a slightly worse nature.

[mytardisisparked]

When Sunrise Comes Early

(this is based on that one comic where Palpatine takes Padawan Anakin to a bar and a conversation with @cinna-wanroll @wonderlandleighleigh and @dettiot)

Obi-Wan blinked, hardly believing the words coming out of his padawan’s mouth; not really wanting to believe the words coming out of his padawan’s mouth.

“Chancellor Palpatine.... took you to a bar?”

Anakin nodded, not quite meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Master, I didn’t really know what to do so I just let him. He was being so kind and I didn’t know how to say no.”

Obi-Wan felt a tug at his heart. He kneeled before Anakin and rested gentle hands on his shoulders, causing the distressed young man to finally look him in the eye. “Anakin, this is not your fault, and I am glad you told me. The Chancellor had no right to take you there and put you in a place where you were not comfortable.” Obi-Wan sighed. “Or a place where you were too young to even get in the front door,” he muttered under his breath. 

He wanted so desperately to have words with the Chancellor. Nothing would make Obi-Wan feel better about the fact that the man had taken his young charge out drinking, but marching into the Chancellor’s office and reaming him a new one would certainly be a good start. That, however, wouldn’t be very Jedi-like of Obi-Wan, and it probably wasn’t a wise move in terms of making sure actual consequences would be dealt. He would have to talk to the Jedi Council about this and see what could, and should, be done.

But first: Anakin.

Obi-Wan smiled at the teary-eyed 16-year-old and patted his shoulder. “Thank you for being honest with me, Anakin. I’m very proud of you.”

The boy sniffled, but still gave him a half-smile. “Thanks for not getting mad.”

Obi-Wan grinned. “This was not your fault, however, I’m sure you’ll find some other way to try my patience when we resume training.”

Anakin grinned wickedly. “I have figured out a new move I want to show you.”

Obi-Wan stood and ruffled his padawan’s hair. “I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

__________

“The Chancellor did what?”

Obi-Wan had never seen Mace Windu outraged and, frankly, it was a bit frightening.

“Believe me, I wish it weren’t true, but Anakin would not lie about something like this.”

Mace and Yoda turned to look at one another, a silent message passing between them as the rest of the council murmured quietly, bits of their whispered words meeting Obi-Wan’s ears.

“What sort of man-”

“-his intentions couldn’t have been-”

“-not appropriate at all-”

“Poor Skywalker must not have known what to do.”

The conversations died down as Yoda tapped his stick on the floor.

“Troubling, this news is, but, I’m afraid, unsurprising. Underhanded, the Chancellor has always seemed. Too long, has he been in office.” Yoda ran a hand over the wispy, white hairs along his green scalp. “Perhaps an opportunity this will be, to encourage a vote of no confidence.”

The whispers that had filled the room moments ago returned at a higher volume.

“I understand that this was an inappropriate move on the Chancellor’s part,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said, “but we are not politicians! We cannot make political moves like this; it isn’t our job.”

“And what, pray tell, is our job?” Adi Gallia spoke up from her seat. “We shouldn’t be too involved in politics, yes, but we are also meant to be keepers of the peace. If the Chancellor is willing to manipulate a 16-year-old with incredible strength in the Force, what other lines is he willing to cross?”

Other chatter filled the room, voices overlapping until no one could be understood. Obi-Wan tucked his cloak tighter around himself, wishing very much that someone would excuse him while the council discussed this matter thoroughly or, at least, that they would allow him to remove himself from the very center of the room. 

“Enough.” Mace Windu’s commanding voice silenced the others in an instant. “No matter what your thoughts are on the politics of all of this, we all must agree that the Chancellor’s actions towards young Skywalker cannot go without consequence.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I believe that the best course of action from here is to let the Senate know what we know and allow the Senate to act as they see fit. I know that the majority of the Senators might like Palpatine, but they absolutely will not stand for this near-perverted act.”

Much to Obi-Wan’s relief, the rest of the room nodded in agreement.

“It’s settled then.” Mace leaned back in his chair again. “I’ll go before the Senate tomorrow morning and we will see what they decide.”

_________

The Senate was positively shocked when Mace Windu stepped in front of them and told them what the Chancellor had done. Some of the Senators demanded more definite proof, but the security holograms from the city that Obi-Wan himself had pulled the day before, depicting Palpatine walking with Anakin Skywalker through the underbelly of Coruscant, were enough evidence to cause almost the entire Senate to call for Palpatine’s removal. Even if they weren’t demanding a vote of no confidence now, the idea had already been implanted in everyone’s mind that the Chancellor was a pervert. No one would be proposing an extension to his term next election season.

As shocked as the senators were, however, no one seemed more surprised than Palpatine himself. 

As Mace had recounted Skywalker’s tale, the Chancellor had gone positively white, his facial expression shifting rapidly between shock, confusion, anger, and outrage. He had the look of a man watching his hand-built house burn to the ground as the Senate voted him out of office, replacing him with Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan.

As he was escorted out of the Senate, however, Mace and Obi-Wan felt his mood change. He became eerily quiet; his earlier shock completely vanished, leaving only a disconcerting silence that made the Jedi feel very uneasy. They left him at his apartment door, informing him that he would be escorted to his office tomorrow to retrieve his things. As they left, Palpatine simply smiled, and wished them a good night.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan muttered as he and Mace began working their way back to the Jedi Temple through the dark streets of Coruscant. “That went too well; Palpatine was too compliant.”

Mace nodded. “I agree. The Jedi will keep an eye on him as he moves back to Naboo over the next week, but I’m considering keeping a permanent watch there for the foreseeable future. The cloud of the Dark Side hangs around him.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “That seems wise.”

They walked in silence for a moment.

“How is your padawan handling all of this?” Mace asked quietly.

“He’s... fine. His trust in the Chancellor has been broken, which leaves a wound that will take time to heal but,” Obi-Wan sighed, “he is quite resilient. That being said, I think he needs to be around people who he can trust right now. I worry that this event will bring up latent trauma from his years as a slave.”

Mace nodded. “I think that might be wise.” He was silent a moment longer. “Does he still miss his mother?”

Obi-Wan’s heart clenched. “Yes. He doesn’t speak about her as often as he used to, but I can still sense his desire to see her again sometimes when he meditates.”

The older Jedi simply hummed in response, leading Obi-Wan up the front steps of the Jedi Temple.

As the two Jedi slipped through the towering front doors they immediately froze, eyes meeting. Something was wrong.

A disturbance in the Force.

They took off as fast as they could, racing up the stairs to find the source of the disturbance in the council chambers. As they flung the massive doors open, they saw Adi, Ki-Adi-Mundi, and Yoda surrounding a dark figure with their lightsabers drawn, meeting the flashes of a red saber with a speed only the Force could provide. In one corner, Yaddle lay, holding a small, clawed hand to a wound in her side. And finally, at the center of the room was a dark figure, fending off the three Jedi masterfully, his dark presence filling the room to the point where it was nearly suffocating.

A dark Lord of the Sith was attacking the Council Chambers.

Hey guys! This is the first chapter of a fic that will be published on AO3. It will explore a world where the Jedi discover Sidious’s plans early on and the ripple effect this has across the galaxy. It will likely skip around a bit between characters and time jumps depending on what I decide to focus on in a particular chapter. It’s not going to be all fluff, but it is going to be a relatively feel-good fic (so not a whole lot of plot). I hope you enjoy!

[magioftheseas]

I Miss You

For @cinnaphosweek

Day 1: Morning–when the sun shines. ↪ or: Younger days

Summary: Carefree, careless Phosphophyllite. Ridiculous, reckless Phosphophyllite. Radiant, bright Phosphophyllite. They really were more trouble than they were worth. Still, Cinnabar mulled. (Cinnabar and Phos in snippets both pre and during canon.)

Rating: T

Warnings: Spoilers to Chapter 45. Includes some good ol gem-related body horror. Mostly it’s just angst. Hurt no comfort. Welp.

Notes: I managed to write this!!! It’s the only thing I was able to write but I still did it! First hnk fic! Whoo! It’s a lot different from my usual style but I still hope it’s like, good. Writing it was actually surprisingly nostalgic. Considering the prompt, that’s a little ironic.

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

In such times, what crosses my mind is how much I miss that careless, carefree you.

--

“Cinnabar!! You’re the only one who hasn’t said hello to Phos!”

“...Phos?”

“Phosphophyllite! Phos, Phos, say hi to Cinnabar!”

The new gem was a brilliant shade of mint green, blinking wider, brighter eyes at them with nothing more than innocence and curiosity. They remained ducked behind Diamond, who was all coos and coaxing words.

“Now, now, Phos, Cinnabar is someone you can rely on,” they say so very sweetly. “They’re very smart! So wise! If you need advice, you should ask them!”

“...I should?” Phosphophyllite’s eyes widen and sparkle.

It’s too much to take.

“Is that all you’re going to say, Diamond?” Cinnabar asked scathingly. “Seriously?”

“Well, you’re not exactly doing much to leave a good impression,” Diamond points out openly. “I don’t want Phos to think poorly of you, Cinnabar.”

“I—!”

“Cinna!” Phosphophyllite’s cheerful squeak of a voice cuts them off. “That—what’s that? It’s gooey!”

Phosphophyllite stumbles forward clumsily, reaching with sparkling eyes towards a pulsating, convulsing blob of mercury. Cinnabar immediately recoils, just as Diamond latches onto Phosphophyllite and pulls them away.

“No, no, Phos.” Diamond shakes their head. “That’s poison. Bad to touch.”

“Bad?” Phosphophyllite’s eyes remained ignorant. “But they’re all around Cinna. Is Cinna in a bad place?”

“Cinnabar’s special,” Diamond says kindly. “Because, Cinnabar...”

Cinnabar coughs out mercury. Diamond flinches, more so under Cinnabar’s harsh glare as they bat away the silvery poison with ease.

“My body produces it,” they bite out. Phosphophyllite blinks at them. “So I can’t be affected by it. But everyone else is different. Everyone else can never come into contact with it. Ever.”

“That’s...cool!” Phosphophyllite beams so idiotically. “That’s really cool!”

Cinnabar could’ve cracked with how hard their fists clenched.

“...looks like you have more to teach them,” they say, coldly and almost bitterly. “They’re not quite right in the head, Diamond.”

“Don’t say that,” Diamond admonished gently.

“You’re not quite right in the head, either.”

“Cinnabar...”

“Rude!” Phosphophyllite squawks, clinging to Diamond. “Hey, you! Don’t insult Dia! Or me!” Despite hiding behind Diamond, they were glaring at Cinnabar defiantly. “I’ll make you pay if you do...!”

There was nothing to dignify that with. Especially with how Phosphophyllite was making faces at them.

Even for a young gem, this one is...particularly ignorant.

“Now, now, Phos,” Diamond is laughing, of course. “Cinnabar may have a bad attitude but they aren’t a bad gem. They’re very helpful. Very wise. And even kind. When you’re at a complete loss, you should turn to them.”

“No way!” Phosphophyllite exclaimed. “I’ll never need their help! So I’m never gonna ask!”

“Never say never, especially when you live forever.”

...never...

Phosphophyllite glared at them one last time before turning away with a sharp huff. Cinnabar averted their gaze as Diamond finally lead Phosphophyllite away by hand. The two of them were already close, which wasn’t a surprise.

They may have been born in the same year, but Cinnabar and Diamond had always been complete opposites.

Phosphophyllite, huh... Cinnabar scoffed, but they still wondered. Such a beautiful minty green... There’s no doubting that the Lunarians will be attracted to it. Well. They better be strong, at least. And if not...

They had Diamond and the others to protect them, of course.

They’ll be fine. All the same.

--

“You stupid 3.5, just what are you doing?”

Even in a field of green, that minty shade stands out so brilliantly that it’s beyond irritating. Especially when Phosphophyllite stretches out with a soft groan.

“I was having a great beauty rest until you showed up,” they grumble, cupping their cheeks. “Stupid, sour Cinnabar.”

Petulant still, as expected from the youngest.

“It’s getting late,” Cinnabar pointed out. “So shouldn’t you hurry up and return?”

“Shouldn’t you?!” Phosphophyllite asked, pointing at them. “Don’t tell me what to do if you’re hypocritical about it!”

“I still have work to do,” they said, unimpressed. “Unlike you.”

“I-I’ll get work! I’m just resting up to prepare! You shattered my concentration!” It’s almost amusing, just how heated up this 3.5 gets. “How dare you! Just because you can exude poison and can fight...!”

It’s almost despairing, just how ignorant and naïve this 3.5 is.

“...the others are going to worry,” Cinnabar says quietly. Phosphophyllite, too, seems confused by their tone. “Sensei is also going to worry.”

Phosphophyllite’s head tilts.

“By the way, what work are you doing, Cinnabar?”

“Wha...?” Cinnabar flustered, balking. “Don’t—change the subject like that, you idiot!”

“Can I help?!” Their eyes are sparkling. “I can help!!”

“No, you can’t!” Cinnabar exclaimed, exasperated. “You absolutely can’t! Just how stupid are you?!”

“I’m hearing insults but I’m not hearing an explanation!” Phosphophyllite gets to their feet, bright and full of excitement. “I’m helping! That settles it!”

“You’re not—no! That’s not going to happen! That’s... That’s...!” Cinnabar finally sighs. “Alright. Fine.”

“Yaaaaay!” It’s obnoxious just how happy Phosphophyllite is.

It’s insulting just how dumb 3.5 really is.

“So, so!” Phosphophyllite chirps, skipping after them, mindful of the mercury, at least. “What’s the work? What, what?”

“It’s escorting a problematic gem back.”

“...seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously. Don’t like it?” Cinnabar scowled. “Then go back on your own.”

“Buh!” Phosphophyllite’s cheeks puff out wide enough to cause cracks. “Boo...!”

“Booing isn’t going to change anything, 3.5.”

“Boo, booooo!”

Cinnabar snorted, turning away.

“Come on. Let’s just get you back. The others are going to worry.”

“I can handle myself,” Phosphophyllite grumbled, fidgeting. “I’m almost as old as Zircon was when they started doing things on their own.”

“You’re a lot more fragile,” Cinnabar pointed out. “You need to take things a lot more slowly.”

“Boooo...”

“Booing isn’t going to change that.” Cinnabar cocked out their hip, placing a hand on it. “It’s simply the way things are, 3.5.”

“...is that really true?”

“It always has been,” they said. “And it always will be.”

“Boooooooooo.”

Cinnabar shook their head.

No matter. Even if they remain stubborn forever, the others will protect and shelter them forever. At least they will...if the moon doesn’t snatch them away, first. With that minty sheen—there’s no way around it.

A gust of wind, rustling the grass. When they looked back, Phosphophyllite was still pouting.

...useless...but not worthless... Not like me.

“Come on, 3.5.”

“Stop calling me that! You wouldn’t like it if I called you by your hardness level would you?!” Phosphophyllite frowns suddenly, looking thoughtful. “Cinnabar, what is your hardness level anyway?”

“...noisy. You’re too noisy.”

“N-Noisy?! Booooo!”

“Stop booing. Come on.”

Phosphophyllite hmphed but they did obey, keeping their head ducked and lips pulled into a deep frown.

...my hardness level? It’s...

--

“...even lower than yours.”

Sighing, Cinnabar gathered up Phosphophyllite’s shattered arms, unthinkingly holding them close and tight as Phosphophyllite stared up at them with those unbearably bright, intolerably innocent eyes.

“Out of all 28 of us, my hardness is scale is the lowest at 2.”

Phosphophyllite blinks. Even like that, tainted with mercury, they really were such a beautiful and radiant little thing.

Stupid.

“The others are going to worry,” Cinnabar said. “We should get going.”

--

The way I am, I can’t do anything for anyone. All my life, I’ve known that.

“Help me! I want you to help!”

“No.”

Always having to be so careful—and then there’s you. So very careless. So carefree.

“T-Then...! I swear I’ll find you a job that only you can do! One that’s way more fun than the stupid night patrol!”

I resented that about you. But, truth be told...

“So—don’t talk about going to the moon anymore! Okay?!”

They couldn’t bear to look back. With how weak they really were, they were sure whatever face Phosphophyllite was making would be enough to break them. Especially with how desperate they sounded.

“Okay?!”

It really was too much.

--

“The sea didn’t have any good jobs for you. Sorry.”

Phosphophyllite was in pieces, a chunk of their face missing until Cinnabar spotted it in the nearby bowl, tucked under the shade of two long tusks of agate. Their legs, however, were nowhere to be seen. Waves washed up, lapping at Phosphophyllite’s sullen, broken face.

“Starting tomorrow,” they said, lowly and quietly. “I’m going to try harder.”

Their remaining eye flickers upward, pleading and pitiful.

“So, forgive me? Cinnabar?”

Cinnabar’s head ducked.

Stupid. So stupid.

“I won’t.”

Phosphophyllite laughs, at that. They aren’t even upset.

“You’re so strong. I knew you’d say that.”

Cinnabar slumps, wanting nothing more than to be swallowing up by the mercury flowing through.

“...come on.” They dispel it best they can for now, tugging Phosphophyllite up and retrieving them the bowl with the tusks. With only their arms, Phosphophyllite hold onto it all tight. They’re quiet, even as Cinnabar says, “The others are worried about you.”

And so, they drag Phosphophyllite back, with Phosphophyllite only blearily staring at fluttering mercury all the while. It isn’t until Cinnabar finds a place to leave them that Phosphophyllite speaks up again.

“Next time, I’ll save you.”

Even like this, you’re so achingly careless.

They didn’t respond verbally, instead turning away and leaving them be. Their arms cross, and they grip tight enough to crack.

Truth be told, those words—made me happy. Even though they hurt so much, too.

What an ugly thing to think.

I’m so stupid.

--

I’m so stupid.

Phosphophyllite’s cheerful, shining face remained imprinted on their mind just as their hand remained imprinted in mercury on that stupid clipboard that Phosphophyllite forgot about. Inconsiderate. Thoughtless. Useless. Bright-eyed. Innocent.

So very radiant.

“Cinna! Cinnabar! I’ll find you a job that only you can do! One that’s so much more fun than the stupid night patrol!”

Cracks running throughout.

“I’ll save you.”

The gleam of gold, shimmering in the sunlight.

“You even lost your arms?”

“No, I just needed a little change.”

Phosphophyllite’s smile was strained and pitiful, but their eyes were downturned and tired. A far cry from how they used to be. They changed.

Gems don’t change.

“O-Oh, but...! I’m still searching for a job for you...!”

Am I supposed to be happy that you remembered?

“The search is going well.”

Liar.

“No, um, seriously, think of a big, unexpected, surprising event, like, uh... Shockingly quick. Yeah.”

You’ve lost both your arms and legs in less than a year—

The thought ached so bad that Cinnabar wondered if they’d crack from the effort of voicing it. So, they don’t. Phosphophyllite is so obviously lying to placate them, and they’re so painfully bad at it. So, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

“Whatever.”

If you lose another part of your body, maybe then you’ll finally forget about me.

I don’t want that to happen but—

“It’s not my problem.”

--

They really had changed. They were meeker, more soft-spoken, much more pitiful despite clearly being more physically capable. Sometimes they’d get emotional—Phosphophyllite was still so hopelessly transparent, after all—but when they quieted down, it was as if that brightness dulled.

Not too long ago, just recently, you must have been smiling and laughing and flailing without any worry. And now it’s as if you’re burdened. As if you aren’t already our biggest burden.

Of course, back then—Phosphophyllite also looked upon Sensei with open, sparkling eyes. They always hid in his robes, small and frail, a suitable place to be. Sensei was kind to Phosphophyllite as he was kind to everyone.

They had been similar in that regard. They had been similar...

And, now?

“Do you trust him? Sensei?”

“I’m...still making up my mind.” For one traitorous moment, Cinnabar really wondered and really looked at that twisted expression on Phosphophyllite’s face. “What about you?”

In the end, Phosphophyllite didn’t have an answer at that point in time.

For another traitorous moment, Cinnabar wasn’t sure if they were disappointed or relieved.

That gem who hid in Sensei’s robes without restraint and cling to him so desperately—aah...

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

--

It didn’t matter until it did.

“I found one—a job for you.”

For a moment, Cinnabar sees the 3.5 from before, tainted with mercury and desperately holding out their clipboard for them to grab. Phosphophyllite looks at them with that same force of will, but—

But...

“It’s a job I can’t do with anybody but you. Please...help me.”

Where’s that sparkle?

“What about the fun?” Pathetically, they’re trembling under such a dull yet determined gaze. “You said it would be fun. This doesn’t sound like fun.”

For months now, Cinnabar dwelled over those desperate words. They mulled and lingered on such ridiculous thoughts. For months.

That’s not a very long time, but Phosphophyllite had lost their arms and legs in that time.

I bet they don’t even remember. Because they were just so reckless. One winter and you changed that much... Isn’t that unfair? Isn’t that cruel?

“It’ll be one that’s way more fun than the stupid night patrol. Your exact description. Did you forget...?”

I shouldn’t be surprised and yet—it’s just so upsetting. How stupid. So stupid.

They really were stupid, because Phosphophyllite’s face twisted up in that unpleasant way again.

“Uh... N-No. No, sorry. It’s not fun. There’s nothing fun about it. Fun’s impossible. S... Sorry.”

They really were stupid, because Phosphophyllite made another pitiful face, head hanging, eyes low and downturned. No sparkle. And fading determination.

“I want you to help me expose Sensei’s relationship to the Lunarians.��

They really were stupid, because they should’ve expected this, and it’s still so upsetting to hear.

“That’s not fun at all!”

“Right?!” Phosphophyllite manages to catch their breath, and then, “You asked me what I was going to do...about Sensei... So I started by trying to look for the truth. But once I started doubting, everything seemed about him seemed so suspicious. In trying to search for clues, I’ve had to keep lying to everyone... I... I...”

Phosphophyllite nearly trembled, and Cinnabar can’t help but notice that their alloy is distorting. Their arms and fingers are becoming misshapen, the alloy quivering and pulsing.

It’s not all that dissimilar to mercury, but Phosphophyllite is in a lot more control than Cinnabar usually is.

Well. Even if it’s not by much, I guess they are still a higher hardness level.

It’s a surprisingly bitter and sardonic thought, and it’s one that feels so shameful when Phosphophyllite is speaking so softly. About matters that were so recent that they were perfectly fresh memories.

Phosphophyllite quivers over them as if they were fresh wounds.

“I don’t even know if I can see things for what they are, anymore.”

Phosphophyllite is pleading with them so pitifully.

“I want you by my side, Cinnabar,” they say. “That way, I can hear what you think about all this.”

That someone needs me—I should be happy. Deep down, I know this is what I’ve always wanted.

But.

It’s not like I don’t understand, it’s not like I can’t recognize turmoil. Phosphophyllite really is struggling with all this. Stupid, reckless Phosphophyllite. You’re still the idiotic 3.5 youngest causing problems for everyone. I feel for you, though, I really do...

But.

You really think I haven’t been through all this before, idiot?

“And?” They can’t look at Phosphophyllite at all. It’s fine. They don’t want to see their own past stupidity and dull suspicions reflected back in a face that was supposed to be carefree and radiant. “Say you find out that Sensei has done something wrong, unforgivable, even—what then?”

Phosphophyllite didn’t have an answer. Of course not. Cinnabar doesn’t have one either, and they’ve been mulling on this longer.

“If you haven’t thought this through enough to answer that...” If you can’t outdo me in this, at least... “I can’t help you.”

I can’t do anything.

“...I’m not surprised.” Slowly, but surely, Phosphophyllite’s gaze rises to meet their own. It’s a leveled stare, one that’s completely unfitting. It’s so unpleasant, the words even more so. “You’re terribly smart and extremely careful, Cinnabar. That’s why I can’t do this without you.”

Phosphophyllite turns away before Cinnabar can.

“I’ll be back. I’ll think about it. I’ll give you an answer. I promise.”

Phos leaves, gold and mint green reflecting starlight, and Cinnabar can only watch. Watch as they get further and further away.

It’s not fun—being the one who gets left behind.

“...if you had just wanted to team up, then I...”

Even if you were different, even as you became more and more different... If it was you...

The night watch was colder and lonelier than usual.

--

Phosphophyllite didn’t approach them again for a while, so they remained isolated. They could tell that a few not insignificant things happened, but the last they checked, Phosphophyllite was still as they were. Phosphophyllite was also smiling with some unfamiliar gem. Cairngorm. They must have been Cairngorm. Phosphophyllite had been running around trying to get everyone to memorize that name, after all.

Cinnabar didn’t care that much. All the other gems seemed happy, at least. Perhaps they, too, were grateful for Phosphophyllite’s smile. Even if it was but a pitiful recreation.

It’s better than nothing.

All the same, it doesn’t really matter. Not at all.

Phosphophyllite is finally acting a bit more carefree. It stings. But it’s also a relief. They haven’t forgotten that. They haven’t fully forgotten it. Maybe they miss it as much as I do.

It still doesn’t matter, but...

Maybe, just maybe... Things would be...fine enough.

--

Carefree, careless Phosphophyllite. Ridiculous, reckless Phosphophyllite. Radiant, bright Phosphophyllite.

It doesn’t even look like them anymore.

Their spindly flailing arms were gone. Their trembling, clumsy legs were gone. Their head of beautiful minty green was gone.

Cinnabar covers them back with the blanket, unable to keep looking.

When they wake up—they won’t even have the same smile anymore. It’s gone. It’s really, truly gone.

They have to back off, because the last thing Phosphophyllite needs right now is to be stained with mercury while comatose. Again.

Cairngorm would likely shatter something if anything happened to the head of Lapis Lazuli. And Cinnabar would shatter if anything happened to the remaining piece of Phosphophyllite.

“...night patrol is going the same,” they said dryly. “Stupid. And not fun. But, still better than that idiotic plot you came up with. When you said you were going to think about it, I wasn’t expecting you to take over a century. Idiot. Stupid. So worthless.”

They end up coughing a bit of mercury, but they manage to make it recede so that it doesn’t cause any damage. They’ve gotten a little better at it, at controlling it. Of course the only reason why their control slipped in the first place was because of that stupid, stupid Phosphophyllite.

“You should’ve just asked to team up,” Cinnabar mutters almost bitterly. “You didn’t need to overcomplicate something that could’ve been so simple. Idiot. Dummy.”

And despite theirself, the mercury still bubbles at their fingertip. They can still replicate a dangling, faceless Phosphophyllite as they had looked before all this. Frown deepening, Cinnabar stares as the shape shifts—to Phosphophyllite with the shorter hair, and now an unfamiliar gem with the head and long lustrous hair of Lapis Lazuli.

Lapis Lazuli.

Lapis Lazuli hadn’t been anything like that reckless idiot at all.

...so what’s going to happen? How much more will change irreparably?

Gems weren’t meant to contemplate such questions.

Cinnabar could only sigh.

“Oh!”

And then they almost cracked from surprise. But they calmed down quickly, scowling as they turned to Diamond skipping in, carrying a pot of flowers.

“Cinnabar, you’re visiting Phos as well?” A laugh. They set the pot aside to clap their hands in delight. “That’s so lovely! I’m sure Phos will appreciate it!”

“If that idiot ever wakes up,” Cinnabar snapped. “I don’t really want them to bother me anymore anyway. They’ve caused enough trouble.”

“Oh... So things are still that passionate between you two...”

“S-Shut up! I’ve told you over a thousand times now that it’s not like that!”

And they’re still so flustered over it. Somehow that’s more annoying than anything.

“They’ll wake up,” Diamond said, and their smile has noticeably shifted. “Even if it takes hundreds of years, they’ll wake up again for sure. Phos hasn’t been sleeping as of late, so this is just them making up for it.”

Cinnabar scoffed, even as they hesitated, eyes downturned and avoidant of the body. Even as Diamond is straightening out the sheet.

“So much had changed quickly. It was rather chaotic, wasn’t it, Cinnabar?”

“With that idiot asleep, things are back to slow and uneventful,” Cinnabar replied. “With the exception being when someone gets captured or a new gem is born, of course.”

“Yes...” Diamond trails off. “It’s how things used to usually be.”

A pause.

“Well, Cairngorm is managing pretty well, in case you’re curious,” Diamond chirps, lacing their fingers together. “They check on Phos a lot. You two might get along...”

“Pass.” Cinnabar waved their hand. “I should get going. I need to rest up for patrol.”

“Cinnabar, wait.”

Surprisingly, they do stop. And they do wait.

“When Phos wakes up, you’ll welcome them back too, won’t you?” Diamond asks. “I think—it would be a wonderful thing to wake up to. Everyone welcoming them back. Things are going to be different, after all, considering Phos’s state.”

Their state. Their reckless state.

“But it’ll still be Phos. I’m sure of it.”

But what kind of Phosphophyllite will it be?

They don’t know but—

All the same... I want to see them.

“...I’m going.”

Even if those carefree days of yours are gone, I still want to see you.

“Bye, Cinnabar,” Diamond says softly. Cinnabar doesn’t look at them as they go on their way.

It’s cloudy out. It’s going to be cloudy tonight. But even if it wasn’t, it’s not like the Lunarians will show up anyway. It really doesn’t matter.

Please hurry and wake up soon, Phosphophyllite. I...miss you.

[ellanainthetardis]

Prompt (only if you're still taking them ofc): Effie embarrasses herself pre-Mockingjay and Haymitch tries to calm her down (maybe with Cinna there too just bc i love Cinna) :)

Here you go! [x]

One For The Gag-Reel

“I cannot wait forthis dreadful Tour to be over!” Effiesnapped, her cheeks still burning red. She limped to the closest armchair andsat down with relief, immediately folding her right leg over her left so shecould get a good look at her ankle.

“But we’rehaving so much fun…” Haymitch drawled out. Without any sympathy. As usual. He went straight to the liquor cart and shesupposed she should  have been gratefulhe hadn’t headed directly to the train’s bar car.

She pursed herlips and glared at his back.

“It’s not that bad.”Katniss offered, dropping on the couch.

Humiliating.

It was humiliating.

“Not that bad?”she hissed. “You are aware this willprobably go into the gag reel, aren’t you? Everyone will watch me fall downthose stairs on a loop and laugh.”

“It was funny.”Haymitch snorted, taking off his jacket and tossing it on the back of thecouch. “That little screech you made? Comedygold.”

“The important thing is that you didn’t really gethurt.” Peeta commented, not unkindly, as he sat on Katniss’ other side.

“It truly wasn’tthat bad, darling.” Portia swore. “I doubt the cameras had a good angle…”

“You are sweet but the cameras were aimed straight atthe flight of stairs I missed.” she retorted. She undid the buckle of the shoeand rotated her ankle a few times. There was an unmistakable pinch. “Damn shoes!”

“Told you they would kill you.” Haymitch taunted fromthe cart where he was doing who knew what. How long did it take to pour oneselfa drink? And really was it too muchto expect for him to do the polite thing and offer everyone one?

“I am so sorry, Effie.” Cinna winced. “I designedthose heels..”

“Oh, it is fine…” she sighed, a little subdued by thatapology. “It was the stairs… The stairs were faulty.”

“She should have told Six’s mayor.” Katniss mutteredto Peeta under her breath. “I’m sure he would have liked to know.”

Effie pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at thechildren.

“Here’s some ice.” Haymitch declared before she couldtell the girl off for being insensitive to her pain. “Quit bitching now.”

She was genuinely surprised when he placed ice cubeswrapped in a cloth around her ankle. He hadn’t been fixing himself a glass then,after all. It made her feel guilty and she gave him an apologetic look that hedismissed with a roll of his eyes.

She was not really angry anyway.

Simply…

Well. Humiliated.She couldn’t even tell how it had happened. One minute she was walking up thestairs next to Haymitch, the next she was falling all the way back down. Sheremembered having made a desperate grab for him, she remembered he had tried tocatch her… Then she was sliding down the stairs on her side. Everyone rushed toher naturally. The Mayor, the kids, Cinna and Portia… Even Haymitch had beennext to her in a flash, asking if she was alright before defusing the tensionwith a joke…

She had laughed along and she had smiled for thecameras but she hadn’t been able to relax all dinner, fixated on the fact thatthe whole country had seen that fall and that it would probably play on repeatfor days. The simple thought wasenough to make her flush again.

The children didn’t linger long in the living-room andPortia, after making sure she was alright, followed them down the corridor,declaring she wanted to get as much sleep as possible before they reached Five.Effie could understand that. They were all tired and stressed out. She wouldn’thave fallen down the stairs if she hadn’t been tired and stressed out.

The ice made her skin numb and she moved the makeshiftpack around a little, wincing when she caught sight of her ankle.

“Oh.” Cinna made a face, crouching next to herarmchair and lifting the ice pack to get a closer look. “That doesn’t lookgood…”

“What?” Haymitch asked from the other side of the roomwhere, this time, he was fixinghimself a drink.

“It’s swollen.” the stylist said. “I think you mightneed a doctor…”

“It is simply a sprain. Nothing I cannot handle.” shesighed.

Haymitch took a sip of his drink on his way to herarmchair and handed it to her for safekeeping. He carefully coiled one handaround her ankle and placed his other one of her foot. He slowly made her footturn one way and then the other…

She had half a mind to ask him if he had gotten amedical degree while she wasn’t looking…

“Shit,sweetheart, it does look bad.” hefrowned, a bit sheepish. Probably because he had been making fun of her nonstopsince it had happened.

“I will keep it wrapped until we have to go on cameratomorrow.” she sighed, glancing at Cinna with a pout. “I was supposed to wearthe red heels in Five but I think they might be too high now. Do you think wemight switch for the black ones? They are less impressive but they are alsomore comfortable.”

“You’re joking.” Haymitch scoffed, gently rubbing histhumb on the swollen part of her ankle. “You shouldn’t put weight on that foot.Never mind wearing those death traps.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I went down the catwalk withmore serious injuries than this.” she dismissed. “Sprains are a model’s lot.”

“I will go see what we can do for your outfit.” Cinnapromised. “We’ll make you look so fabulous nobody will remember what happenedtonight.”

“I doubt that but I thank you.” she smiled, squeezinghis hand when he placed it on her shoulder. “Goodnight, dear.”

Once the sliding door had automatically closed behindthe stylist, Effie slouched a little in the armchair, losing her regal bearingand wincing at the pain in her side. She only hesitated a short moment beforefinishing Haymitch’s whiskey. The taste was awful but she hoped the alcoholwould help her relax.

He tossed her an annoyed look when he saw what she haddone but didn’t comment, still busy inspecting her ankle as if he could heal itjust with his willpower.

“I hate totrouble you but would you terriblymind helping me to my room?” she asked.

“You hate to trouble me?” he snorted, openly mocking.“Since when?”

She pouted. “I was simplybeing polite.”

“See, you sayyou’re being polite but that’s just a covert way to be bossy.” he accused,outstretching a hand to help her up. “Come on, I’ll carry you. Should have saidit was that bad. Wouldn’t have letyou walk all the way from the Justice Building to the train.”

“I told youI was in pain.” she argued.

“No. You told me it was a disaster ‘cause everyone’dbe laughing at you.” he objected, rolling his eyes. “You said you were fine.”

“Well, I was not about to admit being hurt through myown clumsiness on national TV.” she retorted, wrapping her arms around hisneck. She held her breath when he picked her up, pain flaring on her right sidebut she clenched her jaw and pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

“What now?” he grumbled. “You’re okay?”

“Bruised.” she breathed out slowly.

He didn’t answer but his expression grew a little darkerand he hurried down the corridors and to her bedroom. He was careful when heplaced her down on the bed and she was grateful he didn’t toss her like hesometimes did when he fancied himself a funny man.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” he asked, alreadyrummaging in the cupboard of her en-suited bathroom. “Never mind. Found it.”

There were more sounds of things being moved around.She supposed he was looking for the right salve.

She did a quick job of getting rid of her remainingshoe and of the dress. Then she stood up and hopped to the full-length mirrorscrewed on the wardrobe door. And she made a face.

There were angry looking bruises on her right sidefrom her ribs to her mid-thigh.

“You shouldn’t be up…” Haymitch started scolding as hecame back in the bedroom only to do a double take. “Holy shit.”

Before she really understood what was going on, he hadher sitting down on the bed and he was running his palm all over the bruisedarea, sometimes pressing a little too hard for comfort. There was a frantic,almost panicked look in his eyes and it took her a few minutes to figure outwhat was wrong.

“I am fine,Haymitch.” she promised.  

“You’re lucky you didn’t crack your ribs.” hemuttered. “Shit. You should have saidit was that bad.”

“I honestly did not know.” she sighed. “And the factyou are distressed do not excuse your language.”

“Ain’t distressed.I don’t care if you go and break your neck.” he grumbled, picking up the smalljar he had found in the bathroom.

She tried to take it from him but he batted her handaway. It seemed he was determined to take care of her injuries himself so shelet him, relaxing because as strong as his hands were – and there were strong – they could be extremelytender when he wanted them to.

He was only satisfied when her side was entirely coated with cream. He rubbed a generousamount on her ankle too and watched, apparently fascinated, when she expertlywrapped it tight.

He lifted his eyebrows. “How often have you donethat?”

“I told you. Sprains… It is a common thing.” sheshrugged. “I have been wearing heels since I was ten. It is bound to happen.”

He stared at her and then shook his head, standing upfrom the bed to get rid of his own clothes. “But you still wear them. You’recrazy.”

She huffed but didn’t rise to that bait. She watchedhim discard his waistcoat on the chair in the corner before kicking his shoesagainst the wall…

“I do not remember inviting you to stay tonight.” shescorned, a little vexed by his name-calling.

“Thought it was an open invitation thing…” he smirked,glancing at her over his shoulder before ripping the tie off his neck andtossing it on top of the waistcoat. The shirt and the pants didn’t get thatfar, they remained on a heap on the floor, prompting her to press her lips in ahard disapproving line. Not that he cared.

“Perhaps you thought wrong.” she hummed, unclaspingher bra and slipping her panties off. She had to use the bathroom anyway so shepointedly hopped to the clothes hamper to drop her dirty laundry.

He was usually more receptive to her naked self – evenif she was hopping around – but his grey eyes remained on the bruises marringher pale skin. And they were hard.

She rethought her original plan of going into thebathroom and limped closer to him, locking her arms around his neck. His handshovered uncertainly next to her hips before settling at the small of her back.She wasn’t sure she liked the way he was touching her, as if she was abreakable fragile thing. He never touched her like that.

“You know Imark easily.” she reminded him. “It looks more impressive than it is. It doesnot even hurt that much.”  

“Yeah.” he granted, brushing his knuckles along theline of her spine. “Just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

She smiled and raised on tip toes – balanced on heronly good foot – to kiss him.

She didn’t make the mistake of telling him she thoughthe was being sweet but she hoped she made herself clear anyway.

[thistyrannosaur]

Quick Fire Questions! (tagged by @daylightisfadingaway)

What’s the smell of your shampoo?

I usually use Cantu Shea Butter Cream Shampoo and Conditioner (it smells kind of like coconut) but I ran out and got some Herbal Essence Moisture Shampoo/Conditioner that was on sale. It smells like blue raspberry or something but it’s supposed to be coconut milk scented. BYE. 😆

What’s your aesthetic?

uh, Über Casual Dummy™ aesthetic. I don’t know what I’m doing 99% and I don’t think I ever will. I just roll with the tide.  🌊

What’s your favourite part of the day?

I feel the most calm late at night. Like, the period when I’m winding down and getting ready for bed. 

What do you like most about the beach?

Thinking about the water and how expansive it is is really calming. Waves hitting the shoreline and the breeze that sometimes comes along with it? Amazing. I don’t really go to the beach, but I remember beaches well from childhood.

What do you worry about constantly?

Minor worry:  how frizzy my hair is.

Major worry: not figuring out my place in life.

What are some relaxation tips for your followers?

Pick up a blanket at the store that speaks to you, or find a special one that you already have. Get in bed. Make sure the room is dark (put a little night light on if you wish). Put on a fan. Proceed to nap. Naps can change your life! I also find that listening to ASMR is a HUGE way to relax, especially when you’re trying to cool down or get some sleep! I listened to one last night and within minutes I was out like a light.

What are some things that tear you up?

Seeing my parents struggle, ‘cause they’re hardworking people and deserve more than they get. Injustice with no consequences for the bad guys. Loneliness.  

What are some troubles you face on a daily basis?

Self-esteem issues that follow me around pretty much every day. Having to deal with a job with incompetent management. Keeping myself focused on one thing, since my mind tends to wander and it’s hard to get things finished.

What is one scene of a book that really made you?

When Katniss was about to go into the arena in “Catching Fire” and she witnesses Cinna get attacked right before she goes in. It was one of the first times I cried reading a book, because he was like family to Katniss and the Capitol used him as emotional sabotage to get her to fail. The heartlessness of that really stuck with me.

Say something to all your followers:

I hope each and every one of you find solace in something, big or small, that makes you happy. <3 And always remember to be thoughtful, kind, and steadfast, even when life tests you. 

@repeatdaydreams @owlmighty @true-queen-of-mischief @unchargedlife @thegradschooltrenches @liarsdrinkcoffee

[ra3lynn3]

Blind Date

Chapter 13

A/N: Hey, Blind Daters! Here’s the latest chapter for your reading pleasure :) Here’s Chapter 12 in case you need to catch up. Thanks for taking the time to read, like, review, and reblog. I super appreciate it! Special thanks to my trusty beta @pip117. You rock!!

“You did what!?” Johanna’s voice went off like a bomb in the meditative quiet of the yoga studio.  

Katniss shot her a warning look.

“Let’s remember this is a place to recenter our focus and quiet our minds.” The yoga instructor passively chastised as she walked between Johanna and Katniss’ mats.

The two women glanced at each other, faces flush from holding their downward facing dog position, both suppressing a chuckle. Johanna was not quite so  successful.

“It was totally innocent.” Katniss whispered to Johanna once she was sure the instructor was out of earshot.  Her friend gave her a look. “Ok. Mostly innocent.” Katniss corrected, knowing that the other woman knew her well enough to know she was withholding the truth.

“I don’t believe you! Weren’t you just telling me what a jerk that guy is?” Johanna asked as the two folded into their next pose.

“Maybe I was wrong.” Katniss offered with a shrug. “I mean, I’m not saying he’s perfect, but the more I get to know him, the less of a jerk he is.”

“I’d be careful if I were you. It’s always the unassuming ones that are like snakes in the grass. Maybe he’s just trying to seduce you so he can earn your trust and snatch your account out from under you!” Johanna offered as the other yogis shot her annoyed looks.

“You’ve been watching Soap Operas again, haven’t you?” Katniss whispered with a smirk as they all moved in to their next pose.

“Irrelevant.” Johanna replied flippantly. “I’m just seeing the bigger picture here. I'm trying to protect my best friend. You’re welcome!” She said with a huff and closed her eyes, pretending to focus.

Katniss rolled her eyes, wondering if Johanna was right about any of it.  She rationalized that since Peeta had been the one to give the Crane account over to her there didn’t seem to be anything backhanded or conspiratorial going on at all, even though her response at the time had been less than gratuitous.

“Is he a good kisser at least?” Johanna asked after a long moment of silence.

Katniss turned her head, opening an eye to peak at Johanna. Johanna turned her head and peaked at Katniss just the same. A bashful smile coaxed it's way onto Katniss’ face. Johanna closed her eye and turned back to her pose looking smug.

“He asked me out again this Wednesday.” Katniss admitted as the women rolled their mats and walked out at the end of class.

“And?”

“And I told him yes.” Katniss admitted as they saddled up to the nearby drink counter. Johanna shot her a look before ordering some green concoction off the menu for the two of them.

“You’re falling for him, aren’t you?” She asked finally.

“Why would you say that? Because I agreed to see him again? I’m giving him a chance. We’re working on being friends.” Katniss protested defensively.

“Friends?” Johanna chortled. “You are no good at being friends.”

“That’s what I said! And then he said he wasn’t either, and then we started making out right there in my dark room!” Katniss recounted breathlessly.

She and Johanna each took a sip of their drink, “This is terrible!” Katniss managed to choke out.

Johanna pulled a disgusted face, swallowing hard. “This is terrible,” she agreed. “Let’s go get a burger. I feel like we earned it ” She suggested, getting down from her perch.

Katniss gave her a nod and followed her to a nearby diner.

“Ok, now back up. You let this guy in your dark room?” Johanna mentioned suggestively as the two sat down.

“Why does everything you say have to sound so...dirty?”

“It’s a gift.” Johanna replied with a shrug.

“Well, we randomly ran into each other at Cinna’s. He asked to see my work and I agreed. I mean, it was actually really nice to spend the afternoon together. I showed him how to develop pictures. He was pretty horrible at it, but I think we got one good one after about an hour.”

“First of all, you are so boring.” Johanna accused. Katniss gave her a tired look in return. “You have a hot guy alone with you in the dark and all you do is develop pictures? You’re sure he wants to see you again?”

Katniss felt a blush filling her cheeks as the two ordered. “I never said he was hot.” Katniss replied petulantly.

Johanna gave her a knowing look.

“Ok, he’s totally hot.” Katniss agreed. “What was I supposed to do, jump his bones?”

Johanna maintained her look, doing little more than quirking her eyebrow. Katniss huffed at her in response. “You are so totally falling for this guy!”  

“I am not! We’re working on being-“

“Friends.” Johanna finished her sentence with a roll of her eyes. “Right.”

Katniss quickly changed the subject after that, not wanting to deal with any further scrutiny. Although now she found her mind wandering into dangerous territory about a man she was still desperately trying to figure out.   

__________

To: k.everdeen@heavensinc.com

From: p.mellark@heavensinc.com

Subject: Wednesday

Hey,

So there’s this exhibit I’ve been wanting to check out. Would you be willing to meet me at the art museum this Wednesday?

Peeta

__________

To: p.mellark@heavensinc.com

From: k.everdeen@heavensinc.com

Subject: Re: Wednesday

Hi,

Sounds great. Why are you emailing me? You’re literally two cubicles away.

Katniss

P.S. Muffins in the staff lounge = divine. Get one before they’re gone!

__________

To: k.everdeen@heavensinc.com

From: p.mellark@heavensinc.com

Subject: Re: re: Wednesday

Thanks! I was trying a new recipe… Wasn’t sure if anyone would like them. Glad you’re a fan.

Peeta

P.S. Let’s meet at 7 on Wednesday

__________

To: p.mellark@heavensinc.com

From: k.everdeen@heavensinc.com

Subject: Re: re: re: Wednesday

You, sir, are my new best friend ;)

Katniss

P.S. Sounds good!

__________

To: k.everdeen@heavensinc.com

From: p.mellark@heavensinc.com

Subject: Re: re: re: re: Wednesday

Is that all it took?!

Peeta

P.S. Looking forward to it!

__________

Katniss fiddled with the fabric of her skirt as she and Peeta walked around the gallery slowly, taking in the different pieces. Suddenly, her conversation with Johanna from earlier in the week came flooding back to her mind.

“Can I tell you something weird?” She asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I told you about polar bears being left handed, I definitely think it’s your turn.” Peeta mused as he turned to glance at her.

“Ok, promise not to think I’m totally insane?” She asked. Peeta folded his arms over his chest, waiting. “So I have this running list in my head of things that I want to do in my life,” Katniss began, looking bashful. “And one of those things is to touch a famous piece of art.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips giving Peeta an uncertain look.

He chuckled. “So, do it!” He pressed her.

“I can’t! What if I get in trouble?” She said, a nervous excitement taking over her body. She gripped Peeta’s wrists quickly, looking at him wide-eyed. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest at the idea.

“Hey, this is your list. I’m just here to support you in the uprising.” Peeta said nonchalantly, a smile playing at his lips while turning to look at the artwork nearby.

“Ok, pick one. I’m going to do it.” Katniss said finally in a low whisper, looking around cautiously. She was determined to prove to herself (and Johanna) that she was not so boring after all.

Peeta gazed around the room for a moment, considering her proposition. “That one.” He said, nodding in the direction of a large oil painting hanging on the other side of the gallery.

“Alright.” Katniss replied taking a deep breath. “Be ready to run.” She warned.

Peeta chuckled, “Katniss, they’re not going to chase you out of her. Just be cool, and no one will notice.” He coached her.

It felt like every nerve in her body was tingling on high alert. She enjoyed the feeling of rebellion that had sparked within her. She normally liked to live quietly and not rock the boat, but something about being around Peeta made her feel alive and adventurous. Even if that meant doing something as silly as touching a little part of a painting.

“Here I go.” She whispered to herself, and began casually walking toward the art in question. She stood near it for a moment to consider the beauty of its brush strokes and technique. As she leaned in for a closer look, she reached out her finger making quick contact with the canvas in an inconspicuous corner.

“What are you doing?” A voice whispered harshly behind her causing her to jump.

She turned around suddenly, ready to make a run for it. Instead she found herself slamming into something soft and sturdy. Realizing quickly who it was, she buried her face in her hands; embarrassed. Katniss pressed herself into Peeta’s chest as she felt his strong arms wrap around her protectively, feeling his body shake with a quiet breathy chuckle.

“You scared the crap out of me!” She chastised, giving him a playful shove feeling her pulse slowly return to normal.

“I couldn’t help it!” Peeta defended, trying to suppress his laughter. “You looked so cute trying to be defiant.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, “Well I did it, didn’t I?” She remarked stubbornly.

“Yes, you did!” Peeta replied, coming alongside her. He threw his arm casually over her shoulder, ushering them out of the room. “I think that kind of bravery deserves some dinner.”

Katniss turned to glance up at him, slipping her arm around his middle. He smiled down at her and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

“Maybe you can tell me some of the other things that made your list.” He remarked, as they made their way out to the bustling city street.

[thegirlfromoverthepond]

The Firebird - Chapter 20

Chapter 20: Pretty Woman

Kudos to the Fantastic Four … the team of betas @xerxia31, @dandelion-sunset, @titaniasfics for doing their magic

And to @akai-echo who creates magic beyond words with her aesthetics :)

I can’t believe there’s only 5 chapters left of this story…. And here is the part you’ve all waited for - Everlark’s first date :)

(Here on AO3 // FFN)

She knew she should have followed her instincts, leaving the National via the back exit, instead of the front one. Then she wouldn’t have run into Madge on the stairs. Madge, who did not grill her about her session in the morning, but rather about why she was heading out on a Thursday before noon had even rung.

The biggest mistake Katniss made was admitting she needed to go shopping. It took Madge less than two minutes to coerce the story out of her friend, and volunteer as   personal shopper for the afternoon.

The next minute was dedicated to calling Delly, arranging to meet her at the shopping mall because Madge thought reinforcements were more than necessary in this dire situation.

Of course, Katniss didn’t have a say in the matter when General Undersee was in conquest mode.

She found herself in Madge’s car, with her purse and coat, in less than five minutes.

“So, tell me, who did you meet? Is he hot? Do I know him? Does he come from a good family? And what’s that crap with Caesar?” Sometimes, Katniss wondered - really wondered - how her friend could make such long sentences without breathing. She must have some kind of superpower.

“Caesar’s not directing anymore, he was fired.”

“Fired? They’ve never fired anyone before!”

“Well apparently they never fired anyone under Crane, but Plutarch’s different. He wouldn’t stand for Caesar’s behavior, talking to us like we we’re cattle, saying Cinna’s costumes were awful, and hitting on Thresh.”

Madge nodded. “I hope for Flickerman’s sake that Rue never finds out he made a move on her man. She’s kind of intimidating when it comes to Thresh.”

“She is, right? I’m glad she likes me.”

“Rue likes everybody.”

“Thanks, Madge… very helpful.”

“Hey, I’m here, and my cousin will help you, so you’ve got like your own fanclub!”

“Number of members: 2. ‘Cause I’m not including myself.”

“Blah, blah. So, who’s the guy?”

“Did I tell you Plutarch and Haymitch are taking over directing?”

“No. Don’t care. Who are you seeing tonight?”

Katniss sighed.

“A man.”

“Ohh… and HE has a name?”

“He actually has.”

“Annnd??? God, Katniss, you’re the worst! Jesus Chalupa!”

“Peeta.”

“Holy cow, Batman! You’re going out with your tango dancer? Wow, lucky you, he’s hot and handsome! How did that happen? How did he ask you out? Do you know what he has planned for tonight?”

“Wow, calm down, Madge, too many questions….”

“Tell me! No, wait until we’re with Dels, I have to text her!”

“You’re driving, so no texting.”

“Killjoy. So how long do we have to dress you up?”

“I don’t know, an hour?”

Madge nearly killed them both by braking so suddenly, the car behind them hammered on their horn a good ten seconds.

“An hour? For shopping? Katniss, darling, we won’t be done with lingerie in an hour!”

“I already have bras, I don’t need froufrous.”

“You have everyday bras, you need date-worthy underthings.”

“I don’t intend on him seeing them, you know?”

“It’s not about him seeing them. It’s about you wearing them. Feeling sexy and beautiful. You’ll get lingerie, even if that’s all you get today.”

“Madge...”

“Oh, you’re going to turn all scowl-Katniss on me? Well I’m calling Dels, since we don’t have much time.”

“Oh god.” Katniss could feel the blush in her cheeks, didn’t want to think about the high squeal that would surely escape Delly, wasn’t sure whether she could handle so many girly things in so little time.

The Bluetooth did its magic, soon an overexcited Madge was talking to an equally overexcited Delly.

“I KNOW? Right! They are perfect for each other!”

“Dels, we only have one hour. We’re on a mission here.”

“You girls realize I’m sitting in the car, right?” Katniss asked.

“So we divide and conquer. Dels, you take care of the clothes, we’ll be out of Vicky’s Secret in twenty minutes.”

“Wow, Madge, you like a challenge.” Delly said.

“You girls realize I’m sitting in the car, right?” Katniss repeated.

“Yeah, we know, Katniss, but we’re in an emergency situation. Where is Peet taking you?”

“Nowhere, I asked him out.”

“You did! So proud of you, Kat! Look at you, all grown up!” Madge added, winking. “So where are you taking him?”

“Uh, for a drink?”

“She’s hopeless, Maggie.” Delly chimed in.

“Nothing’s hopeless.” Madge turned to her friend, before looking for a spot in the large parking lot. “Katniss. Do you know where you’re taking Peeta?”

“I was thinking Sae’s maybe?”

“Sae’s?”

“Yes? Is there a problem with that? It’s not classy enough for Peeta?” The whole situation was starting to get on Katniss’s nerves, really.

“Dels, I’m hanging up, we’re heading straight to Vicky’s , right?”

“See ya!”

Madge ended the call, putting her hand on Katniss’s arm before she could get out of the car.

“Katniss. We’re here to help you. We’ll tone it down, okay? But we are so excited about this!”

“I can tell…. “

“Well, aren’t you?”

Was she?

The tingling in her belly when she thought about Peeta was all the answer she needed.

--

Katniss’s eyes grew bigger, her steps slower, as Madge and Delly dragged her towards what she guessed was the VS shop.

Victoria’s Secret.

Aka - the place she’d never been to. Nor had ever wanted to go to.

If she thought clothes shopping with both ladies was a difficult task, going inside VS with them would be something else, something she dreaded a lot.

“Madge…”

“I know. We won’t go over the top, okay? But please, please Kat. Trust me...”

“I don’t know, Madge, I’m not one of those girls, you know that?”

Madge spun so quickly in front of her that Katniss thought she would collide with her friend in the middle of the mall.

“Katniss, I really, really wish that one day you would see yourself the way we see you. You are a dancer, you have an amazing body, you have grace, elegance, and you are so beautiful.  Anything in this shop would suit you. Trust me, it’s not vulgar or slutty. You’ll be radiant. Even if Peeta doesn’t see it, what you wear under your clothes will make you feel elegant, confident, and womanly.”

“She’s right, Kat,” Delly chimed in. “The clothes you picked are beautiful, really, but you need to have something other than cotton underwear. Even if it’s not for Peeta.”

“Yeah, yeah, if you say so…. ”

“We do, Honey.” Honey? Katniss didn’t think she’d been called Honey once in her life - but it was Delly so she shouldn’t really be surprised. “It’s all for you. YOU. Put yourself first, for once. Shine. Be confident and beautiful. Be you. You don’t have to pick anything glittery or feathery, just something you would like to wear. Indulge yourself, Katniss. Let the woman inside you live and breathe.”

The woman inside? Who was Delly talking about?

Astonishment must have shown on her face, as Madge patted her arm gently.

“Isn’t there a part of you, somewhere, that wants to go into this shop?”

“I…”

Was there? she asked herself, trying to listen to her inner self. Behind the walls she had erected , was a young woman who had always wanted to go inside a lingerie shop, wondering what she could find for herself, if she had the money to spend there.

“Then come with us, we will be quick, okay? And if you find nothing you like, that’s okay.”

With the promise of not having to buy anything she didn’t like, she caved, surrendering to her inner young woman, following her friends inside.

--

She never imagined there could be so many different shapes and colors of bras and panties, enough to fill up an entire store. She honestly didn’t know where to look to find something that she might like.

They took the bags containing Katniss’s clothes for the evening - they had a change of plan deciding it would be better to buy the lingerie after the main outfit was purchased - peeking inside greedily.

“The blouse is really gorgeous, gives that vintage touch that’s so in fashion these days. But Ivory. So, nothing black.”

“Why not?” Katniss asked, surprised. Everything could go with black?

Madge and Delly looked at each other, disappointment evident on their faces.

“No black under white, ivory, cream, not on the first date anyway. Black and red mean ‘Let’s go home and have fun’.”

“It does?” Was that a universally shared fact she wasn’t aware of? Were men aware of that?

“Well, the men have no clue, of course if you’re wondering. It’s the way you wear the lingerie, you know?”

She didn’t.

“Katniss, have you ever worn anything other than plain cotton panties?”

“No, they’re practical?”

“It’s the way you wear it. Black and red used to be the colors of courtesans, and you’re not going that way today. So we’ll stick to ivory or white. Are you okay with that, Katniss?”

“I guess so?”

Did she really have a choice. She realized something hadn’t been mentioned yet, something she would stay firm on.

“No push-ups, though. I don’t have much, I don’t want to give any other impression.”

“Kat, we would never. You’re beautiful the way you are, and you have enough, okay?” Madge said.

“Peeta doesn’t want to date you because of your boobs, but because of who you are,” Delly added. “You don’t know the effect you have on him. Six months ago, he was ready to leave the company to go back working with his family. Then you arrive, Finnick goes away, and here he is, full of ideas for women’s dances, with twice as much enthusiasm as before.”

Could that be because of her? Katniss had trouble believing it.

“There are dozens of reasons why he’s changed, Delly. None of them involve me.”

Delly just shrugged, a small smile on her face, then walked towards the row of bras in front of them.

“Come, they might have something you like here!”

Madge and Delly spent the next fifteen minutes showing Katniss with everything from snow-white to pearl-white, sandy-white, even creamy-white, but nothing found favor in Katniss’s eyes. Nothing. The two girls were bordering on despair, when something caught her attention.

Something on the back wall, a glimpse of color on an otherwise ivory confection. Ignoring her two friends, she walked straight to what she saw, her fingers aching to touch the soft silk, the lace on top of it giving it an elegant touch.

The small orange ribbon woven through the lace, finishing in a cute little bow on the front was the final touch that drew Katniss in.

“This one.” Her tone was decisive. She had found what she wasn’t looking for, what she wasn’t aware she needed, but what belonged on her skin.

She quickly checked the sizes, finding hers, then looked for the matching panties, never looking at her friends who were staring at her with proud smiles on both of their faces.

They couldn’t stop whispering things like “Look, our baby is growing up,” all the way to Katniss’s place.

Madge tried to insist on coming up to help her dress, but  Katniss wasn’t going to change her mind on being alone. And there were things she needed to take care of before. Like feeding Buttercup. Or running away to another state. Important things.

First things first. Feeding the Beast. She wouldn’t admit it to anybody and certainly not to her sister, but the mangy cat had grown on her. She had spent so many nights with only him as her only company, the only remaining proof that she wasn’t alone, that she had a little family too.

She wanted a bit of time for herself too. She wasn’t a shopping addict. Far from it. she never ventured into malls more than was necessary, the crowds and incessant noise giving her headaches. She heard enough music every day at work, she needed to indulge in her quiet from time to time.

Time flew as she laid on her couch, peeking through her shopping bags, glad she didn’t succumb to her friend’s pressure of buying heels, instead choosing to wear her almost new pair of boots.

Black jeans, a vintage ivory blouse, and a light green cardigan, along with the underthings. That’s all she took from the bags, all she had purchased.

She made her way to the bathroom, checking the clock above the door. She would have to hurry a bit if she wanted to be on time, since she had to rely on public transportation to get to the Arena. She wanted to take a long, relaxing shower to try to wash away the stress of the date coming. Because there was no denying it this time. It was a date. One she’d asked for.

One she wanted.

One she was pretty sure Peeta wanted too.

Showtime.

--

Somehow, she made it on time to the Arena, the God of Public Transportation being with her, making the metro connect each time she arrived onto a platform  like magic.

Peeta was waiting near the main doors of the theater, the smile on his face growing wide as he saw her approaching, making his eyes sparkle, as if he was lit from inside.

“Katniss...” His voice was soft as he took her in his arms.

They had been close to one another while dancing, he had hugged her several times too, but nothing before had been like this embrace. Closer, warmer, stronger, more familiar. His hands were higher on her back, almost between her shoulders, making small circles there, as if he was clinging to her, for fear of letting her go.

“Hey, Peeta.” Her voice was lost in the space between his neck and his leather jacket, his familiar smell surrounded her, grounding her to the reality of here and now.

She couldn’t identify the feeling coming over her as she pulled away - regret, maybe? She took him in. His hair were still damp from the shower, his blue eyes sparkling, really shining under an unruly lock of hair out of place, his white shirt under his blue sweater, his jeans, and a goddamn leather jacket. She never thought he would own one. It wasn’t a shiny, black one with zippers everywhere, rather than thewell-worn brown one, one that had seen many seasons.

A lot like her own, she realized.

“So, where are we going?” Peeta asked, clumsily shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans as if he didn’t dare do anything with them. Like holding her hand, she thought.

Wait, what did he just ask?

“What?”

“Where are we going?”

She had thought about the clothes, about the way she would look, took time to apply light makeup - so different from the evenings at the National when she had to cover her whole face with it - thought about leaving a bit earlier to be on time, but never thought to tell him where they would go. Never thought whether going to Sae’s was a good idea.

“Oh…. Well… I thought we could go to Sae's but I hadn't really thought beyond that."

Peeta chuckled, running his right hand through his curls. “Well,” he started, “I have an idea, if you’re not done with art for the day.”

“More dancing?”

“No, not music, or dance. Just art.”

“I guess that’s better than hanging out around Starbucks?”

“Oh! You said their name!”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ll tell Dad, and he’ll force you to eat at least ten donuts as a punishment.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Dad’s mean.” He extended his hand to her. “Shall we?”

She didn’t hesitate, taking his hand in hers.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To Wonderland.”

--

“The Botanical Gardens? But it’s closed at night.”

“The main section, yes, but they have an exhibition of sculptures in the Japanese gardens and I’ve wanted to see it, so I thought why not?”

“At night? We won’t see a thing, Peeta!”

“Ah, but ma chère, that’s the main goal. It’s called ‘A Game of Light and Shadows’, you can see it by night or during the day.”

“Very Game of Thrones.”

“Maybe the curator is a fan.  Go figure.”

They had chatted during the short drive from Arena to the Gardens, grabbing a sandwich from Sae’s  and eating it in Peeta’s car before getting out.

Katniss had expected he would want to hold her hand again, but he settled on instead putting his hand on the small of her back, where she was pretty sure the warmth coming from it would leave a permanent mark.

She wanted to beat him to pay for the entrance (after all, she asked for the date), only to realize to her surprise that it was free of charge, being sponsored by patrons all over town.

She grabbed the two leaflets the hostess handed her, giving one to Peeta, before trying to understand hers.

“This way,” he said, taking her elbow, leading her towards the large sliding glass doors to the Japanese Gardens.

“How do you know?”

“I came during the day.”

“But, it’s going to be the same, are you sure you want to go again?”

“It won’t be the same. This time, I’m with you.”

Peeta led her through the doors, guiding her towards a tall Japanese lantern made of stone.  Placed in the middle of a sand garden was the ancient granite construction, unaware of the change of times, of seasons, of men, just waiting night after night to be lit, to fulfill its sole purpose, unmoving. Through the different holes in the stone, Katniss glimpsed, lit by the moon or the stars above. As they progressed nearer to the lantern, the electrical lights faded away until their path was lit only by the small fires inside the sculpture that bathed the grey stone in waves of orange shades.

“Look,” Peeta whispered in Katniss’s ear, as if he didn’t want to disturb the silence around them. Katniss lifted her eyes to the top of the lantern that was painted in red, to see it shining with the sparks of the fire, radiating warmth and light all around. The trees, peaceful spectators of the beauty of the fire, remained safely away, their branches swinging to feed the lights, whispering their music.

She didn’t know how long she stood, bathing in the light, bathing in the fire, watching the flames dance their unscripted routine with the wood, swaying to their own music.

Peeta was at her side, not saying a word, lingering with her as he watched the same spectacle, the same amazement in his eyes.

“Peeta, that’s beautiful…”

“It is… Look at all the shades of colors, I could never make as many hues, it’s incredible.”

“Make? Like colors?”

“Yeah.” He looked like a little boy who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I kind of like art.”

Katniss went back to watching the lantern, the fire flickering loosely in the breeze, strong despite the wind.

“I figured. You have a thing for art. Are there other things to see here?”

“Plenty. Come with me.”

Again, his hand was extended for her to take - or not. She didn’t want to miss her chance. She grabbed his hand, the warm feeling of it echoing the fire in the old lantern. Unmovable. Strong. Steady.

He showed her a small river, lit by underwater spotlights, making the water lilies glow as they danced in the current. They discovered statues, the white moonlight only highlighting details that wouldn’t be so apparent under the yellow sun, followed a little path leading to a buddhist temple where people were praying.

They followed the seam of the river, looking at the banks where expertly trimmed bushes were placed here and there, highlighting the beauty of the place, until Katniss’s eyes caught a glimpse of a light.

“Peeta, over there, there’s something!”

“Where?” He started searching around, unsuccessfully, until Katniss dragged him towards the light.

“Here, the light… wow…”

Stumbling behind her, Peeta finally came into the little clearing Katniss had spotted. There was a pond, fed by a tiny stream coming out of dark stone, its presence only revealed by the music of the falling water.

Japanese paper lanterns were scattered around, safely hung from trees, or on pedestals, giving the place a fairy-like touch. The water was lit by two others, placed on the water lilies.

“This is like a fairytale….”

Fireflies, attracted by the light, bumbled in the air, making their way through the heavy foliage of a willow tree, its branches so long they touched the surface of the water.

She felt his intake of breath as he took in the scenery  , his hand clutching hers tighter. Turning her head, she saw him looking all around, as if he was trying to capture the beauty of the place in his mind.

“I wish I had my sketchbook…” he whispered, as if not wanting to disturb the peace and silence of the place.

“So you draw?” Katniss asked.

“Yeah, when I have a bit of time.”

“You do have an eye for beauty.”

He nodded. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She tookin the scenery in front of her, before glancing at him again. But he wasn’t looking at the pond or the willows or the lanterns. He was looking at her.

“Peeta?”

“You don't know, do you? The effect you have?” he whispered, his hand moving to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Dance with me, Katniss. Please?” He tugged at the hand he held.

“There’s no music.”

“Does it matter?”

She realized it didn’t. She took his hand, but before they began, she removed her boots, wanting to feel the grass under her feet. He chuckled before doing exactly the same thing, toeing off his Vann’s, before pulling her closer.

She felt his heartbeat against her chest as they started to move together, bathed in the moonlight and the water lights, following a rhythm only they could feel. Their eyes were locked, lost in one another, telling each other stories they didn’t dare share out loud.

Their lips found each other in the same movement, as they continued dancing.

Katniss didn’t know who started the kiss, or who stopped it. One moment, her lips were covered by his, warm and soft, and the next, they weren’t. She could feel the breeze instead of Peeta, the smell of him all around her, but she missed him, his contact.

Opening her eyes, she found the blue of his looking into hers, as if asking for something, for permission, maybe? She wanted to lean in, to feel him against her lips, but he decided otherwise, making her spin before catching her in his arms.

She couldn’t help but laugh, the feel of the grass on the soles of her feet tickling her, the light of the moon in the sky highlighting his blond hair, the warmth of his hands reviving her body. She laughed and he smiled, watching her turn in his arms, her long locks free, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

Katniss’s mind was only focused on the here and now, on the feelings that threatened to explode out of her body, feelings she thought were long gone, never to be seen again. She was glad to have been wrong.

She wanted more, though. More than a peck on the lips. She wanted to know what really kissing Peeta would feel like.

But right now Peeta seemed to be focused on making her dance, spinning her, dipping her, not caring about their discarded shoes, or how the grass was wetting the hems of their trousers. They danced to a music without tune, without beat, but they knew the song, they could feel it, no indications needed.

Katniss smiled, her head spinning, but she wanted more, needed more. She stilled in Peeta’s arms, not taking his cue to turn again. Around them, fireflies were still dancing. She leaned forward, her lips touching his again, and it felt like going someplace she’d always known, so close to her heart. This time though, she let her lips explore his, lingering on the creases of his lips, discovering them, as if she wanted to commit them to her memories. He didn’t hesitate in reciprocating, searching her lips as if to map them, with a hunger, a greed that surprised her.

Katniss felt a moan starting in the back of her throat, and was unable to stifle it, unable to think about anything other than his lips on hers, until she felt his tongue tracing her mouth. She didn’t hesitate, parting her lips to let him in, to welcome him, taking the chance to chase after him too. His hands let hers go, and climbed to cup her face, his thumbs caressing the soft planes of her cheeks, fingers splayed on her jaw, anchoring her to him as their tongues danced to a score they seemed to have known since the dawn of time.

Her head started to spin,  more than she had while dancing in Peeta’s arms.

She should have known he would be the one making her spin with joy like the little girl she once had been.

She didn’t mind.

At all.

[readbookywooks]

3. The smell of blood ... it was on his breath. What does he do? I think. Drink it? I imagine him sipping it from a teacup. Dipping a cookie into the stuff and pulling it out dripping red. Outside the window, a car comes to life, soft and quiet like the purr of a cat, then fades away into the distance. It slips off as it arrived, unnoticed. The room seems to be spinning in slow, lopsided circles, and I wonder if I might black out. I lean forward and clutch the desk with one hand. The other still holds Peeta's beautiful cookie. I think it had a tiger lily on it, but now it's been reduced to crumbs in my fist. I didn't even know I was crushing it, but I guess I had to hold on to something while my world veered out of control. A visit from President Snow. Districts on the verge of uprisings. A direct death threat to Gale, with others to follow. Everyone I love doomed. And who knows who else will pay for my actions? Unless I turn things around on this tour. Quiet the discontent and put the president's mind at rest. And how? By proving to the country beyond any shadow of a doubt that I love Peeta Mellark. I can't do it, I think. I'm not that good. Peeta's the good one, the likable one. He can make people believe anything. I'm the one who shuts up and sits back and lets him do as much of the talking as possible. But it isn't Peeta who has to prove his devotion. It's me. I hear my mother's light, quick tread in the hall. She can't know, I think. Not about any of this. I reach my hands over the tray and quickly brush the bits of cookie from my palm and fingers. I take a shaky sip of my tea. "Is everything all right, Katniss?" she asks. "It's fine. We never see it on television, but the president always visits the victors before the tour to wish them luck," I say brightly. My mother's face floods with relief. "Oh. I thought there was some kind of trouble." "No, not at all," I say. "The trouble will start when my prep team sees how I've let my eyebrows grow back in." My mother laughs, and I think about how there was no going back after I took over caring for the family when I was eleven. How I will always have to protect her. "Why don't I start your bath?" she asks. "Great," I say, and I can see how pleased she is by my response. Since I've been home I've been trying hard to mend my relationship with my mother. Asking her to do things for me instead of brushing aside any offer of help, as I did for years out of anger. Letting her handle all the money I won. Returning her hugs instead of tolerating them. My time in the arena made me realize how I needed to stop punishing her for something she couldn't help, specifically the crushing depression she fell into after my father's death. Because sometimes things happen to people and they're not equipped to deal with them. Like me, for instance. Right now. Besides, there's one wonderful thing she did when I arrived back in the district. After our families and friends had greeted Peeta and me at the train station, there were a few questions allowed from reporters. Someone asked my mother what she thought of my new boyfriend, and she replied that, while Peeta was the very model of what a young man should be, I wasn't old enough to have any boyfriend at all. She followed this with a pointed look at Peeta. There was a lot of laughter and comments like "Somebody's in trouble" from the press, and Peeta dropped my hand and sidestepped away from me. That didn't last long - there was too much pressure to act otherwise - but it gave us an excuse to be a little more reserved than we'd been in the Capitol. And maybe it can help account for how little I've been seen in Peeta's company since the cameras left. I go upstairs to the bathroom, where a steaming tub awaits. My mother has added a small bag of dried flowers that perfumes the air. None of us are used to the luxury of turning on a tap and having a limitless supply of hot water at our fingertips. We had only cold at our home in the Seam, and a bath meant boiling the rest over the fire. I undress and lower myself into the silky water - my mother has poured in some kind of oil as well - and try to get a grip on things. The first question is who to tell, if anyone. Not my mother or Prim, obviously; they'd only become sick with worry. Not Gale. Even if I could get word to him. What would he do with the information, anyway? If he were alone, I might try to persuade him to run away. Certainly he could survive in the woods. But he's not alone and he'd never leave his family. Or me. When I get home I'll have to tell him something about why our Sundays are a thing of the past, but I can't think about that now. Only about my next move. Besides, Gale's already so angry and frustrated with the Capitol that I sometimes think he's going to arrange his own uprising. The last thing he needs is an incentive. No, I can't tell anyone I'm leaving behind in District 12. There are still three people I might confide in, starting with Cinna, my stylist. But my guess is Cinna might already be at risk, and I don't want to pull him into any more trouble by closer association with me. Then there's Peeta, who will be my partner in this deception, but how do I begin that conversation? Hey, Peeta, remember how I told you I was kind of faking being in love with you? Well, I really need you to forget about that now and act extra in love with me or the president might kill Gale. I can't do it. Besides, Peeta will perform well whether he knows what's at stake or not. That leaves Haymitch. Drunken, cranky, confrontational Haymitch, who I just poured a basin of ice water on. As my mentor in the Games it was his duty to keep me alive. I only hope he's still up for the job. I slide down into the water, letting it block out the sounds around me. I wish the tub would expand so I could go swimming, like I used to on hot summer Sundays in the woods with my father. Those days were a special treat. We would leave early in the morning and hike farther into the woods than usual to a small lake he'd found while hunting. I don't even remember learning to swim, I was so young when he taught me. I just remember diving, turning somersaults, and paddling around. The muddy bottom of the lake beneath my toes. The smell of blossoms and greenery. Floating on my back, as I am now, staring at the blue sky while the chatter of the woods was muted by the water. He'd bag the waterfowl that nested around the shore, I'd hunt for eggs in the grasses, and we'd both dig for katniss roots, the plant for which he named me, in the shallows. At night, when we got home, my mother would pretend not to recognize me because I was so clean. Then she'd cook up an amazing dinner of roasted duck and baked katniss tubers with gravy. I never took Gale to the lake. I could have. It's time-consuming to get there, but the waterfowl are such easy pickings you can make up for lost hunting time. It's a place I've never really wanted to share with anyone, though, a place that belonged only to my father and me. Since the Games, when I've had little to occupy my days, I've gone there a couple of times. The swimming was still nice, but mostly the visits depressed me. Over the course of the last five years, the lake's remarkably unchanged and I'm almost unrecognizable. Even underwater I can hear the sounds of commotion. Honking car horns, shouts of greeting, doors banging shut. It can only mean my entourage has arrived. I just have time to towel off and slip into a robe before my prep team bursts into the bathroom. There's no question of privacy. When it comes to my body, we have no secrets, these three people and me. "Katniss, your eyebrows!" Venia shrieks right off, and even with the black cloud hanging over me, I have to stifle a laugh. Her aqua hair has been styled so it sticks out in sharp points all over her head, and the gold tattoos that used to be confined above her brows have curled around under her eyes, all contributing to the impression that I've literally shocked her. Octavia comes up and pats Venia's back soothingly, her curvy body looking plumper than usual next to Venia's thin, angular one. "There, there. You can fix those in no time. But what am I going to do with these nails?" She grabs my hand and pins it flat between her two pea green ones. No, her skin isn't exactly pea green now. It's more of a light evergreen. The shift in shade is no doubt an attempt to stay abreast of the capricious fashion trends of the Capitol. "Really, Katniss, you could have left me something to work with!" she wails. It's true. I've bitten my nails to stubs in the past couple of months. I thought about trying to break the habit but couldn't think of a good reason I should. "Sorry," I mutter. I hadn't really been spending much time worrying about how it might affect my prep team. Flavius lifts a few strands of my wet, tangled hair. He gives his head a disapproving shake, causing his orange corkscrew curls to bounce around. "Has anyone touched this since you last saw us?" he asks sternly. "Remember, we specifically asked you to leave your hair alone." "Yes!" I say, grateful that I can show I haven't totally taken them for granted. "I mean, no, no one's cut it. I did remember that." No, I didn't. It's more like the issue never came up. Since I've been home, all I've done is stick it in its usual old braid down my back. This seems to mollify them, and they all kiss me, set me on a chair in my bedroom, and, as usual, start talking nonstop without bothering to notice if I'm listening. While Venia reinvents my eyebrows and Octavia gives me fake nails and Flavius massages goo into my hair, I hear all about the Capitol. What a hit the Games were, how dull things have been since, how no one can wait until Peeta and I visit again at the end of the Victory Tour. After that, it won't be long before the Capitol begins gearing up for the Quarter Quell. "Isn't it thrilling?" "Don't you feel so lucky?" "In your very first year of being a victor, you get to be a mentor in a Quarter Quell!" Their words overlap in a blur of excitement. "Oh, yes," I say neutrally. It's the best I can do. In a normal year, being a mentor to the tributes is the stuff of nightmares. I can't walk by the school now without wondering what kid I'll have to coach. But to make things even worse, this is the year of the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games, and that means it's also a Quarter Quell. They occur every twenty-five years, marking the anniversary of the districts' defeat with over-the-top celebrations and, for extra fun, some miserable twist for the tributes. I've never been alive for one, of course. But in school I remember hearing that for the second Quarter Quell, the Capitol demanded that twice the number of tributes be provided for the arena. The teachers didn't go into much more detail, which is surprising, because that was the year District 12's very own Haymitch Abernathy won the crown. "Haymitch better be preparing himself for a lot of attention!" squeals Octavia. Haymitch has never mentioned his personal experience in the arena to me. I would never ask. And if I ever saw his Games televised in reruns, I must've been too young to remember it. But the Capitol won't let him forget it this year. In a way, it's a good thing Peeta and I will both be available as mentors during the Quell, because it's a sure bet that Haymitch will be wasted. After they've exhausted the topic of the Quarter Quell, my prep team, launches into a whole lot of stuff about their incomprehensibly silly lives. Who said what about someone I've never heard of and what sort of shoes they just bought and a long story from Octavia about what a mistake it was to have everyone wear feathers to her birthday party. Soon my brows are stinging, my hair's smooth and silky, and my nails are ready to be painted. Apparently they've been given instruction to prepare only my hands and face, probably because everything else will be covered in the cold weather. Flavius badly wants to use his own trademark purple lipstick on me but resigns himself to a pink as they begin to color my face and nails. I can see by the palette Cinna has assigned that we're going for girlish, not sexy. Good. I'll never convince anyone of anything if I'm trying to be provocative. Haymitch made that very clear when he was coaching me for my interview for the Games. My mother comes in, somewhat shyly, and says that Cinna has asked her to show the preps how she did my hair the day of the reaping. They respond with enthusiasm and then watch, thoroughly engrossed, as she breaks down the process of the elaborate braided hairdo. In the mirror, I can see their earnest faces following her every move, their eagerness when it is their turn to try a step. In fact, all three are so readily respectful and nice to my mother that I feel bad about how I go around feeling so superior to them. Who knows who I would be or what I would talk about if I'd been raised in the Capitol? Maybe my biggest regret would be having feathered costumes at my birthday party, too. When my hair is done, I find Cinna downstairs in the living room, and just the sight of him makes me feel more hopeful. He looks the same as always, simple clothes, short brown hair, just a hint of gold eyeliner. We embrace, and I can barely keep from spilling out the entire episode with President Snow. But no, I've decided to tell Haymitch first. He'll know best who to burden with it. It's so easy to talk to Cinna, though. Lately we've been speaking a lot on the telephone that came with the house. It's sort of a joke, because almost no one else we know owns one. There's Peeta, but obviously I don't call him. Haymitch tore his out of the wall years ago. My friend Madge, the mayor's daughter, has a telephone in her house, but if we want to talk, we do it in person. At first, the thing barely ever got used. Then Cinna started to call to work on my talent. Every victor is supposed to have one. Your talent is the activity you take up since you don't have to work either in school or your district's industry. It can be anything, really, anything that they can interview you about. Peeta, it turns out, actually has a talent, which is painting. He's been frosting those cakes and cookies for years in his family's bakery. But now that he's rich, he can afford to smear real paint on canvases. I don't have a talent, unless you count hunting illegally, which they don't. Or maybe singing, which I wouldn't do for the Capitol in a million years. My mother tried to interest me in a variety of suitable alternatives from a list Effie Trinket sent her. Cooking, flower arranging, playing the flute. None of them took, although Prim had a knack for all three. Finally Cinna stepped in and offered to help me develop my passion for designing clothes, which really required development since it was nonexistent. But I said yes because it meant getting to talk to Cinna, and he promised he'd do all the work. Now he's arranging things around my living room: clothing, fabrics, and sketchbooks with designs he's drawn. I pick up one of the sketchbooks and examine a dress I supposedly created. "You know, I think I show a lot of promise," I say. "Get dressed, you worthless thing," he says, tossing a bundle of clothes at me. I may have no interest in designing clothes but I do love the ones Cinna makes for me. Like these. Flowing black pants made of a thick, warm material. A comfortable white shirt. A sweater woven from green and blue and gray strands of kitten-soft wool. Laced leather boots that don't pinch my toes. "Did I design my outfit?" I ask. "No, you aspire to design your outfit and be like me, your fashion hero," says Cinna. He hands me a small stack of cards. "You'll read these off camera while they're filming the clothes. Try to sound like you care." Just then, Effie Trinket arrives in a pumpkin orange wig to remind everyone, "We're on a schedule!" She kisses me on both cheeks while waving in the camera crew, then orders me into position. Effie's the only reason we got anywhere on time in the Capitol, so I try to accommodate her. I start bobbing around like a puppet, holding up outfits and saying meaningless things like "Don't you love it?" The sound team records me reading from my cards in a chirpy voice so they can insert it later, then I'm tossed out of the room so they can film my/Cinna's designs in peace. Prim got out early from school for the event. Now she stands in the kitchen, being interviewed by another crew. She looks lovely in a sky blue frock that brings out her eyes, her blond hair pulled back in a matching ribbon. She's leaning a bit forward on the toes of her shiny white boots like she's about to take flight, like - Bam! It's like someone actually hits me in the chest. No one has, of course, but the pain is so real I take a step back. I squeeze my eyes shut and I don't see Prim - I see Rue, the twelve-year-old girl from District 11 who was my ally in the arena. She could fly, birdlike, from tree to tree, catching on to the slenderest branches. Rue, who I didn't save. Who I let die. I picture her lying on the ground with the spear still wedged in her stomach... . Who else will I fail to save from the Capitol's vengeance? Who else will be dead if I don't satisfy President Snow? I realize Cinna's trying to put a coat on me, so I raise my arms. I feel fur, inside and out, encasing me. It's from no animal I've ever seen. "Ermine," he tells me as I stroke the white sleeve. Leather gloves. A bright red scarf. Something furry covers my ears. "You're bringing earmuffs back in style." I hate earmuffs, I think. They make it hard to hear, and since I was blasted deaf in one ear in the arena, I dislike them even more. After I won, the Capitol repaired my ear, but I still find myself testing it. My mother hurries up with something cupped in her hand. "For good luck," she says. It's the pin Madge gave me before I left for the Games. A mockingjay flying in a circle of gold. I tried to give it to Rue but she wouldn't take it. She said the pin was the reason she'd decided to trust me. Cinna fixes it on the knot in the scarf. Effie Trinket's nearby, clapping her hands. "Attention, everyone! We're about to do the first outdoor shot, where the victors greet each other at the beginning of their marvelous trip. All right, Katniss, big smile, you're very excited, right?" I don't exaggerate when I say she shoves me out the door. For a moment I can't quite see right because of the snow, which is now coming down in earnest. Then I make out Peeta coming through his front door. In my head I hear President Snow's directive, "Convince me." And I know I must. My face breaks into a huge smile and I start walking in Peeta's direction. Then, as if I can't stand it another second, I start running. He catches me and spins me around and then he slips - he still isn't entirely in command of his artificial leg - and we fall into the snow, me on top of him, and that's where we have our first kiss in months. It's full of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, but underneath all that, I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know I'm not alone. As badly as I have hurt him, he won't expose me in front of the cameras. Won't condemn me with a halfhearted kiss. He's still looking out for me. Just as he did in the arena. Somehow the thought makes me want to cry. Instead I pull him to his feet, tuck my glove through the crook of his arm, and merrily pull him on our way. The rest of the day is a blur of getting to the station, bidding everyone good-bye, the train pulling out, the old team - Peeta and me, Effie and Haymitch, Cinna and Portia, Peeta's stylist - dining on an indescribably delicious meal I don't remember. And then I'm swathed in pajamas and a voluminous robe, sitting in my plush compartment, waiting for the others to go to sleep. I know Haymitch will be up for hours. He doesn't like to sleep when it's dark out. When the train seems quiet, I put on my slippers and pad down to his door. I have to knock several times before he answers, scowling, as if he's certain I've brought bad news. "What do you want?" he says, nearly knocking me out with a cloud of wine fumes. "I have to talk to you," I whisper. "Now?" he says. I nod. "This better be good." He waits, but I feel certain every word we utter on a Capitol train is being recorded. "Well?" he barks. The train starts to brake and for a second I think President Snow is watching me and doesn't approve of my confiding in Haymitch and has decided to go ahead and kill me now. But we're just stopping for fuel. "The train's so stuffy," I say. It's a harmless phrase, but I see Haymitch's eyes narrow in understanding. "I know what you need." He pushes past me and lurches down the hall to a door. When he wrestles it open, a blast of snow hits us. He trips out onto the ground. A Capitol attendant rushes to help, but Haymitch waves her away good-naturedly as he staggers off. "Just want some fresh air. Only be a minute." "Sorry. He's drunk," I say apologetically. "I'll get him." I hop down and stumble along the track behind him, soaking my slippers with snow, as he leads me beyond the end of the train so we will not be overheard. Then he turns on me. "What?" I tell him everything. About the president's visit, about Gale, about how we're all going to die if I fail. His face sobers, grows older in the glow of the red tail-lights. "Then you can't fail." "If you could just help me get through this trip - " I begin. "No, Katniss, it's not just this trip," he says. "What do you mean?" I say. "Even if you pull it off, they'll be back in another few months to take us all to the Games. You and Peeta, you'll be mentors now, every year from here on out. And every year they'll revisit the romance and broadcast the details of your private life, and you'll never, ever be able to do anything but live happily ever after with that boy." The full impact of what he's saying hits me. I will never have a life with Gale, even if I want to. I will never be allowed to live alone. I will have to be forever in love with Peeta. The Capitol will insist on it. I'll have a few years maybe, because I'm still only sixteen, to stay with my mother and Prim. And then ... and then ... "Do you understand what I mean?" he presses me. I nod. He means there's only one future, if I want to keep those I love alive and stay alive myself. I'll have to marry Peeta.

[ellanainthetardis]

A short one today but papa!H is still rocking! I hope you enjoy it, please let me know! Feedback makes my day!

[FF] or [AO3]

Chapter 7 : How We Survive

Haymitch must have surrendered to unconsciousness because when he opened his eyes next, the room was dark saved from the fire roaring in the fireplace.

He wasn’t drunk anymore.

His back was on fire.

People were talking in the next room. He identified Katniss, and Gale’s deeper voice. He listened to the words but they didn’t make much sense to him.

He wished she would put an end to that. He understood she might have feelings for the boy but she was putting him in danger with that fling. Him and Peeta both.

He drifted off again, only really stirring when he heard her quiet footsteps coming closer. He tried to look up at her but it disturbed the wounds on his back and he resolved not to move again if he could help it. She crouched next to the couch so they could be at eye level.

It was too dark for him to really make out the expression on her face but he could see the dark bags under her eyes in the pale glow of the fireplace.

“Should get some sleep, girl.” he muttered. “You look like shit.”

“’Cause you look so good.” she retorted and then immediately glanced down, as if she regretted the gibe.

He licked his dry lips, making sure to keep his tone light. “Yeah, well… What do you know, I’m not eighteen anymore… We can’t all look good half beaten to death. Your friend’s making it difficult for the rest of us.”

“Please.” Katniss scoffed. “Everyone’s talking about how you walked through the whole District with your back torn open. It was stupid but they all think it was brave or whatever.”

“They’re easy to impress.” he snorted.

For a second, he thought she would keep up the banter but she grew somber instead. “No, they’re not.”

He let out a long breath. “Let’s not do this, yeah?”

“Do what?” she frowned.

“The thanking part.” He moved his hand to rub his face and regretted it when it tugged on the stitches.

“You didn’t have to do that.” she whispered.

“Yeah, I did.” he sighed.

She shook her head. “It was my fault and I could have taken it more easily. You’re not… You’re not young anymore. We can’t lose you, Haymitch. Cinna and Portia just… We can’t lose you too.”

“Why, thanks.” he chuckled to lighten the mood, wincing when it woke the pain in his back. It also ended up in a coughing fit that did nothing to help. “I saved you and you call me an old man. Real nice, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean.” she argued, sounding almost angry now. “And it wasn’t your place anyway… You owe me nothing. That law… It’s for parents. You’re not…” She stopped, clearly embarrassed. “You shouldn’t feel you have to do that for me. I can handle myself. I didn’t ask you anything.”

“You don’t need to, that’s the thing.” he pointed out. “I’d do it again too. But not anytime soon, so try to stay out of trouble.”

“Well, I don’t want you to!” she snapped. “I can’t be responsible if…”

“You’re not responsible for me. I am responsible for you.” he interrupted firmly. “That’s the whole point. You’ve got a shitty understanding of how that kind of relationship works, you know?”

“You’re not my father.” she spat, full of fury and resentment. And maybe some bitterness too.

“Does it matter?” he asked. He would have shrugged if he hadn’t been so certain it would make him pass out. “I’m your mentor. It makes you my kid.”

“I don’t want to be your kid.” she growled. “I’m fine on my own.”

“But you’re not on your own.” he spat. “And the sooner you realize that, the better. You didn’t choose this life, I get it. Trust me, I get it. But, guess what? It’s too late now. You need to wake up, Katniss. Everything you say or do now… You’ve got people depending on you. You fuck up, they’re the ones who’re gonna pay the price. It’s not fair. I fucking know it’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. Your mom, your sis… Peeta. That boy over there. They’re your people. You’re responsible for them. You fuck up, it’s them who end up hurt. So you play the game. You play the fucking game like a good victor. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s unfair. Even when it hurts so bad you want to scream. Even if it makes your skin crawl. You need to think before you act.” He let out a long sigh. “What you did today, it was stupid. It could have ended up much worse than it did. If you’d let it go… Gale would have been hurt but hurt isn’t dead. Hurt isn’t dead. Understand?”

He almost expected her to bolt because that was her thing when it became too difficult. Run, hide, process and then come back.

She rubbed her eyes instead. “We’re never getting off the train.”

“We’re never getting off the train.” he confirmed.

She didn’t say anything else for a long time. Her face was turned away from him, toward the dark kitchen and he couldn’t guess at her expression. He was starting to drift off when she spoke again, her voice flat. “Are we your people? Peeta and me.”

He didn’t know if Katniss’ house was bugged. He regularly made sweeps through his own but they hadn’t bothered trying to spy on him in a long time. Katniss’ house, now, he had no idea, so he kept it at a half truth. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re my people.”

And Effie, but that part he left out.

“Did you have people? Before.” she asked.

It was dark and she wasn’t looking at him. It was the only reason why he told her the truth. “I did, yeah.”

“What happened?” she insisted, without any tact.

He closed his eyes, feeling the same wave of sadness and anger rise in his chest he always did when he let himself think about his family, about his girl. He wasn’t up for sharing the details.

“I fucked up.” he admitted quietly.

He didn’t need to clarify what it had meant for him in the long run. How he had ended up the way he had, drunk and alone… He supposed it was self-explanatory.

“I wish I had never won.” she whispered. “What’s even the point of winning…”

“Nobody ever wins the Games.” he scoffed. “Haven’t you figured that out yet? There’s no winning. There’s no winners. There are survivors. The sooner you get the difference, the better. We’re still in the arena, it’s just a different kind.”

“So what do we do?” she scowled. “There must be a way to…”

“We do what we always do.” he cut her off, before she could make a rebellious comment. “We survive.”

“That means other people will die.” she snapped. “That’s how we survive? By letting other people die?”

“Yeah.” he confirmed coldly. “’Cause that’s how we make sure our people survive too. We bear the guilt so they don’t have to.”

“It’s shitty reasoning.” she declared.

“You find a better one, you’re welcome to share.” he retorted. “Twenty-five years in, that’s the only one I’ve got.” That seemed to shut her up. She reached out for something on the coffee table and handed it to him. It took a few seconds for him to make out the shape of a bottle in the dark. “See…” he smirked, snatching the liquor, careful not to pop his stitches. “You’re an ungrateful brat but you do have your virtues.”

She rolled her eyes and stood up. She stopped on the threshold. She didn’t look back but she cleared her throat. “I’m not ungrateful.”

He supposed it was the best he would get.

He just hoped she had understood the message.

[readbookywooks]

4. We slog back to the train in silence. In the hallway outside my door, Haymitch gives my shoulder a pat and says, "You could do a lot worse, you know." He heads off to his compartment, taking the smell of wine with him. In my room, I remove my sodden slippers, my wet robe and pajamas. There are more in the drawers but I just crawl between the covers of my bed in my underclothes. I stare into the darkness, thinking about my conversation with Haymitch. Everything he said was true about the Capitol's expectations, my future with Peeta, even his last comment. Of course, I could do a lot worse than Peeta. That isn't really the point, though, is it? One of the few freedoms we have in District 12 is the right to marry who we want or not marry at all. And now even that has been taken away from me. I wonder if President Snow will insist we have children. If we do, they'll have to face the reaping each year. And wouldn't it be something to see the child of not one but two victors chosen for the arena? Victors' children have been in the ring before. It always causes a lot of excitement and generates talk about how the odds are not in that family's favor. But it happens too frequently to just be about odds. Gale's convinced the Capitol does it on purpose, rigs the drawings to add extra drama. Given all the trouble I've caused, I've probably guaranteed any child of mine a spot in the Games. I think of Haymitch, unmarried, no family, blotting out the world with drink. He could have had his choice of any woman in the district. And he chose solitude. Not solitude - that sounds too peaceful. More like solitary confinement. Was it because, having been in the arena, he knew it was better than risking the alternative? I had a taste of that alternative when they called Prim's name on reaping day and I watched her walk to the stage to her death. But as her sister I could take her place, an option forbidden to our mother. My mind searches frantically for a way out. I can't let President Snow condemn me to this. Even if it means taking my own life. Before that, though, I'd try to run away. What would they do if I simply vanished? Disappeared into the woods and never came out? Could I even manage to take everyone I love with me, start a new life deep in the wild? Highly unlikely but not impossible. I shake my head to clear it. This is not the time to be making wild escape plans. I must focus on the Victory Tour. Too many people's fates depend on my giving a good show. Dawn comes before sleep does, and there's Effie rapping on my door. I pull on whatever clothes are at the top of the drawer and drag myself down to the dining car. I don't see what difference it makes when I get up, since this is a travel day, but then it turns out that yesterday's makeover was just to get me to the train station. Today I'll get the works from my prep team. "Why? It's too cold for anything to show," I grumble. "Not in District Eleven," says Effie. District 11. Our first stop. I'd rather start in any other district, since this was Rue's home. But that's not how the Victory Tour works. Usually it kicks off in 12 and then goes in descending district order to 1, followed by the Capitol. The victor's district is skipped and saved for very last. Since 12 puts on the least fabulous celebration - usually just a dinner for the tributes and a victory rally in the square, where nobody looks like they're having any fun - it's probably best to get us out of the way as soon as possible. This year, for the first time since Haymitch won, the final stop on the tour will be 12, and the Capitol will spring for the festivities. I try to enjoy the food like Hazelle said. The kitchen staff clearly wants to please me. They've prepared my favorite, lamb stew with dried plums, among other delicacies. Orange juice and a pot of steaming hot chocolate wait at my place at the table. So I eat a lot, and the meal is beyond reproach, but I can't say I'm enjoying it. I'm also annoyed that no one but Effie and I has shown up. "Where's everybody else?" I ask. "Oh, who knows where Haymitch is," says Effie. I didn't really expect Haymitch, because he's probably just getting to bed. "Cinna was up late working on organizing your garment car. He must have over a hundred outfits for you. Your evening clothes are exquisite. And Peeta's team is probably still asleep." "Doesn't he need prepping?" I ask. "Not the way you do," Effie replies. What does this mean? It means I get to spend the morning having the hair ripped off my body while Peeta sleeps in. I hadn't thought about it much, but in the arena at least some of the boys got to keep their body hair whereas none of the girls did. I can remember Peeta's now, as I bathed him by the stream. Very blond in the sunlight, once the mud and blood had been washed away. Only his face remained completely smooth. Not one of the boys grew a beard, and many were old enough to. I wonder what they did to them. If I feel ragged, my prep team seems in worse condition, knocking back coffee and sharing brightly colored little pills. As far as I can tell, they never get up before noon unless there's some sort of national emergency, like my leg hair. I was so happy when it grew back in, too. As if it were a sign that things might be returning to normal. I run my fingers along the soft, curly down on my legs and give myself over to the team. None of them are up to their usual chatter, so I can hear every strand being yanked from its follicle. I have to soak in a tub full of a thick, unpleasant-smelling solution, while my face and hair are plastered with creams. Two more baths follow in other, less offensive, concoctions. I'm plucked and scoured and massaged and anointed until I'm raw. Flavius tilts up my chin and sighs. "It's a shame Cinna said no alterations on you." "Yes, we could really make you something special," says Octavia. "When she's older," says Venia almost grimly. "Then he'll have to let us." Do what? Blow my lips up like President Snow's? Tattoo my breasts? Dye my skin magenta and implant gems in it? Cut decorative patterns in my face? Give me curved talons? Or cat's whiskers? I saw all these things and more on the people in the Capitol. Do they really have no idea how freakish they look to the rest of us? The thought of being left to my prep team's fashion whims only adds to the miseries competing for my attention - my abused body, my lack of sleep, my mandatory marriage, and the terror of being unable to satisfy President Snow's demands. By the time I reach lunch, where Effie, Cinna, Portia, Haymitch, and Peeta have started without me, I'm too weighed down to talk. They're raving about the food and how well they sleep on trains. Everyone's all full of excitement about the tour. Well, everyone but Haymitch. He's nursing a hangover and picking at a muffin. I'm not really hungry, either, maybe because I loaded up on too much rich stuff this morning or maybe because I'm so unhappy. I play around with a bowl of broth, eating only a spoonful or two. I can't even look at Peeta - my designated future husband - although I know none of this is his fault. People notice, try to bring me into the conversation, but I just brush them off. At some point, the train stops. Our server reports it will not just be for a fuel stop - some part has malfunctioned and must be replaced. It will require at least an hour. This sends Effie into a state. She pulls out her schedule and begins to work out how the delay will impact every event for the rest of our lives. Finally I just can't stand to listen to her anymore. "No one cares, Effie!" I snap. Everyone at the table stares at me, even Haymitch, who you'd think would be on my side in this matter since Effie drives him nuts. I'm immediately put on the defensive. "Well, no one does!" I say, and get up and leave the dining car. The train suddenly seems stifling and I'm definitely queasy now. I find the exit door, force it open - triggering some sort of alarm, which I ignore - and jump to the ground, expecting to land in snow. But the air's warm and balmy against my skin. The trees still wear green leaves. How far south have we come in a day? I walk along the track, squinting against the bright sunlight, already regretting my words to Effie. She's hardly to blame for my current predicament. I should go back and apologize. My outburst was the height of bad manners, and manners matter deeply to her. But my feet continue on along the track, past the end of the train, leaving it behind. An hour's delay. I can walk at least twenty minutes in one direction and make it back with plenty of time to spare. Instead, after a couple hundred yards, I sink to the ground and sit there, looking into the distance. If I had a bow and arrows, would I just keep going? After a while I hear footsteps behind me. It'll be Haymitch, coming to chew me out. It's not like I don't deserve it, but I still don't want to hear it. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture," I warn the clump of weeds by my shoes. "I'll try to keep it brief." Peeta takes a seat beside me. "I thought you were Haymitch," I say. "No, he's still working on that muffin." I watch as Peeta positions his artificial leg. "Bad day, huh?" "It's nothing," I say. He takes a deep breath. "Look, Katniss, I've been wanting to talk to you about the way I acted on the train. I mean, the last train. The one that brought us home. I knew you had something with Gale. I was jealous of him before I even officially met you. And it wasn't fair to hold you to anything that happened in the Games. I'm sorry." His apology takes me by surprise. It's true that Peeta froze me out after I confessed that my love for him during the Games was something of an act. But I don't hold that against him. In the arena, I'd played that romance angle for all it was worth. There had been times when I didn't honestly know how I felt about him. I still don't, really. "I'm sorry, too," I say. I'm not sure for what exactly. Maybe because there's a real chance I'm about to destroy him. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about. You were just keeping us alive. But I don't want us to go on like this, ignoring each other in real life and falling into the snow every time there's a camera around. So I thought if I stopped being so, you know, wounded, we could take a shot at just being friends," he says. All my friends are probably going to end up dead, but refusing Peeta wouldn't keep him safe. "Okay," I say. His offer does make me feel better. Less duplicitous somehow. It would be nice if he'd come to me with this earlier, before I knew that President Snow had other plans and just being friends was not an option for us anymore. But either way, I'm glad we're speaking again. "So what's wrong?" he asks. I can't tell him. I pick at the clump of weeds. "Let's start with something more basic. Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine ... but I don't know what your favorite color is?" he says. A smile creeps onto my lips. "Green. What's yours?" "Orange," he says. "Orange? Like Effie's hair?" I say. "A bit more muted," he says. "More like ... sunset." Sunset. I can see it immediately, the rim of the descending sun, the sky streaked with soft shades of orange. Beautiful. I remember the tiger lily cookie and, now that Peeta is talking to me again, it's all I can do not to recount the whole story about President Snow. But I know Haymitch wouldn't want me to. I'd better stick to small talk. "You know, everyone's always raving about your paintings. I feel bad I haven't seen them," I say. "Well, I've got a whole train car full." He rises and offers me his hand. "Come on." It's good to feel his fingers entwined with mine again, not for show but in actual friendship. We walk back to the train hand in hand. At the door, I remember. "I've got to apologize to Effie first." "Don't be afraid to lay it on thick," Peeta tells me. So when we go back to the dining car, where the others are still at lunch, I give Effie an apology that I think is overkill but in her mind probably just manages to compensate for my breach of etiquette. To her credit, Effie accepts graciously. She says it's clear I'm under a lot of pressure. And her comments about the necessity of someone attending to the schedule only last about five minutes. Really, I've gotten off easily. When Effie finishes, Peeta leads me down a few cars to see his paintings. I don't know what I expected. Larger versions of the flower cookies maybe. But this is something entirely different. Peeta has painted the Games. Some you wouldn't get right away, if you hadn't been with him in the arena yourself. Water dripping through the cracks in our cave. The dry pond bed. A pair of hands, his own, digging for roots. Others any viewer would recognize. The golden horn called the Cornucopia. Clove arranging the knives inside her jacket. One of the mutts, unmistakably the blond, green-eyed one meant to be Glimmer, snarling as it makes its way toward us. And me. I am everywhere. High up in a tree. Beating a shirt against the stones in the stream. Lying unconscious in a pool of blood. And one I can't place - perhaps this is how I looked when his fever was high - emerging from a silver gray mist that matches my eyes exactly. "What do you think?" he asks. "I hate them," I say. I can almost smell the blood, the dirt, the unnatural breath of the mutt. "All I do is go around trying to forget the arena and you've brought it, back to life. How do you remember these things so exactly?" "I see them every night," he says. I know what he means. Nightmares - which I was no stranger to before the Games - now plague me whenever I sleep. But the old standby, the one of my father being blown to bits in the mines, is rare. Instead I relive versions of what happened in the arena. My worthless attempt to save Rue. Peeta bleeding to death. Glimmer's bloated body disintegrating in my hands. Cato's horrific end with the muttations. These are the most frequent visitors. "Me, too. Does it help? To paint them out?" "I don't know. I think I'm a little less afraid of going to sleep at night, or I tell myself I am," he says. "But they haven't gone anywhere." "Maybe they won't. Haymitch's haven't." Haymitch doesn't say so, but I'm sure this is why he doesn't like to sleep in the dark. "No. But for me, it's better to wake up with a paintbrush than a knife in my hand," he says. "So you really hate them?" "Yes. But they're extraordinary. Really," I say. And they are. But I don't want to look at them anymore. "Want to see my talent? Cinna did a great job on it." Peeta laughs. "Later." The train lurches forward, and I can see the land moving past us through the window. "Come on, we're almost to District Eleven. Let's go take a look at it." We go down to the last car on the train. There are chairs and couches to sit on, but what's wonderful is that the back windows retract into the ceiling so you're riding outside, in the fresh air, and you can see a wide sweep of the landscape. Huge open fields with herds of dairy cattle grazing in them. So unlike our own heavily wooded home. We slow slightly and I think we might be coming in for another stop, when a fence rises up before us. Towering at least thirty-five feet in the air and topped with wicked coils of barbed wire, it makes ours back in District 12 look childish. My eyes quickly inspect the base, which is lined with enormous metal plates. There would be no burrowing under those, no escaping to hunt. Then I see the watchtowers, placed evenly apart, manned with armed guards, so out of place among the fields of wildflowers around them. "That's something different," says Peeta. Rue did give me the impression that the rules in District 11 were more harshly enforced. But I never imagined something like this. Now the crops begin, stretched out as far as the eye can see. Men, women, and children wearing straw hats to keep off the sun straighten up, turn our way, take a moment to stretch their backs as they watch our train go by. I can see orchards in the distance, and I wonder if that's where Rue would have worked, collecting the fruit from the slimmest branches at the tops of the trees. Small communities of shacks - by comparison the houses in the Seam are upscale - spring up here and there, but they're all deserted. Every hand must be needed for the harvest. On and on it goes. I can't believe the size of District 11. "How many people do you think live here?" Peeta asks. I shake my head. In school they refer to it as a large district, that's all. No actual figures on the population. But those kids we see on camera waiting for the reaping each year, they can't be but a sampling of the ones who actually live here. What do they do? Have preliminary drawings? Pick the winners ahead of time and make sure they're in the crowd? How exactly did Rue end up on that stage with nothing but the wind offering to take her place? I begin to weary of the vastness, the endlessness of this place. When Effie comes to tell us to dress, I don't object. I go to my compartment and let the prep team do my hair and makeup. Cinna comes in with a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. I think how much Peeta will like the color. Effie gets Peeta and me together and goes through the day's program one last time. In some districts the victors ride through the city while the residents cheer. But in 11 - maybe because there's not much of a city to begin with, things being so spread out, or maybe because they don't want to waste so many people while the harvest is on - the public appearance is confined to the square. It takes place before their Justice Building, a huge marble structure. Once, it must have been a thing of beauty, but time has taken its toll. Even on television you can see ivy overtaking the crumbling facade, the sag of the roof. The square itself is ringed with run-down storefronts, most of which are abandoned. Wherever the well-to-do live in District 11, it's not here. Our entire public performance will be staged outside on what Effie refers to as the verandah, the tiled expanse between the front doors and the stairs that's shaded by a roof supported by columns. Peeta and I will be introduced, the mayor of 11 will read a speech in our honor, and we'll respond with a scripted thank-you provided by the Capitol. If a victor had any special allies among the dead tributes, it is considered good form to add a few personal comments as well. I should say something about Rue, and Thresh, too, really, but every time I tried to write it at home, I ended up with a blank paper staring me in the face: It's hard for me to talk about them without getting emotional. Fortunately, Peeta has a little something worked up, and with some slight alterations, it can count for both of us. At the end of the ceremony, we'll be presented with some sort of plaque, and then we can withdraw to the Justice Building, where a special dinner will be served. As the train is pulling into the District 11 station, Cinna puts the finishing touches on my outfit, switching my orange hairband for one of metallic gold and securing the mockingjay pin I wore in the arena to my dress. There's no welcoming, committee on the platform, just a squad of eight Peacekeepers who direct us into the back of an armored truck. Effie sniffs as the door clanks closed behind us. "Really, you'd think we were all criminals," she says. Not all of us, Effie. Just me, I think. The truck lets us out at the back of the Justice Building. We're hurried inside. I can smell an excellent meal being prepared, but it doesn't block out the odors of mildew and rot. They've left us no time to look around. As. we make a beeline for the front entrance, I can hear the anthem beginning outside in the square. Someone clips a microphone on me. Peeta takes my left hand. The mayor's introducing us as the massive doors open with a groan. "Big smiles!" Effie says, and gives us a nudge. Our feet start moving forward. This is it. This is where I have to convince everybody how in love I am with Peeta, I think. The solemn ceremony is pretty tightly mapped out, so I'm not sure how to do it. It's not a time for kissing, but maybe I can work one in. There's loud applause, but none of the other responses we got in the Capitol, the cheers and whoops and whistles. We walk across the shaded verandah until the roof runs out and we're standing at the top of a big flight of marble stairs in the glaring sun. As my eyes adjust, I see the buildings on the square have been hung with banners that help cover up their neglected state. It's packed with people, but again, just a fraction of the number who live here. As usual, a special platform has been constructed at the bottom of the stage for the families of the dead tributes. On Thresh's side, there's only an old woman with a hunched back and a tall, muscular girl I'm guessing is his sister. On Rue's ... I'm not prepared for Rue's family. Her parents, whose faces are still fresh with sorrow. Her five younger siblings, who resemble her so closely. The slight builds, the luminous brown eyes. They form a flock of small dark birds. The applause dies out and the mayor gives the speech in our honor. Two little girls come up with tremendous bouquets of flowers. Peeta does his part of the scripted reply and then I find my lips moving to conclude it. Fortunately my mother and Prim have drilled me so I can do it in my sleep. Peeta had his personal comments written on a card, but he doesn't pull it out. Instead he speaks in his simple, winning style about Thresh and Rue making it to the final eight, about how they both kept me alive - thereby keeping him alive - and about how this is a debt we can never repay. And then he hesitates before adding something that wasn't written on the card. Maybe because he thought Effie might make him remove it. "It can in no way replace your losses, but as a token of our thanks we'd like for each of the tributes' families from District Eleven to receive one month of our winnings every year for the duration of our lives." The crowd can't help but respond with gasps and murmurs. There is no precedent for what Peeta has done. I don't even know if it's legal. He probably doesn't know, either, so he didn't ask in case it isn't. As for the families, they just stare at us in shock. Their lives were changed forever when Thresh and Rue were lost, but this gift will change them again. A month of tribute winnings can easily provide for a family for a year. As long as we live, they will not hunger. I look at Peeta and he gives me a sad smile. I hear Haymitch's voice. "You could do a lot worse." At this moment, it's impossible to imagine how I could do any better. The gift ... it is perfect. So when I rise up on tiptoe to kiss him, it doesn't seem forced at all. The mayor steps forward and presents us each with a plaque that's so large I have to put down my bouquet to hold it. The ceremony's about to end when I notice one of Rue's sisters staring at me. She must be about nine and is almost an exact replica of Rue, down to the way she stands with her arms slightly extended. Despite the good news about the winnings, she's not happy. In fact, her look is reproachful. Is it because I didn't save Rue? No. It's because I still haven't thanked her, I think. A wave of shame rushes through me. The girl is right. How can I stand here, passive and mute, leaving all the words to Peeta? If she had won, Rue would never have let my death go unsung. I remember how I took care in the arena to cover her with flowers, to make sure her loss did not go unnoticed. But that gesture will mean nothing if I don't support it now. "Wait!" I stumble forward, pressing the plaque to my chest. My allotted time for speaking has come and gone, but I must say something. I owe too much. And even if I had pledged all my winnings to the families, it would not excuse my silence today. "Wait, please." I don't know how to start, but once I do, the words rush from my lips as if they've been forming in the back of my mind for a long time. "I want to give my thanks to the tributes of District Eleven," I say. I look at the pair of women on Thresh's side. "I only ever spoke to Thresh one time. Just long enough for him to spare my life. I didn't know him, but I always respected him. For his power. For his refusal to play the Games on anyone's terms but his own. The Careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning, but he wouldn't do it. I respected him for that." For the first time the old hunched woman - is she Thresh's grandmother? - raises her head and the trace of a smile plays on her lips. The crowd has fallen silent now, so silent that I wonder how they manage it. They must all be holding their breath. I turn to Rue's family. "But I feel as if I did know Rue, and she'll always be with me. Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the Meadow by my house. I see her in the mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim." My voice is undependable, but I am almost finished. "Thank you for your children." I raise my chin to address the crowd. "And thank you all for the bread." I stand there, feeling broken and small, thousands of eyes trained on me. There's a long pause. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, someone whistles Rue's four-note mocking-jay tune. The one that signaled the end of the workday in the orchards. The one that meant safety in the arena. By the end of the tune, I have found the whistler, a wizened old man in a faded red shirt and overalls. His eyes meet mine. What happens next is not an accident. It is too well executed to be spontaneous, because it happens in complete unison. Every person in the crowd presses the three middle fingers of their left hand against their lips and extends them to me. It's our sign from District 12, the last good-bye I gave Rue in the arena. If I hadn't spoken to President Snow, this gesture might move me to tears. But with his recent orders to calm the districts fresh in my ears, it fills me with dread. What will he think of this very public salute to the girl who defied the Capitol? The full impact of what I've done hits me. It was not intentional - I only meant to express my thanks - but I have elicited something dangerous. An act of dissent from the people of District 11. This is exactly the kind of thing I am supposed to be defusing! I try to think of something to say to undermine what has just happened, to negate it, but I can hear the slight burst of static indicating my microphone has been cut off and the mayor has taken over. Peeta and I acknowledge a final round of applause. He leads me back toward the doors, unaware that anything has gone wrong. I feel funny and have to stop for a moment. Little bits of bright sunshine dance before my eyes. "Are you all right?" Peeta asks. "Just dizzy. The sun was so bright," I say. I see his bouquet. "I forgot my flowers," I mumble. "I'll get them," he says. "I can," I answer. We would be safe inside the Justice Building by now, if I hadn't stopped, if I hadn't left my flowers. Instead, from the deep shade of the verandah, we see the whole thing. A pair of Peacekeepers dragging the old man who whistled to the top of the steps. Forcing him to his knees before the crowd. And putting a bullet through his head.

[readbookywooks]

5. The man has only just crumpled to the ground when a wall of white Peacekeeper uniforms blocks our view. Several of the soldiers have automatic weapons held lengthwise as they push us back toward the door. "We're going!" says Peeta, shoving the Peacekeeper who's pressing on me. "We get it, all right? Come on, Katniss." His arm encircles me and guides me back into the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers follow a pace or two behind us. The moment we're inside, the doors slam shut and we hear the Peacekeepers' boots moving back toward the crowd. Haymitch, Effie, Portia, and Cinna wait under a static-filled screen that's mounted on the wall, their faces tight with anxiety. "What happened?" Effie hurries over. "We lost the feed just after Katniss's beautiful speech, and then Haymitch said he thought he heard a gun fire, and I said it was ridiculous, but who knows? There are lunatics everywhere!" "Nothing happened, Effie. An old truck backfired," says Peeta evenly. Two more shots. The door doesn't muffle their sound much. Who was that? Thresh's grandmother? One of Rue's little sisters? "Both of you. With me," says Haymitch. Peeta and I follow him, leaving the others behind. The Peacekeepers who are stationed around the Justice Building take little interest in our movements now that we are safely inside. We ascend a magnificent curved marble staircase. At the top, there's a long hall with worn carpet on the floor. Double doors stand open, welcoming us into the first room we encounter. The ceiling must be twenty feet high. Designs of fruit and flowers are carved into the molding and small, fat children with wings look down at us from every angle. Vases of blossoms give off a cloying scent that makes my eyes itch. Our evening clothes hang on racks against the wall. This room has been prepared for our use, but we're barely there long enough to drop off our gifts. Then Haymitch yanks the microphones from our chests, stuffs them beneath a couch cushion, and waves us on. As far as I know, Haymitch has only been here once, when he was on his Victory Tour decades ago. But he must have a remarkable memory or reliable instincts, because he leads us up through a maze of twisting staircases and increasingly narrow halls. At times he has to stop and force a door. By the protesting squeak of the hinges you can tell it's been a long time since it was opened. Eventually we climb a ladder to a trapdoor. When Haymitch pushes it aside, we find ourselves in the dome of the Justice Building. It's a huge place filled with broken furniture, piles of books and ledgers, and rusty weapons. The coat of dust blanketing everything is so thick it's clear it hasn't been disturbed for years. Light struggles to filter in through four grimy square windows set in the sides of the dome. Haymitch kicks the trapdoor shut and turns on us. "What happened?" he asks. Peeta relates all that occurred in the square. The whistle, the salute, our hesitation on the verandah, the murder of the old man. "What's going on, Haymitch?" "It will be better coming from you," Haymitch says to me. I don't agree. I think it will be a hundred times worse coming from me. But I tell Peeta everything as calmly as I can. About President Snow, the unrest in the districts. I don't even omit the kiss with Gale. I lay out how we are all in jeopardy, how the whole country is in jeopardy because of my trick with the berries. "I was supposed to fix things on this tour. Make everyone who had doubted believe I acted out of love. Calm things down. But obviously, all I've done today is. get three people killed, and now everyone in the square will be punished." I feel so sick that I have to sit down on a couch, despite the exposed springs and stuffing. "Then I made things worse, too. By giving the money," says Peeta. Suddenly he strikes out at a lamp that sits precariously on a crate and knocks it across the room, where it shatters against the floor. "This has to stop. Right now. This - this - game you two play, where you tell each other secrets but keep them from me like I'm too inconsequential or stupid or weak to handle them." "It's not like that, Peeta - " I begin. "It's exactly like that!" he yells at me. "I have people I care about, too, Katniss! Family and friends back in District Twelve who will be just as dead as yours if we don't pull this thing off. So, after all we went through in the arena, don't I even rate the truth from you?" "You're always so reliably good, Peeta," says Haymitch. "So smart about how you present yourself before the cameras. I didn't want to disrupt that." "Well, you overestimated me. Because I really screwed up today. What do you think is going to happen to Rue's and Thresh's families? Do you think they'll get their share of our winnings? Do you think I gave them a bright future? Because I think they'll be lucky if they survive the day!" Peeta sends something else flying, a statue. I've never seen him like this. "He's right, Haymitch," I say. "We were wrong not to tell him. Even back in the Capitol." "Even in the arena, you two had some sort of system worked out, didn't you?" asks Peeta. His voice is quieter now. "Something I wasn't part of." "No. Not officially. I just could tell what Haymitch wanted me to do by what he sent, or didn't send," I say. "Well, I never had that opportunity. Because he never sent me anything until you showed up," says Peeta. I haven't thought much about this. How it must have looked from Peeta's perspective when I appeared in the arena having received burn medicine and bread when he, who was at death's door, had gotten nothing. Like Haymitch was keeping me alive at his expense. "Look, boy - " Haymitch begins. "Don't bother, Haymitch. I know you had to choose one of us. And I'd have wanted it to be her. But this is something different. People are dead out there. More will follow unless we're very good. We all know I'm better than Katniss in front of the cameras. No one needs to coach me on what to say. But I have to know what I'm walking into," says Peeta. "From now on, you'll be fully informed," Haymitch promises. "I better be," says Peeta. He doesn't even bother to look at me before he leaves. The dust he disrupted billows up and looks for new places to land. My hair, my eyes, my shiny gold pin. "Did you choose me, Haymitch?" I ask. "Yeah," he says. "Why? You like him better," I say. "That's true. But remember, until they changed the rules, I could only hope to get one of you out of there alive," he says. "I thought since he was determined to protect you, well, between the three of us, we might be able to bring you home." "Oh" is all I can think to say. "You'll see, the choices you'll have to make. If we survive this," says Haymitch. "You'll learn." Well, I've learned one thing today. This place is not a larger version of District 12. Our fence is unguarded and rarely charged. Our Peacekeepers are unwelcome but less brutal. Our hardships evoke more fatigue than fury. Here in 11, they suffer more acutely and feel more desperation. President Snow is right. A spark could be enough to set them ablaze. Everything is happening too fast for me to process it. The warning, the shootings, the recognition that I may have set something of great consequence in motion. The whole thing is so improbable. And it would be one thing if I had planned to stir things up, but given the circumstances ... how on earth did I cause so much trouble? "Come on. We've got a dinner to attend," says Haymitch. I stand in the shower as long as they let me before I have to come out to be readied. The prep team seems oblivious to the events of the day. They're all excited about the dinner. In the districts they're important enough to attend, whereas back in the Capitol they almost never score invitations to prestigious parties. While they try to predict what dishes will be served, I keep seeing the old man's head being blown off. I don't even pay attention to what anyone is doing to me until I'm about to leave and I see myself in the mirror. A pale pink strapless dress brushes my shoes. My hair is pinned back from my face and falling down my back in a shower of ringlets. Cinna comes up behind me and arranges a shimmering silver wrap around my shoulders. He catches my eye in the mirror. "Like it?" "It's beautiful. As always," I say. "Let's see how it looks with a smile," he says gently. It's his reminder that in a minute, there will be cameras again. I manage to raise the corners of my lips. "There we go." When we all assemble to go down to the dinner, I can see Effie is out of sorts. Surely, Haymitch hasn't told her about what happened in the square. I wouldn't be surprised if Cinna and Portia know, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement to leave Effie out of the bad-news loop. It doesn't take long to hear about the problem, though. Effie runs through the evening's schedule, then tosses it aside. "And then, thank goodness, we can all get on that train and get out of here," she says. "Is something wrong, Effie?" asks Cinna. "I don't like the way we've been treated. Being stuffed into trucks and barred from the platform. And then, about an hour ago, I decided to look around the Justice Building. I'm something of an expert in architectural design, you know," she says. "Oh, yes, I've heard that," says Portia before the pause gets too long. "So, I was just having a peek around because district ruins are going to be all the rage this year, when two Peacemakers showed up and ordered me back to our quarters. One of them actually poked me with her gun!" says Effie. I can't help thinking this is the direct result of Haymitch, Peeta, and me disappearing earlier in the day. It's a little reassuring, actually, to think that Haymitch might have been right. That no one would have been monitoring the dusty dome where we talked. Although I bet they are now. Effie looks so distressed that I spontaneously give her a hug. "That's awful, Effie. Maybe we shouldn't go to the dinner at all. At least until they've apologized." I know she'll never agree to this, but she brightens considerably at the suggestion, at the validation of her complaint. "No, I'll manage. It's part of my job to weather the ups and downs. And we can't let you two miss your dinner," she says. "But thank you for the offer, Katniss." Effie arranges us in formation for our entrance. First the prep teams, then her, the stylists, Haymitch. Peeta and I, of course, bring up the rear. Somewhere below, musicians begin to play. As the first wave of our little procession begins down the steps, Peeta and I join hands. "Haymitch says I was wrong to yell at you. You were only operating under his instructions," says Peeta. "And it isn't as if I haven't kept things from you in the past." I remember the shock of hearing Peeta confess his love for me in front of all of Panem. Haymitch had known about that and not told me. "I think I broke a few things myself after that interview." "Just an urn," he says. "And your hands. There's no point to it anymore, though, is there? Not being straight with each other?" I say. "No point," says Peeta. We stand at the top of the stairs, giving Haymitch a fifteen-step lead as Effie directed. "Was that really the only time you kissed Gale?" I'm so startled I answer. "Yes." With all that has happened today, has that question actually been preying on him? "That's fifteen. Let's do it," he says. A light hits us, and I put on the most dazzling smile I can. We descend the steps and are sucked into what becomes an indistinguishable round of dinners, ceremonies, and train rides. Each day it's the same. Wake up. Get dressed. Ride through cheering crowds. Listen to a speech in our honor. Give a thank-you speech in return, but only the one the Capitol gave us, never any personal additions now. Sometimes a brief tour: a glimpse of the sea in one district, towering forests in another, ugly factories, fields of wheat, stinking refineries. Dress in evening clothes. Attend dinner. Train. During ceremonies, we are solemn and respectful but always linked together, by our hands, our arms. At dinners, we are borderline delirious in our love for each other. We kiss, we dance, we get caught trying to sneak away to be alone. On the train, we are quietly miserable as we try to assess what effect we might be having. Even without our personal speeches to trigger dissent - needless to say the ones we gave in District 11 were edited out before the event was broadcast - you can feel something in the air, the rolling boil of a pot about to run over. Not everywhere. Some crowds have the weary-cattle feel that I know District 12 usually projects at the victors' ceremonies. But in others - particularly 8, 4, and 3 - there is genuine elation in the faces of the people at the sight of us, and under the elation, fury. When they chant my name, it is more of a cry for vengeance than a cheer. When the Peacekeepers move in to quiet an unruly crowd, it presses back instead of retreating. And I know that there's nothing I could ever do to change this. No show of love, however believable, will turn this tide. If my holding out those berries was an act of temporary insanity, then these people will embrace insanity, too. Cinna begins to take in my clothes around the waist. The prep team frets over the circles under my eyes. Effie starts giving me pills to sleep, but they don't work. Not well enough. I drift off only to be roused by nightmares that have increased in number and intensity. Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other's arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment. Nothing else happens, but our arrangement quickly becomes a subject of gossip on the train. When Effie brings it up to me, I think, Good. Maybe it will get back to President Snow. I tell her we'll make an effort to be more discreet, but we don't. The back-to-back appearances in 2 and 1 are their own special kind of awful. Cato and Clove, the tributes from District 2, might have both made it home if Peeta and I hadn't. I personally killed the girl, Glimmer, and the boy from District 1. As I try to avoid looking at his family, I learn that his name was Marvel. How did I never know that? I suppose that before the Games I didn't pay attention, and afterward I didn't want to know. By the time we reach the Capitol, we are desperate. We make endless appearances to adoring crowds. There is no danger of an uprising here among the privileged, among those whose names are never placed in the reaping balls, whose children never die for the supposed crimes committed generations ago. We don't need to convince anybody in the Capitol of our love but hold to the slim hope that we can still reach some of those we failed to convince in the districts. Whatever we do seems too little, too late. Back in our old quarters in the Training Center, I'm the one who suggests the public marriage proposal. Peeta agrees to do it but then disappears to his room for a long time. Haymitch tells me to leave him alone. "I thought he wanted it, anyway," I say. "Not like this," Haymitch says. "He wanted it to be real." I go back to my room and lie under the covers, trying not to think of Gale and thinking of nothing else. That night, on the stage before the Training Center, we bubble our way through a list of questions. Caesar Flickerman, in his twinkling midnight blue suit, his hair, eyelids, and lips still dyed powder blue, flawlessly guides us through the interview. When he asks us about the future, Peeta gets down on one knee, pours out his heart, and begs me to marry him. I, of course, accept. Caesar is beside himself, the Capitol audience is hysterical, shots of crowds around Panem show a country besotted with happiness. President Snow himself makes a surprise visit to congratulate us. He clasps Peeta's hand and gives him an approving slap on the shoulder. He embraces me, enfolding me in the smell of blood and roses, and plants a puffy kiss on my cheek. When he pulls back, his fingers digging into my arms, his face smiling into mine, I dare to raise my eyebrows. They ask what my lips can't. Did I do it? Was it enough? Was giving everything over to you, keeping up the game, promising to marry Peeta enough? In answer, he gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

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26 I spew the berries from my mouth, wiping my tongue with the end of my shirt to make sure no juice remains. Peeta pulls me to the lake where we both flush our mouths with water and then collapse into each other's arms. "You didn't swallow any?" I ask him. He shakes his head. "You?" "Guess I'd be dead by now if I did," I say. I can see his lips moving in reply, but I can't hear him over the roar of the crowd in the Capitol that they're playing live over the speakers. The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Peeta can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta's leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious. My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty. Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes, watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. It's like being home again, when they bring in the hopelessly mangled person from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or the famished child struggling against pneumonia and my mother and Prim, they wear that same look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide in the trees until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin. But I'm held here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I've seen them, ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don't they leave? Why do they stay to watch? And now I know. It's because you have no choice. I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me. The next thing I know we've landed back on the roof of the Training Center and they're taking Peeta but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair  -  it must be Effie, it has to be Effie coming to my rescue  -  when the needle jabs me from behind. When I wake, I'm afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling glows with a soft yellow light allowing me to see that I'm in a room containing just my bed. No doors, no windows are visible. The air smells of something sharp and antiseptic. My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I'm naked, but the bedclothes arc soothing against my skin. I tentatively lift my left hand above the cover. Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and am just running my fingers through my silken hair when I freeze. Apprehensively I ruffle the hair by my left ear. No, it wasn't an illusion. I can hear again. I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist keeps me from rising more than a few inches. The physical confinement makes me panic and I'm trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a portion of the wall slides open and in steps the redheaded Avox girl carrying a tray. The sight of her calms me and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a million questions, but I'm afraid any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously I am being closely monitored. She sets the tray across my thighs and presses something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. "Did Peeta make it?" She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship. I guess she did not wish me dead after all. And Peeta has made it. Of course, he did. With all their expensive equipment here. Still, I hadn't been sure until now. As the Avox leaves, the door closes noiselessly after her and I turn hungrily to the tray. A bowl of clear broth, a small serving of applesauce, and a glass of water. This is it? I think grouchily. Shouldn't my homecoming dinner be a little more spectacular? But I find it's an effort to finish the spare meal before me. My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chestnut, and I have to wonder how long I've been out because I had no trouble eating a fairly sizable breakfast that last morning in the arena. There's usually a lag of a few days between the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor so that they can put the starving, wounded, mess of a person back together again. Somewhere, Cinna and Portia will be creating our wardrobes for the public appearances. Haymitch and Effie will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, reviewing the questions for our final interviews. Back home, District 12 is probably in chaos as they try and organize the homecoming celebrations for Peeta and me, given that the last one was close to thirty years ago. Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought of Prim's scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home! I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna, to find out more about what's been going on. And why shouldn't I? I feel fine. But as I start to work my way out of the band, I feel a cold liquid seeping into my vein from one of the tubes and almost immediately lose consciousness. This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. My waking, eating, and, even though I resist the impulse to try and escape the bed, being knocked out again. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register. The redheaded Avox girl has not returned since the feeding, my scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man's voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can't help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me. Then finally, the time arrives when I come to and there's nothing plugged into my right arm. The restraint around my middle has been removed and I am free to move about. I start to sit up but am arrested by the sight of my hands. The skin's perfection, smooth and glowing. Not only are the scars from the arena gone, but those accumulated over years of hunting have vanished without a trace. My forehead feels like satin, and when I try to find the burn on my calf, there's nothing. I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight and find them strong and steady. Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what all of us tributes wore in the arena. I stare at it as if it had teeth until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear to greet my team. I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind one of them must be Peeta. Now that I'm conscious and moving, I'm growing more and more anxious about him. He must be all right or the Avox girl wouldn't have said so. But I need to see him for myself. "Peeta!" I call out, since there's no one to ask. I hear my name in response, but it's not his voice. It's a voice that provokes first irritation and then eagerness. Effie. I turn and see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end of the hall  -  Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch's arms first. When he whispers in my ear, "Nice job, sweetheart," it doesn't sound sarcastic. Effie's somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and talking about how she told everyone we were pearls. Cinna just hugs me tight and doesn't say anything. Then I notice Portia is absent and get a bad feeling. "Where's Portia? Is she with Peeta? He is all right, isn't he? I mean, he's alive?" I blurt out. "He's fine. Only they want to do your reunion live on air at the ceremony," says Haymitch. "Oh. That's all," I say. The awful moment of thinking Peeta's dead again passes. "I guess I'd want to see that myself." "Go on with Cinna. He has to get you ready," says Haymitch. It's a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective arm around my shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practiced tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty. No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest. When the elevator doors open, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I'm happy to see them, too, although not like I was to see Cinna. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day. They sweep me into the dining room and I get a real meal  -  roast beef and peas and soft rolls  -  although my portions are still being strictly controlled. Because when I ask for seconds, I'm refused. "No, no, no. They don't want it all coming back up on the stage," says Octavia, but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she's on my side. We go back to my room and Cinna disappears for a while as the prep team gets me ready. "Oh, they did a full body polish on you," says Flavius enviously. "Not a flaw left on your skin." But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I'm sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs. They take care of the shower settings for me, and they go to work on my hair, nails, and makeup when I'm done. They chatter so continuously that I barely have to reply, which is good, since I don't feel very talkative. It's funny, because even though they're rattling on about the Games, it's all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred. "I was still in bed!" "I had just had my eyebrows dyed!" "I swear I nearly fainted!" Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena. We don't wallow around in the Games this way in District 12. We grit our teeth and watch because we must and try to get back to business as soon as possible when they're over. To keep from hating the prep team, I effectively tune out most of what they're saying. Cinna comes in with what appears to be an unassuming yellow dress across his arms. "Have you given up the whole 'girl on fire' thing?" I ask. "You tell me," he says, and slips it over my head. I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My hands go to my chest and I frown. "I know," says Cinna before I can object. "But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise." He stops me before I can look at my reflection. "Wait, don't forget the shoes." Venia helps me into a pair of flat leather sandals and I turn to the mirror. I am still the "girl on fire." The sheer fabric softly glows. Even the slight movement in the air sends a ripple up my body. By comparison, the chariot costume seems garish, the interview dress too contrived. In this dress, I give the illusion of wearing candlelight. "What do you think?" asks Cinna. "I think it's the best yet," I say. When I manage to pull my eyes away from the flickering fabric, I'm in for something of a shock. My hair's loose, held back by a simple hairband. The makeup rounds and fills out the sharp angles of my face. A clear polish coats my nails. The sleeveless dress is gathered at my ribs, not my waist, largely eliminating any help the padding would have given my figure. The hem falls just to my knees. Without heels, you can see my true stature. I look, very simply, like a girl. A young one. Fourteen at the most. Innocent. Harmless. Yes, it is shocking that Cinna has pulled this off when you remember I've just won the Games. This is a very calculated look. Nothing Cinna designs is arbitrary. I bite my lip trying to figure out his motivation. "I thought it'd be something more. sophisticated-looking," I say. "I thought Peeta would like this better," he answers carefully. Peeta? No, it's not about Peeta. It's about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the audience. Although I do not yet understand Cinna's design, it's a reminder the Games are not quite finished. And beneath his benign reply, I sense a warning. Of something he can't even mention in front of his own team. We take the elevator to the level where we trained. It's customary for the victor and his or her support team to rise from beneath the stage. First the prep team, followed by the escort, the stylist, the mentor, and finally the victor. Only this year, with two victors who share both an escort and a mentor, the whole thing has had to be rethought. I find myself in a poorly lit area under the stage. A brand-new metal plate has been installed to transport me upward. You can still see small piles of sawdust, smell fresh paint. Cinna and the prep team peel off to change into their own costumes and take their positions, leaving me alone. In the gloom, I see a makeshift wall about ten yards away and assume Peeta's behind it. The rumbling of the crowd is loud, so I don't notice Haymitch until he touches my shoulder. I spring away, startled, still half in the arena, I guess. "Easy, just me. Let's have a look at you," Haymitch says. I hold out my arms and turn once. "Good enough." It's not much of a compliment. "But what?" I say. Haymitch's eyes shift around my musty holding space, and he seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?" Okay, that's an odd request from Haymitch but, after all, we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. Only, when I put my arms around his neck, I find myself trapped in his embrace. He begins talking, very fast, very quietly in my ear, my hair concealing his lips. "Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem," says Haymitch. I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Haymitch is saying something completely delightful because nothing is covering my mouth. "So, what?" "Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren't responsible for your actions." Haymitch pulls back and adjusts my hairband. "Got it, sweetheart?" He could be talking about anything now. "Got it," I say. "Did you tell Peeta this?" "Don't have to," says Haymitch. "He's already there." "But you think I'm not?" I say, taking the opportunity to straighten a bright red bow tie Cinna must have wrestled him into. "Since when does it matter what I think?" says Haymitch. "Better take our places." He leads me to the metal circle. "This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it." He kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom. I tug on my skirt, willing it to be longer, wanting it to cover the knocking in my knees. Then I realize it's pointless. My whole body's shaking like a leaf. Hopefully, it will be put down to excitement. After all, it's my night. The damp, moldy smell beneath the stage threatens to choke me. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out on my skin and I can't rid myself of the feeling that the boards above my head are about to collapse, to bury me alive under the rubble. When I left the arena, when the trumpets played, I was supposed to be safe. From then on. For the rest of my life. But if what Haymitch says is true, and he's got no reason to lie, I've never been in such a dangerous place in my life. It's so much worse than being hunted in the arena. There, I could only die. End of story. But out here Prim, my mother, Gale, the people of District 12, everyone I care about back home could be punished if I can't pull off the girl-driven-crazy-by-love scenario Haymitch has suggested. So I still have a chance, though. Funny, in the arena, when I poured out those berries, I was only thinking of outsmarting the Gamemakers, not how my actions would reflect on the Capitol. But the Hunger Games are their weapon and you are not supposed to be able to defeat it. So now the Capitol will act as if they've been in control the whole time. As if they orchestrated the whole event, right down to the double suicide. But that will only work if I play along with them. And Peeta. Peeta will suffer, too, if this goes wrong. But what was it Haymitch said when I asked if he had told Peeta the situation? That he had to pretend to be desperately in love? "Don't have to. He's already there." Already thinking ahead of me in the Games again and well aware of the danger we're in? Or. already desperately in love? I don't know. I haven't even begun to separate out my feelings about Peeta. It's too complicated. What I did as part of the Games. As opposed to what I did out of anger at the Capitol. Or because of how it would be viewed back in District 12. Or simply because it was the only decent thing to do. Or what I did because I cared about him. These are questions to be unraveled back home, in the peace and quiet of the woods, when no one is watching. Not here with every eye upon me. But I won't have that luxury for who knows how long. And right now, the most dangerous part of the Hunger Games is about to begin.