#shatteredpearl

[botanicalbard]

Read @blueishspace’s Shattered Pearl AU and it is some good soup. The premise is that essentially with the stress of HC season 8’s ending, Double life and the ESMP crossover Pearl breaks into 3 different identities Scarlet, Saint and Moon. I won’t talk about the plot since y’all should all go read it but here are the various Pearl’s after the split.

[katnissmellarkkk]

AN: HI! I’m new here to writing Everlark. I haven’t written anything in a couple years so I’m probably really rusty but I decided to write this after being inspired the other day by a thread of “what if Peeta hadn’t been hijacked in Mockingjay”. So this is my idea of what might have been, had Peeta still been captured at the end of Catching Fire but only tortured, never hijacked. It got a little long (re: really long) so I decided to split it up into two or maybe three chapters. So here’s the first one and please forgive any errors.

 I hope anyone reading this has a good day! 

Shattered Pearl

| Part Two |

/

Peeta's already awake, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet and moves towards me.

I feel his arms lock around my waist and in a desperate motion, he uses his weak, shaky limbs to lift me midair.

I comply without hesitation. Feeling his chest against mine, breathing in his scent for the first time in months, burying my face in his throat, gives me the strength I'd lacked since the last night in the arena.

I feel moisture hit the space where my shoulder meets my neck and I realize instantly Peeta's crying. I feel my mouth quiver in awe as my hand finds its way in his now dirty, unwashed, matted hair.

"I missed you," Peeta whimpers against me and the feeling of his lips moving at my neck sends an involuntary thrill through my body.

"I missed you so much," I cry against him truthfully, squeezing him tighter, trying to just confirm to myself, reassure myself, that he's actually really here.

As if reading my mind he whispers, "I usually wake up by now."

I laugh unsteadily, the noise coming out like a choke more than a chortle, and pull back against my own wishes to frame his face with my hands. "You're not dreaming," I promise.

He leans his forehead against mine and I meet his sorrow, broken, haunted baby blues. "We shouldn't be here," he suddenly states, as if we're not in a room surrounded by doctors and workers of District 13. And Haymitch. When my expression contorts to confusion, he clarifies. "I don't think we're safe here, Katniss."

His voice is no more than a hushed murmur and so, for some reason, I think I can convince him with gentle, reassuring words. I had somehow forgotten just how much Peeta could understand about people who he'd spent so little time with. How he trusted Finnick almost right off the bat but how he instinctively knew the people of the Capitol were vile. How he understood before I did what it meant to be a piece in someone else's game.

Still I think it's going to help for me to say, "I'm here, Peeta. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Katniss," he stops, shaking his head. "You're not safe here."

"Mr. Mellark," one of the doctors cuts in now. "Why don't you sit back down? We need to finish examining you."

I feel my face turn slightly red as I realize I'm still being held up by Peeta, but I quickly dispel the embarrassment, knowing that every citizen in this country watched me and Peeta during extremely—albeit forced—intimate and personal moments of the games. Us holding each other is nothing in comparison.

Peeta reluctantly sets me on my feet, but neither of us let go of the other. He pulls me to sit on the hospital bed, facing him while the doctors continue their prodding and poking.

I squeeze his hand every time he flinches as one of the doctors shine something in his eyes, touch a sensitive spot, ask him a question he doesn't want to answer.

I feel my eyes spill over with tears as he shakes his head to one of the inquiries. "I-I don't know?" He looks around, like a frightened animal cornered by a predator.

I can't help it. I lean in and wrap my arms around him, pressing my lips to his cheek. "It's okay," I promise, rubbing his back.

He surprises me, turning and whimpering again, "I just want them to go away."

"Okay, you heard him," Haymitch snaps, gesturing to the workers and doctors alike. "Get out. The boy wants space."

"We're not done with his exam-"

"Anything dangerously wrong with him, you'd have discovered by now. You can prod him like a test experiment after he's had time to rest," Haymitch demands.

I feel Peeta tense, glaring over at our mentor and I remember the anger he presented on television with Caesar. I recognized, even through a screen, that his rage towards Haymitch was genuine.

As the doctors clear out, the older man comes closer, until Peeta—stronger than anything he'd said thus far—halts him. "Come any closer to me or to her and I'll rip your throat out."

Haymitch and me both blanch, caught off guard. Peeta was always the kind one, the gentle, understanding one. This was the kind of reaction I'm expected to always have, not him.

Haymitch's shocked face twists into something closer to sardonic humor and he looks at me then. "Yeah, Katniss was pretty mad at me too when she first saw me on the hovercraft. Didn't you try to claw my eyes out, Sweetheart."

Before I can respond, Peeta's already beating me there. "Too bad she didn't succeed."

I feel his arm around me and I know I should try to reason with him, try to diminish some of his anger against Haymitch, but for so long I craved these arms around me, his shoulder for me to rest my head on, his smell of cinnamon and dill and something else that can never be taken away no matter where he goes. I just can't push Peeta away now. I'm not strong enough.

He rubs my back as I lay my cheek against his shoulder and give Haymitch my most apologetic look. Our mentor shakes his head understandingly at me. "Don't look at me like that, Sweetheart," he asserts gruffly.

He touches Peeta's shoulder as he walks away and I feel a pang of sympathy, because now I know, truly, deep in my bones, even if he'd never admit it, we are all Haymitch really cares about. Peeta didn't hear about his mom and brother and girlfriend. He doesn't know that Haymitch was untouchable for years to Snow because everyone he'd ever loved had been sacrificed to set an example for showing up the Capitol. How me and Peeta were the first people who stormed into his life after two and a half decades who could be used as a weapon against him.

Peeta presses his lips in my hair and I push thoughts of our mentor away. I turn my head up to look at him. "I dreamed of you whenever I could. Whenever they'd let me sleep," he whispers.

I cup his face, tracing his cheek with my shaking fingers. "How much did they hurt you?" I can't help asking—begging really is more like it. I need to know what happened to him, and if it's as bad as I imagined all this time.

"Katniss," Peeta starts and then shakes his head. He is closing down on me.

"Peeta, I need to know," I press desperately.

"No, you don't," he shoots back and I almost hear a tinge of a dark laugh and for some reason, that makes me push that much harder.

"Yes, I do. Peeta-"

"No!" He shouts and I startle, my heart skipping a beat. And then, in an instant, he's crying, harder now and I feel tears pour down my cheeks once again and he's tugging me with all the strength he has left in his battered body into his lap and rocking me, like I need to be the one taken care of. "I'm sorry," he sobs. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I shouldn't be pushing you," I quickly amend. "I just-I can't live with myself, knowing they tortured you because of me."

Peeta squeezes me tighter, pressing his lips all over my forehead. "Shh," he murmurs but I can't take it. He can't be comforting me right now.

"I wish it'd been me. I should have been the one captured."

His response is immediate. "The one thing I'm grateful for, is that it was me and not you. I wouldn't have survived if they had hurt you."

I shake in his arms and press myself closer, so close it's like I'm trying to climb inside of him, become an extension of him. I want to ask him how he thinks I feel then but I hold it back, not wanting to make him feel like he has to comfort me anymore than he already is.

What feels like an hour passes and we stay in a huddle on the hospital bed, him holding me tight, me clinging to him, before we finally separate.

I lift my face from his chest, slowly, and gently touch his bruised, damaged face. He looks down at me with the same loving, forlorn eyes as before, but this time he catches me completely off guard.

His lips press against mine, with more strength and fervor than I believed he was still capable of.

His lips are soft and warm and tender and I can't help but return his kiss with more enthusiasm than is probably appropriate.

It's just like the kiss on the beach, the one that caused the stirring inside of me, the one that brings the hunger up from my stomach and spreads all over my body, exploding like fireworks. I want more and more and more and I'm still never satisfied.

Peeta's hands cradle my head and his tongue slips into my mouth and I moan, embarrassingly.

He pulls back and laughs a little then and I flush slightly before glaring at him as serious as I muster, waiting for him to tease me, like he used to on the Victory Tour and during training for the Quarter Quell.

But instead he just moves his lips to my forehead, then my temple, then my cheek, before his lips move to hover over my ear. "That's what kept me alive."

//

"Katniss?" Peeta murmurs softly as I finish drying his hair. "Don't cry," he pleads.

I can't help it and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for making it more difficult on him with my emotions but I can't help the tears that keep streaming down my face as I look at the thin, brutalized, scarred body of the boy with the bread.

I did this to him. Snow tortured him to punish me and it worked. I feel worse looking at him than I could have if it'd been me instead.

God, do I wish it had been me.

I'm the one who pulled out the berries. I'm the one who refused not to honor the twelve year girl who was supposed to be my enemy. I'm the one who inspired this entire rebellion.

And Peeta paid the price.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as I comb my fingers through his blonde locks, trying to remove the deep tangles by hand. Pulling myself together slightly, for him more than myself, I scrub my other hand over my face, wiping away my snot and tears and rubbing them on my pants.

"That was gross," Peeta says after a beat and neither of us can help but laugh. "Come here," he murmurs, opening his arms to me again.

After we'd been stopped kissing in his recovery room, I'd asked him if there was anything he wanted. I promised internally that I'd get him whatever he needed, be it morphling or a better meal than the rest of Thirteen was offered, but in the end he just looked at me with those watery blue eyes and asked shyly for a shower.

"I haven't had one in months," he had whispered, breaking our every intense eye contact then. "Not a real one...Snow's men sometimes would pour this ice cold water on me when I went to sleep. It wouldn't stop for hours or until I just... passed out, I guess, but..." he'd stopped then to meet my eyes, which had to only contain devastation and remorse and probably a lot of affection but I don't know for sure, because I was too tied up in his words. "I'd like a real one. If..."

When he didn't continue, I prompted, "if, what?"

"If you'll stay with me?" He looked nervous to even ask me and I threw myself around him then and essentially soldered myself to him as we walked down the hall, to the private bathroom allotted to patients of Thirteen.

Part way through helping him undress, in between trying to hold back my gasps upon seeing the purple and black marks, the dried blood still clinging to old wounds, the burns marks, I remembered suddenly our first games.

I remembered being bashful about seeing him naked, even when he was half-dead from blood poisoning. How different things seemed now, as I helped him into the shower and only minutes later, upon his insistence, joined him.

I couldn't help it, and I knew that I should be a lot more conscious about the fact that we were naked together for first time and our bodies were bound to do things on their own accord, but I wrapped my arms around him, closed my eyes and held him until he winced out of pain.

"Sorry," I apologized, letting go, but he instantly shook his head and shifted his arms slightly and the next thing I knew I was being lifted off my feet and my head was against his chest and I could feel every beat of his heart and I couldn't stop myself from pressing kisses against his bruised skin.

Somehow, even in these horrendous circumstances, I felt safe when I was with him. Even when he was so weak that my frame—which was especially small after all the weight I'd lost since the last games—was straining his back, I never felt more protected than when I was with him.

I remembered the first games once again and how when he held me, his arms were the first to give me back the security and comfort my father's death and mother's cloud of depression had stolen away from me.

I'd held onto him as long as I could, then helped him wash the parts of his body he couldn't reach and waited patiently while he took care of the rest. When we'd been in there, under the cresending waterfall for so long that it turned to a cold and frosty liquid, Peeta cried out in fear, and I squeezed his hand in comfort as he quickly turned the shower off, wishing desperately there was more I could do.

He's still shirtless now as we sit on his hospital bed, but I already had helped him dry off and put pants on. "Come here," he urges again kindly, and I comply, scooting easily into his arms, without a second of hesitation.

I close my eyes against his bare shoulder, breathing him in again, attempting to memorize his scent in my brain.

"Katniss?" Peeta calls gently after a few minutes of just holding onto me. He sounds reluctant now and it's the only thing that causes me to break our hold. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?" My tone has dropped three level of sweetness and sounds a lot more like my normal voice.

"Did you...did you know?"

I just stare at him for a solid minute, trying to piece together what he's asking me, willing it not to be what I think. "Know what?" I inquire, my voice more harsh than I really intended.

"About the rebels' plan?" He confirms what I begged internally not to be true.

"Excuse me?" I snap, already leaning off his thighs I'd been straddling. "What did you just ask me?"

For some reason, he doesn't even look fearful by my clearly upset tone. "Did you know what Haymitch and the others planned on doing?" His voice remains astoundingly even as he presses me.

"Seriously, Peeta? After everything—after all we've been through, you honestly think I'd ever do that to you—you seriously think that little of me? That I would betray you like that?" I explode, jumping to my feet and hardening my gaze on his face.

"No," he says after a moment—a moment too long, if you ask me. "I mean, yes! I mean, I don't know, Katniss!" He exclaims, getting desperate now. His limbs start shaking and his eyes spill over for the tenth time since our reunion and I don't know if I want to smack him or hold him tight.

"How could you think that of me, Peeta!" I yell, apparently letting my anger win over my desire to comfort him. My feelings are too hurt to let go of what he just said and I feel far too betrayed to hug him right now. "I would have told you! I would never have gone along with anything like this! You know that! You said it yourself in your televised interviews with Ceasar!"

But his voice is surprisingly strong and rivals mine in aggreivation. "I said whatever it took to protect you, Katniss. Same as I always have. And I'd have done it, unapologetically, even if you had been in on the plan the whole time."

At that, I fell silent. What do you say to that? To someone who just said they'd protect you, right or wrong, no matter what you've done?

But still, how could he believe I'd ever be part of a plan that would put my life over his? That I would even be the slightest bit willing to sacrifice him, for any cause in the world?

Hadn't I been willing to scarified myself for him when we went into the Quarter Quell? Didn't he know that? Didn't he try to convince me to live without him, knowing I'd asked Haymitch to protect him over me?

Couldn't he see how much him being in the capitol had killed me? Hadn't he heard me say I wish it was me being tortured and held prisoner?

The hurt I felt overpowered everything else, and I felt myself start to bolt for the door. Before I was gone though I couldn't resist throwing over my shoulder, "think whatever you want about me, Peeta. I don't care anymore."

///

I was still seething with anger and bitterness, as I laid next to Prim that night. I'd ran from Peeta's room to mine without stopping in between to greet anyone. Not even Gale, who'd spotted me from down the hall as I slammed Peeta's door.

I didn't want to see him, because even from across the hall I could see he was pleased. He was getting satisfaction off mine and Peeta's fighting, and I wanted to deck someone so badly right now that if he said the wrong thing it might just be him.

After all, he wasn't covered in bruises and cowering over the feeling of cold water. He could take it easily and I didn't have the willpower to restrain myself from much these days.

"Katniss," Prim brings me back to reality, her head on my chest as she tries to sleep. Our mom's breathing, in the bed across our compartment, is steady, completely immersed in the world of the unconscious. More than once I wished for her ability to shut out the world when things got too hard, wished I could do the thing I so long ago resented her for doing.

I didn't want to feel anymore.

"Hmm?" I answer my sister, still distracted by my thoughts.

"What's going on? Between you and Peeta?" She asks, her voice more awake than I realized. When she opened her clear blue eyes I didn't even see a hint of sleep fighting to overtake her in them.

"I don't know, little duck," I whisper simply.

"Katniss," she chides and I'm reminded how much she's grown since she first was called to go into the games, since I'd first volunteered for her, to save her life.

I wonder how much I've changed in her eyes. How different I am from the sixteen year old girl who once sang her lullabies to lull her to sleep, who swore she'd never be picked for the games, who promised to try and win for her.

Who'd kept her promise but had accidentally brought an entire war, and all it's side effects, on top of her. Accidentally ripped apart the only life she'd ever known.

"You can talk to me," Prim offers, her eyes genuinely full of concern for me.

I wish I didn't have to worry her, that she could have remained oblivious and innocent and naive forever.

"It's not important, Prim," I brush off softly.

"It's keeping you awake," she argued. "So it must be sort of important to you."

I sigh, giving in because I want her to get some sleep and because, a small part of me wishes I did have someone to confide in. "Peeta asked me if I was in on the rebels' plan. He asked if I lied to him in the arena."

Something flickers behind Prim's eyes, "Katniss," She starts slowly, like she's afraid I'm going to flip out and attack her. "You did lie. To Peeta, in the arena. You didn't tell him you were planning on sacrificing yourself for him."

I start to disagree, my defenses immediately coming up. "He knew that though, even if I didn't tell him in so many words."

"Yeah but, I don't know," she says gently, shrugging. "I just feel like if I were taken by the Capitol and tortured about a rebellion I didn't even know was happening, I'd have a hard time trusting just about anyone."

Her words run around my head a few times before they sunk in. I'd taken for granted that Peeta implicitly trusted me, no matter what. We'd been through two versions of the games together, been through more near death experiences and more trauma and horror and nightmares than any person should have to go through. I thought trusting each other was the one thing we could count on.

But maybe it wasn't so simple for him. Maybe Prim was right and he wouldn't know how to trust just about anyone anymore, after he was treated like a disposable and then abandoned by the entire revolution. Abused by President Snow and his guards. Used as a pawn and left to die by even the people he thought cared about him—Haymitch's name being near the top of that particular list.

My sister brought another point up that I didn't want to admit. "You've also lied to him before," she reminds me, gently, with no malice in her voice.

I nod, knowing she's right. "I have. But I thought I was protecting him."

"Maybe he thinks that's what you were trying to do with the rebellion? He's had all this time in the Capitol to sit there and think of scenarios. It had to have messed with his head."

I nod, stroking her hair. "You're wiser than I give you credit for, Prim."

She just laughs quietly. "You said you'd wake me up more often," she reminds me, thinking of our last conversation, when she made me realize how I could demand anything I wanted in exchange for being the Mockingjay.

I smile back and hug her to me, but suddenly wish I was holding someone else in my arms.

Pressing a kiss to my cheek, my sister leans up and whispers quietly, "you should go. Go talk to him."

////

I wander down the hall, no lights anywhere along the way to give me a clue if I'm even in the right place. I stumble across the floor, using my hand on the wall to guide me until my eyes fully adjust to the pitch black of the building at night.

When I finally make it to the correct hall, the one containing the hospital patients, namely the rescues, I abruptly stumble over a body leaned against the wall.

"Haymitch?" I exclaim, my mouth working before my brain to realize who was sleeping outside Peeta's room.

"Go away," he sleepily bats my legs with his hands. "Get lost."

"Not here for you."

"Hmm?" He cracks his eyes open then and starts to comprehend his surroundings. "Oh. Hi, Sweetheart."

I shuffle my feet, suddenly embarrassed getting caught trying to sneak into Peeta's room. Which is ridiculous when I really think about it, considering he's technically still, in the eyes of all of Panem, my fiancé. Husband, maybe, if you believed Caesar's interview with Peeta the night before the last games.

But Haymitch isn't in the mood to tease me or he just doesn't find my coming by in the middle of the night as strange. I guess he wouldn't. He did ride the same train as us on the Victory Tour. He is used to us sharing a bed. "You here to see the boy?"

I nod, silently, unsure if this was even the right idea, showing up here. "Well, go in there then," my old mentor urges impatiently.

I only hesitate for a second longer before I push open Peeta's hospital room door, and come face to face with the person who, for so long, I'd desperately wished for the safe return of. The person I dreamt at night of seeing again, that I'd thought of as I clenched the pearl in my fingers, rolling it around and wishing I could touch the person who'd given it to me. The person I pronounced for all of the country to see that I couldn't live without.

He's lying on his side but I can see he's awake too, his eyes bloodshot and wet and wordlessly he holds my gaze for a solid thirty seconds before he opens his mouth to speak. I just stare at him, frozen as a deer in the woods, waiting for him to make the first move but nothing comes out.

Finally he just lifts his blankets and opens his arms and before I consciously make the decision I'm there, running towards his bed and burrowing into his chest.

I surprise both myself and him when I start shaking with sobs and he whispers reassurances into my hair, his arms holding me as tightly as they're capable of.

"I'm sorry," I cry against him, feeling more bold as my face is hidden beneath the sheets and his body.

"No, Katniss. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have even asked, I just," he cuts himself off now and I feel his tears hit my face now too.

"What?" I push softly.

His lip quivers as he looks at me and all I want is to make him stop crying, to never see Peeta Mellark cry again in his entire life. "I just ... can't tell what's real and what's not anymore."

I feel my heart break inexplicably, having no words of comfort that could make what he's going through any better.

Contrition spreads across my body as strongly as the hunger his kisses brought on. "I'm sorry, Peeta. For everything."

"Don't apologize. I know you never intended for any of this to happen," he whispers, smoothing my hair back kindly.

"But it still did. Whether I meant for it or not, I still caused this rebellion. I'm still the reason Snow wanted to hurt you."

Peeta's shaking hands still manage to rub my back. "Go to sleep, Katniss," he orders gently.

I nod, my body exhausted even though my mind was still wired and wide awake. The constant rush of adrenaline that surges through my veins could be attributed as the cause of that.

I feel more tears of Peeta's roll of his face and land in my hair and without even lifting my head I dust my fingers under his eyes and rub the salt water away.

We've both cried too much for two people who are supposed leaders of a war. Heroic symbols for justice and equality, when really we're just two seventeen year olds the government can't seem to kill.

As if echoing my thoughts, he wipes the tears off my cheeks and presses his lips across the side of my face. "We need to stop making each other cry," he says with a quiet laugh.

"I know," I giggle back before I feel him wrap his arms tighter around me, cradling my head to his chest. It's what he always did for me, after I had nightmares of our first games. He'd wrap his arms so tight around me, I felt like there was no way anyone could come between to hurt either of us. It was one of the only feelings of security I'd had in years and I know I've never told him or anyone else this but somehow he wordlessly knows anyway.

I curl deeper into him and feel him kiss the shell of my ear, whispering something to me so soft and quiet I can't quite make it out.

"Goodnight, Katniss," Peeta whispers a little louder, his fingers running through my hair and gently easing me into sleep.

/////

When I wake, Peeta's already clear-eyed and entirely alert.

"How long you've been awake?" I ask groggily.

He merely shakes his head, pressing his lips to my forehead. "You didn't have any nightmares," he segues.

I smirk slightly, looking up at him now to fully meet his gaze. "That's because all my nightmares have become about losing you. Now that you're here, I'm okay."

It's not an exact quote but it conveys the message and Peeta surprises me, instead of just grinning as I expect, he leans down and presses a kiss to me, full on the mouth.

It's more intense than I'm ready for, and I don't reciprocate it as well as I should, but for some reason that doesn't bother Peeta and he pulls back to place a kiss to my nose and then my chin.

"Sorry," he immediately whispers, avoiding my eyes now. "It was the first thing I could think of to ground me."

I rub the back of his neck tenderly as he shifts to rest his cheek against where my heart beats. "Ground you?" I repeat after a moment.

Peeta hesitates like he's going to brush off the inquiry but then sighs and quietly explains. "They told me...in the capitol... that nothing between me and you was real. That you never really meant anything you said towards me, about caring about me-"

"Peeta," I cut off sternly. "You know that's not true."

"I know," he quickly assures, but his voice is too small to fully convince me.

"I meant what I said on the beach," I whisper after a pregnant silence. "I meant it when I said I need you." It's the best I can do right now and we both know it. With everything going on, I just can't sit here and dissect what I feel for both Gale and Peeta. I don't have the luxury of putting my feelings first or giving myself time to sort out my love life, while there's a rebellion resting on my shoulders.

All I can do is tell Peeta I need him and hope that it's enough, like it was the last night in the arena.

Judging by his face, it isn't now though. "I know," he murmurs, turning his head and pressing a kiss to my chest, raising goosebumps there involuntarily. "But, there was a lot me and you both did solely for the cameras," he reminds, almost defeatedly. "And... I guess sometimes it's hard for me to understand what parts were real for you. I know you care about me, Katniss, I do. But the thing is... every time I said something romantic or over the top for the games, well... they weren't necessarily untrue. I wouldn't have said them on national television if I didn't think it'd save your life but I still meant them."

I freeze, unsure what to say. I knew that, I knew he loved me with everything inside of him. I knew that, even on the Victory Tour. Didn't I just quote him saying something to me privately that spoke to his undying love for me? But I wasn't ready to give any more than I already had. Not even to the sweet boy with the bread, the kind heart who'd never turned me away, the person who was there for me no matter how much I hurt him.

He feels my body tense and continues steadily. "I don't expect you to make some kind of declaration here, Katniss. I know you're not ready. And I know you and Gale still have something between you. I just... sometimes I need to just reassure myself that there were things that happened between me and you that were real. That it wasn't all fake."

"Peeta," I say and my voice is more desperate and closer to a whimper than I anticipated. "Of course parts were real." I grab his chin and make him meet my grey, glassy eyes. "I need you," I repeat now, my voice firm as I can make it. "It's been hell these last few months with you in the Capitol. I couldn't even think straight. All I could think of was you. They had to literally sedate me because I got so upset..." my voice cracks and snaps and breaks and I squeeze my eyes shut before I can do something pathetic like sob for the tenth time on him.

He's been tortured because of me and I can't stop crying.

I'm sickening.

I feel him shift from his position with his head laying against my chest, now moving to lean over me, his breath caressing my face. His hand comes to rest on my head, his thumb brushing over my forehead soothingly, before he uses all the strength he has left to exert himself and unexpectedly rolls us over, lifting me on top of him, wrapping his arms tight around me in an embrace that comforts him just as much as me.

Instinctively, I snuggle deeper against him, my face finding a home in his shoulder. After a few minutes—and when I can talk again without the risk of my voice cracking like a weakling—I deadpan against his battered, tender skin, "Isn't this hurting you?"

Without missing a beat he replies, "yeah, you're heavier than I remember."

I raise my hand to lightly smack him when I remember the blood and bruises and scars and think better of it.

He chuckles and moves his mouth to kiss my forehead once again, his lips lingering now. "This is healing me more than you even know," he whispers into my hair but I don't think he intended for me to hear him.

//////

An hour later, two of the District Thirteen doctors enter the room, effectively breaking our embrace.

When they ask to speak to Peeta alone, I feel his grip tighten to a painful level on my hand and I, involuntarily, go into complete protective mode. "I'm not going anywhere," I inform, as much a comfort to Peeta as a threat to the doctors, willing them to try and push me.

"Miss Everdeen," President Coin's voice rings clear, despite her barely stepping foot into the room. "I'd appreciate a word with you."

I feel Peeta's body tense up beside me and his hand loosen its iron grip on mine despondently.

"I'm not leaving Peeta," I declare, not caring how much of her ire I conjure.

But a different voice joins them now, waltzing through the doorway, bumping President Coin carelessly. "I can stay with him, Sweetheart," Haymitch offers, giving me a meaningful look and I know I have no choice but to go with Coin.

My instincts still trust Haymitch, despite everything, despite him keeping the rebellion a secret from both of us, despite my initial fury upon being plucked from the arena without Peeta.

But Peeta no longer trusts Haymitch and so, because of that, I wait for him to say it's okay.

He doesn't look too confident but nonetheless, we're both outnumbered and unfortunately for me, I promised I'd be their Mockingjay, as long as they rescued Peeta and gave him an unconditional pardon. I didn't put a time-cap on that deal. "I'll be fine," he finally murmurs, his voice void of all emotion as he drops my hand a little too abrupt for my liking.

Haymitch nods now and dismisses me before focusing on Peeta and President Coin quickly directs me to follow her and I don't want to leave his room, I don't want to leave him behind again, but I know I have no choice.

Still, I lean over and kiss his cheek in front of everyone and for the first time maybe, the public affection isn't for the camera or the audience or for anyone else but for me and him and I wish it didn't sting so badly to see him avoid my eyes as soon as I pulled away.

Haymitch pats my head as I walk past him and I wonder if Peeta is mad that I have forgiven our mentor for deceiving us.

Following Coin all the way back to her office, I'm unsurprised to see Plutarch waiting. I should have expected he'd want to see me again, probably to talk about my next propo.

"Ms. Everdeen!" He greets, as if I was his favorite person on the planet and as if I chose to come visit him, instead of being essentially forced.

"Hi," I say lamely, taking a seat across from him unceremoniously.

"We brought you here to talk about the rebels' plan," Coin informs, ignoring pleasantries for once and getting right to the point. "I know you'd rather be getting reacquainted with Peeta, Miss Everdeen. But the revolution could really use the Mockingjay at a time as critical this one."

I nod, absorbing this. I'd been so drowned in Peeta and everything going on surrounding him that hearing about the rebellion again felt akin to being dredged up from underwater and having my head yanked above the surface.

I made this deal to protect Peeta, and then I kept going to protect the people of Panem who couldn't fight for themselves. I needed to fulfill my promise to the best of my ability.

I had too many people counting on me to fail now.

All I had to do was think of Prim and see the opportunities she was receiving here, that she never would have been given without this rebellion.

If the rebels won, if the entire country turned on Snow, thousands of Prims would have their lives bettered because of it. Thousands of children would know a world without certain death and the fear of reaping day and the systematic inequity, how one population could receive endless supplies of food and clothes and fancy jewels and money, and another would consider it a success if they lived through the day without starving.

I looked at Coin and Plutarch and my answer was simple.

"What do you need me to do?"

///////

I wasn't even going to tell Peeta. That was my kneejerk reaction. I had no plans and no intentions of letting him know I was being sent to District Two, to help settle the fighting.

But then I remembered our fight the night before and realized, maybe in that moment more than I'd ever realized before, how right he was to question my honesty. Not just with him. I was too comfortable lying to those I love, to keep them from worrying or panicking or sharing any sort of burden I was determine to take on by myself.

I knew I needed to tell him, if for nothing else, then for the sake of rebuilding trust between us. For the sake of reassuring him, even when he feels like he can't trust anybody or anything in sight, he can trust me. We're still in this together, like we've been since our first games.

But then Haymitch caught me, a little too sharply, by the elbow as I passed the cafeteria and hissed in my ear. I thought at first he knew my original notion and was going to scold me for ever planning on running off and sneaking back in without telling Peeta, but instead the harsh nature of his words wasn't even directed at me.

"He's had a meltdown. The boy," Haymitch clarifies as if I wouldn't know exactly who was talking about without some kind of hint. "The soldiers of Thirteen—they interrogated him."

"Interrogated him?" I exclaim, my voice more thunderous than intended. Half the cafeteria turned to glance my way at my words. Somehow that didn't halt my anger at all. "Interrogated him, how?" I demand.

Haymitch didn't reply, just kept his grip on my arm and led me briskly down the hall to Peeta's recovery room.

As soon as I was inside, I saw Peeta, curled up in a ball on the bed, tears pouring like rainfall down the side of his pink, sore, damaged face.

"They wouldn't stop, even after he started getting upset," Haymitch added behind me, reminding me of his presence. I would have completely forgotten he was even here if he hadn't spoken, so lost in the broken boy before me. The boy who was snapped like a useless twig because of me. "They shoved me into a wall for trying to interfere. He was thrashing around by the time they finally let up and no one could calm him down. The only thing that got to them was promising you would quit being the Mockingjay if he wasn't okay."

I felt tears prick my eyes, stinging unbearably. "What did they interrogate him about?" I ask, though I know I don't want to hear. Whatever it was that had caused such an upset in someone as naturally calm and level-headed as Peeta had to of been horrifying.

Haymitch didn't miss a beat though. "What the Capitol did to him. You. Anything he could think of seeing while being tortured. The other victors...they pushed him for a lot of gruesome details, Sweetheart. Things that even I flinched hearing." Haymitch's words are more of a warning than anything else now. "Just... be gentle, okay?"

I nod, my eyes never breaking their concentration on Peeta's restless, silently sobbing body.

Haymitch had one last thing to add though. "They told him about his family. That they all died in the fire. He pretty much was already begging to be done at that point but they told him anyway. I think they hoped it would magically make him confess some Capitol information he was 'withholding' from them. When they said they were going to sedate him, I had to wrestle the needle out of their hands." I snapped my neck back around to look at him, hoping he was joking. I saw then, in the bright, painful, ugly yellow lighting of the hospital room, the bruises on Haymitch's jaw that had only started to form, that'd surely turn purple by nightfall. And I started to see the things the people I was working for were willing to do to get whatever they wanted.

"Can you trust the people you're working for?"

Peeta's words, his duressed words from his hoax interview rang in my ears. Could I trust these people?

I didn't know but before I could ponder any further, Haymitch was adding more gasoline to the fire burning in my mind. "Katniss, they used to sedate him in the Capitol after beating him half to death. Or after forcing him to listen to a tape of your screaming. That's why he panicked when they got out the needle. That was his final straw."

I couldn't take it anymore at that point, and I entirely ignored that our old mentor was still behind me, and I raced towards the bed holding the only person I cared about at this precise moment.

"Peeta?" I whisper, my voice completely shattered with grief.

He catches me off guard, easily registering my presence even through his upset. He trembles but lifts his arms to me, an invitation, and I'm already halfway onto the hospital bed before I'm aware he summoned me.

I instinctively begin stroking his hair, my other hand hugging him to me as tight as I can, trying to remain mindful of his injuries. Somewhere in the background, I hear Haymitch grunt and close the door behind him, undoubtedly unable to process any more emotional scenes right now.

Peeta speaks so softly and so low, it's essentially nothing more than a croak. "I tried to not break, I tried to hold it all in, but they kept pushing and pushing and pushing," he gasps for a breath and chokes on a sob.

"It's okay, baby," I whisper, my hand stroking his face. "I won't let anyone hurt you now."

I don't know why I make a promise I know I can't keep but it's all I can say and it slips out before I can stop myself.

His trembling only grows stronger with my promise. "Please don't interfere with them, Katniss," he pleads. "I—I can't take you getting hurt. If they hurt you I don't know—I couldn't stand it, I would lose my—"

"Peeta," I cut off, taking his face in my hands. "It's okay. No one gonna hurt me."

But his face only becomes more solemn. "Katniss, these people aren't too different from the ones in the Capitol," he murmurs, desperately urging me to understand his meaning. "They're no better."

"Peeta," I start to argue but hold my words in. The last thing I want is to start an issue between us right now, when he's already in so much agony.

For some reason though, in the back of my mind, his words ring familiar to me and it strikes me after a moment that what it reminds me of is the night before our first games. When he referenced not wanting to be a piece in the Capitol's games, when I hadn't been able to comprehend what he was saying, when I huffed away, immature and stumped, only to have the words imprint in the back of my brain, to remember them throughout the entire time I spent in the arena and then after.

Perhaps I wasn't the one who started this revolution. Perhaps it was the golden boy with the bread and blue eyes, who appeared as sunshine on screen but was more cunning and crafty than anyone could ever perceive.

Peeta's words broke me from my own trance. "Is my family really dead, Katniss?" At my frozen and unprepared expression, his face crumbled again. "Did I really never get to tell them goodbye?"

Oh God. My heart plummeted and my gut twisted and my head spun as it hit me how sorry I'd felt for myself, how much I'd grieved my own goodbyes to my family on the train to the Quarter Quell. Peeta had tried to reassure me then, tried to comfort me but I'd pushed him away, because at the time I'd had no intention of returning home and I thought for sure they were my last goodbyes, that I'd had my last moments ever with my family ripped from me violently.

Only my family were all right here. My family had all managed to survive, thus far.

While every member of his burned to death in a bakery consumed by flames.

I don't have words to comfort him or a magic wand to make it all go away. A part of me wants to sedate him now and is glad that Haymitch informed me that doing so would only cause further detriment, because I just want him to get some peace.

I stroke him face and kiss his tears and rock him and wrap myself so tightly around him, I can feel every quiver of his body, every cry he tries to suppress, every word he can't quite spit out.

But it still doesn't feel like enough.

And I wonder, is this another reason to fight? Fight the Capitol as the rebels' Mockingjay? Or is this a reason to quit?

Can I really trust who I'm working for?

////////

I stay until Peeta falls into a light slumber. One that surely wouldn't last for very long, but hopefully I'd be in Two by the time he woke up and then back again before he had time to revel in my absence.

Pressing a kiss to his forehead, I murmur, "I'll see you soon," against his skin, but somehow hope he isn't able to hear me.

I hadn't told him about the mission, and now, after he'd been forced to relive his own horrors just mere hours after escaping them, after he'd just been told his whole family was dead, and that he'd never get to say goodbye—or make amends with his witch of a mother—I just couldn't drop more pain into his lap. There is no reason on Earth that could convince me to burden him with any more worries or fears than he's already facing. I will not, under any circumstances, add to his suffering, if I can help it.

I was going to write him a note, explaining where I'd gone and that I'd be back soon. That way if he found out I'd gone to Two, he'd be finding out directly from me and not a careless stranger. Or our coarse mentor.

But as I slip out of the room, I run almost headfirst into a completely different problem.

Gale.

I hadn't forgotten about him. Just the opposite, I had hoped to run into him, to apologize for my absence since Peeta had returned, to thank him for rescuing him despite his own personal feelings.

But before I could say any of those things, I caught sight of his eyes. His stony, bitter eyes.

"What?" I snap, already knowing what he was thinking. Benefit of being so alike and knowing each other for so long.

He matches my tone effortlessly. "Just wondering if you planned on joining the mission today."

But I wasn't going to be made to feel ashamed. "The mission doesn't leave for another hour," I state as I pivot and head down the corridor.

He quickens his pace to keep up. "I'm aware of that but—"

"Did you know they interrogated Peeta?" I cut off, my tone sharp as ice.

His is rather biting as well. "Yes, I did. Sounds like you have a problem with that."

That stops me mid-step. "Of course I have a problem with it, Gale! He's been through absolute hell and back for months because of me and because these leaders here deemed him expendable. He doesn't need to be tortured here too."

"He's not being tortured," Gale immediately argues, rejecting the sentiment without a second thought. "All they did was their jobs. Which is to protect the Revolution."

"By tormenting someone who's been held prisoner?"

"It was protocol!"

"It was abuse!"

Gale just stares back at me, for a moment seeming to be taking me in for the first time. "These people here rescued you. They are fighting for an equal country," he says finally. His words are true but they come with an infuriating air of righteousness and I wonder how it'd feel to smack him. I wonder why I kissed him the other day.

"An equal country doesn't mean they have to harass kidnap victims," I state, holding my ground until the bitter end.

"An equal country doesn't happen by everyone being mindful of each other's feelings," Gale shoots back, and I just turn and walk away. After me he calls, "what if it was anyone else? What if it wasn't Peeta who'd been kidnapped? What if it were someone else and there was a chance that they'd seen something useful, something that could help a lot of people. Or a chance that what they did to him could help us with our strategy. Could tell us what the Capitol is planning on doing next—"

"He told everyone that, when he said on national television that they were going to bomb Thirteen. He risked his life for us—"

"And I risked mine to save him. I did that for you," Gale all but spat now and the reminder felt like a harsh slap to the face. "And yet, I don't think you even remember that."

Before I could respond, he's already walking away.

/////////

I leave without writing Peeta a note. I spent the better part of thirty minutes attempting to write something that was both comforting and truthful. That wouldn't alarm him but wouldn't lie to him either.

In the end, all I can think about is Gale and how furious he was and how he felt I'd betrayed him now and how maybe I did. Maybe choosing to put Peeta above the rebellion, above the well being of the country, was a direct betrayal to my fire-hearted best friend, who thought the well being of the masses was more important than the well being of those we love.

I wanted to hate him for it but instead I just hated myself, and in the end, I wound up writing absolutely nothing to Peeta and leaving without telling him goodbye.

I should have known how horribly that would backfire on me.

Doesn't it always?

[katnissmellarkkk]

AN: Hiiiii, alright I’ve been working on this story since I posted my first chapter and, as it turns out, no surprise, this is gonna be longer than I originally expected. Probably like five-ish chapters? I’m not re-writing every chapter or part of Mockingjay if Peeta wasn’t hijacked, just snippets of the essential plotline and events if Peeta hadn’t been hijacked.... did that make sense? 

Alright, anyways, I wanna also take this time to say I definitely did not expect the amount of love I received on the first part of this and omg I’m so honored and touched. I really wasn't expecting you guys to be so supportive in this fandom. Thank you all so much, for liking, commenting and reblogging. It really made me so happy <3.

Also if you didn’t read part one and you want to, here’s the link. 

I hope everything’s going well for all you reading this! 

Also I need a title for this so any suggestions are more than welcome alright buh-bye.

Shattered Pearl

| Part One |

/

I know I've been shot. I felt it hit me, right underneath my chest. If I didn't vaguely remember standing in the tunnels, appealing to and pleading with the District Two men, trapped inside the Nut, the gunshot of a man standing behind us in the crowd, too cowardly to come closer and confront me to my face, if I didn't retain the image of seeing myself shot on television, I'd swear I'd been hit by one of the Capitol trains that once took me and Peeta district to district.

The thought of the train brought back memories I'd long held close to my heart. I had never spoken of nights shared between me and Peeta on the Victory Tour and prior to the Quarter Quell. Not to anyone. Not even Prim. It felt too personal and too vulnerable a memory to let anyone else claim it. For so long it was all I had to cling to, with him presumed dead and then only seen on Caesar's talkshow, tormented and a shell of the boy with the bread.

I miss him now, as I lay despondently, wherever I am. I feel a jabbing pain right where I predict I was shot, the injury feeling closer to a brutal beating than a penetration.

My mind whirls and flies and wracks itself up and down, backwards and forwards and side to side and somehow I can't remember even a split second where I felt the bullet enter into my body.

I feel my consciousness, my awareness, growing stronger now, slowly crawling in an upwards motion, like I was lying on the bottom of a lake and I'm only now floating to the top.

When my head breaks the surface, there's a bright, ugly, glaring light stinging my eyes and my first thought is one of comparison. Does Peeta experience this too, when he wakes up in his recovery room? Do they actually think that'll help anyone recover here, blasting unsettling yellow colors into their eyes as soon as they crack open? Is it their idea of a luxury, since everything and everyone else is so void of color here in Thirteen, like one of Peeta's drawings that have yet to be painted.

"Disorienting, huh?" I hear a familiar—so familar—voice laugh quietly. "I think Thirteen believes the more the lights hurt your eyes, the less we'll use them and the more energy they'll save in the end."

"Peeta?" I mean to murmur but instead my voice comes out in a whimper.

"Shh," he whispers, his voice all gentleness and sweetness now. The teasing, conversational edge is gone. He runs his fingers through my hair, pushing it back from my sweat covered forehead, hoping the ministration will soothe me.

It takes me longer than it should to place, but it strikes me after a moment that his voice now reminds me of a different foreign place and a different wound and an altogether different time.

The confusion. The comforting, appeasing voice. The soft, tender gesture. It eerily reminds me of waking up in the cave, after having bled out from my head, only to find my body weak and Peeta's shockingly strong and the tables turning and him taking care of me.

My hands act to their own accord and cannot be stilled, no matter how comforting Peeta's fingers feel, sifting through my hair.

I fumble roughly with the bandages covering my left side, where the bullet must have hit, and I force my eyes wide open now, in spite of the still disturbing light overhead.

"What am I still doing here?" I ask before I can really register what I'm saying. At his confused and—now I can see his features better, with my eyes adjusting to the brightness—exhausted face, I clarify. "The bullet didn't kill me?" I look to him for confirmation.

"No," he promises smoothly, understanding my puzzlement now. "No, I promise you, the bullet didn't kill you."

"What happened?" I ask, my voice and body both still far weaker than I'm in any way comfortable with. "I think I blacked out after I was shot."

Peeta forces himself to give me a faint ghost of a smile. "Yeah, I imagine that happens when a bullet hits you in the side." He takes my hand in his and begins to softly kiss it, repeatedly. Finally he replies, "you were shot on live TV and everyone in the country saw you go down. Coin and Plutarch decided immediately to spin this and fake your death. But Cinna made your Mockingjay outfit bulletproof. The bullet never touched you," he assures before adverting his eyes as they grew watery with his words.

"Peeta," I start, my voice raspy as it's ever been.

"I don't think I was that scared in the Capitol," he blurts out as if I didn't speak. "Snow knew, he always knew, that you getting hurt would have been worse torture than anything else he could have ever done to me."

"How do you think I felt when Snow and his guards had you prisoner?" I shoot back before I can stop myself. His torture was harrowing enough without me making it all about myself. He flinches slightly at my words but tries to mask it, for my sake, no doubt. I reach out and squeeze his hand, my body's grip embarrassingly lame and in no way soothing. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."

"No," he automatically refutes. "Don't apologize to me. You have enough people putting their burdens on your shoulders without adding me to that list."

I swallow hard now, my memory starting to piece everything together and I remember suddenly that this is the first time I've seen Peeta since Coin's men had essentially interrogated him into hysteria.

I hadn't told him I was even going to Two. I didn't even tell him how long I'd be gone.

And then I got shot on camera. And—as I should have predicted—the rebels used this opportunity to their advantage.

I can imagine what that felt like for him. I remember on the hovercraft to and for the first few weeks in Thirteen. Refusing to eat. Refusing to speak. Hiding in closets and sleeping only sporadically. Picturing every single time I closed my eyes Peeta being beaten to death, Peeta being abused, Peeta crying out helplessly.

I wait for him to blink back his tears again before final speaking. "Can I apologize for not telling you I was going to Two in the first place?"

Something new crosses his features and in place of the fear, the agony, the pain, comes an almost sarcastic, satirical expression. "Please do, Sweetheart."

I roll my eyes instinctively when he calls me sweetheart. He'd only ever called me that in the past to get on my nerves or irritate me. "You sound like Haymitch," I can't help but point out.

"This isn't sounding like an apology for lying."

"I'm getting there."

"I've been waiting for days."

I raise my eyebrow mockingly. "So that's why you're here by my bedside?"

"Only reason. I'm out as soon as I get my reparation."

"Well in that case," I trail off, shrugging—and inwardly cringing at the movement before bringing his hand to my lips now and planting a kiss there. "I'm not apologizing then."

He laughs and I pretend to be put out, which works until I try to cross my arms in false indignation and involuntarily eject a loud gasp of pain from the way the motion upsets whatever is broken inside of me.

Peeta drops the ruse then too and stand from his chair, sitting on the side of my bed to get closer to me. "Hey, it's okay," he murmurs softly, cupping my cheek and turning my distressed face towards him now. "Breathe," he commands genially, leaning his forehesd against mine. "The pain will go away, Katniss, just breathe."

I let out a large breath but it only makes the pain worse and eventually I just grip the hand cupping my face and squeeze with all my might. The lame grip I felt ashamed of minutes before is now replaced with an adrenaline rush of strength and I nearly break Peeta's hand in my much smaller one.

He doesn't complain and begins to rub my back to calm me down. When the searing, paralyzing discomfort subsides, the first thing I utter is, "so if I never got actually shot, what is going on with my body?"

He strokes my face affectionately. "You have a bruised lung. Bruised ribs. And your spleen was ruptured so they removed that."

"So I'm without a spleen?" I realize, my voice raising involuntarily. For some reason, I'm petrified that a whole organ was taken out of my body and I had no say in it whatsoever.

"You don't need it, Katniss," Peeta quickly reassures.

I deflate then, not sure if I feel any better or not. Peeta's words suddenly come back to me.

"Katniss, these people aren't too different from the ones in the Capitol."

Would I trust Snow or his guards to remove my spleen? No. So should I be okay with Thirteen operating on me?

I shake my head, knowing this is redundant and ridiculous. My spleen was ruptured. They'd saved my life. I was being paranoid for nothing and I couldn't afford falsely accusing the very people I needed to survive. Especially not when they likely are what saved my life.

Peeta sees my face contort and the disheartenment etch itself across my features. Still remaining tender and cautious, he leans his own wounded, beaten face down and places kisses against my cheek.

I try to hold off but his lips bring a smile to mine, and even with all the confusion bubbling around my head, all the disbelief and uncertainty, in regards to my feelings towards him, Gale, Coin, this war and the Revolution itself, I still can't help the feeling of hope spreading across my chest, filling my heart up in a way I never let myself consider it could again.

"Peeta?" I whisper then and he pulls back from planting kisses on my face to look at me.

"Hmm?"

"If my lung is bruised, why did you tell me to breathe deeply to stop the pain?"

He freezes for a second, contemplating and considering before a slightly bashful smile crosses his mouth. "You're the healer here, not me," he finally teases. When I smile back at him, he leans in simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the word, and kisses me full on the mouth.

The kiss catches me off-guard but only after the fact. In the moment it feels right and tingly and reassuring and I'm lightheadedly happy and I don't even know what to make of how I feel on the inside.

"I'm not a healer," I remind with very little passion for the correction in my voice.

He laughs again lightly but then bites his lip and brushed my hair back. "You did say that to me in our first games, right? Real or not real?"

I hesitate for a full ten seconds before I respond, my face scrunching up. His words almost seem like an already formed game that no one had explained the rules of. "Real," I finally answer.

He's already elaborating before I can ask. "Finnick came up with it. He said it works for Annie and I should try it. If I'm ever unsure about anything that happened or what the Capitol tried to make me believe, I should ask." He shrugs then, slightly abashed. "It's repetitive-"

"It's actually a really good idea," I encourage, grabbing his hand in mine again and giving him a reassuring squeeze. And he looks at me then and gives me a grateful smile and his eyes are lighter now than they were when I woke up and I don't know where this is even going between us or if it's even going anywhere and I don't know where Gale stands and I really can't focus on my feelings right now because I'm a symbol of an entire revolution, whether I asked to be or not, and it may be selfish or immature, but I push away all my other conflicting thoughts and pull the boy with the pretty blue eyes down towards me.

He goes willingly, wrapping his body to me, only placing pressure on my right side, and I feel his face burrow in my neck. When his lips press to the sensitive skin there, like he's done dozens of times before, I shiver instinctively and close my eyes against him.

For the first time in forever I feel, for a fleeting moment, safe.

//

Prim and my mom interrupt not too long after that, but for some reason—other than Prim's cheerful smile—they don't comment on the compromising position they found us in.

Peeta promptly moves back to his previous chair and remains there for the duration of the day.

Haymitch joins us not even five minutes after my mom and sister, and he brings boiled cabbage stew from the cafeteria in tow.

"Here you go, Sweetheart," he says with a large smile, looking at the disgusting concoction with excitement now.

I look at the bowl, wishing I had more of an appetite so I could actually feel some desire to eat it. In spite of Haymitch's jokes, the cabbage stew would have been a luxury to me once upon a time, when all I could find to fill my screaming stomach was mint leaves and, if I were lucky, the roots I was named after. "How'd you know I'd be awake?" I inquire, turning the spoon around in the bowl.

"Oh I didn't," my old mentor quickly replies, plopping down in a chair against the wall. "It was for the boy." He gestured towards Peeta, who's running his fingers softly along my spine, inconspicuous enough that not even Prim catches on. "But I figure you deserve it more, since you're the one in the hospital. Speaking of that, why did you two switch places?" He asks, brash and wry.

My mom glares at Haymitch, disapproving of his callous comment, which catches me completely off guard.

My mother usually ignores all chatter between me and Haymitch and Peeta, only chiming in if Haymitch is speaking of something from Twelve that I'd be too young to understand.

I remember then watching Haymitch's tape on the train with Peeta, realizing he and my mom shared a permanent tie labeled Maysilee Donner. I look between them for a hint of familiarity I didn't see before and quickly realize Peeta's doing the exact same thing.

My mom quickly turns back to me, and gingerly but vigoriously, coaxes the stew into my stomach, even when I try to refuse because my ribs ache and using any of my muscles leaves me feeling irritable and shaky and hot inside.

"Just a little bit more, sweet girl," my mom murmurs, forcing me to finish the entire bowl, and it's only when Prim looks at me, the corners of her mouth turning upwards, that I realize my mom had used a long forgotten term of endearment. One that I'd rejected since her bout of deep, delbilitating depression.

I didn't comment on it and I don't think my mother even realized, but I avoid Peeta's eyes because evidently, by the looks of his smirk, even he knew the exchange was rare and hard to come by.

Just as I all but lick the soup bowl clean and my mom's whispering mournfully she has to go back to work and was only allowed to come see me for lunch. I am caught off guard once again though, when she kisses my forehead and whispers, with audible tears, that she loves me so much.

I feel like a monster all of a sudden, for the absolute hell I must have put her through.

I squeeze Prim's hand as tight as I can as she takes our mom's seat and scoots it even closer to my bed. "Hey, little duck," I greet in my most comforting voice. "How're things while I was gone."

Prim, as usual, puts up a-albeit, very weak-pretense in order to make me feel better. "They were okay for the most part." She pauses and bites her lip, contemplating to herself before adding. "It was just hard because we didn't even know you were leaving and then we watched you be shot on live TV."

"I know," I murmur apologetically, because it's all I can do. "I'm so sorry, Prim."

But my sister's shaking her head before I can finish and I swear Peeta and Haymitch roll their eyes at the same moment and if Prim wasn't here, I'd be telling them both off.

"No one's mad at you, Katniss," she promises, like that's my concern. People I love being angry, not people I love going through absolute turmoil. "Just... next time could you let us know?"

I nod automatically, because I want my sister to feel better, even though I'm unsure if I can even fulfill this promise. "Yeah, of course."

Prim just stares at me for a moment. "You're such a bad liar," she finally calls out.

Haymitch noisily laughs from across the room, but Peeta remains completely stoic now, and I want three sets of eyes so I could focus on multiple people at once.

I choose to keep my focus on my little sister. "Prim," I start, my voice still unconvincing. "I just... I never know what's going to happen next, so it's hard to know ahead of time what I'll do. The last thing I want, that I've ever wanted, was to worry you and mom."

"Yeah, but, Katniss," She refutes even and diplomatically. "You not telling us only makes it worse. Finding out from strangers you and Gale disappeared off to District Two on a secret mission with the rebels? Only to watch them fake your death? It was as bad as watching you in the games."

I feel my chest constrict and the breath fly out of my aching lungs as I swallow down the lump formed in my throat. "Prim, I never meant-"

"She knows, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, his hand sifting through my hair once again.

Prim looks at Peeta—with more familiarity than I've ever seen between them before—and then back at me. "He's right. I know you never meant for that to happen but... if you could just let us into the loop a little more, it'd make things a lot more bearable."

I nod, meaning my promise to keep her and our mom more informed now. I squeeze Prim's hand again and ask quietly, "how bad was mom when I was shot?"

Prim's eyes shoot to Peeta almost intractably. But I catch it and I press it before they can pretend it didn't happen.

"What's going on with you two?"

They both look at me in utter shock. Or is that the look of getting caught keeping a secret?

"Nothing," Prim immediately covers. Peeta, on the other hand, doesn't react so quick, and instead chooses to just shut his eyes to avoid looking at me.

There's something more going on that they want to avoid telling me. And instinctively, I don't think it's about my mother. Even without him meeting my glance, I can tell Peeta's embarrassed about something.

"Prim," I say evenly. "You're a worse liar than I am."

"You actually are, kid," Haymitch adds. "Didn't think that was possible."

"What happened when I was shot?" I ask again, my voice closer to a threat than a comfort now.

"Let it go, Katniss. It's not important," Peeta urges, his own voice more worn and irritated than I'd heard it since the last games.

"When has she ever let something go?" Haymitch ponders, unfazed by our whole exchange.

"Katniss," Prim starts but I cut her off. I can tell she was going to placate me, like getting shot turned me into our mother.

"As your older sister, you're not allowed to lie to me."

"C'mon now, Sweetheart. That's not being fair."

"Then you tell me, Haymitch. What happened when I was shot that they don't want me to know?"

Our old mentor sighs deeply but I can tell he's relenting. If I couldn't see the resignation on Haymitch's face, Peeta's whole body tensing up in anticipation would be a dead giveaway.

"The boy had a meltdown when you were shot," Haymitch finally states. He gives Peeta a long, measuring look before continuing. "He basically went ballistic and lost his grip on reality." He moves his eyes to train them on the floor of my hospital room. I know he's trying now to avoid Peeta's furious eyes, full of betrayal.

"What?" I turn and look at the boy beside me, remorse overtaking my entire being. I reach out and touch his face but he won't look at me, even when I try to force him.

"He was frantic for days. Couldn't tell the difference in reality and the lies the Calitol fed him. He was only released probably an hour before you woke up. So I guess you guys have good timing," Haymitch adds, trying too hard to lighten the mood.

"Peeta," I whisper after a beat, pleading with him to just look at me, talk to me, but to no avail.

"Peeta, talk to her," Prim begs on my behalf.

"It wasn't that severe," he finally states, his voice extremely muted now as he speaks in a hushed tone, only to me. "I didn't want to tell you because you don't need anything else on your plate. Especially not about me. And it was barely worth mentioning."

"I think it was worth mentioning," Prim chimes and Haymitch points at her and nods.

"She's got better sense than both of you."

Peeta ignores Haymitch. "Prim," he groans with an air of affinity that still boggled me. "Stop. It was fine."

"You were so upset though. And she should know, since she's the one the Capitol wanted to hurt when they tortured you," she advocates, impressing even me with her reason. "And I think we should all stop lying," my pure-of-heart little sister tacts onto the end.

Haymitch nods affirmatively towards Prim again, and I see something akin to wonder now in his eyes as he looks at her, and it takes no more than common sense to realize he's imagining life with Prim as his victor and how much easier that would have been.

"I just don't think now is the time to be talking about this, Prim," Peeta tersely states.

I can't help but interject now, after having witnessed their exchange this whole time, "I'm sorry, but do you two know each other?"

A look is exchanged between all three of them and I'm so tempted to ask if they'd like me to leave so they can freely converse in private. Finally Prim informs quietly, "me and mom were there with Peeta when he got upset. He actually helped mom because she had somewhere to focus all her own emotions. You know how she is, Katniss. When things get rough, she puts all of herself into her healing."

"Glad of be of service," Peeta mumbles despondently and I can see in his troubled eyes, he's blatantly ashamed of himself.

"Peeta," I murmur softly, taking his hand against his will—he tries to fight me from even picking it up—and bringing it to my lips.

He sighs deeply and offers me a half smile. "My being a lunatic doesn't disturb you?"

"Of course not," I quickly dispute. My mind is still processing all of this though. "So you and my family... bonded after I was shot?"

Peeta outwardly groans, dropping my hand. "Let it go, Katniss."

"I just never considered it a huge connecting technique. You know, I could have gotten shot a long time ago-"

"That's not even funny," Peeta chides and there's nothing humorous in his voice now.

I shut up instantly, feeling the mood of the room drop. Even Haymitch falls silent and adverts his eyes to the floor.

"I'm sorry," I finally whisper and I don't know who I'm apologizing to, Peeta or Prim. I'm know I'm not saying sorry to Haymitch, who is still lolled in his chair across the room. Although maybe I should, since he was undoubtedly as scared as the rest of my family. Not that he'd ever admit that to me.

Peeta shakes his head and his expression softens. Leaning in closer, he gently brushes his lips to my cheek, very lightly and very chaste, considering Prim's proximity.

"Just don't lie to us again," Prim pleads, taking my other hand firmly. "No matter how much you want to protect us."

I nod obligingly, maybe more to relieve my guilt than anything else but I do actually mean my promise. "Okay," I swear.

Peeta pushes back my hair soothingly before running the back of his hand over my cheek. "Okay," he finally repeats, only loud enough for me to hear.

And I know then that he's forgiven me.

///

Within an hour, my mom, Gale, Boggs, Plutarch and my doctor all join the party inside my hospital room.

"Isn't there a limited amount of people allowed in one room?" Haymitch retorts gruffly, unhappy about being squished into the corner and unable to spread out the way he was before.

"Oh there usually is," Plutarch confirms, his tone more joyful than I find appropriate, given my situation. And the state of the rebels now. "But I asked Coin to make an exception for Katniss."

"Can Coin make an exception and give Katniss a bigger room?" Gale mumbles under his breath.

I laugh at his sarcasm and his disgruntled expression. We'd made amends on the way to District Two, not wanting to be in potentially dangerous territories and still on the outs with each other. I expected the issues that made us clash—and whatever feelings that still lied between us—would all come to a head once we returned to Thirteen, but we unexpectedly took longer than anticipated in Two and now I was wounded. And even Gale can't deny he was scared out of his mind when I went down. Even he isn't in the mindset to wrangle with me.

I squeeze Peeta's hand in my own and pretend I don't see Gale's envious eyes staring at our interconnected limbs. I don't feel the same guilt I usually do when it was apparent Gale was upset by me and Peeta, and I wonder, idly, in the back of my mind, if this isn't because of the morphling I'm pumped full of.

My doctor is one of the same people who checked Peeta out after he was rescued and I realize I don't even know his name. It doesn't seem like I'll learn it now either, as he barely speaks. I'm half inclined—though I know it's impossible—to think my own mother is the one who operated on me, from the lack of insight the man provides.

In any case, the doctor doesn't seem concerned in the slightest about me and slips out of the room as soon as Plutarch shifts the conversation in a new direction.

"So, I was wondering," he starts, his face still much too happy to completely sit right with me. "Maybe if you'd be up—once you're out of bed and recovered, of course—to film a propo?"

I just stare at him blankly, wondering how on Earth he expected me to have any desire to film anything right now, while I'm still currently getting pain relievers pumped into my veins.

He misreads my expression and quickly adds, "Of course Peeta would be in it! The Star-Cross Lovers need to be shown reunited. I feel that could help with the cause immensely—"

He keeps talking but I automatically tune out his chirping voice as he prattles on. I can see his vision now. The Mockingjay Lives splayed across the screen, me and Peeta wrapped in an embrace, my voice loud and strong, announcing that we're going to keep fighting to the end.

I'm not the only one looking at Platurch like he's grown a second head. The only person who's not looking at the man with distain or disbelief is Haymitch, who's expression is either mildly entertained or filled with such incredulity that he looks like he's grinning.

Peeta's reaction is much stronger than I expect and it's only after he looks like he's grown nauseous from disgust or is planning on throwing something at Plutarch's joyous face, that I realize Peeta has no real experience with the Gamemaker.

He was in the Capitol the entire time I've really gotten to know Plutarch and the man's antics must seem completely foreign to Peeta.

I squeeze his hand before he can say anything and shake my head in Plutarch's general direction. He isn't harmful and I don't want Peeta to waste the energy he needs to recover.

But he has trouble swallowing down his obvious repulsion and his hands begin to shake and his eyes are far angrier than I would have expected in these circumstances a few months ago.

It's my mom who is murmuring about Peeta needing to check in with his doctors and how she'll walk him down there and she waits expectantly for him to get up and part of me faintly envies him for some reason. And I realize quickly that it's the way she talks to him—it's the way she speaks to all patients of her's, really. It's a firm tone, that's still kind but is very direct. Maybe a little authoritative and unyielding. And I realize at once it's a tone I almost never heard again after my dad's death and I took over caring for the family.

And I miss it. Despite everything. Despite my lack of trust in her and my fear she'll retreat back into her shell one day and leave me and Prim behind all over again. Despite my instincts to never put my faith in my mother again, a big part of me still misses the days when she parented me.

Peeta sighs, seeing through the ruse, and kisses my nose before heading out the door behind my mother.

Plutarch follows too, blatantly unaware of what he set into motion, and saying he was needs to review the film of the other Victors for their propos. I'm still appalled he wanted to parade me out while I'm lying in a hospital bed, but I do feel a bit more at ease knowing it's not just me and Peeta he wants to exploit for the sake of the rebellion.

I wished to myself I could actually go to where the fight was. That I could actually have a shot of getting close enough to really be involved in taking down Snow and his supporters, rather than being filmed as a icon to motivate other people to fight in this war.

I kept this to myself, as my even being in this bed was proof of what happened when I was a more central part of the fighting. And even then, I somehow managed to get shot while they were essentially using me as a talking piece for the other soldiers.

But there was something else on my mind and I turned to focus onto Gale now. Only he, Prim and Haymitch remained in my room and Prim was telling my old mentor about the medical uses of alcohol. I don't know what she planned on accomplishing with that, but it worked as a diversion for me at the moment.

"Okay, so what happened?" I press Gale in a hushed voice when I know Prim isn't listening. He gives me a quizzical look and I quickly clarify. "With Peeta and my mom and Prim?"

Comprehension fills his eyes and he sighs before continuing. "I wasn't there for the beginning. Obviously. I was with you in District Two. But I know that he was watching TV when you were shot, and he completely lost it. Apparently it triggered some kind of flashback to something they used to do to him in the Capitol. He was still yelling when we arrived back. I heard it when I passed his room while you were in surgery. Whatever Snow did to him-"

He's promptly cut off by a new but familiar voice joining the room now. "Ah, yes," Johanna Mason shoves back the curtain separating my cubicle from the one next door. Her's, I guess. "Fond memories you mention, Handsome." She winks at Gale. "One of Snow's favorite methods of torture. The old 'make Peeta watch a thousand fabricated video simulations of Katniss being brutally murdered, on repeat. Don't let him sleep. Beat him. Water him down and beat him some more. Make him watch the Katniss Dying Simmulations again', until he can't even tell you what's real and what's not."

I just stare at her, my heart sinking in my chest rapidly. "What?" Is all I can manage to say, my mouth drying up fast.

"I mean, there were worse forms of torture Snow and his men liked to use on me and your fiancé, but I was told you needed to be kept in the dark about those," she state cheekily, obviously trying to goad me.

"Who told you to keep me in the dark?" I snap, my eyes shooting between Prim, who's now looking right at me, and Gale.

Johanna, much to my surprise, points to Haymitch. The older man is still laid out in a chair in the corner of the room, having made himself comfortable again, but at least now has the decency to look sheepish.

"Listen, Sweetheart," he immediately defends. "You and the boy have your own separate issues, alright? You both don't need to take on the other's all the dang time."

"Haymitch-" I start to growl but am caught off guard by a completely unexpected noise. Johanna's hysterical, dark, morbid laughter.

"I can't believe you were rescued and I was tortured, and I'm expected to protect you from the truth."

I don't blame her. No one could honestly. She was tortured because of me and the rebels. She could say and do whatever she wanted at this point, and no one had the right to tell her differently.

"Johanna," I start but let her cut me off once again, becoming accustomed to the feeling.

"And don't worry about Peeta," she says but the resentful shake of her head doesn't fill me with hope. "Your mom made him her project once they informed her your suit was bulletproof. Her and your sister basically walked him off the ledge."

And because I know she's the only person who will be completely uncensored—something I can't even say about Haymitch these days—I blurt out my next question. "What was Peeta saying? When he lost it?"

Her response is immediate and I get the impression she enjoys telling me, for some sick reason.

"Give me back to the Capitol. They'll find a way to revive her if you give me back. I want to go back. I'll trade my life for her's. Please, let me go back."

As soon as the words sunk into my brain, I wanted to puke.

So I did.

////

Johanna wasn't happy about my vomiting a literal foot away from her and she was downright livid when no one else appeared to be irritated with me but she reached a breaking point when both Peeta—who returned upon hearing my loud gagging—and Gale comforted me.

It was an odd sensation to be in not just conversation with both Peeta and Gale but to have them both be so sweet to me, at the same exact time. Without even so much as looking crossly towards the other one.

Gale held my hand and told me to calm down in a gentle voice he only ordinarily used for one of our sisters or his mom. Peeta was sitting opposite him, on the edge of my bed and telling me softly to just relax as he stroked my hair tenderly. Even Haymitch had gotten out of his seat to call an attendant to clean up my vomit and Prim and my mom were standing at the end of my bed, looking worriedly onto the scene.

Johanna's voice was biting as she took us all in. "How much hand holding does she need? Considering she was apparently strong enough to be the face of our entire cause."

"I shouldn't be," I instantly agree with her. "You should be. No one has to push you or tell you what to say."

"No one likes me, brainless," she says snidely, a leering smile spreading across her face.

"That's because everyone's afraid of you," Prim chimes in timidly, and I drop Gale's hand to reach for my little sister's, almost on instinct upon hearing her scared voice.

But Johanna has the decency to not swipe at Prim and instead gives her a sympathetic look. As if to say you don't have to be scared of me.

Her compassion evidently only extends to the thirteen-year-old, as when Finnick and Annie join the room right on the heels of Prim's words, Johanna barks out a cruel laugh. "Really? More people? Are we having a party to celebrate Katniss?" She gives everyone a mocking look around the room. "Well, I wish someone would have told me. I forgot to bring my streamers."

For some reason her tone suddenly forces back a memory of the last night in the arena. Her cutting my arm open and my red, hot, sticky blood gushing everywhere. My understanding at the time being that this was an attempt to kill me. I know now that this was the rebels' plan and she was really cutting out my tracker but the sense memory can't be so easily rationalized away.

I flinch outwardly and both Gale and Prim's faces silently ask if I'm alright. But I'm quickly distracted elsewhere.

I'm, once again, wholly surprised by Peeta's reaction.

"Don't you have anything else to do, Johanna, besides bug Katniss?" There's a strong irritability in his voice, one I'd only heard from an outsider prospective in the past. On the off occasion I'd witnessed he and his brothers in any sort of conversation. Their relationship was tense at times but they were still siblings and extremely close in age. That made for a lot of squabbling and a lot of fighting and a lot of sparring with each other. And a lot of aggravating each other, causing Peeta to behave in a way I'd never seen him otherwise.

"I don't know?" She shoots back, not even missing a beat. "Didn't I have better things to do than cuddle you after Snow's guards were done for the day? And yet, who's shoulder did you cry on? Who held your hand through our adjoining cells?" She smirks and it's obvious she's speaking for the rest of us to hear.

Annie makes an animalistic squeak and covers her ears. Finnick quickly wraps an arm around her and shoots a glare at Johanna.

"What?" She snaps. "Annie was there in the Capitol, Finnick. She know what went down."

"Doesn't mean you have to remind her of it," I state, my voice grave as I watch the mad girl Finnick loves more than life itself retreat into her own psyche.

And for some odd reason, I relate. To both Finnick, who's doing everything he can now to bring her back from the dark depths of her own mind, and Annie herself, who is buried beneath the ruins of a trauma she'll never be able to escape and is visibly struggling to dig her way back out.

I look to Peeta then, almost imperceptibly, and he just gives me a knowing, almost satirical glance. He was undoubtably thinking the same thing.

Johanna is ready to spit in my face, and she probably would, no doubt, if it were just the two of us. "You have no idea what went down after we were captured," she seethes, growing closer to me, and Peeta places an arm in front of her, blocking me from her reach, but I note the gesture isn't rough or hostile.

Gale and my mom both look like they're going to intervene. Finnick is busy with Annie now. Prim looks shell shocked and Haymitch seems to have lost interest in watching us.

For some reason, maybe it's the morphling, maybe I just feel safe surrounded by so many people who would stop her if she lunged for my throat, but I decide to reply. "Is that why you hate me so much?"

Her violent demeanor dissipates but she still has a spiteful glint in her gaze. "That's part of it. And partially because everyone is so obsessed with you. I've never seen anything about you that's so good or special."

"I agree with you about that," I say quietly, knowing it'll do nothing to mend fences with her.

Haymitch, who out of everyone I thought would agree as well, is the one who speaks up. "There's plenty good in that girl," he retorts sharply, his grey eyes hard as he stares at Johanna.

That caught me—and Peeta, by the look on his face—more off guard than anything Johanna had said thus far.

But it's Johanna's words, which aren't even directed at me, that send a chill to my spine. "Careful, Haymitch. Remember, I'm the one who's always there for the victor you constantly forget about. Or was that you who held his hand while the doctors and Mrs. Everdeen had him strapped down for two days?"

Gale is the one who responds, much to my surprise. "Okay, stop. I know you've been through—"

"Handsome," she cuts off, her voice clipped and snarky but she still bats her lashes in his direction. "You don't know anything."

"Johanna, please," Peeta murmurs now, his tone softer and a lot more understanding. "Please go back to your cubicle. I'll tell the doctors you're complaining of massive pain and need more morphling."

She stares at Peeta, her eyes softening the same way they did for Prim only minutes before. Finally she says, "it's the least you can do. Considering you wouldn't share your fiancé's with me."

And, as soon as she appeared, she had evaporated behind the curtain.

And I feel like somehow, I'm the only person who is left reeling in her absence.

/////

My mom was called back to work once again—and this time, she was made to stay there, my condition apparently too stabilized for them to be letting one of their better healers cut back on her hours—and she took Prim with her. I don't know if it was because Prim would be of use or if she just thought I needed alone time without worrying about my sister overhearing too much.

It occurs to me how much my mom is trying now to wordlessly look out for my needs. I decide to make a point in finding a way to say thank you to her. Even if our relationship will never be what it could have been, had there never been corruption or games or mine explosions. Had there been proper help to those suffering and in need.

Finnick chats with me and Peeta for a moment—and entirely ignores Gale but I suspect that's less about being intentionally rude and more about never knowing what to do with my best friend slash fake cousin—before escorting Annie away. She still looks shaken up and I wonder what happened to her in the Capitol. Or if she was already this unstable. I scarcely remember anything about her or her games, prior to what Peeta reminded me of in the Quell.

"You look tired," Peeta notes, brushing my hair back from my forehead. I smile lightly, about to kiss the palm of his hand before noticing Gale's eyes. They are quite apparently envious of Peeta's affection towards me and my acceptance of it, of how naturally Peeta can touch me, of the innate intimacy between the two of us that I never shared with him. But he tries his best to mask it and for that, I feel even worse.

I look to Haymitch without realizing it and somehow the older man understands without me even consciously thinking of asking.

"Boy," Haymitch grunts, putting on a good show as he stands up. "Let's go get some real food from the cafeteria. I hear if we say we'll participate in Plutarch's Propos, we can get better grub than the rest of Thirteen."

Peeta nods, his eyes gently running over my face, as if memorizing it in his mind. "Will you be okay-"

"Okay, Johanna was right," Haymitch barks now, grabbing Peeta by the back of the shirt, his grip much too docile to pass as normal though. "She'll be fine. Let's all stop hovering. She'll be up and tormenting us in a day."

I roll my eyes at his antics but smile meagerly at him as he guides Peeta out the door.

"Well," Gale breathes out as they leave. "That was subtle."

I laugh loud enough that I hear Johanna hiss from the cubicle next door. "I wanted to talk to you privately."

Gale chuckles. "Gathered that."

I know I have a limited time before Peeta returns and honestly I'm not too mad about that fact either, as I somehow, chessily, long for him now whenever he's gone. I inwardly cringe at myself before shaking it off to hurry this conversation along. "I wanted to apologize for me and Peeta. For how we can act. For..." I trail off, realizing too late I didn't pre-plan my words.

Peeta was right when he'd spat at Haymitch on the Victory Tour, "we all know I'm better on camera than Katniss. No one has to coach me on what to say."

I wished for his ease and talent with words now as I fumble around, trying to convey my message to the person who's been my best friend for years now.

He understands though—thankfully—and needs no more explanation. His tone has become solemn when he speaks. "You're really not faking it anymore, are you? Being in love with him?" His eyes are full of pain and he quickly downcasts them. "You fell in love with him in the Quarter Quell," he says as a fact, not a question.

"I don't know, Gale!" I exclaim, quick to defend myself here, like I'm being accused of something horrific. In truth, I feel like I am. I feel like I am, when I see how much it hurts him when me and Peeta are together. "I don't know how I feel. I just know I feel a lot for both of you."

"That's not good enough, Catnip," Gale whispers, shaking his head. But he uses my old nickname and that gives me hope. Hope that he won't hate me for not being able to give him what he wishes. Hope that I won't lose him entirely by the end of this war. "You really do need him."

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to try and rectify this. But I can't because it's true. Those are my words he's repeating back to me and they completely true. I do need Peeta. Maybe in a way I'll never need Gale. I don't know. I can't know. Not with all that rests on my shoulders already.

"What if I made you choose?" Gale presses now, leaning in closer. "What if I begged and pled and promised I'd find a way to make you happy? Would you pick me then?"

My mouth still hangs open, unsure what to say that get me out of this. I look towards the door, wishing Haymitch would reappear, that Peeta would burst through with his loud footfalls, that Johanna would pop back in and rub some salt in everyone's wounds.

All that would be preferable to this right now and I wonder why I ever wanted Haymitch to take Peeta away.

Gale shakes his head now though, having recieved his answer. "I thought so."

"Gale-" I start, not knowing where I was planning on taking the exchange but before I can even make a redundant attempt to mend whatever broke between me and him a long time ago, he's leaning in and his lips are pressing to mine and after half a second of shock, I'm giving in.

After everything I'd denied him, after all that he'd done for me and for my family, after how much he'd been there for me while Peeta was in the Capitol, I let myself give in and kiss him back.

His lips are different from Peeta's and I can't figure out how I feel about them. He's always been more grown, appearance wise, than Peeta and me, who both still could pass for years younger in the right clothing. But even his kissing is reeks of more experience, more practice, and somehow I find myself learning as his mouth shift under mine, as both his lips suck on my bottom lip expertly.

But it's lacking something and it's only then I realize, what I'm searching for inside Gale's mouth, is the spark that only Peeta's ever ignited in me. I keep waiting in vain for the warmth that started in my stomach and then rose up and exploded in my chest, for the craving that no matter what I couldn't manage to satisfy, for the thrilling, almost hysterical, tingly feeling, to overcome me and leave me lightheaded in a completely foreign way. A way that couldn't be attributed to lack of oxygen.

But it never does. I pull back and wipe my mouth carelessly on my arm and sigh, already sensing Gale's demeanor taking a nose dive at my lackluster reaction.

I'm not disappointed when I look to see his expression. His eyes are frustrated, his mouth is downturned, his eyebrows are pinched together. And I feel as bad as I knew I would. Because no matter what, I'm hurting someone I deeply care for.

But how I feel upon seeing Gale's face isn't even comparable to the amount of remorse that fills me, that overtakes my entire being, when I see Peeta standing in the doorway, having watched our entire exchange.