no but peeta was being a dick after the first games. yes it's understandable why he overreacted but it doesn't change the fact that he did overreact, and that it was him who created the distance between himself and katniss. which is exactly why he was the one to apologize (and another reason why the movies suck because his line if i stop acting like i'm wounded is changed into if you stop acting like i'm wounded).

I love your wiring so much!! If you haven't already done it could we have a fluffy train station reunion :)

I’m placing this in movie!verse. [x]

The Tricky Notion Of Distance

Twelve’s platform was a platform in name only. Likeeverything, it had been destroyed during the bombings and while the tracks hadbeen changed and checked, the station itself was little more than a shack atthe moment.

Still, Haymitch wasn’t the only one waiting inthe cool morning air of early spring. A few people had formed a group a littleaway from him and were talking loudly about the rebuilding progress whilesharing a cigarette. A couple of men were walking around if only to keep theirblood pumping, sometimes exchanging guilty but sympathetic glances at theirobvious impatience and nervousness.

He figured the group was there for supplies andthe pacing men were there for people.

Refugees were slowly trickling back in theDistrict, joining the rebuilding efforts, but more often than not, women andchildren only followed a few weeks after the men, to make sure they would havea safe and comfortable place to stay. A few people had settled in the Village,others more stubborn and desperate to cling to the past had colonized what wasleft of the Seam. There was nothing to do for the town right then, no buildinghad been left standing and the priority was still to clear the roads and makesure every of their dead were laid to rest in the mass grave in the meadow. Itwas gruesome work and Haymitch avoided going out of the Village if he couldhelp it. He couldn’t bear the sight of all the charred bones crushed in thestreets or lined up in the deep trenches. It wasn’t as bad as it had been whenhe had first come back, but it was still bad enough that going out of the Villagerequired a bravery he didn’t feel he could muster without liquor.

And finding liquor was impossible.

He had tried.

He had clung to sobriety by the fingertipsafter the City Circle bombings… All those dead children… Prim… Finnick… Withouthis escort, he would have drown at the bottom of a bottle again. But Effie wasnothing short of determined and she had made sure he wouldn’t be able to findany booze in the Mansion – how she had done that, he wasn’t sure, withPlutarch’s complicity perhaps.

The night before he had left for Twelve withKatniss, he had promised her he would try to stay clean and he had intended tokeep that promise. But being there alone… He tried to take care of the kid. Aswell as he could. But Katniss had withdrawn deep within her mind and there wasno talking her out of it. She barely moved to go to the bathroom, she ate onlyif he forced her, she didn’t drink enough and she didn’t wash. Every night onthe phone he laid it out for Effie and every night on the phone Effie clucked hertongue and insisted it would get better.

But it wasn’t.

And facing the destroyed District and all its skeletons– something he still thought he was partly responsible for – was too much. So,yeah, he had looked for booze. And the only thing he had found was a singlebottle of moonshine that wouldn’t have lasted him a day and that would havemade the aftermath of drinking it far worse than just yearning for it. He hadpoured it down the drain to remove temptation with shaking hands and withoutany particular pride.

Truth be told, he had been more than relievedwhen Plutarch had called last night to tell him Peeta had been released and wason his way. Haymitch hadn’t even asked if he was coming alone or not. The absenceof phone call later on was big enough of a clue.

He had told Effie Trinket not to be a strangerand he had no doubt at all she would take him up on that.

He had kissed her outside, after all. In plainsight. After years of hiding and reducing what they shared to a mere sordidaffair. He had kissed her in front of everyone – well, Katniss and the guardswho had been patrolling but the intention had been there all the same – and shecouldn’t have mistaken his meaning because…

He simply didn’t do that.

Openly admitting being involved with someone…Something that would have been impossible before, too dangerous, too… It was still terrifying. But now… Now there waspeace and… The target had been removed from his back and, by extension, theback of anyone he chose to…

There was a loud noise in the distance, thetrain letting the District know it was approaching, and then the engineappeared, so small in the horizon…

Impatience and nervousness coiled in his bellyas he stepped back like everyone else to keep at a safe distance from thetracks. The hissing of the brakes hadn’t even faded that already everyone wasmoving, the group of people toward the stock cars at the far end of the trainand the others towards the carriages.

Haymitch wasn’t sure where…

“Well! What an awful trip!” a voice with a strong Capitol accent huffed justbefore he glimpsed a pink boot stepping on the small metallic step. He was infront of her in seconds, hand outstretched to help her down before she fell andbroke something – a trip to the makeshift clinic wasn’t what he had in mind fora reunion. The displeased scowl on her face disappeared when she spotted himand her features morphed into something more joyful. “Haymitch!”

She grabbed his hand and hopped down and thenmoved toward him only to abort the gesture at the last second, apparently notsure if she was allowed to hug him or not. It wouldn’t have been clever beforebut now… Now, he couldn’t give a damn.

He took the decision for her, cupping her cheekand kissing her hard, wrapping his other arm around her waist. She gasped alittle in surprise but quickly recovered and responded in kind. She wasgrinning against his lips when she broke the kiss and she hastily stepped back,clearing her throat and patting her blond hair self-consciously. Her blue eyeswere madly twinkling though.

“That’s new.” Peeta laughed, luggage piled athis feet. A brown bag that must have belonged to the boy, two pink suitcasesand a glittery vanity case.

“Not really but… Yeah.” Haymitch mumbled awkwardly, feeling his cheeks reddening alittle. He had been a bit too caught up in the moment maybe. People werestaring and that was making him uncomfortable. “I’m glad to see you, kid.” heoffered, hugging the boy.

“I’m glad to see you too.” Peeta replied,clapping him once on the back and stepping back only to chuckle. “I’m also really happy you can help me with thebags. There are two more in the car.”

Effie pursed her lips, more amused thandisapproving. “It’s the pink ones, if you would be so kind.”

“Already putting me to work.” he grumbled butobediently went to fetch her bags, a bit concerned when he realized theyweren’t bags but two more suitcases. And heavy, with that. Theymust have been full to the brim. He carried them back down with a frown. “You’refucking moving in or what? You’venever traveled light but that’s taking the cake even for you.”

Effie and Peeta exchanged a quick glance andshe cleared her throat. “I will stay with Peeta for a little while.”

“With Peeta?”he repeated, confused.

People were moving away from the tracks oncemore as the train got ready to leave and he ushered them on the dusty path thatwould take them back to the Village, carrying most of the luggage. Peeta hadthe rest and Effie was holding on to her glittery vanity case.

“The city is not exactly a nice place to beright now.” she explained. “It is in ruins, far too expensive, and finding workhas been a bit of a challenge for me.”

His frown deepened. “You didn’t say.”

“I have been working as Plutarch’s assistantbut being the assistant of the Secretary of Communication has never been in mycareer plan.” she dismissed. “I wasn’t enjoying it and people do not alwaysrespond very well to my presence.” That, he could understand. It didn’t matterthat she had been with the rebels during the whole war, people had still demandedher head once the fighting was over. She had been a war refugee and Coin hadnever granted her the same immunity as Plutarch… There had been some tension.And people were stupid. “Anyway.” shesighed. “The children need me and I thought… Why not try for something newhere? Peeta has plans to reopen the bakery, don’t you, dear? He might need somehelp and…”

“So, you’re staying for good.” he cut her off,a bit short of breath because of the bags, noting the boy was wisely keeping outof the conversation. “That’s what you’re saying, yeah?”

“You didsay not to be a stranger.” She laughed her fake laugh. She was nervous, hefigured, because they hadn’t discussed it beforehand. “If all goes according toplan, then, yes, I think it could be permanent.”

There was a moment of horrified silence as theypassed near the ruins of the town and they glimpsed the things that gaveHaymitch nightmares. He wasn’t sure if they had cleared out what was left ofthe bakery yet and he made a mental note to check with Tom at the earliestopportunity. He didn’t want the kid to accidentally stumble on the corpses ofhis family.

“And you’re staying with the boy?” he insisted,once they were away from the worst of it and back on the dusty track that ledup to the Village.

“Where else do you want me to stay?” shehuffed. “I do not see any hotel in the area.” He shot her a look, lifting hiseyebrows, and she averted her gaze. “I am not sure that would be very wise.”

“I’m okay with it.” he offered with a shrug andfound, to his surprise, he meant it. “Can’t be worse than sharing thatcompartment in Thirteen. The house’s big enough.”

They hadn’t officiallyshared a compartment, of course, but by the end of the war, all hisstuff  had been at hers and Plutarch hadalways been surprised when he had found him in the room they were supposed to be sharing. He had spent every free night hehad in her bed.

“Are you certain?” she asked warily as theyreached the metal gates.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” He scoffed.“If it doesn’t work, you can move out and go to the boy’s.”

“So, where do I carry the really heavy luggage?” Peeta joked.

“My house.” he said firmly.

It was a quick job from there. Peeta didn’tlinger long, claiming he wanted to settle back in his house – and probablyimpatient to rush to see Katniss at the earliest opportunity. The moment theboy was gone, Haymitch pinned Effie to the closest wall, mouth hard anddemanding against hers.

She chuckled. “Do you want me to move in withyou just so you can do this every time you feel like it?”

“One of the perks.” he snorted, letting hislips trail down her jaw and to her neck. He nuzzled the spot where her throatmet her shoulder, basking in the smell of her. She was a little sweaty from thelong train trip and it made his mouth water. “Missed you.” The admission wasmade easier by the fact he wasn’t looking at her. “Too fucking much.”

She tightened her arms around him, resting herforehead on his shoulder with a small sigh of contentment. “I missed you too. Idid not want a long-distance relationship. Not anymore.”

“Good.” he approved. “’Cause I think there’sgonna be very little distance. Make that none at all…”

She laughed when he lifted her up and forcedher legs around his waist, obliterating the very notion of space between them.

They had been apart too long.

The Hunger Games: The Tributes

I recently returned to Tumblr, and with that decision came a thirst to return to the roots of the fandom that got me here in the first place. So here I am doing a reread of the entire thg series, along with some analysis, quotes, and questions along the way! I’ve decided to make posts for each of the three sections of each book, so here goes the first one.

The Tributes

At the beginning of this book, I think it’s only right that we start with Katniss talking about Prim. The entire series always comes back to it, because Katniss time and time again is working to protect her. Whether it be from bad dreams before her first reaping or the horrors later on, Katniss’ central motivator is her little sister. At times she seems to be a little too overprotective at great cost to herself, obviously by volunteering but also by refusing to let her take out tesserae. We meet Gale, and I’ve always wondered how he learned to snare and when he started going into the woods. Were their fathers friends, or did take their children to the woods separately? Did they ever intend to work together, or did they without the kids knowing?

The word “rebellion” is first stated on page 5, which is no accident on Suzanne Collins’ part. In the first 80 pages alone it’s mentioned 6 times, which is more than the rest of the book. She talks about the punishments of rebellion, the rebellion 74 years prior, and her thoughts when Haymitch remarks about how her at Peeta holding hands on the chariot could be seen as rebellious. From the start of the series, Katniss has been instigating rebellion even when she doesn’t mean to. Poaching, refusing children, volunteering for her sister (instead of the “honor”), shooting at the Gamemakers, showing solidarity with Peeta. I’m sure President Snow approves of none of that.

Before Katniss ever goes into the Games, I already have a sense of some mental health issues with her. It would be an easy diagnosis for her, a sudden death of her father, the sequential “loss” of her mother, and the responsibility of head of the household being thrust on her small 11-year-old shoulders. She is very doubtful of people who want to help her and finds it hard to understand how people can be kind and not expect anything in return. With this, she has a soft spot for kindness so maybe that’s why she doesn’t care for it much. I’m not an expert on mental health, but it wasn’t easy for her to take this in such a short amount of time, and there’s obviously some residual trauma she has to deal with. She talks about nightmares of her father’s death, is constantly worrying about anything and everything, and describes herself in negative ways. Some quotes to support my thoughts:

"Gale says I never smile except in the woods.” 

“I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts”

“I’m not the forgiving type.”

“[Peeta] gives my hand hat I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it’s just a nervous spasm.”

“A kind Peeta Mellark is far more dangerous to me than an unkind one. Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there”

“He gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. A warning bell goes off in my head. Don’t be so stupid... He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.”

She has closed herself off so much and never seemed to have found healthy coping mechanisms. Sure she feels better out in the woods where she used to spend time with her father, but inside the fence she hasn’t found a way to be happy in her day-to-day life. This will only exaggerate after the Games.

Katniss’ friendship with Madge has always been strange to me. As the mayor’s daughter you’d think Madge would have been a part of the popular group in school, but she “keeps to herself... [and] neither of us really has a group of friends”. They eat lunch and partner in gym class in relative silence, which just seems awkward even if they are shy people. Madge is originally wearing the mockingjay pin when Katniss and Gale go to sell strawberries which to me marked her as an important character for the rest of the series. Madge’s absence in the films was a bummer because she has such an interesting and complex connection to the story that was lost when they removed her. When she goes to visit Katniss in the Justice Building, we knows she gives Katniss the pin but we’re not entirely sure why. “There’s an urgency in her tone” when she gives it to Katniss, and doesn’t really take no for an answer when she pins it to her dress. It also may just be me wanting to find something, but I’ve always had an underlying thought that Madge has a crush on Katniss. The kiss on the cheek, the silent (nervous?) presence around Katniss, not being part of the “popular” crowd, maybe she was outcast by her peers for this reason. I would be 100% supportive of a bisexual Madge. This was a pretty short scene on paper, but there’s a lot of meaning with the pin that we’ll discuss as we get further into the books.

The reaping itself gave me a lot of questions about how the Games came to be. We learn about the Dark Days and the Capitol extinguishing a rebellion that started the Games, but what were the districts rebelling against in the Dark Days? What was going so wrong that they wanted to rebel, and how much worse did it get with the implementation of the Games and other district punishments? District 12 has a population of 8,000, but we know this is the smallest district by far. Katniss thinks about this on her Victory Tour, but how do they host reapings with larger districts that may have 8,000 kids or more? Is there a protocol if the chosen child wasn’t at the reaping due to sudden severe illness, death, or they had run off across district boundaries like Gale wanted to do? I’ve also always wondered what happens if someone volunteers but the original tribute wants to go in the Games (like in 1 or 2), who decides?

When Katniss takes the stage, this is how I see the rebellion beginning. The silence of the crowd, the district gesture, a solidarity throughout the entire district. The rebels lost the original rebellion because they could not communicate and were fighting 13 individual wars, so President Snow is probably pretty weary of any sort of unification that doesn’t outright support the Capitol. I also love the juxtaposition that she can see the hills of the woods from the platform in the square. As she’s saying goodbye to her freedom, she is also saying goodbye to her freedom in the woods and her relatively safe existence. On a fun note, when Katniss gets to the train station and overanalyzes Peeta’s appearance in front of the cameras, we get our first description of Johanna Mason and her tactics in her Games.

Throughout the train ride and the initial prep, we learn a lot about the differences between how the Capitol and districts see the Games. Effie and Katniss’ prep team are so detached from the actual horrors of the Games the same way Nazis had no issue with seeing Jewish people as less. It’s not their fault, it’s how they were raised being in the Capitol and all they know. They may not realize it, but they see the tributes as subhuman and because Katniss has never experienced this before, she immediately doesn’t like any of them. She already feels like just a piece in the Games even though she won’t realize it for a while. Cinna is her saving grace, because he actually seems to understand how terrible the Games really are. Right away I suspect he is most likely part of the underground rebellion in the Capitol, if he thinks like that yet still wants to work with tributes and subsequently their mentors. When Katniss first meets him he says “I asked for District Twelve” and just keeps going as if it were common to request working with the “least desirable district”. We never get his full story, but I can only imagine what lead him to this life path.

Finally we start to see the beginnings of Everlark!! Katniss knows more about Peeta than she realizes and if they hadn’t been reaped I want to believe they’d still find each other. I could never actually Katniss making it in the mines and they have such history going back to their parents. We get our first flirty feeling from Katniss, even if she doesn’t know what that means. When Peeta complements her after the parade and smiles “unexpected warmth rushes through me”. I’ve always laughed at that remark because she’s so unused to desire and pleasure she has no understanding of what’s happening. They train together, they talk each other up, they have no clue of what’s to come. Katniss barely has a grip on the past when she realizes “I have kept track of the boy with the bread”. Her coldness throughout their training makes sense given her history of distancing herself from pleasure, such as when Prim had to “drag [her] over to admire [the cakes at the bakery]”. If it wasn’t functional she didn’t need it, so having frivolous things for enjoyment (boys) isn’t an option. Only later does she realize she can allow herself these things without harm.

As Effie tries to sell Katniss and Peeta, it’s an interesting slip-up that she says “if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls”, especially when we know the significance of the pearl in the future. Another quote that pops out to me is when she talks about Lavinia, and says “you don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope”. She doesn’t know it now, but Katniss will be again be the face of hope for people who have nothing else to hope for. While training we see the parallels between Rue and Prim, who are both named after yellow flowers and resemble the same person to Katniss. Someone to protect.

When the interviews come, as much as she tries, Katniss isn’t going to get over her self-doubts just because Haymitch yelled at her so she isn’t very giving. She tried giving herself up, but it’s impossible when you’re talking to someone you don’t trust. When Peeta drops his bomb, we start to understand what his weapon is. While Katniss is lethal with a bow and has hunter instincts, Peeta can read people and moves a crowd with words. In his case, the pen really is more powerful than the sword.

Sassniss and other funny/interesting quotes

“District 12. Where you can starve to death in safety”

Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won’t seem sincere if I’m trying to slit his throat.

So yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But I hate Effie’s comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers.

“Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior”. Peeta unexpectedly laughs. “He was drunk,” says Peeta. “He’s drunk every year.” “Every day,” I add.

“Up, up up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman’s head.

One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.

“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?” - Haymitch

It’s hard to hate my prep team. They’re such total idiots.

“With all that alcohol in him, it’s probably not advisable to have him around an open flame.”

Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly.

You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger Games hot spot.

“If only you could frost someone to death”

 I try and animate my face as I recall the event, a true story, in which I’d foolishly challenged a black bear over the rights to a beehive.

“Thank you for your consideration,” I say. Then I give a slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being dismissed.

I avoid looking at anyone as I take tiny spoonfuls of fish soup. The saltiness reminds me of my tears.

“Well, Catnip, stealing’s punishable by death, or hadn’t you heard?” he says... Gale’s eyes fastened on the bow. “Can I see that?” I hand it over. “Just remember, stealing’s punishable by death.”

“See, like this. I’m smiling at you even though you’re aggravating me.” “Yes, it feels very convincing.”

One Life to Live

Here’s the latest!   Thanks as always to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn’t Take.”  It can be read on AO3 or Fanfiction.  Chapter 34 The next morning I call in on Haymitch.  He’ll have to be told before the television crew arrives.  We might be able to get away with pretending to the rest of 12 that Peeta and I are back together, but not Haymitch.  I can imagine what he’s going to say.  Probably something about why no one lets me make the plans.  And he’ll be right.  How stupid of me to risk exposure like that.  What was I thinking?  Going into the woods with my famous lover and Plutarch’s own production team.  If I’d listened to my gut and stayed home, it never would have happened.   And now I’m back to owing Peeta.  I guess I should be grateful, and I am. He doesn’t have to do this and he is saving Marcus and me from becoming a national laughing stock. But still, I hate owing.  And how will I ever repay him?   I find Haymitch sprawled on his living room sofa, snoring heavily and with a bottle clutched in one hand and a knife in the other. He’s been on his usual weekend bender by the look of it.  That would explain his absence when Plutarch arrived.  It would take the noise of ten hovercrafts landing to rouse him from it and even that’s doubtful. Before I wake him, I go into the kitchen to make him some strong coffee.  He’s going to need it.  It’s a pigsty in there.  Dirty dishes piled in the sink; moths fluttering from the pantry; blackened saucepans on the stove; the floor so sticky it makes sucking noises when you walk across it.  But after a bit of rummaging, I find the coffee pot, fill it with water and ground coffee and set it on the stove to brew.   Then I return to Haymitch and find that Peeta is there too.  He sets a freshly baked loaf of bread on the table.  

“I saw you leave your house,” he explains at my questioning look.  “I think we should tell him together.” I nod in agreement.  He’s right.  For good or ill, we’re in this together now.  

Peeta gingerly attempts to prise the knife from Haymitch’s hand but without success.  His fingers seem t “I have a better idea.” I go back into the kitchen and return with a basin of cold water. “Stand back,” I warn.  I dump the water over Haymitch’s head and spring out of the way.  He comes to, gasping, swiping at the air with his knife.  He casts bleary eyes in our direction.

“Oh, it’s you two,” he says, as if we’re the biggest drag on his life.  He runs a hand over his head and peers down at his shirt.   “Why am I wet?” “Never mind that,” I say.  “I – that is, Peeta and I, have something to tell you. We need your help.”   Haymitch groans and reaches for his bottle. “I need a drink first.”  He goes to take a swig but the bottle is empty. Disgusted, he throws it to join the pile of discarded food containers and other assorted rubbish by the window. “So, what is it?”  His eyes dart between Peeta and me.  “More boy trouble?” “That’s enough, Haymitch,” says Peeta.  I shoot him a grateful look.  He saved me the bother.  If we have to work together, this show of mutual accord is a good start. “This is serious.  Katniss, I think you should be the one.” Right.  I guess the story does start with me.  I tell Haymitch everything.  My relationship with Marcus.  Being secretly filmed.  Plutarch’s visit and his conditions for not leaking the video.  And then Peeta’s willingness to help me out.  To save time, I hand him the paper Cressida gave me. “This is what they want us to do – to prepare.”

Haymitch takes it over to the window to read.  Not that he can get very close with the rubbish piled beneath it.  After a few moments, he lifts his head to stare out the window.  He appears to be considering something.   “Here,” he says, as he returns the paper to me. “You should get started on it.  You’ve a lot to do before the cameras arrive.” I swap puzzled glances with Peeta. That’s it?  No recriminations for getting myself into this mess?  No anger that the media will be swarming all over the Village and disturb his peace?   We start to leave but Haymitch’s voice calls us back.  “Have you decided on the house?” “Um, mine.”  I turn to Peeta.  “Buttercup,” I say as way of explanation.   He gives a nod.  I don’t think he cares either way.  It’s only temporary.   “You need to move all your things over to Katniss’s, then,” Haymitch tells Peeta.  “A couple living together don’t split their possessions between two residences with hers in one house, and his in the other.  And they should be where you’d expect to find them.  You don’t want any nosey crew member poking around and finding your clothes in the guest room instead of sharing closet space with Katniss’s.  Even the slightest suspicion that it’s an act has to be avoided.  The next person who gets hold of anything incriminating won’t go to Plutarch but to another media outlet.  And then you’ll both be exposed as frauds.” This just keeps getting worse.  We can’t trust anybody with the truth.  Not even the people who work for Plutarch who’ll be producing this travesty.  We have to fool not only the TV audience, but everyone around us.  Any slip-up and we could end up as social pariahs accused of a cynical attempt to cash in on our former fame.  The only consolation is that Plutarch has as much to lose as we have, so at least we don’t have to worry about any leak coming from him.  I take a look at Peeta.  He must be regretting the impulse that had him volunteer for this, but there’s no hint of doubt in his expression.  In fact, it’s the most energized I’ve seen him in a long time. “I’ll get on it right away,” says Peeta. “Apart from clothes, that really leaves only art materials and maybe some specialist baking equipment. They’ll expect to see both.” Yes, Peeta is known Panem-wide for this painting and baking.  And since most of our household goods are duplicated in both households, that cuts out the need for Peeta to take anything other than personal effects.   Haymitch continues.  “You also need to be seen in the town so that it’s established in people’s minds that you’re together before the television crew arrives. Everything a couple does, you must do. That includes eating together and sleeping together.  Starting from now.  It has to be second nature if you’re to pull this off.  You know how intrusive the camera can be.”

I remember.  But share a bed?  That’s going way too far.  Who’s going to know if we share a bed or not?  “Do we really need to sleep together?  It seems to me that – “ Haymitch doesn’t even let me finish.   “Which shouldn’t be a problem.  You’ve done it before, haven’t you?   And you were play acting at being a couple then too.” Yeah, but that was different. We’re adults now, not frightened teenagers seeking comfort.   Besides, I’m not sure how I feel about being so close to him all night.  Not with the way things stand and in a situation that many would consider decidedly sexual.   “It will be all right, Katniss.  I promise not to try anything,” says Peeta, with an infuriating smirk. I scowl at him, embarrassed at his insinuation that I have sex on my mind, which I do, but it’s not the point.  “You won’t unless you want to lose a hand.  Maybe I’ll borrow Haymitch’s knife – “ “Stop it.  Both of you,” admonishes Haymitch.  “You’re supposed to be in love, remember? Start acting like it.” I back down because he’s right, of course. But in this moment, I almost wish I had taken the alternative option.  Especially as Haymitch and Peeta continue to make plans without consultation from me. This is what started the whole star-crossed lovers thing in the first place.  The two of them making decisions that affect me.  They’d argue that it’s for my benefit, but still. “Since I’m apparently not needed, I’ll get started on making room for Peeta’s things at my house,” I say tersely before I stomp out the door.  I’m rewarded by a look of astonishment from both of them.  Maybe now they’ll get the hint.   Fortunately, there’s not a great deal to do from my end.  The master bedroom has a huge walk-in closet and I barely use a quarter of it.  Once I’ve cleared some space in the bathroom, I’m finished in that part of the house.  Peeta will need somewhere to put his art equipment, of course, and it will be expected that he’d have a proper studio.  I guess we could use my mother’s bedroom.  Her home is 4 now and in the unlikely event she comes to visit she can stay in the guest room.  I pack all her things into boxes.  Maybe I’ll ship them to her in 4.  It would serve as a sort of symbolic rejection of her in return for hers of me.   I know it’s not fair but I don’t feel like being fair.  I want to lash out at something or someone and my mother right now is a safe target.   After that, there’s nothing left for me to do but to help carry Peeta’s things from his house to mine.   I show him his new studio.  He’s happy with it.  He says the light is good.  The bedroom furniture we’ll store at his house.  It won’t look odd if it’s discovered since it’s likely that’s what we would have done with it if Peeta really had moved into my house. By early afternoon most of the moving-in is done.  Haymitch suggests our next priority is to be seen in the town together behaving like a couple in the early days of courtship – which we would be if there was anything real about this.   Peeta holds my hand as we walk.  There’s no one about.  The only people who use the road from the Village into the town are us victors but you can never be sure that somebody isn’t watching.  I’ve learned that the hard way.   There hasn’t been a lot of conversation between us that hasn’t centered around moving in.  Peeta seems to sense that I’m not happy with him and has mostly left me to sulk in peace.  But as we near the town he attempts to draw me out of my bad mood with some light-hearted talk to which I respond with yes or no answers or none at all.   “What are you so angry about?” Peeta asks. “Is it because I teased you about the bed sharing?  I’m sorry. I thought you’d laugh about it.” “No,” I say, even though it is part of it.  “It’s a lot of things.  But I’m mostly just sick of you and Haymitch making decisions that affect me without first asking if I’m okay with it.  Like with the star-crossed lovers thing and the fake pregnancy.  You don’t like it when Haymitch and I keep things from you.  I don’t see how this is any different.” “You’re right.  It’s not.  I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. If it involves you, you should be asked first.  I promise not to do it again.  Okay?” “Okay,” I say, mollified.   “Let me make it up to you.  How about I buy you an ice-cream?” Ice-cream?  I’m not sure about ice-cream.  The ice-cream parlor was Peeta and Lace’s favourite hang-out.  I also don’t have good memories of the last time he bought me one.  It was right before he told me I can’t use his guest room at night anymore.  But it is the best place in town to be seen, and it’s consistent in people’s minds with Peeta’s courtship habits.  I guess I can tolerate it just this once.   “Okay, but I’m not licking ice-cream off your face,” I say.   “I should hope not.  That’s disgusting.  Especially in public.” “You liked it well enough when Lace did it,” I point out.   “She didn’t lick it off.  Sometimes she’d kiss it off.  Not that it’s much better.” “Then why did you let her?” He shrugs.  “I guess I liked the attention.” It seems a dumb reason to me.   He must have been pretty desperate for it if that’s the case. The ice-cream parlor is as crowded as I’ve ever seen it.  The store is packed with customers and all the outside tables are taken. “Maybe we could go sit in the football field and eat our ice-cream there,” suggests Peeta. “No!” I burst out before I can stop myself. That’s where he took me to eat our ice-creams that other time.  “I mean, we’re here to be seen, aren’t we?  No one will see us in the middle of a football field.  We’ll find a table.  Look, there’s some people leaving now.” I almost drag Peeta along in my hurry to secure the table.  “I’ll mind the table while you get the ice-cream.” “What flavours do you want?” “Surprise me.  Nothing coffee flavoured though.”   Peeta leans down to give me a light kiss on the lips.  Oh right, the romance thing.  I smile up at him with what I hope is a suitably soppy expression.  “Miss you already,” I say.   “Miss you more,” he says in return and gives me another kiss. “Just go,” I say laughing and I give him a push.   He threads his way through the tables and enters the store.  I do a quick sweep of my surroundings to see if anyone’s watching. And that’s when I see him.   Max, a couple of tables away.  Staring straight at me, a mixture of incredulity and amusement on his face.   He’s with Saffy from the bakery and another couple I don’t recognize.  I give a small wave in acknowledgment.  That’s a mistake, because after a few words to his companions, he heads towards me and takes the seat opposite. “I didn’t give you permission to sit here,” I say. “Don’t need it.  It’s a public space.  So, you and psycho boy, huh?  When did that happen?  Wasn’t he supposed to be married by now?” “It’s new and the wedding was called off, as you well know.  And don’t call him psycho boy.”  Of all people it had to be Max.  Talk about being plunged into the deep end.  He’ll be the hardest to convince.  A natural skeptic and with an uncanny ability to know what I’m thinking before I do. If I can persuade him, then I can persuade anyone.   “Rather sudden, isn’t it?” “No, not really.  Peeta and I have known each other for a long time.   It was more like picking up from where we left off, now that other distractions are out of the way.” “Other distractions being Lace, I presume?” “Lace was a . . . an aberration.”  There, that’s a good way of putting it.  “A symptom of what the hijacking did to him.  But thankfully he’s now fully recovered.  As for me, well, I never really fell out of love with him.  So, when he asked me to give him another chance, I said yes.  And I don’t regret it.  In fact, I’d go so far as to say we’re as much in love as ever.  Maybe even more so.”   “Hmm.  Well, I’m happy for you.   But can I ask you one question?”  He doesn’t wait for an answer but leans over the table, arms crossed in front of him. “Why?” “What do you mean why?” I ask, irritated. “Is it so impossible that he could be in love with me?” “Not him with you.  You with him.  Have you forgotten what this man has put you through?  Not only has he tried to kill you but he’s been parading a girlfriend in front of you for months.  And now you’re letting him back in?  It’s crazy.”

“I’ve told you before.  There are some things that Peeta can’t be held responsible for and trying to kill me is one of them.   As to the rest, well, there’s things you don’t know.  He’s taking a chance with me too.  All I know is that I love him and I have to go where my heart takes me. Whatever happens, happens. You don’t have to worry about me.  I’m strong enough to take it.” Max gives me a searching look.  “Well, if you’re – “ “Everything okay?” asks Peeta.  He puts down a dish of three scoops of ice-cream in front of me.  He’s bought himself a cone but not the usual soft serve.  Strawberry, I think.   “Everything’s fine,” I say, with a reassuring smile.  “Max just dropped by to say hello.  He’s not staying.” Max thankfully takes the hint.   “Yeah, I should be getting back.  My date will be getting restless without me.” Max pushes his chair back from the table. “See you at work tomorrow, Katniss.” I watch him rejoin his group.   As dubious as he is about my reasons for being with Peeta, I don’t think he doubts that my love for him is real.  

Peeta is also watching.  “Saffy is Max’s date?” He seems surprised.   “Yeah, appears so.”  The other couple are cozied up together so it’s not one of them. “Why?  Is something wrong?” “Not really.  It’s just that Saffy told me she likes girls.”   Oh.  Poor Max.  Saffy flirts with everyone.  He probably got the wrong idea and she accepted his invitation as a friend.  Max doesn’t seem to have much luck when it comes to romance.  Which reminds me. “Want a taste?” I ask Peeta, offering him a spoonful of my ice-cream.  “Do you remember in the cave when I fed you broth and mashed berries?” “I do.  One spoon equals one kiss if I recall.” “I don’t remember that part.  But I always insist on paying my debts.”  I put my face forward to be kissed.  Peeta cheats and takes two.  Over his shoulder, I see the people at the next table watching with interest and then turn to each other to gossip among themselves.  At least people are talking about us.  As with Max, I don’t expect that everyone will approve. Some will say I’m a fool for taking him back.  Others, who don’t know that Lace is with Arthur now, might blame me for Peeta and Lace’s breakup.  And yet others, and I’m hoping they’re the majority, will sigh and romantically declare that order has at last been restored to the universe.  But whatever they think, as long as they believe that Peeta and I are genuinely together, that’s all that matters.

I go back to eating my ice-cream.  It really is delicious.  Chocolate, honeycomb, and butter pecan.   “Katniss, can I ask you something?  You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” “Sure.  Go ahead.”  The butter pecan is amazing. “How serious was it with Marcus?” My spoon freezes half-way to my lips, so surprised I am by the question.  Why is he asking me this now?  We’re supposed to be projecting romance, not talking about former lovers.  But then, why shouldn’t he be thinking about it?  It’s because of my indiscretion with Marcus that we’re here in the first place recreating the star-crossed lovers routine.  He deserves an honest answer.   I think about Marcus and the short time we had together.  It wasn’t a great love affair but for a little while it did reach the heights of one – for me, anyway.   There’s no heartbreak or any sense of loss now that it’s ended, but the memories are sweet.  A rebound, Johanna called it.  But I don’t think that really sums up what Marcus was to me.  He was . . . a haven.  That’s it. A haven.  A place in which to shelter and gather strength.  And I think Marcus would like that.  How apt for a man whose life mission is to create safe spaces for nature to thrive.   I so like the notion that I can’t help smiling. And then I become aware that Peeta is watching me, a look of consternation on his face and I realise that I haven’t yet answered him.   I take a breath.  “Well, we had a lot in common and I liked him a lot.  He helped me and he made me feel good about myself again after . . . you know, everything.” I see Peeta wince slightly at the “everything” although it wasn’t my intention to make him feel bad.  “It was intense for a while but we never could have lasted.” No, not with me stuck in 12 and Marcus’s job that takes him all over Panem.  “So, to answer your question as to whether it was serious or not, I guess the answer is, not very.   Does all that make sense to you?”  

“Yeah, it does,” he says, thoughtfully.  “It makes perfect sense.”   For some reason, this rubs me the wrong way. How would he know?  Oh, yes that’s right. It’s how he viewed his relationship with me.  Something that seemed all- consuming at the time but, as it turned out, not serious at all.   An illusion, in fact.   “I don’t have to ask how it was with you and Lace.  I mean, marriage.  You don’t get more serious than that.” I try to keep my tone light, but there’s a bitter edge to it.

His brow furrows in confusion.  “What?  No, Lace is who I meant.  That’s who I wasn’t serious about.” “Peeta, don’t do that.  I saw it all, remember?  You don’t have to try to make me feel better.  I was reconciled to it months ago.” I push the dish of ice-cream from me. It’s half-melted anyway in the hot sun. “Do you think we can go now?  I think we’ve been seen long enough.” I don’t wait for an answer but get up off my chair and start walking.  Peeta has no choice but to follow. “Katniss, wait up.  People are looking.”  He takes my hand and I don’t pull it away.  I might be upset with him but we still have to look as if we’re smitten with each other.  I even manage a fond smile that I hope doesn’t look too much like a grimace. As soon as we’re out of earshot, Peeta tries again.  “This is something we need to talk about.” “We don’t, actually,” I say, wearily.  “Look, isn’t there enough to deal with right now?  Just drop it.  Please.”    

He opens his mouth to argue, but then seems to think better of it.  I don’t want to talk about his relationship with Lace.  It’s still too raw.  And how can I trust Peeta to know his own mind, anyway?   He’d told Lace that I was the one he wasn’t really serious about.  So now Lace is the one?  Peeta can’t keep re-writing history like that.   We spend the remainder of the walk back to the Village mostly in silence.   Any attempt by Peeta to make conversation is wet-blanketed by me. I know I’m being moody and difficult when Peeta is going out of his way to help me but I just can’t seem to shake it off.   This is much harder than I expected.  I’m beginning to understand what it was like for Peeta during the Victory Tour, when he was the one in love and I wasn’t.  Hugs and kisses, so cherished when it comes from someone you love and who loves you back, is torture when you know that the person you love is putting on an act.  Something is not better than nothing.  An honest nothing is far preferable. Haymitch joins us for dinner.  I don’t know if Peeta invited him or Haymitch invited himself but it provides a welcome buffer between Peeta and me.  We tell him about our visit to the ice-cream parlor and make plans for tomorrow before we move on to general conversation.  After we’ve eaten and cleared up, Haymitch and Peeta set up the chess board.  They try to engage me and I watch them for a little while but eventually I move into the sitting room to watch television.  I feel left out of whatever understanding there seems to be between them.  Maybe it’s because I’m not an equal in this. They’re the heroes coming to the rescue and I’m just the idiot who needs rescuing. I flick mindlessly through the channels until I come to a news program.  It’s covering the mayoral elections in 7.  Johanna’s only real competition is this vile looking man with a ridiculous comb-over who is funded by the logging companies.  Referring to Johanna, he says he likes his heroes not to be captured. It doesn’t go down well.  He’s lucky Johanna isn’t there too.  He’d be dead for sure. When it’s time to retire for the night, we politely take turns using the bathroom and then get into bed.  It’s a large bed so there’s plenty of space between us if we keep to the edges which I’m determined to do.  

So ends the first day of the new adventures of the star-crossed lovers.  

If This Was A Movie, VIII

// While Effie Trinket is Hollywood’s darling and all her dreams seem to be finally coming true, Haymitch Abernathy is drinking himself into an early grave and shuts the world out completely. However, Plutarch Heavensbee decides it’s time for his comeback. The two main stars can’t stand each other and tension builds up soon, but as they dive in deep into this project, somewhere between shooting love scenes, fighting on-set, fighting off-set, opening up hesitantly and helping their younger colleagues deal with everything this world brings, they grow closer and closer, until one day they realize they’re not pretending anymore. | Hayffie Actors AU //

“DEAL BREAKER”

 i.

May, Venice

Everyone has agreed that they should leave the choice of the place where the wrap party would take place to Finnick, Johanna and Cressida and her crew, who spent quite a lot of their free time exploring the town. Johanna called it boring. Finnick often joked that it was sad that Annie Cresta, his girlfriend, couldn’t be here as well since she liked these cliché-ish, romantic locations, but from the longing in his eyes, it was easy to tell that he truly wished she could be here with him. 

Eventually, they decided upon a small bar in a hidden corner of the city, in the old part. It looked sapless and frankly a bit disreputable, but once they got in, they found themselves surrounded by hyper-modern furniture and decorations, everything clean and neat and new. Plutarch had previously reserved it for the evening, so they were there alone. It wasn’t entirely clear whether Coin knew what her money was going into.

Effie looked around. The whole Venice cast, except dor Katniss and Peeta, was here. There was also majority of the crew - Cressida, Castor, Pollux; the assistants, the consultants, and Portia who was sitting on Cinna’s lap which was who Effie was headed to.

Katniss and Peeta left for France last night. It didn’t go without a lot of complaining from both Fulvia Cardew and Alma Coin, for organization purposes, but Plutarch promised them that it was a good move. Publicity was needed. Besides, he was just glad that these two were finally getting along, if someone still couldn’t bring themselves to be decent.

Effie was sure her and Haymitch could be decent but it was difficult to look at each other now, considering how their shooting went this morning. It was totally unacceptable. It has never happened to her before with anyone. She didn’t know what to think - probably that her last lay truly was more recent than his.

She saw him in the corner of her eye. He was sitting alone in one of the boxes, sipping whiskey. There was no other glass on his table. She felt a faint sting of pride. Or maybe relief. He was finally getting at least a little better in these matters.

“Effie,” Finnick appeared next to her with two glasses of champagne and handed one to her. “Plutarch’s having a speech.”

Of course. Plutarch liked everything in big style. All one needed to do was to take a look at his filmography. He was the master of melodrama, glamour, and romanticized angst.

“I didn’t even have time to see the town properly,” Effie told Finnick sadly, “it’s like this every time. I can’t remember one time when I travelled just for pleasure.”

“Do you have any projects following this?” Finnick asked. He was so good to talk to, these two kicked it off well immediately upon meeting for the first time. He was hilarious but polite and had the unique gift of making you feel like you were the only person he was focusing on the moment he started talking to you.

“No,” she replied with relief. “I’m taking a year off. I need it.”

Finnick nodded, looking at her curiously. He had the decency not to ask why, presumably because he already knew. “That sounds smart. There’s a lot going on.”

“It’s good not having to be at home,” she admitted, lowering her voice so only Finnick would hear. “Everybody is so nice here and almost no one seems to recognize me. I can’t believe there were times when that used to anger me.”

He laughed quietly. “Not everyone is that nice.”

Effie’s eyes immediately found Haymitch again and then wandered back to Finnick. For a second, she was afraid that he somehow knew about what happened today, and his joking didn’t help.

“He likes you, you know.”

“What?” That wasn’t quiet at all. Actually, it came out rather loudly. A few people including Castor and Fulvia looked in her direction with raised brows. “Why do you think so? Did he tell you what happened or-”

“Wait,” Finnick hesitated in his fit of laughter at her horrified face, “tell me what?”

She could feel her cheeks catching fire. Was he just messing with her or- “Oh. Nothing.”

He was chuckling again, sea green eyes twinkling in amusement. “You do know I was just kidding, right? Jo keeps saying that to annoy him. It’s good to know something happened, though.”

“Finnick,” Effie sighed and curled the free hand into a fist and rested in on her hip, “nothing happened. Forget about it.”

“Forget about what?” Finnick innocently winked at her and floated through the crowd to honor someone else with his impish presence.

Effie rolled her eyes before resting them back on Haymitch. To her surprise and, frankly, a bit of a scare, he was already looking at her. When he didn’t look away after catching her glaze, she hesitated only for a second before asking a kissing couple - so inappropriate - to make space for her, and headed to him.

“May I?” she asked only symbolically, because she was already sitting down next to him. It didn’t escape her that he had some kind of cologne on. It smelled weird but it was better than the usual combo sweaty clothes/hotel soap/whiskey breath.

He shrugged. His already broad shoulders seemed bigger in his leather jacket that still didn’t fit him well, maybe even worse now that he had suddenly lost some weight. Reducing drinking, some routine and actual activity every day were supposed to have a positive effect on him, but the bags under his eyes gave away his exhaustion. His hands weren’t shaking, though. She had no idea why she was still checking up on him like this, but maybe because she felt responsible for his current state.

It wasn’t the only thing she was responsible for and it made her blush again. She wanted to say something to relieve the atmosphere, just as Plutarch, with Chaff’s help, climbed on one of the benches and someone stopped the music that was quietly playing from the speakers. He clinked on his glass of champagne with a butter knife - as though he hadn’t already won everyone’s attention - and cleared his throat before starting. “Welcome, everybody! I’m glad we all managed to meet up here, except for our generous, extraordinarily gifted main producer, Alma Coin, to whom-”

Next to Effie, Haymitch chuckled quietly.

“What’s so funny?” she whispered in annoyance, already losing track on Plutarch’s speech.

“That guy’s a fucking ass alpinist,” he replied, shaking his head and exing his whiskey. “I always knew he was a bit spineless, but-”

“How dare you,” she stared at him with her mouth open and he glanced back at her unapologetically. “Do you not know what gratitude means?”

“I know what dignity means,” he retorted.

She promptly fired back. “You’re the one to be talking about dignity, really. There’s hardly anything more dignifying than being found wasted in a pool of your own vomit every day of your adult life, if not since much sooner than that.”

Someone looked over their shoulder at them, clearly implying that they were disturbing them. Effie lent back against the box’s padding and shook her head in disbelief. The audacity of this man never stopped surprising her, she should have gotten used to it by now, but he always pushed it to another level.

“We were all working hard, especially our four main stars,” Plutarch continued. “Two of them are absent, but we’re about to see them during the Cannes’ opening red carpet in a few minutes, and two of them are here.” Everyone’s eyes turned to Effie and Haymitch, as though someone’s pointed a headlight at them. He wriggled uncomfortably next to her, but she promptly conjured up a smile and raised her glass while not-so-gently kicking Haymitch under the table. “It took us some time and some compromise, but I think we finally found a way to make this work. Great job, you two, I’m proud of you!”

Everyone clapped then, but Plutarch wasn’t done yet. As his audience slowly focused their attention on him again, Effie burned Haymitch with a glare. “I suppose not even someone’s praise is enough to make you feel guilty, or is it?”

“Guilty,” he spat, “what the hell? I’m just saying my humble opinion. Dare I add that I’ve already shared that opinion with him countless times before. I get it. He needs her money.”

“That’s cynical.”

“This business is cynical in general. Don’t you know?”

It stang. His words were harsh but there was a spike of truth in each of them, and they usually hit close to home. Still. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged again. “It’s worse for women than guys, but I’ve got my fair share of stories fucked up enough to make you doubt everything you’ve believed in about this job.”

“Deep,” she remarked sarcastically, slowly preparing to ignore him.

“You’re what, thirty-five? I give you three more years.”

“Go to hell,” she burst out in a voice that was stepping above the borders of whisper. “Just because you ended up a complete wreck doesn’t mean it’s inevitably going to happen to everyone. There are people with self-respect and actual talent, people who don’t need their image to sell them.”

“Funny that it comes from someone who had to pose almost naked for three years before landing a role.”

“Are you going to bring this up? Really?” She felt her pulse suddenly accelerating. “You didn’t mind this morning.”

His face tensed just as Plutarch was finally finishing his speech.

“So, a big thank you belongs to all of you. May we all keep up the good work in Florence!”

Everyone clapped and then turned in the contents of their glasses. Effie just sipped on her champagne and didn’t dare to look at Haymitch after what had just left her lips, but she felt it when his eyes brushed past her and then stopped on her face for a moment. She wanted to say something, but she just laughed instead. He joined her after the initial hesitation. It wasn’t a happy or mocking laughter, it was just laughter which had been rare in both of their lives lately, so they just went along with it. 

When he laughed, he had wrinkles on his forehead, but these were worry lines instead of those wrinkles you get with aging from laughing or making faces. He wasn’t a happy person, supposedly not with many reasons to be happy, but right now, he looked relaxed. For the very first time in those ten days they had been here, she saw him, if not having fun, then at least having somewhat of a nice time. Presumably because it meant that he was ten days closer to the end of everything, but it somehow didn’t matter.

“You’re…” he shook his head and let his words trail of.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, “but seriously, I think we should just can this already.”

For the third time, he simply shrugged.

“So, friends?” she offered her hand.

“Not sure if friends,” he ignored her gesture, but shot her a smirk nevertheless, “but allies could do.”

“Allies.” She shook her head at him. That word tasted both bitter and hopeful on her tongue. “This may be the first time you have ever been at least somewhat gentle about declining someone’s affection.”

“Not everyone who has your back is your friend.”

“Right.” She finished her champagne, suddenly feeling strange. She just wanted to switch up her company for a little while. “We’re a team, after all.”

“I guess.”

“Hey,” someone shouted, and Effie was almost sure that it was Finnick, but it was hard to tell through the music and rigmarole all around the bar, “Katniss and Peeta are on TV!”

“Oh,” Effie smiled delightfully, “I can’t wait to see what she is wearing! I know Cinna got her the dress, but I haven’t yet had the chance to look at it. I really hope it’s worth it, Portia was talking about it nonstop-“

“You are talking nonstop as well,” he remarked, getting a hit in his biceps as a reward, along with a shh.

Everyone’s eyes were on the TV screen and the mumbling that was filling the room died down enough so they could listen. It was truly an impressive sight, nobody could doubt that Katniss and Peeta looked nice together and here, all dressed up to the nines, they looked like they came straight from the page of a fashion magazine.

Katniss was wearing a long red strapless dress that was made out of several layers of a silky, shiny material that changed color from red to orange to yellow and then to white and back again when she moved and seemed incredibly light and ethereal as it didn’t cling to her body but floated around her legs when she walked down the stairs. The warm color suited Katniss’ darker complexion and her hair, up in a fancy bun instead of the casual braid that could usually be seen on her, complimented her face that looked healthier with a touch of a blush and highlighter and an actual smile on her lips, even if it was just for the cameras. Peeta, in a shirt in a hue of blue that was a few shades darker than his eyes and had rolled-up sleeves and with his hair combed back, looked handsome as always and fitted into the summer-like scenery of Cannes.

Peeta gently kept an arm around Katniss’ waist as they waved to the crowds and posed for the photographers while the commenter was talking about their clothes and about Peeta’s movie that was set to premiere tomorrow during an evening screening. One of the interviewers then targeted them and they welcomed her with smiles so cheerful it looked fake, especially on Katniss who rarely smiled at random people that approached her.

“Welcome to Cannes!” the unnaturally tanned woman with bleached blonde hair and heavy Valley accent trilled, then looked into the camera. “Hey everyone, I’m Jess Conners from StarWham!, live from French Riviera, from the red carpet of the 70th year of the international Cannes Film Festival, and I’m about to talk to two of the hottest stars here, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!” She turned back to them, her excitement corresponding with the excitement of a kid on a Christmas morning. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe this! You two are, like, this generation’s biggest sensation right now. And you’re here together!” She screeched. “How come?!”

Peeta looked at Katniss almost apologetically, because the girl seemed to be on the verge of bursting out laughing or breaking down and running away as fast as her designer heels allowed her. One glance at her tortured face, and he decided to take on the talking.

“It’s kind of a birthday present for Kat,” he explained with a slight smile, “I asked her to come. I’ve got a gorgeous date, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do,” the reported humored, looking at her dress in admiration. “What are you wearing tonight, Katniss?”

“Oh, well…” Katniss winced, looking down at her gown unhappily. “Uhm… a dress.”

Jess Conners laughed so loudly that a few people turned their heads at her as they were passing her. “A dress. Katniss, you are hilarious.”

“I mean,” the girl’s cheeks were probably reddening, but the blush was hiding it well, “it’s from the costume designer for our next movie. His name’s Cinna, he’s awesome, isn’t he?” She tugged at one of the many layers of the dress and let it fall back down. “I’ve never worn a more beautiful piece.”

“Gosh!” Jess exclaimed. “It looks like it’s burning when it moves. Katniss, show that to us!” The camera lingered on her dress. “Could you like, twirl or something?”

“Twirl?” Katniss said that as though it was the stupidest thing she had ever heard. She looked at Peeta in a this is one big joke, right? manner, but he just let go of her silently and took a step back so the attention would focus on her. Reluctantly, and carefully so she wouldn’t spring her ankle in those high heels she normally never wore, she twirled, once, twice, then a few times more, and her dress floated around her, lighter than air, easy to be mistaken for flames licking her tanned legs.

Jess started clapping while Peeta laughed, both watching her in amazement. When Katniss stopped, Peeta immediately reached out to her and she took his hand gratefully, cracking a giggle of her own, a light, girly giggle, a sound no one listening could recall ever hearing from her.

“That was so beautiful!” Jess said, shaking her head in amazement. “Awesome job, whoever made this miracle happen!” She took a few deep breaths, sounding as though she had just run a marathon. “Oh gosh. Alrighty, so, I’m about to leave you two now, but, I cannot help but ask – you two are together now?”

“No,” Katniss hurried with her answer, “no, nothing like that. We’re just friends.”

“Right,” Peeta spoke carefully but lightly, “I just couldn’t get a date, so I had to take her.”

All three of them laughed. “Oh, I see.” Jess winked at him quite openly, not even bothering to be discreet about her flirting. “So, you’re free then, right?”

“No, not really.” Peeta looked away, growing uncomfortable as well.

“How come?” Jess pressured him. “You don’t have a girlfriend? Oooh, I see. There’s someone special at home, isn’t there? A crush!”

He shook his head mysteriously. “Not at home, no.”

Katniss looked up at him uncertainly.

“So, where?” Jess laughed with a slightly dumbed look on her face.

“Well…” Peeta hesitated before taking a deep breath. He looked at Katniss briefly and then back at Jess. His fingers caressed Katniss’ bare shoulder lightly. “Let’s just say my crush came here with me.”

ii.

Tomorrow morning, with his head hurting a little and a heavy suitcase in his hand, Haymitch found himself in the lobby where Plutarch, Coin and Chaff were standing with burrowed brows and wrinkled foreheads, in a huddle above someone’s laptop. When Plutarch looked up and saw him, he let out a sound of brief relief.

“Haymitch,” Plutarch gestured for him to come closer, “I need to talk with you.”

“What have I done wrong this time?” the other man grunted and followed Plutarch to the empty lobby’s armchairs.

“Nothing, nothing,” the director tried to sooth him, but Chaff and Coin’s worried – or reproachful? – glares weren’t corresponding with that, “where’s Effie?”

“No idea,” he replied grumpily. “Why?”

“I’m right here.” They turned around. She stood there in a tight pastel purple pencil dress with a white boa over her shoulders and a cup of coffee in her hands, looking inhumanly well-rested this early in the morning, and was measuring them with her flawless brows raised. She hesitated when she saw the sickly look on Plutarch’s face. It only now occurred to Haymitch how pale he was. “What is going on?”

“We’re…” Plutarch gestured towards the glass door that lead into the square pool area and they caught up. Haymitch had the chance to run away, because this smelled like trouble, but didn’t take it, he just followed the two and pushed the door closed behind them. His eyes met Chaff’s one more time and he attempted to gesture something at him – what the fuck is going on? – but his friend waved it off which was apparently supposed to mean just shut up and listen to him if you wanna know. So he did. Him and Effie both sat down on one of the sunbeds next to each other, Plutarch slumped down on the other in front of them, and rubbed his temple tiredly.

“Plutarch, are you okay?” Effie asked worriedly. “I’m sorry, but you don’t look very well.”

He nodded weakly. “I’m fine, but… Katniss called. And mailed.”

Haymitch felt his stomach contract. “What did she say?”

“That she quits.”

They kept quiet as they processed it. Haymitch recovered first. “Quits?”

“What do you mean?” Effie exclaimed right after. “Quits? You mean, for good?”

“That’s what she said.” Plutarch sighed heavily. As Haymitch studied his face, he noticed something. This wasn’t everything. There was more.

“She cannot just quit like this,” Effie said firmly, “she has a deal with you. Not only is this so unfair, she is also violating a contract. One that both her and her legal representatives alike read and signed. She cannot drop out of this whenever she pleases!”

“I know,” Plutarch shrugged. “She knows, too. But you should have heard it. She called me yesterday night, after the opening event, and I thought that she was just mad and that it would go away, but she’s out of her mind. She mailed me at night and currently doesn’t answer any calls or mails, but I talked to her manager and Peeta. She’s not talking to him and she had apparently tried to book a flight to New York, but her manager stopped her.”

“Wait,” Haymitch slowly sorted it out in his head, “that’s because of what Peeta said? That he likes her?”

“Yes.”

“Because of that, she’s dropping out?”

“Presumably, yes.”

“She can’t,” Effie snapped again. “Plutarch, whatever she said, she has the duty to come back here and do her job, regardless of what someone says about her. I honestly thought that she was more mature than this!”

Nobody said anything after that. This was, well, shit, this was one hell of a fuckery. Haymitch studied the stone ground beneath his feet and Effie sipped her coffee quietly. It was like a punch in the stomach. Too sudden and unrealistic – of course, if someone calls you suddenly that they’re dropping off a project everyone’s already invested so much into, it gets to you. He didn’t know what kind of a deal Coin had with Katniss, but probably something strict enough to ensure that this exactly wouldn’t happen. After all, Haymitch’s own deal was unusual, and she agreed with it just so he would take the part. Coin was, before she was a generous and gifted producer, a smart businesswoman.

He wondered, given that there was a way for Katniss to abruptly end her deal like this, what would happen next. When Haymitch met up with Plutarch in New York, he told him that if Haymitch doesn’t take this role, he’d have to stop this whole thing for good because the studio didn’t have the money to postpone the shooting, and that was only in pre-production. Now, with a notable deal of the scenes shot, it was almost impossible that anyone would ever allow that to happen. It would mean having to reserve the same locations again, to get a new actress here, who might have different needs and requests, and to do all of it once more. Haymitch had no idea how much the movie has cost Coin so far but he was damn sure that enough to fight for Katniss to stay tooth and nail.

And that was apparently Plutarch’s plan as well, because as desperate as he looked right now, he always had a back-up plan. Nothing was ever totally hopeless. That was the experience of a man who was used to making decisions under pressure and uncompromisingly exploring new ways to get what he wanted. And if he couldn’t find a way, he’d make one. Simple.

“I need you two to go there and convince her to stay.”

“What?” they said in unison that prompted them to look at each other warily.

“Pardon,” Effie said, unsure, “but, what do you mean? You want us to fly to Cannes and-“

Plutarch nodded. “That’s exactly that.”

Haymitch shook his head in silent disbelief. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“Very well,” Plutarch took it as a yes. “Effie, you were supposed to go to Cannes anyway, weren’t you?”

Her face grew annoyed, as if she was sick of hearing this question. The plastic, fake-polite reply confirmed his theory of her having to answer it in every interview she did lately. “I was, but for personal reasons, I chose to focus on this movie and on my private life.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes at that, turning back to Plutarch. “Hey, I’d love to help, but this is bullshit. She’s got her manager there, she’s not there alone, and we’re pretty much the last people she’d want to see.”

“Maybe sending Finnick or Jo-“ Effie paused. “Maybe sending Finnick or someone else she’d be willing to listen to would be a better idea.”

“I can’t,” Plutarch told her unhappily, “their schedules don’t allow it. Yours do. There’s a two day window for you to go there. Besides, I don’t really believe anyone else with this. I would go myself if I could, trust me. But I just can’t, and neither can Coin or Chaff. You two are somewhat responsible, you can convince her-“

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Haymitch interrupted him, “I’m flattered, I really am. But she’s not gonna listen to anyone, especially not me. Maybe Effie can go there alone. She can talk a hole into that poor girl’s head on her own.” She pouted but ignored this remark. “I’m telling you, give her time and space. She’ll calm down.”

“I don’t think so,” Plutarch opposed, “she seemed pretty decided.”

“Plutarch, I’m really not the right person to convince someone to-”

“This isn’t just my plea, it’s also Coin’s order. Neither of us can afford to just pack up and leave, but you two have time. We’ve already booked the tickets, and the hotel. We can financially compensate this. Effie,” he looked at her with trust that made her drop her eyes. “Please.”

“Of course,” she said slowly and softly and placed her hand on Plutarch’s shoulder calmingly. She didn’t even bother to look at Haymitch. She was too devoted to this whole thing to ask for his opinion, she’s proven that many times. “We’re going. We will convince her to stay.”

“What-”

Nobody paid any attention to Haymitch’s weak protests. “Thank you,” Plutarch said with relief so palpable, a certain sense of ease had grown upon Haymitch as well. “Thank you both so much. Let’s get down to it. Your flight is at eleven, so you really should hurry. We’ll call you a cab, don’t bother with paying-”

“I’ll pay that,” Haymitch said somewhat defeatedly but promptly, brushing Plutarch’s objections off, “I will, for the both of us.”

Effie shot him a surprised look. “Well, thank you.”

“I have one request,” he added, already heading for his stuff.

Plutarch’s face tensed. “Yes?”

“I want us to live in different hotels.”

The second portion of this week's update's here! Soo, see you at French Riviera next week, I suppose. x

(also: I kinda recommed following on ff.net - https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12187957/1/If-This-Was-A-Movie, I might eventually start mostly posting there :))

13 The cold collar chafes my neck and makes the shivering even harder to control. At least I am no longer in the claustrophobic tube, while the machines click and whir around me, listening to a disembodied voice telling me to hold still while I try to convince myself I can still breathe. Even now, when I've been assured there will be no permanent damage, I hunger for air. The medical team's main concerns - damage to my spinal cord, airway, veins, and arteries - have been allayed. Bruising, hoarseness, the sore larynx, this strange little cough - not to be worried about. It will all be fine. The Mockingjay will not lose her voice. Where, I want to ask, is the doctor who determines if I am losing my mind? Only I'm not supposed to talk right now. I can't even thank Boggs when he comes to check on me. To look me over and tell me he's seen a lot worse injuries among the soldiers when they teach choke holds in training. It was Boggs who knocked out Peeta with one blow before any permanent damage could be done. I know Haymitch would have come to my defense if he hadn't been utterly unprepared. To catch both Haymitch and myself off guard is a rare thing. But we have been so consumed with saving Peeta, so tortured by having him in the Capitol's hands, that the elation at having him back blinded us. If I'd had a private reunion with Peeta, he would have killed me. Now that he's deranged. No, not deranged, I remind myself.Hijacked. That's the word I heard pass between Plutarch and Haymitch as I was wheeled past them in the hallway.Hijacked. I don't know what it means. Prim, who appeared moments after the attack and has stayed as close to me as possible ever since, spreads another blanket over me. "I think they'll take the collar off soon, Katniss. You won't be so cold then." My mother, who's been assisting in a complicated surgery, has still not been informed of Peeta's assault. Prim takes one of my hands, which is clutched in a fist, and massages it until it opens and blood begins to flow through my fingers again. She's starting on the second fist when the doctors show up, remove the collar, and give me a shot of something for pain and swelling. I lie, as instructed, with my head still, not aggravating the injuries to my neck. Plutarch, Haymitch, and Beetee have been waiting in the hall for the doctors to give them clearance to the doctors out and tries to order Prim to go as well, but she says, "No. If you force me to leave, I'll go directly to surgery and tell my mother everything that's happened. And I warn you, she doesn't think much of a Gamemaker calling the shots on Katniss's life. Especially when you've taken such poor care of her." Plutarch looks offended, but Haymitch chuckles. "I'd let it go, Plutarch," he says. Prim stays. "So, Katniss, Peeta's condition has come as a shock to all of us," says Plutarch. "We couldn't help but notice his deterioration in the last two interviews. Obviously, he'd been abused, and we put his psychological state down to that. Now we believe something more was going on. That the Capitol has been subjecting him to a rather uncommon technique known as hijacking. Beetee?" "I'm sorry," Beetee says, "but I can't tell you all the specifics of it, Katniss. The Capitol's very secretive about this form of torture, and I believe the results are inconsistent. This we do know. It's a type of fear conditioning. The termhijack comes from an old English word that means 'to capture,' or even better, 'seize.' We believe it was chosen because the technique involves the use of tracker jacker venom, and thejack suggestedhijack . You were stung in your first Hunger Games, so unlike most of us, you have firsthand knowledge of the effects of the venom." Terror. Hallucinations. Nightmarish visions of losing those I love. Because the venom targets the part of the brain that houses fear. "I'm sure you remember how frightening it was. Did you also suffer mental confusion in the aftermath?" asks Beetee. "A sense of being unable to judge what was true and what was false? Most people who have been stung and lived to tell about it report something of the kind." Yes. That encounter with Peeta. Even after I was clearheaded, I wasn't sure if he had saved my life by taking on Cato or if I'd imagined it. "Recall is made more difficult because memories can be changed." Beetee taps his forehead. "Brought to the forefront of your mind, altered, and saved again in the revised form. Now imagine that I ask you to remember something - either with a verbal suggestion or by making you watch a tape of the event - and while that experience is refreshed, I give you a dose of tracker jacker venom. Not enough to induce a three-day blackout. Just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt. And that's what your brain puts in long-term storage." I start to feel sick. Prim asks the question that's in my mind. "Is that what they've done to Peeta? Taken his memories of Katniss and distorted them so they're scary?" Beetee nods. "So scary that he'd see her as life-threatening. That he might try to kill her. Yes, that's our current theory." I cover my face with my arms because this isn't happening. It isn't possible. For someone to make Peeta forget he loves me...no one could do that. "But you can reverse it, right?" asks Prim. "Um...very little data on that," says Plutarch. "None, really. If hijacking rehabilitation has been attempted before, we have no access to those records." "Well, you're going to try, aren't you?" Prim persists. "You're not just going to lock him up in some padded room and leave him to suffer?" "Of course, we'll try, Prim," says Beetee. "It's just, we don't know to what degree we'll succeed. If any. My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They're the ones we naturally remember the best, after all." "And apart from his memories of Katniss, we don't yet know what else has been tampered with," says Plutarch. "We're putting together a team of mental health and military professionals to come up with a counterattack. I, personally, feel optimistic that he'll make a full recovery." "Do you?" asks Prim caustically. "And what doyou think, Haymitch?" I shift my arms slightly so I can see his expression through the crack. He's exhausted and discouraged as he admits, "I think Peeta might get somewhat better. But...I don't think he'll ever be the same." I snap my arms back together, closing the crack, shutting them all out. "At least he's alive," says Plutarch, as if he's losing patience with the lot of us. "Snow executed Peeta's stylist and his prep team on live television tonight. We've no idea what happened to Effie Trinket. Peeta's damaged, but he's here. With us. And that's a definite improvement over his situation twelve hours ago. Let's keep that in mind, all right?" Plutarch's attempt to cheer me up - laced with the news of another four, possibly five, murders - somehow backfires. Portia. Peeta's prep team. Effie. The effort to fight back tears makes my throat throb until I'm gasping again. Eventually, they have no choice but to sedate me. When I wake, I wonder if this will be the only way I sleep now, with drugs shot into my arm. I'm glad I'm not supposed to talk for the next few days, because there's nothing I want to say. Or do. In fact, I'm a model patient, my lethargy taken for restraint, obedience to the doctors' orders. I no longer feel like crying. In fact, I can only manage to hold on to one simple thought: an image of Snow's face accompanied by the whisper in my head.I will kill you. My mother and Prim take turns nursing me, coaxing me to swallow bites of soft food. People come in periodically to give me updates on Peeta's condition. The high levels of tracker jacker venom are working their way out of his body. He's being treated only by strangers, natives of 13 - no one from home or the Capitol has been allowed to see him - to keep any dangerous memories from triggering. A team of specialists works long hours designing a strategy for his recovery. Gale's not supposed to visit me, as he's confined to bed with some kind of shoulder wound. But on the third night, after I've been medicated and the lights turned down low for bedtime, he slips silently into my room. He doesn't speak, just runs his fingers over the bruises on my neck with a touch as light as moth wings, plants a kiss between my eyes, and disappears. The next morning, I'm discharged from the hospital with instructions to move quietly and speak only when necessary. I'm not imprinted with a schedule, so I wander around aimlessly until Prim's excused from her hospital duties to take me to our family's latest compartment. 2212. Identical to the last one, but with no window. Buttercup has now been issued a daily food allowance and a pan of sand that's kept under the bathroom sink. As Prim tucks me into bed, he hops up on my pillow, vying for her attention. She cradles him but stays focused on me. "Katniss, I know this whole thing with Peeta is terrible for you. But remember, Snow worked on him for weeks, and we've only had him for a few days. There's a chance that the old Peeta, the one who loves you, is still inside. Trying to get back to you. Don't give up on him." I look at my little sister and think how she has inherited the best qualities our family has to offer: my mother's healing hands, my father's level head, and my fight. There's something else there as well, something entirely her own. An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are. Is it possible she could be right? That Peeta could return to me? "I have to get back to the hospital," Prim says, placing Buttercup on the bed beside me. "You two keep each other company, okay?" Buttercup springs off the bed and follows her to the door, complaining loudly when he's left behind. We're about as much company for each other as dirt. After maybe thirty seconds, I know I can't stand being confined in the subterranean cell, and leave Buttercup to his own devices. I get lost several times, but eventually I make my way down to Special Defense. Everyone I pass stares at the bruises, and I can't help feeling self-conscious to the point that I tug my collar up to my ears. Gale must have been released from the hospital this morning as well, because I find him in one of the research rooms with Beetee. They're immersed, heads bent over a drawing, taking a measurement. Versions of the picture litter the table and floor. Tacked on the corkboard walls and occupying several computer screens are other designs of some sort. In the rough lines of one, I recognize Gale's twitch-up snare. "What are these?" I ask hoarsely, pulling their attention from the sheet. "Ah, Katniss, you've found us out," says Beetee cheerfully. "What? Is this a secret?" I know Gale's been down here working with Beetee a lot, but I assumed they were messing around with bows and guns. "Not really. But I've felt a little guilty about it. Stealing Gale away from you so much," Beetee admits. Since I've spent most of my time in 13 disoriented, worried, angry, being remade, or hospitalized, I can't say Gale's absences have inconvenienced me. Things haven't been exactly harmonious between us, either. But I let Beetee think he owes me. "I hope you've been putting his time to good use." "Come and see," he says, waving me over to a computer screen. This is what they've been doing. Taking the fundamental ideas behind Gale's traps and adapting them into weapons against humans. Bombs mostly. It's less about the mechanics of the traps than the psychology behind them. Booby-trapping an area that provides something essential to survival. A water or food supply. Frightening prey so that a large number flee into a greater destruction. Endangering off-spring in order to draw in the actual desired target, the parent. Luring the victim into what appears to be a safe haven - where death awaits it. At some point, Gale and Beetee left the wilderness behind and focused on more human impulses. Like compassion. A bomb explodes. Time is allowed for people to rush to the aid of the wounded. Then a second, more powerful bomb kills them as well. "That seems to be crossing some kind of line," I say. "So anything goes?" They both stare at me - Beetee with doubt, Gale with hostility. "I guess there isn't a rule book for what might be unacceptable to do to another human being." "Sure there is. Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta," says Gale. Cruel, but to the point. I leave without further comment. I feel if I don't get outside immediately, I'll just go ballistic, but I'm still in Special Defense when I'm waylaid by Haymitch. "Come on," he says. "We need you back up at the hospital." "What for?" I ask. "They're going to try something on Peeta," he answers. "Send in the most innocuous person from Twelve they can come up with. Find someone Peeta might share childhood memories with, but nothing too close to you. They're screening people now." I know this will be a difficult task, since anyone Peeta shares childhood memories with would most likely be from town, and almost none of those people escaped the flames. But when we reach the hospital room that has been turned into a work space for Peeta's recovery team, there she sits chatting with Plutarch. Delly Cartwright. As always, she gives me a smile that suggests I'm her best friend in the world. She gives this smile to everyone. "Katniss!" she calls out. "Hey, Delly," I say. I'd heard she and her younger brother had survived. Her parents, who ran the shoe shop in town, weren't as lucky. She looks older, wearing the drab 13 clothes that flatter no one, with her long yellow hair in a practical braid instead of curls. Delly's a bit thinner than I remember, but she was one of the few kids in District 12 with a couple of pounds to spare. The diet here, the stress, the grief of losing her parents have all, no doubt, contributed. "How are you doing?" I ask. "Oh, it's been a lot of changes all at once." Her eyes fill with tears. "But everyone's really nice here in Thirteen, don't you think?" Delly means it. She genuinely likes people. All people, not just a select few she's spent years making up her mind about. "They've made an effort to make us feel welcome," I say. I think that's a fair statement without going overboard. "Are you the one they've picked to see Peeta?" "I guess so. Poor Peeta. Pooryou . I'll never understand the Capitol," she says. "Better not to, maybe," I tell her. "Delly's known Peeta for a long time," says Plutarch. "Oh, yes!" Delly's face brightens. "We played together from when we were little. I used to tell people he was my brother." "What do you think?" Haymitch asks me. "Anything that might trigger memories of you?" "We were all in the same class. But we never overlapped much," I say. "Katniss was always so amazing, I never dreamed she would notice me," says Delly. "The way she could hunt and go in the Hob and everything. Everyone admired her so." Haymitch and I both have to take a hard look at her face to double-check if she's joking. To hear Delly describe it, I had next to no friends because I intimidated people by being so exceptional. Not true. I had next to no friends because I wasn't friendly. Leave it to Delly to spin me into something wonderful. "Delly always thinks the best of everyone," I explain. "I don't think Peeta could have bad memories associated with her." Then I remember. "Wait. In the Capitol. When I lied about recognizing the Avox girl. Peeta covered for me and said she looked like Delly." "I remember," says Haymitch. "But I don't know. It wasn't true. Delly wasn't actually there. I don't think it can compete with years of childhood memories." "Especially with such a pleasant companion as Delly," says Plutarch. "Let's give it a shot." Plutarch, Haymitch, and I go to the observation room next to where Peeta's confined. It's crowded with ten members of his recovery team armed with pens and clipboards. The one-way glass and audio setup allow us to watch Peeta secretly. He lies on the bed, his arms strapped down. He doesn't fight the restraints, but his hands fidget continuously. His expression seems more lucid than when he tried to strangle me, but it's still not one that belongs to him. When the door quietly opens, his eyes widen in alarm, then become confused. Delly crosses the room tentatively, but as she nears him she naturally breaks into a smile. "Peeta? It's Delly. From home." "Delly?" Some of the clouds seem to clear. "Delly. It's you." "Yes!" she says with obvious relief. "How do you feel?" "Awful. Where are we? What's happened?" asks Peeta. "Here we go," says Haymitch. "I told her to steer clear of any mention of Katniss or the Capitol," says Plutarch. "Just see how much of home she could conjure up." "Well...we're in District Thirteen. We live here now," says Delly. "That's what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren't we home?" asks Peeta. Delly bites her lip. "There was...an accident. I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember when you made each one a different animal?" "Yeah. Pigs and cats and things," says Peeta. "You said...about an accident?" I can see the sheen of sweat on Delly's forehead as she tries to work around the question. "It was bad. No one...could stay," she says haltingly. "Hang in there, girl," says Haymitch. "But I know you're going to like it here, Peeta. The people have been really nice to us. There's always food and clean clothes, and school's much more interesting," says Delly. "Why hasn't my family come to see me?" Peeta asks. "They can't." Delly's tearing up again. "A lot of people didn't get out of Twelve. So we'll need to make a new life here. I'm sure they could use a good baker. Do you remember when your father used to let us make dough girls and boys?" "There was a fire," Peeta says suddenly. "Yes," she whispers. "Twelve burned down, didn't it? Because of her," says Peeta angrily. "Because of Katniss!" He begins to pull on the restraints. "Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn't her fault," says Delly. "Did she tell you that?" he hisses at her. "Get her out of there," says Plutarch. The door opens immediately and Delly begins to back toward it slowly. "She didn't have to. I was - " Delly begins. "Because she's lying! She's a liar! You can't believe anything she says! She's some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!" Peeta shouts. "No, Peeta. She's not a - " Delly tries again. "Don't trust her, Delly," says Peeta in a frantic voice. "I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don't even go near her! She's a mutt!" A hand reaches through the doorway, pulls Delly out, and the door swings shut. But Peeta keeps yelling. "A mutt! She's a stinking mutt!" Not only does he hate me and want to kill me, he no longer believes I'm human. It was less painful being strangled. Around me the recovery team members scribble like crazy, taking down every word. Haymitch and Plutarch grab my arms and propel me out of the room. They lean me up against a wall in the silent hallway. But I know Peeta continues to scream behind the door and the glass. Prim was wrong. Peeta is irretrievable. "I can't stay here anymore," I say numbly. "If you want me to be the Mockingjay, you'll have to send me away." "Where do you want to go?" asks Haymitch. "The Capitol." It's the only place I can think of where I have a job to do. "Can't do it," Plutarch says. "Not until all the districts are secure. Good news is, the fighting's almost over in all of them but Two. It's a tough nut to crack, though." That's right. First the districts. Next the Capitol. And then I hunt down Snow. "Fine," I say. "Send me to Two."

Are you ready? Are you scared? You should be :p As usual I would loooove some feedback!

[FF] or [ao3]

Chapter 32 : Famous Last Words

Chaff had been scratching his neck more and more in the last half hour.

Haymitch kept a discreet but steady watch on him as they checked the snares his friend had placed in the vicinity of the cave. Eleven’s victor was short of breath and he thought there were more pearly white spider webs on his skin than there had been the previous night. They needed an antidote and they needed it fast.

But no parachute was coming down from the sky.

Eleven probably couldn’t afford it.

And he doubted there would be anything else for him for the remaining of the Games. The last sponsor gift must have drained Twelve’s budget. Foolish. There had been nothing in there he had truly needed. The knife, maybe. But the medical supplies… He could have managed without them. 

Chaff wasn’t a hunter and he had made an awful job of those snares. Haymitch silently tried to improve them, more and more frustrated by his shaking fingers.

They were walking back toward the cave with only a meager squirrel to show for it  when a flock of birds suddenly flew out two quarters over. In Two or Three maybe. It was followed by an impressive unnatural roar and, a few minutes later, the sound of a cannon.

They exchanged a glance and went on.

Haymitch’s heart was beating that little bit faster though.

Five of them left.

He didn’t speak until they had sat down and they were sharing the squirrel. “Maybe we should try hunting them down.”

“Sure.” Chaff snorted. “’Cause I’m feeling peachy and you’re at full strength.”

He opened and closed his injured hand a few times. There was a problem with one of his knuckles, it might have been broken or out of place or something… But the pain was mild compared to the one in his chest and he would be able to wield his knife well enough. His torso was bruised an impressive shade of black and blue with some yellow for good measure and if anyone hit that particular spot in a fight, chances were he would see stars. Never mind the repetitive blunt traumas to his head.

He wasn’t at full strength, no. And neither was Chaff. But he knew only too well what happened to tributes who stayed out of the way and refused to play the game.

“We can’t stay here.” he objected.

He knew he was right.

And he knew Chaff knew.

“Trouble will find us.” Chaff agreed. “Guess it all depends on what we want to fight more: people or mutts. Unless they go for a nice cave-in.”

Haymitch pondered that while biting in an apple. All the fruits he had eaten were giving him a stomach ache but food was food and he needed to keep his strength up. He thought they might have better chances against people but he didn’t know if he could go against a familiar face again.

They didn’t really discuss it further.

They were waiting.

The word was never said out loud but that was what it felt like: waiting. Waiting for the Gamemakers’ next trick. Waiting for someone to find them.

He dozed off a little, tried to rest… The pain in his side flared now and then but he had had worse. At least his stomach wasn’t torn open this time around. The wound on his forehead was throbbing but he didn’t think it was getting infected, not for now at least.

His mind wandered.

Imagination was a deadly trap but he dived right into it anyway. He let himself think about a world where Thirteen hadn’t bailed out, a world where he would have remained out of the arena, a world where there would have been a war they would have eventually won… A world where the children were free from Hunger Games… A world where Katniss and Peeta would have found each other properly in the end… A world where he and Effie would have been free to…

He couldn’t see her living in Twelve and he couldn’t really see himself living in the city… They would have gone back and forth for a while maybe, try to establish some sort of routine… It would have been a challenge, one he would have been happy to undertake…

Thinking about that inevitably led him to think about other things. Like the softness of her skin under his fingertips… The sounds she made when he was buried deep inside her… The taste of her lips, of her sweat, of her sex… Her smell…

He could almost conjure it.

The subtle mix of her heavy expensive perfume, the flowery smell of her shampoo and that tinge of something that was just her…  

If he closed his eyes really tight and pretended really hard… He could almost smell it, drown in it… He missed her. Like a hand around his throat cutting off his air supply. He missed her.

He wasn’t sure he would see her again. He still wasn’t sure he really wanted to.

He didn’t deserve it.

Not after Katniss.

Not after Johanna.

Not after Mags.

Not after everything he would still need to do if he wanted to survive.

Chaff started coughing two hours after the cannon had boomed. There was blood at the corner of his lips when he finally managed to get his breath back.

Haymitch insisted on checking but it was no surprise to realize the poison was making his slow deadly way to his friend’s heart. The dark skin of his upper chest was covered with those pearly white lines.  

Another hour and Chaff was feverish although trying hard to hide it.

“Attention, tributes!” Claudius Templesmith’s voice broke in. “The Gamemakers would like to invite you to a feast at the Cornucopia at sundown. Who knows… Perhaps you will find what you need there!”

Haymitch cursed under his breath.

“Not worth it.” Chaff objected before he could say anything. “Let them go. Clear out the competition. We can take whoever’s left.”

He shook his head. “You need the antidote.”

Eleven’s victor sighed. “Haymitch, I won’t be much help.”

“You stay here.” he suggested. “I’ll get it.”

His friend studied him in silence for a long minute and then shook his head, apparently coming to a decision. His face briefly closed in something somber before he lightened up again in his more usual brand of joyful attitude.

“And I’m gonna be dead by the time you come back.” Chaff snorted. “You want to be stupid enough to risk it, I go with you.”

Haymitch fiddled with his knife thoughtfully. “We know the layout. We can get in and out of the Mansion without meeting anyone.”

“Assuming the girls aren’t already hiding behind the Cornucopia.” his friend mocked. “You know better. They want an ending.”

“Let’s give them one, then, yeah?” he shrugged. “Not like you’re gonna live much longer without that antidote anyway.”

The bitter joke wasn’t funny at all and he wasn’t particularly trying to be. Someone had to say it out loud though, to remind the other why they needed to go and why they would need to fight.

“You’ve got such good nursing manners, buddy.” Chaff chuckled.

Haymitch rolled his eyes but picked up his stuff, getting ready. It would take them a good hour to reach the Mansion and he wanted to get a feel of the place before they went in.

They walked in silence, attentive to their surroundings. Chaff was clutching his cutlass, his face set in a pained scowl, his stump sometimes rubbing his neck or coming to rest over his heart.

Haymitch was gripping his own knife equally tight, doing his best to ignore the complains of his battered body. His body could rest when he was dead.

The Mansion looked calm under the quickly darkening sky.

Nothing moved outside.

They rounded the building to the garden’s entrance, making sure to stick to the shadows.

They had barely made it to the outer wall when a cannon boomed.

They went in anyway.

It was dark inside and they were too aware of the traps laying in wait. They weren’t exactly surprised to find Venus Grant’s body at the bottom of the stairs. Or what was left of him anyway. He had a few stab wounds and his throat had been torn in Enobaria’s distinctive signature.

“No use asking if the girls are here.” Chaff commented in a falsely amused whisper.

“This is it, then.” he answered, looking up the stairs with some dread and a good amount of… impatience. Adrenaline was rushing through him and he was almost eager for what would come. This Quell had lasted long enough. “You should wait here. I’ll get the antidote or I’ll clear out the way as much as I can for you.”

He wasn’t really expecting to walk out of this alive, not with two younger and fitter Careers thirsty for his blood, but if he could make sure Chaff won…

“Famous last words.” Eleven’s victor taunted. “Let’s go. Watch out for that rigged step.”

They were cautious up the stairs and even more cautious crossing the small mine field of a dining-room to the ballroom.

Most of the mirrors had been shattered but there were still enough of them left to make the place a deadly maze.

He took a deep breath before going in, briefly touching the golden bangle around his wrist. He didn’t think about Effie. He couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t imagine her staring at a screen, probably somewhere official because it would most likely be the end and she would be expected to watch it in a public place, trying to keep up appearances while she slowly died inside.

He was tempted, of course. Tempted to say something meaningful that would puzzle the whole Capitol but that she would understand. Tempted to tell her again that he loved her. Tempted to…

Chaff’s stump tapped his shoulder, signaling he wanted to go first. Haymitch shook his head, pushing all thought of his escort – wife – out of his mind.

He wouldn’t let the other victor be cannon fodder just because he was injured. They were both weakened. He could easily imagine what was going on outside with the betting boards. Chaff Mitchell and Haymitch Abernathy against Cashmere Ritchson and Enobaria Golding? Was there even a question as to who would win?

People were probably already awaiting the final showdown between Cashmere and Enobaria.

Well, they should think again. They might not be able to take both of them out but they could probably take one. And if they could take one, then whoever would be left standing would have a shot against the other Career.

They couldn’t afford to think about them as people, friends. They couldn’t. Haymitch reminded himself of that firmly. Chaff was family and Chaff needed that antidote. Chaff came first. He wouldn’t have the luxury of hesitating or of feeling pity. He would have to strike to kill.  

As discreet as they tried to be, glass crushed under their boots.

The girls were lighter and moved more silently.

He saw a shadow on his left and whirled around, heart hammering in his chest, but could see nothing. It was dark. The moonlight coming through the windows somewhere in the room wasn’t enough to make out more than rippling shadows and shapes on the distorting mirrors left standing.

Still, with so many broken mirrors, it wasn’t that difficult to locate the Cornucopia.

He spotted its dark shape right ahead and he was wavering between making a run for it and trying to find the Careers first when a mirror shattered right behind them.

He turned around but it was too late, Enobaria was already on Chaff.

He took one step in that direction and found himself with a monkey riding his back – or more likely Cashmere. He twisted his body downward just in time to avoid the stab to the side of his neck. Her blade grazed his throat, leaving a gash behind and she was propelled to the floor in front of him.

For a second he panicked, certain she had sliced his throat open.

But he could still breathe and it didn’t feel deep.

The second of panic cost him, though.

Not only because the sudden move had awaken the pain in his side.

She jumped back on him with a battle cry and two knives in her hands.

He twisted his body to the side to avoid her dominant hand, his own knife lodging itself deep in her stomach. It wasn’t enough to avoid the blade ripping the skin of his left arm or ripping against his right collarbone but it was enough to save his life.

The hit to his shoulder made him grunt in pain and it was a miracle he kept hold on his knife.

She stumbled back, stunned, dropping one of her knives to press her hand to her stomach. It gave him time to wrap his own arm around his bruised torso. He met her blue gaze right before her face crumpled in rage. She kicked out her leg and it wasn’t a move he knew how to avoid. It didn’t do his cracked ribs any good. He was shoved back into another mirror that miraculously didn’t break under his weight and barely had time to roll on the floor before her knife stabbed the exact place his head had been.

This time the glass shattered.

She screamed when the sharp pieces rained down on her.

Haymitch didn’t completely escape it either. Shards embedded themselves under his skin but he protected his head and nape as much as he could.

Cashmere was down, big shards jutting out of her back, and he saw his opportunity, took it and ran with it.

She was just starting to kneel so she could stand up when he slit her throat like she had tried to do to him.

He ignored the gurgling noise, he ignored the hot liquid pouring on his fingers, he ignored the fact the cannon didn’t boom right away, he turned around and searched the place for his friend.

Chaff’s fight with Enaboria had taken him further away and he wasn’t faring well. She wasn’t even holding any weapon, confident in her superior skills and probably eager to give her fans a show. It was clear to Haymitch the only reason she hadn’t killed Eleven’s victor yet was because she had been playing him like a cat with a mouse, getting ready for the big finish.

The cutlass was keeping her at arm’s length but Chaff’s hand was shaking and Enobaria was smiling hard, a harsh smile full of fangs. She had him and she knew it.

Kicking the cutlass away took her a second and a well-placed punch.

She pounced on him.

Chaff dropped on the floor rather than try to push her away, using her own momentum as a counter attack. It wasn’t enough to push her away. She straddled his hips and the other victor had no choice but to tangle his remaining fingers in her hair to try to keep her fangs away from his throat. It looked like a twisted parody of a lovers’ embrace.

Haymitch didn’t let himself think. He forgot about his wounds, his side or his exhaustion.

He ran.

He grabbed her around the waist and tossed her away easily. She hadn’t expected him to attack from behind, too confident that Cashmere would dispatch him without problem, and she paid it with her life.

He hadn’t aimed for the sharp broken piece of mirror springing out from the floor but it was just as well she fell there, impaled. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, eyes wide and pleading, and then the cannon boomed.

And just like that it was over.

Chaff chuckled and, soon, Haymitch was laughing too.

It was all kind of wrong.

But they were alive and high on adrenaline.

He held out his hand for his friend and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s get you that antidote.”

“And then what?” Chaff asked, still chuckling. The question had serious undertones though.

“Then we go our separate ways and we see what happens.” he retorted firmly.

They limped to the Cornucopia, worse for the wear, covered with blood that wasn’t all theirs.

It was obvious Cashmere and Enobaria had already looted whatever the Gamemakers had left there.

“Shit.” Haymitch spat when he spotted the broken vial on the floor, at the mouth of the Cornucopia. “Bitch.”

He didn’t know which one had done it but he was almost glad she was dead. That was a shitty move. A really, really shitty move.

For a moment, they stared at the broken vial, too tired and dismayed to move.  

“I’m sorry, Haymitch.” Eleven’s victor said slowly.

That should have been his line and he opened his mouth to say just that.

He barely avoided the cutlass that aimed for his stomach.

Could you possibly do a hayffie OS using the quote ' my cigarettes are better for me than you are ?' I just think it fits hayffie really well ❤️

This one was written long ago but for some reason the mail had left the “done” file without the prompt being published -_- Sorry! Here it is ! [X]

How To Stop Smoking: The Abernathy Method

Dealing with both Effie and Katniss wasextremely difficult.

Haymitch had lost count of the numbers ofarguments the two had on that Tour. Effie was trying to be nice, she was – and he didn’t doubt she loved thegirl – but she didn’t always word it the best way and Katniss constantly tookit as a personal offense. On some level, Haymitch could relate. Effie annoyedhim too, even angered him sometimes, but he also understood her aloofness wasmostly a necessary act. Now more than ever. And he wasn’t about to ask her todrop it to coddle the girl’s sensitivities.

When a new argument blew out at the dinnertable – something about how Effie would killto get on a very elusive magazine the star-crossed lovers had apparentlystarred in previous to the Tour, a term that had deeply upset Katniss –Haymitch remained silent, letting it play out. They had been on that train fortwo weeks already and they were all more or less used to those intermissions.Cinna and Portia didn’t get involved either. Peeta tried to cut in a few timesand then crossed his arms and waited for the storm to pass.

There was something deeply unsettling inwatching them argue over a dish of roasted chicken, somehow.

The girl’s words were full of anger – shewasn’t angry with Effie, Haymitch thought, but she was too oblivious to realizethat – and Effie was quickly losing her own temper.

“Okay.” he eventually snapped. “Unless you twoare planning on jumping in a puddle of mud any time soon and make itentertaining for the rest of us, let’s drop the cat fight, yeah?”

“Why are you always taking her side?” Katniss hissed, suddenly glaring at him.

Effie scoffed. “Taking my side? When has Haymitch evertaken my side over yours?”

“All the damntime!” the girl exploded. “It’s always ‘apologizeto Effie’ this and ‘you hurt Effie’s feelings’ that…” She glared at them both in turns. “She’s the one who’s insensitive and alwayssay horrible things! Why can’t you back me up for once?”

“Language.” Their escort clucked their tongue.“No lady should…”

“I’m not a lady, I’m a victor.” Katniss cut heroff. “That’s the important thing about me, right? I’m your victor and I can getyou more special interviews?”

The venom in the girl’s voice wasn’t totally unjustified. Effie had been bragging a bit too much for histastes too.

“Enough, Katniss.” Effie scowled. “I am olderthan you and you owe me respect.”

Haymitch automatically scoffed and, wheneveryone looked at him – Cinna, Portia and Peeta with winces as if theycouldn’t believe he had been stupid enough to get in the middle – he made aface. “Respect isn’t owed. It’s earned.”

“Oh, I see.” Effie deadpanned. “So, it is absolutely normal for me to be verballyabused by a sixteen years old, then.”

“Well, you did reap her sister… She wouldn’t behere if it wasn’t for you.” he snorted. He had intended it as a small joke, asa you made your bed, now lie in itkind of comment. She didn’t understood it that way.

She flinched and then glanced at Katniss,suddenly a lot calmer in appearance. When she talked, her voice was cheerfuland the smile on her lips was so fake it almost made him want to scream.

“He never takes my side, Katniss.” she declaredslowly. “When he asks you to apologize, it has nothing to do with concern aboutme being upset and everything to do about his peace of mind. He does not wantme ranting to him about your atrociousmanners.” The smile grew even more dazzling. “Understand, I only seek to help you, no matter how you perceive myintentions to be.”

“We know that, Effie.” Peeta promised softly.“You’re just more… fabulous thanpeople we’re used to, that’s all.”

It was an out, their escort jumped upon with a grateful– and graceful – wave of her hand. “Naturally. I do not suppose you see manypeople as refined as me in yourDistrict. Cinna, dear, would you pass the salad?”

And, just like that, everyone got back to theirdinner, the argument forgotten for an insipid but safe conversation about theweather and the schedule for their arrival in Ten the next day. When he wascertain nobody was paying attention, he discreetly moved his hand closer towhere hers was resting on the tablecloth but, when his little finger brushed againsthers, she snatched it away to apparently fold her napkin. He didn’t even get aglance.

Once they were all done with their desserts,Portia suggested drinks in the living-room car and everyone stood up. Haymitchlingered, catching Effie’s wrist before she could follow the others out. Sheglared at him but, as he had anticipated, didn’t make a scene.

“How did it go from you arguing with the girlto me being in the doghouse?” he sneered.

“I will let you figure that out by yourself.”she retorted, shrugging his grip off. “I am not paid to think, after all – simplyto reap children.”

She left him standing there like an idiot.

He let out a long deep irritated sigh.

She could be such a bitch.

He caught up with her easily enough.

“You doreap kids.” he pointed out, which warranted him another glare. He rolled hiseyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. Iwas just trying to get you two to fuckingstop.”

“What goes for Katniss goes for you. Do try to mind your language.” shecommented in a casual voice. “She follows your example a bit too much to myliking when it comes to abusing me. I do notneed her to curse like a fishmonger on top of it.”

The door to the living-room car was in sight.He pushed her against the wall, pinning her there with the ease of habits, histhumbs drawing distracted circles over the sparkly fabric on her waist.

“Abusingyou?” he scoffed, more amused than offended. She gave as good as she got. Theymay not have the healthiest friendship – affair– but abusing had never been aterm for it. He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, breathing her musky perfume. Shehad at least ten different flagrances but this one was his favorite. It washeavy and musky and it reminded him of sex. “That’s what you want, sweetheart?For me to… abuse you?”

“Be sensible. Anyone could come out of that room at any moment.” she protested,pushing on his shoulders. It wasn’t exactly the stop right now push though, more the we really shouldn’t but I will let you do it anyway one.

“I think we still have a good ten minutesbefore they come looking.” he smirked, inching her dress up. “Can do plenty in ten minutes.”

Any chance she could have had of convincing himto, at least, retreat to a more secluded space died when he realized she hadnothing on under that dress. He lifted his eyebrows and it was her turn to rollher eyes.

“I can’t wear underwear under this dress.” shetold him as if he was stupid. “It would show.”

“Lucky me.” he mocked, dropping to his knees.

“Haymitch…” she hesitated but that ended up in amoan.

He looked up at her, eyes twinkling inmischief. “You’re gonna have to be quieter, Princess, or they will come looking.”

She shot him a brief glare but bit down on herbottom lip, tangling her fingers in his hair to force his head back against hercrotch. Any other time, he would have freed himself and made her beg for it.Since he was too aware their friends were on the other side of the door andthere was no telling when a train attendant would show up, he simply got towork.

It had been so long since they had started this…He knew how to work her up quickly and he knew how to make it good. It might now have been her bestorgasm but it was good enough that she hissed his name in bliss. He stood upand sucked his fingers clean, not as oblivious to how hot she found it when hedid that as he wanted her to believe. She was watching him, breathing fast andhard, her pupils blown…

Because he was nice, he tugged on her dress tomake her look decent again before leaning in to steal a kiss. He pushed histongue in her mouth and she moaned. Her hand brushed his groin but he broke thekiss to shake his head. “No time.”

He barely had time to step back and take a fewdeep calming breaths before the door opened. Cinna stood there, his eyesdarting from him to her, eyebrows lifted, and retreated inside the living-roomcar.

Effie followed, every bit the cheerful escortshe ought to be.

Haymitch lingered in the corridor a little whilelonger, trying to get things under control, before stepping in the room andgoing straight for a glass of whiskey.

From then on, it was business as usual. Friendlybanter, a lot of pretending things weren’t as bad or difficult as they reallywere, a few back and forth snarky comments between him and his escort… Hewasn’t exactly surprised when she dragged him into her room once they alldecided to call it a night.

He didn’t immediately rush out of her bedafterwards either.

He had been a bit careless about that since thebeginning of the Tour. He lingered in her bed, he slept there even sometimes…Things were shifting and it was the worse idea to give in to that but witheverything else happening… It was hard to resist the few good things in life.

He watched her get out of bed and slip on hersilk dressing gown, not at all bothered by the fact he was lying naked in herbed, exposed to her gaze. He liked the way her eyes roamed on his body,possessive and content in the knowledge he was hers to play with. He used tohate it but now… Now he found it… appealing.

She snatched something from her nightstand andcrossed the room to open the window.

“You’re not supposed to do that.” he grumbled, immediately pulling sheets and blankets upon his body because the wind gushed inside. The speed the train was going, thewindows were best left closed.

“There are a lot of things I am not supposed todo that I do anyway.” she replied with obvious annoyance, wedging a cigarettebetween her lips. There was a flash of silver, a flame, and then she tossed herlighter on the nightstand.

She was still angry about earlier, then.

“Close the window and come back to bed.” heinsisted.

“Do not darecomplain about the smell.” she warned him, struggling to push the windowclosed. “And if it triggers any alarm, you will do the explaining.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t try to stop herwhen she grabbed an empty bottle of lotion from her dressing table to use as anashtray of sort. He didn’t even complain when she sat down next to him, herback to the headboard, folding her long legs under the sheets to keep themwarm.

“She’s right, you know.” he sighed, rolling onhis side and propping himself up on his elbow. “I usually take your side.”

“I remain unconvinced.” she snapped, slowlyblowing out smoke.

He hated it when she smoked.

He also hated how sexy she made it look.

He stole the cigarette from her hand and took adrag, simply because he didn’t have any liquor on hand and he needed aderivative to a conversation that could become problematic. He didn’t enjoysmoking much. He didn’t find the relief in tobacco that he could find inliquor.

“Your cigarettes will kill you.” he mumbled.

“My cigarettes are better for me than you are.”she huffed without batting an eyelash.

“Yeah?” he teased. “So you’d take a cigaretteover… Let’s say… My mouth?”

“Are you offering to eat me out every time Icrave a smoke?” she asked.

She reached for her cigarette but he moved hisarm away.

“Well… You’re only an occasional smoker, anyway, sweetheart, right?” he taunted. “’Causeyou quitted so many fucking times…”

“It might become a lot less occasional if I canhave your head between my thighs instead…” she grinned, apparently in a bettermood.

He snorted and brought the cigarette to hermouth. When it closed around the bud, her lips brushed his fingers and he felthimself twitch.

“Put it out.” he advised, tugging on her leg sohe could settle between her thighs. “You’re gonna light the sheets on fire.”

When he closed his teeth on the soft skin underher belly button, she hurried to drop it in the empty bottle lotion.

He would solve her cigarette addiction yet.

if you dont think it would be too simlar the the other oneshot, could you please fuck me up with a fic about effie having to be hospitalised because she wasnt eating like you mentioned in 'unlike most couples'

Here you go [X]

Good Intentions

Effie woke up to an insistent beeping. Shereached in the vague direction of her nightstand, grumbling under her breathabout the unpleasant sound of Haymitch’s alarm clock. Her hand knocked againstsomething metallic.

She opened her eyes with a grunt of pain… andimmediately panicked when she realized she wasn’t at home. Her fingers hadbumped against the metal grates that lined her hospital bed and it had somehowjolted the needle planted on the back of her hand. It was hooked to a drip. Hospital. She was in a…

“Calm down.” Her eyes darted to the corner ofthe room. Haymitch was there, sitting on a chair, rubbing a hand against hiseyes. Everything else in the room was grey. From the floor to the ceilings.Even the walls. No windows. No framed pictures. It was cold and she shivered inher thin hospital gown. It looked like a cell. It looked like her cell. And… “It’s okay, sweetheart.”he insisted. “Well, no, it’s fucking not…But… Yeah, I’m working on that.”

“What happened?” she asked, her voice faltering.“We were… I was in Twelve. Wasn’t I? I was in Twelve. I wasn’t… Did I dream it?Haymitch, when…”

She was confused, thoroughly confused. When were they? Had she made it all up?Her mind had been drifting so much when she had been locked up in her cell, alonewith only herself for company… She had had hallucinations before. She had hadthoughts, stories in her head, that she could have sworn were real.

“The war’s been over for two years.” he saidquickly, hauling himself off the chair to walk closer to the bed. There wasn’tmuch of a distance to cross. She let him take her hand in his and she clung toit. “We’re in Thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” she repeated, even more confusednow. She had never been to Thirteen. She had heard a lot about it but she had never put a foot in that District. “Why?Haymitch, what happened? When can I go home? I want to go home.”

Tears prickled her eyes but she fought to keepthem at bay. She didn’t cry. Not if she could help it.

“I know.” he sighed, brushing her hair backwith his free hand. His face turned annoyed. “What happened? The boy fucking happened. You happened ‘cause you can’t be reasonable, yeah? You can’t fucking feed yourself properly. And Ihappened, I guess, ‘cause I was too busy drinking to notice…” He shook his headand sneered self-depreciably. “Maybe they’ve all got a point… Maybe you wouldbe better off…”

“You are making no sense.” she cut him off.“How did I end up here?”

“Peeta found you unconscious and you wouldn’twake up.” he explained with obvious irritation that badly hid the fear he musthave felt. “I was drunk so… He called an ambulance, the doctor at the clinicwent on his usual rant about how you weren’t gaining enough weight… Peetaagreed to have you transferred to Thirteen for the time being…”

“He didn’t have the authority.” she snapped. Andshe couldn’t wait to have a chat withthe boy. She knew he meant well, he always worried about how little she ate butshe was trying, she was, it simply wasn’t easy.

“Yeah but I wasn’t there to run interference…”he shrugged “They went behind my back. Katniss tried to stop them, for therecord, but given that she’s under my guardianship, she doesn’t have muchweight to carry around. They don’t consider her a legally responsible adultapparently. If it’s any consolation, she’s giving him hell over this.”

“It is not.” she retorted, sitting up. She felta bit dizzy but otherwise fine. She took the sensors off her fingers andinspected the drip, considering the best way to get rid of it. “Let’s go home.”

“That’s the thing. We can’t.” he spat. “Thedoctors in Thirteen, they say you might not be fully responsible for youractions.”

It took a moment for it to sink. “They think Iam crazy?”

“Not crazy.” he amended. “Just not completely here.They want to make you a ward of the state, strip you of your legal powers… Theywant to send you to an eating disorder clinic.”

It was like a bucket of icy water being pouredover her head.  

“I do nothave an eating disorder.” she growled. “I just… I try.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to eat. They hadstarved her in prison and being ableto stomach solid food had taken her weeks after her rescue. She had never beena huge eater and now… Now she had been so sick that the thought of eating toomuch made her nauseous and it was difficult for her to make the differencebetween nausea from hunger and nausea from being too full. She was sated veryfast. She tried to keep a healthy diet, she tried,but it was difficult.  

“I know.” he pacified her, perching himself onthe bed.

And he probably did. This was an everydaybattle that he fought with her. He cooked for her. He made sure she ate atregular times. He coaxed when he felt she wasn’t eating enough and held herwhen she felt sick afterwards…

It wasn’t an ideal system. But it worked.

“I want to go home.” she pleaded. “Please.”

She wouldn’t bear being locked up somewhere again. She wouldn’t… She was afraidof what she would do to herself. She was afraid of…

“I’m working on it.” he promised. “Plutarch’son his way. He should be able to sort this mess.”

“I can’t go anywhere.” she insisted, frantic.“I can’t… I need you. Don’t they understand?”

He looked down at their entwined hands, his jawclenched. “I’m sorry, Effie. If I hadn’t been so drunk…”

“I wasn’t hungry, that’s all.” she begged. “Iwill be more careful.”  

She tended to lose track when he went onbinges, that was true. She worried about him and forgot to worry about herself.But… That was who they were, who they had alwaysbeen.

“Peeta told them it wasn’t the first time.” hesighed. “I tried to… They won’t let me get a word in. Living together’s worth nothing for those assholes.”

“We should get married.” she blurted out, hermind far from romantic grounds. And it was probably the only reason why hedidn’t freak out. “They wouldn’t be able to do anything to you withoutconsulting me and they wouldn’t be able to send me away without yourpermission.”

“Effie…” he hesitated.

“I trust you with my life.” she offered.

“Maybe not the most clever plan you ever had.Look where it got you.” he snorted bitterly. He didn’t say anything and sheglared. He rolled his eyes. “You reallyneed me to tell you you’re the only I’ve trusted to have my back in years?”

“No, I do not need to.” she pouted. “However, it would be nice to hear itsometimes.”

He smirked but it was short-lived.

“Being married would have solved this messquicker.” he admitted. “Maybe we should.”

“I won’t stay in their clinic anyway.” shehuffed. “I will escape. And if they do not let me escape, then I will findanother sort of escape…”

She let her voice trail off and there wasnothing gentle to the way he squeezed her hand.

“Don’t threaten to do that.” he warned. “You don’tfucking threaten to kill yourself.”

“I cannotand will not be locked away.” shehissed. “I would rather die than live through that again.”

Rationally, she knew it wouldn’t be the samething. But being trapped in a hospital room after her rescue had been terribleenough.

She wanted to go home where she felt safe.

“Nobody’s gonna lock you away.” he rebuked her.“You missed the part I told you I was working on it?”

He nudged her a bit to the side and lied downwith her like he used to do after her rescue. Hospital beds were narrow butthey had learned how to make it work a long time ago. She felt better once shewas safely in his arms.

“Don’t let them take me away.” she begged.

“I won’t.”he promised and then hesitated. “Worse comes to worse… I’ll come with you.”

“They won’t let you.” she countered.

“Plutarch’s gonna handle it.” he said again,sounding confident enough that she relaxed a little. “He owes me.”

Having the Secretary of Communication in theirpocket was useful, it seemed. Hisappearance alone, coupled with a few threats to call some of his fellow Secretaries,was enough to secure her release. She and Haymitch were bundled on a hovercraftwith a lot of warnings and pleads for her to reconsider.

She didn’t doubt they meant well.

She didn’t doubt Peeta had meant well – although hewouldn’t escape a dressing down.

But she only breathed more easily once thehovercraft entered Twelve’s borders.

PART III "THE ASSASSIN"

19 I've never really seen Boggs angry before. Not when I've disobeyed his orders or puked on him, not even when Gale broke his nose. But he's angry when he returns from his phone call with the president. The first thing he does is instruct Soldier Jackson, his second in command, to set up a two-person, round-the-clock guard on Peeta. Then he takes me on a walk, weaving through the sprawling tent encampment until our squad is far behind us. "He'll try and kill me anyway," I say. "Especially here. Where there are so many bad memories to set him off." "I'll keep him contained, Katniss," says Boggs. "Why does Coin want me dead now?" I ask. "She denies she does," he answers. "But we know it's true," I say. "And you must at least have a theory." Boggs gives me a long, hard look before he answers. "Here's as much as I know. The president doesn't like you. She never did. It was Peeta she wanted rescued from the arena, but no one else agreed. It made matters worse when you forced her to give the other victors immunity. But even that could be overlooked in view of how well you've performed." "Then what is it?" I insist. "Sometime in the near future, this war will be resolved. A new leader will be chosen," says Boggs. I roll my eyes. "Boggs, no one thinks I'm going to be the leader." "No. They don't," he agrees. "But you'll throw support to someone. Would it be President Coin? Or someone else?" "I don't know. I've never thought about it," I say. "If your immediate answer isn't Coin, then you're a threat. You're the face of the rebellion. You may have more influence than any other single person," says Boggs. "Outwardly, the most you've ever done is tolerated her." "So she'll kill me to shut me up." The minute I say the words, I know they're true. "She doesn't need you as a rallying point now. As she said, your primary objective, to unite the districts, has succeeded," Boggs reminds me. "These current propos could be done without you. There's only one last thing you could do to add fire to the rebellion." "Die," I say quietly. "Yes. Give us a martyr to fight for," says Boggs. "But that's not going to happen under my watch, Soldier Everdeen. I'm planning for you to have a long life." "Why?" This kind of thinking will only bring him trouble. "You don't owe me anything." "Because you've earned it," he says. "Now get back to your squad." I know I should feel appreciative of Boggs sticking his neck out for me, but really I'm just frustrated. I mean, how can I steal his Holo and desert now? Betraying him was complicated enough without this whole new layer of debt. I already owe him for saving my life. Seeing the cause of my current dilemma calmly pitching his tent back at our site makes me furious. "What time is my watch?" I ask Jackson. She squints at me in doubt, or maybe she's just trying to get my face in focus. "I didn't put you in the rotation." "Why not?" I ask. "I'm not sure you could really shoot Peeta, if it came to it," she says. I speak up so the whole squad can hear me clearly. "I wouldn't be shooting Peeta. He's gone. Johanna's right. It'd be just like shooting another of the Capitol's mutts." It feels good to say something horrible about him, out loud, in public, after all the humiliation I've felt since his return. "Well, that sort of comment isn't recommending you either," says Jackson. "Put her in the rotation," I hear Boggs say behind me. Jackson shakes her head and makes a note. "Midnight to four. You're on with me." The dinner whistle sounds, and Gale and I line up at the canteen. "Do you want me to kill him?" he asks bluntly. "That'll get us both sent back for sure," I say. But even though I'm furious, the brutality of the offer rattles me. "I can deal with him." "You mean until you take off? You and your paper map and possibly a Holo if you can get your hands on it?" So Gale has not missed my preparations. I hope they haven't been so obvious to the others. None of them know my mind like he does, though. "You're not planning on leaving me behind, are you?" he asks. Up until this point, I was. But having my hunting partner to watch my back doesn't sound like a bad idea. "As your fellow soldier, I have to strongly recommend you stay with your squad. But I can't stop you from coming, can I?" He grins. "No. Not unless you want me to alert the rest of the army." Squad 451 and the television crew collect dinner from the canteen and gather in a tense circle to eat. At first I think that Peeta is the cause of the unease, but by the end of the meal, I realize more than a few unfriendly looks have been directed my way. This is a quick turnaround, since I'm pretty sure when Peeta appeared the whole team was concerned about how dangerous he might be, especially to me. But it's not until I get a phone call through to Haymitch that I understand. "What are you trying to do? Provoke him into an attack?" he asks me. "Of course not. I just want him to leave me alone," I say. "Well, he can't. Not after what the Capitol put him through," says Haymitch. "Look, Coin may have sent him there hoping he'd kill you, but Peeta doesn't know that. He doesn't understand what's happened to him. So you can't blame him - " "I don't!" I say. "You do! You're punishing him over and over for things that are out of his control. Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't have a fully loaded weapon next to you round the clock. But I think it's time you flipped this little scenario around in your head. If you'd been taken by the Capitol, and hijacked, and then tried to kill Peeta, is this the way he would be treating you?" demands Haymitch. I fall silent. It isn't. It isn't how he would be treating me at all. He would be trying to get me back at any cost. Not shutting me out, abandoning me, greeting me with hostility at every turn. "You and me, we made a deal to try and save him. Remember?" Haymitch says. When I don't respond, he disconnects after a curt "Try and remember." The autumn day turns from brisk to cold. Most of the squad hunker down in their sleeping bags. Some sleep under the open sky, close to the heater in the center of our camp, while others retreat to their tents. Leeg 1 has finally broken down over her sister's death, and her muffled sobs reach us through the canvas. I huddle in my tent, thinking over Haymitch's words. Realizing with shame that my fixation with assassinating Snow has allowed me to ignore a much more difficult problem. Trying to rescue Peeta from the shadowy world the hijacking has stranded him in. I don't know how to find him, let alone lead him out. I can't even conceive of a plan. It makes the task of crossing a loaded arena, locating Snow, and putting a bullet through his head look like child's play. At midnight, I crawl out of my tent and position myself on a camp stool near the heater to take my watch with Jackson. Boggs told Peeta to sleep out in full view where the rest of us could keep an eye on him. He isn't sleeping, though. Instead, he sits with his bag pulled up to his chest, clumsily trying to make knots in a short length of rope. I know it well. It's the one Finnick lent me that night in the bunker. Seeing it in his hands, it's like Finnick's echoing what Haymitch just said, that I've cast off Peeta. Now might be a good time to begin to remedy that. If I could think of something to say. But I can't. So I don't. I just let the sounds of soldiers' breathing fill the night. After about an hour, Peeta speaks up. "These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth." That seems grossly unfair, and my first impulse is to say something cutting. But I revisit my conversation with Haymitch and try to take the first tentative step in Peeta's direction. "I never wanted to kill you. Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as...an ally." That's a good safe word. Empty of any emotional obligation, but nonthreatening. "Ally." Peeta says the word slowly, tasting it. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out." He weaves the rope in and out of his fingers. "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up." The cessation of rhythmic breathing suggests that either people have woken or have never really been asleep at all. I suspect the latter. Finnick's voice rises from a bundle in the shadows. "Then you should ask, Peeta. That's what Annie does." "Ask who?" Peeta says. "Who can I trust?" "Well, us for starters. We're your squad," says Jackson. "You're my guards," he points out. "That, too," she says. "But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. It's not the kind of thing we forget." In the quiet that follows, I try to imagine not being able to tell illusion from reality. Not knowing if Prim or my mother loved me. If Snow was my enemy. If the person across the heater saved or sacrificed me. With very little effort, my life rapidly morphs into a nightmare. I suddenly want to tell Peeta everything about who he is, and who I am, and how we ended up here. But I don't know how to start. Worthless. I'm worthless. At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color...it's green?" "That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. "Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once." "Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry. In the morning, Gale, Finnick, and I go out to shoot some glass off the buildings for the camera crew. When we get back to camp, Peeta's sitting in a circle with the soldiers from 13, who are armed but talking openly with him. Jackson has devised a game called "Real or Not Real" to help Peeta. He mentions something he thinks happened, and they tell him if it's true or imagined, usually followed by a brief explanation. "Most of the people from Twelve were killed in the fire." "Real. Less than nine hundred of you made it to Thirteen alive." "The fire was my fault." "Not real. President Snow destroyed Twelve the way he did Thirteen, to send a message to the rebels." This seems like a good idea until I realize that I'll be the only one who can confirm or deny most of what weighs on him. Jackson breaks us up into watches. She matches up Finnick, Gale, and me each with a soldier from 13. This way Peeta will always have access to someone who knows him more personally. It's not a steady conversation. Peeta spends a long time considering even small pieces of information, like where people bought their soap back home. Gale fills him in on a lot of stuff about 12; Finnick is the expert on both of Peeta's Games, as he was a mentor in the first and a tribute in the second. But since Peeta's greatest confusion centers around me - and not everything can be explained simply - our exchanges are painful and loaded, even though we touch on only the most superficial of details. The color of my dress in 7. My preference for cheese buns. The name of our math teacher when we were little. Reconstructing his memory of me is excruciating. Perhaps it isn't even possible after what Snow did to him. But it does feel right to help him try. The next afternoon, we're notified that the whole squad is needed to stage a fairly complicated propo. Peeta's been right about one thing: Coin and Plutarch are unhappy with the quality of footage they're getting from the Star Squad. Very dull. Very uninspiring. The obvious response is that they never let us do anything but playact with our guns. However, this is not about defending ourselves, it's about coming up with a usable product. So today, a special block has been set aside for filming. It even has a couple of active pods on it. One unleashes a spray of gunfire. The other nets the invader and traps them for either interrogation or execution, depending on the captors' preference. But it's still an unimportant residential block with nothing of strategic consequence. The television crew means to provide a sense of heightened jeopardy by releasing smoke bombs and adding gunfire sound effects. We suit up in heavy protective gear, even the crew, as if we're heading into the heart of battle. Those of us with specialty weapons are allowed to take them along with our guns. Boggs gives Peeta back his gun, too, although he makes sure to tell him in a loud voice that it's only loaded with blanks. Peeta just shrugs. "I'm not much of a shot anyway." He seems preoccupied with watching Pollux, to the point where it's getting a little worrisome, when he finally puzzles it out and begins to speak with agitation. "You're an Avox, aren't you? I can tell by the way you swallow. There were two Avoxes with me in prison. Darius and Lavinia, but the guards mostly called them the redheads. They'd been our servants in the Training Center, so they arrested them, too. I watched them being tortured to death. She was lucky. They used too much voltage and her heart stopped right off. It took days to finish him off. Beating, cutting off parts. They kept asking him questions, but he couldn't speak, he just made these horrible animal sounds. They didn't want information, you know? They wanted me to see it." Peeta looks around at our stunned faces, as if waiting for a reply. When none is forthcoming, he asks, "Real or not real?" The lack of response upsets him more. "Real or not real?!" he demands. "Real," says Boggs. "At least, to the best of my knowledge...real." Peeta sags. "I thought so. There was nothing...shiny about it." He wanders away from the group, muttering something about fingers and toes. I move to Gale, press my forehead into the body armor where his chest should be, feel his arm tighten around me. We finally know the name of the girl who we watched the Capitol abduct from the woods of 12, the fate of the Peacekeeper friend who tried to keep Gale alive. This is no time to call up happy moments of remembrance. They lost their lives because of me. I add them to my personal list of kills that began in the arena and now includes thousands. When I look up, I see it has taken Gale differently. His expression says that there are not enough mountains to crush, enough cities to destroy. It promises death. With Peeta's grisly account fresh in our minds, we crunch through the streets of broken glass until we reach our target, the block we are to take. It is a real, if small, goal to accomplish. We gather around Boggs to examine the Holo projection of the street. The gunfire pod is positioned about a third of the way down, just above an apartment awning. We should be able to trigger it with bullets. The net pod is at the far end, almost the next corner. This will require someone to set off the body sensor mechanism. Everyone volunteers except Peeta, who doesn't seem to know quite what's going on. I don't get picked. I get sent to Messalla, who dabs some makeup on my face for the anticipated close-ups. The squad positions itself under Boggs's direction, and then we have to wait for Cressida to get the cameramen in place as well. They're both to our left, with Castor toward the front and Pollux bringing up the rear so they'll be sure not to record each other. Messalla sets off a couple of smoke charges for atmosphere. Since this is both a mission and a shoot, I'm about to ask who's in charge, my commander or my director, when Cressida calls, "Action!" We slowly proceed down the hazy street, just like one of our exercises in the Block. Everyone has at least one section of windows to blow out, but Gale's assigned the real target. When he hits the pod, we take cover - ducking into doorways or flattening onto the pretty, light orange and pink paving stones - as a hail of bullets sweeps back and forth over our heads. After a while, Boggs orders us forward. Cressida stops us before we can rise, since she needs some close-up shots. We take turns reenacting our responses. Falling to the ground, grimacing, diving into alcoves. We know it's supposed to be serious business, but the whole thing feels a little ridiculous. Especially when it turns out that I'm not the worst actor in the squad. Not by a long shot. We're all laughing so hard at Mitchell's attempt to project his idea of desperation, which involves teeth grinding and nostrils flaring, that Boggs has to reprimand us. "Pull it together, Four-Five-One," he says firmly. But you can see him suppressing a smile as he's double-checking the next pod. Positioning the Holo to find the best light in the smoky air. Still facing us as his left foot steps back onto the orange paving stone. Triggering the bomb that blows off his legs.

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

8. "No!" I cry, and spring forward. It's too late to stop the arm from descending, and I instinctively know I won't have the power to block it. Instead I throw myself directly between the whip and Gale. I've flung out my arms to protect as much of his broken body as possible, so there's nothing to deflect the lash. I take the full force of it across the left side of my face. The pain is blinding and instantaneous. Jagged flashes of light cross my vision and I fall to my knees. One hand cups my cheek while the other keeps me from tipping over. I can already feel the welt rising up, the swelling closing my eye. The stones beneath me are wet with Gale's blood, the air heavy with its scent. "Stop it! You'll kill him!" I shriek. I get a glimpse of my assailant's face. Hard, with deep lines, a cruel mouth. Gray hair shaved almost to nonexistence, eyes so black they seem all pupils, a long, straight nose reddened by the freezing air. The powerful arm lifts again, his sights set on me. My hand flies to my shoulder, hungry for an arrow, but, of course, my weapons are stashed in the woods. I grit my teeth in anticipation of the next lash. "Hold it!" a voice barks. Haymitch appears and trips over a Peacekeeper lying on the ground. It's Darius. A huge purple lump pushes through the red hair on his forehead. He's knocked out but still breathing. What happened? Did he try to come to Gale's aid before I got here? Haymitch ignores him and pulls me to my feet roughly. "Oh, excellent." His hand locks under my chin, lifting it. "She's got a photo shoot next week modeling wedding dresses. What am I supposed to tell her stylist?" I see a flicker of recognition in the eyes of the man with the whip. Bundled against the cold, my face free of makeup, my braid tucked carelessly under my coat, it wouldn't be easy to identify me as the victor of the last Hunger Games. Especially with half my face swelling up. But Haymitch has been showing up on television for years, and he'd be difficult to forget. The man rests the whip on his hip. "She interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal." Everything about this man, his commanding voice, his odd accent, warns of an unknown and dangerous threat. Where has he come from? District 11? 3? From the Capitol itself? "I don't care if she blew up the blasted Justice Building! Look at her cheek! Think that will be camera ready in a week?" Haymitch snarls. The man's voice is still cold, but I can detect a slight edge of doubt. "That's not my problem." "No? Well, it's about to be, my friend. The first call I make when I get home is to the Capitol," says Haymitch. "Find out who authorized you to mess up my victor's pretty little face!" "He was poaching. What business is it of hers, anyway?" says the man. "He's her cousin." Peeta's got my other arm now, but gently. "And she's my fiance. So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us." Maybe we're it. The only three people in the district who could make a stand like this. Although it's sure to be temporary. There will be repercussions. But at the moment, all I care about is keeping Gale alive. The new Head Peacekeeper glances over at his backup squad. With relief, I see they're familiar faces, old friends from the Hob. You can tell by their expressions that they're not enjoying the show. One, a woman named Purnia who eats regularly at Greasy Sae's, steps forward stiffly. "I believe, for a first offense, the required number of lashes has been dispensed, sir. Unless your sentence is death, which we would carry out by firing squad." "Is that the standard protocol here?" asks the Head Peacekeeper. "Yes, sir," Purnia says, and several others nod in agreement. I'm sure none of them actually know because, in the Hob, the standard protocol for someone showing up with a wild turkey is for everybody to bid on the drumsticks. "Very well. Get your cousin out of here, then, girl. And if he comes to, remind him that the next time he poaches off the Capitol's land,  I'll assemble that firing squad personally." The Head Peacekeeper wipes his hand along the length of the whip, splattering us with blood. Then he coils it into quick, neat loops and walks off. Most of the other Peacekeepers fall in an awkward formation behind him. A small group stays behind and hoists Darius's body up by the arms and legs. I catch Purnia's eye and mouth the word "Thanks" before she goes. She doesn't respond, but I'm sure she understood. "Gale." I turn, my hands fumbling at the knots binding his wrists. Someone passes forward a knife and Peeta cuts the ropes. Gale collapses to the ground. "Better get him to your mother," says Haymitch. There's no stretcher, but the old woman at the clothing stall sells us the board that serves as her countertop. "Just don't tell where you got it," she says, packing up the rest of her goods quickly. Most of the square has emptied, fear getting the better of compassion. But after what just happened, I can't blame anyone. By the time we've laid Gale facedown on the board, there's only a handful of people left to carry him. Haymitch, Peeta, and a couple of miners who work on the same crew as Gale lift him up. Leevy, a girl who lives a few houses down from mine in the Seam, takes my arm. My mother kept her little brother alive last year when he caught the measles. "Need help getting back?" Her gray eyes are scared but determined. "No, but can you get Hazelle? Send her over?" I ask. "Yeah," says Leevy, turning on her heel. "Leevy!" I say. "Don't let her bring the kids." "No. I'll stay with them myself," she says. "Thanks." I grab Gale's jacket and hurry after the others. "Get some snow on that," Haymitch orders over his shoulder. I scoop up a handful of snow and press it against my cheek, numbing a bit of the pain. My left eye's tearing heavily now, and in the dimming light it's all I can do to follow the boots in front of me. As we walk I hear Bristel and Thorn, Gale's crewmates, piece together the story of what happened. Gale must've gone to Cray's house, as he's done a hundred times, knowing Cray always pays well for a wild turkey. Instead he found the new Head Peacekeeper, a man they heard someone call Romulus Thread. No one knows what happened to Cray. He was buying white liquor in the Hob just this morning, apparently still in command of the district, but now he's nowhere to be found. Thread put Gale under immediate arrest and, of course, since he was standing there holding a dead turkey, there was little Gale could say in his own defense. Word of his predicament spread quickly. He was brought to the square, forced to plead guilty to his crime, and sentenced to a whipping to be carried out immediately. By the time I showed up, he'd been lashed at least forty times. He passed out around thirty. "Lucky he only had the turkey on him," says Bristel. "If he'd had his usual haul, would've been much worse." "He told Thread he found it wandering around the Seam. Said it got over the fence and he'd stabbed it with a stick. Still a crime. But if they'd known he'd been in the woods with weapons, they'd have killed him for sure," says Thom. "What about Darius?" Peeta asks. "After about twenty lashes, he stepped in, saying that was enough. Only he didn't do it smart and official, like Purnia did. He grabbed Thread's arm and Thread hit him in the head with the butt of the whip. Nothing good waiting for him," says Bristel. "Doesn't sound like much good for any of us," says Haymitch. Snow begins, thick and wet, making visibility even more difficult. I stumble up the walk to my house behind the others, using my ears more than my eyes to guide me. A golden light colors the snow as the door opens. My mother, who was no doubt waiting for me after a long day of unexplained absence, takes in the scene. "New Head," Haymitch says, and she gives him a curt nod as if no other explanation is needed. I'm filled with awe, as I always am, as I watch her transform from a woman who calls me to kill a spider to a woman immune to fear. When a sick or dying person is brought to her ... this is the only time I think my mother knows who she is. In moments, the long kitchen table has been cleared, a sterile white cloth spread across it, and Gale hoisted onto it. My mother pours water from a kettle into a basin while ordering Prim to pull a series of her remedies from the medicine cabinet. Dried herbs and tinctures and store-bought bottles. I watch her hands, the long, tapered fingers crumbling this, adding drops of that, into the basin. Soaking a cloth in the hot liquid as she gives Prim instructions to prepare a second brew. My mother glances my way. "Did it cut your eye?" "No, it's just swelled shut," I say. "Get more snow on it," she instructs. But I am clearly not a priority. "Can you save him?" I ask my mother. She says nothing as she wrings out the cloth and holds it in the air to cool somewhat. "Don't worry," says Haymitch. "Used to be a lot of whipping before Cray. She's the one we took them to." I can't remember a time before Cray, a time when there was a Head Peacekeeper who used the whip freely. But my mother must have been around my age and still working at the apothecary shop with her parents. Even back then, she must have had healer's hands. Ever so gently, she begins to clean the mutilated flesh on Gale's back. I feel sick to my stomach, useless, the remaining snow dripping from my glove into a puddle on the floor. Peeta puts me in a chair and holds a cloth filled with fresh snow to my cheek. Haymitch tells Bristel and Thorn to get home, and I see him press coins into their hands before they leave. "Don't know what will happen with your crew," he says. They nod and accept the money. Hazelle arrives, breathless and flushed, fresh snow in her hair. Wordlessly, she sits on a stool next to the table, takes Gale's hand, and holds it against her lips. My mother doesn't acknowledge even her. She's gone into that special zone that includes only herself and the patient and occasionally Prim. The rest of us can wait. Even in her expert hands, it takes a long time to clean the wounds, arrange what shredded skin can be saved, apply a salve and a light bandage. As the blood clears, I can see where every stroke of the lash landed and feel it resonate in the single cut on my face. I multiply my own pain once, twice, forty times and can only hope that Gale remains unconscious. Of course, that's too much to ask for. As the final bandages are being placed, a moan escapes his lips. Hazelle strokes his hair and whispers something while my mother and Prim go through their meager store of painkillers, the kind usually accessible only to doctors. They are hard to come by, expensive, and always in demand. My mother has to save the strongest for the worst pain, but what is the worst pain? To me, it's always the pain that is present. If I were in charge, those painkillers would be gone in a day because I have so little ability to watch suffering. My mother tries to save them for those who are actually in the process of dying, to ease them out of the world. Since Gale is regaining consciousness, they decide on an herbal concoction he can take by mouth. "That won't be enough," I say. They stare at me. "That won't be enough, I know how it feels. That will barely knock out a headache." "We'll combine it with sleep syrup, Katniss, and he'll manage it. The herbs are more for the inflammation - " my mother begins calmly. "Just give him the medicine!" I scream at her. "Give it to him! Who are you, anyway, to decide how much pain he can stand!" Gale begins stirring at my voice, trying to reach me. The movement causes fresh blood to stain his bandages and an agonized sound to come from his mouth. "Take her out," says my mother. Haymitch and Peeta literally carry me from the room while I shout obscenities at her. They pin me down on a bed in one of the extra bedrooms until I stop fighting. While I lie there, sobbing, tears trying to squeeze out of the slit of my eye, I hear Peeta whisper to Haymitch about President Snow, about the uprising in District 8. "She wants us all to run," he says, but if Haymitch has an opinion on this, he doesn't offer it. After a while, my mother comes in and treats my face. Then she holds my hand, stroking my arm, while Haymitch fills her in on what happened with Gale. "So it's starting again?" she says. "Like before?" "By the looks of it," he answers. "Who'd have thought we'd ever be sorry to see old Cray go?" Cray would have been disliked, anyway, because of the uniform he wore, but it was his habit of luring starving young women into his bed for money that made him an object of loathing in the district. In really bad times, the hungriest would gather at his door at nightfall, vying for the chance to earn a few coins to feed their families by selling their bodies. Had I been older when my father died, I might have been among them. Instead I learned to hunt. I don't know exactly what my mother means by things starting again, but I'm too angry and hurting to ask. It's registered, though, the idea of worse times returning, because when the doorbell rings, I shoot straight out of bed. Who could it be at this hour of the night? There's only one answer. Peacekeepers. "They can't have him," I say. "Might be you they're after," Haymitch reminds me. "Or you," I say. "Not my house," Haymitch points out. "But I'll get the door." "No, I'll get it," says my mother quietly. We all go, though, following her down the hallway to the insistent ring of the bell. When she opens it, there's not a squad of Peacekeepers but a single, snow-caked figure. Madge. She holds out a small, damp cardboard box to me. "Use these for your friend," she says. I take off the lid of the box, revealing half a dozen vials of clear liquid. "They're my mother's. She said I could take them. Use them, please." She runs back into the storm before we can stop her. "Crazy girl," Haymitch mutters as we follow, my mother into the kitchen. Whatever my mother had given Gale, I was right, it isn't enough. His teeth are gritted and his flesh shines with sweat. My mother fills a syringe with the clear liquid from one of the vials and shoots it into his arm. Almost immediately, his face begins to relax. "What is that stuff?" asks Peeta. "It's from the Capitol. It's called morphling," my mother answers. "I didn't even know Madge knew Gale," says Peeta. "We used to sell her strawberries," I say almost angrily. What am I angry about, though? Not that she has brought the medicine, surely. "She must have quite a taste for them," says Haymitch. That's what nettles me. It's the implication that there's something going on between Gale and Madge. And I don't like it. "She's my friend" is all I say. Now that Gale has drifted away on the painkiller, everyone seems to deflate. Prim makes us each eat some stew and bread. A room is offered to Hazelle, but she has to go home to the other kids. Haymitch and Peeta are both willing to stay, but my mother sends them home to bed as well. She knows it's pointless to try this with me and leaves me to tend Gale while she and Prim rest. Alone in the kitchen with Gale, I sit on Hazelle's stool, holding his hand. After a while, my fingers find his face. I touch parts of him I have never had cause to touch before. His heavy, dark eyebrows, the curve of his cheek, the line of his nose, the hollow at the base of his neck. I trace the outline of stubble on his jaw and finally work my way to his lips. Soft and full, slightly chapped. His breath warms my chilled skin. Does everyone look younger asleep? Because right now he could be the boy I ran into in the woods years ago, the one who accused me of stealing from his traps. What a pair we were - fatherless, frightened, but fiercely committed, too, to keeping our families alive. Desperate, yet no longer alone after that day, because we'd found each other. I think of a hundred moments in the woods, lazy afternoons fishing, the day I taught him to swim, that time I twisted my knee and he carried me home. Mutually counting on each other, watching each other's backs, forcing each other to be brave. For the first time, I reverse our positions in my head. I imagine watching Gale volunteering to save Rory in the reaping, having him torn from my life, becoming some strange girl's lover to stay alive, and then coming home with her. Living next to her. Promising to marry her. The hatred I feel for him, for the phantom girl, for everything, is so real and immediate that it chokes me. Gale is mine. I am his. Anything else is unthinkable. Why did it take him being whipped within an inch of his life to see it? Because I'm selfish. I'm a coward. I'm the kind of girl who, when she might actually be of use, would run to stay alive and leave those who couldn't follow to suffer and die. This is the girl Gale met in the woods today. No wonder I won the Games. No decent person ever does. You saved Peeta, I think weakly. But now I question even that. I knew good and well that my life back in District 12 would be unlivable if I let that boy die. I rest my head forward on the edge of the table, overcome with loathing for myself. Wishing I had died in the arena. Wishing Seneca Crane had blown me to bits the way President Snow said he should have when I held out the berries. The berries. I realize the answer to who I am lies in that handful of poisonous fruit. If I held them out to save Peeta because I knew I would be shunned if I came back without him, then I am despicable. If I held them out because I loved him, I am still self-centered, although forgivable. But if I held them out to defy the Capitol, I am someone of worth. The trouble is, I don't know exactly what was going on inside me at that moment. Could it be the people in the districts are right? That it was an act of rebellion, even if it was an unconscious one? Because, deep down, I must know it isn't enough to keep myself, or my family, or my friends alive by running away. Even if I could. It wouldn't fix anything. It wouldn't stop people from being hurt the way Gale was today. Life in District 12 isn't really so different from life in the arena. At some point, you have to stop running and turn around and face whoever wants you dead. The hard thing is finding the courage to do it. Well, it's not hard for Gale. He was born a rebel. I'm the one making an escape plan. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. I lean forward and kiss him. His eyelashes flutter and he looks at me through a haze of opiates. "Hey, Catnip." "Hey, Gale," I say. "Thought you'd be gone by now," he says. My choices are simple. I can die like quarry in the woods or I can die here beside Gale. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here and cause all kinds of trouble." "Me, too," Gale says. He just manages a smile before the drugs pull him back under.

27. Everything seems to erupt at once. The earth explodes into showers of dirt and plant matter. Trees burst into flames. Even the sky fills with brightly colored blossoms of light. I can't think why the sky's being bombed until I realize the Gamemakers are shooting off fireworks up there, while the real destruction occurs on the ground. Just in case it's not enough fun watching the obliteration of the arena and the remaining tributes. Or perhaps to illuminate our gory ends. Will they let anyone survive? Will there be a victor of the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games? Maybe not. After all, what is this Quarter Quell but ... what was it President Snow read from the card? "... a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol..." Not even the strongest of the strong will triumph. Perhaps they never intended to have a victor in these Games at all. Or perhaps my final act of rebellion forced their hand. I'm sorry, Peeta, I think. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Save him? More likely I stole his last chance at life, condemned him, by destroying the force field. Maybe, if we had all played by the rules, they might have let him live. The hovercraft materializes above me without warning. If it was quiet, and a mockingjay perched close at hand, I would have heard the jungle go silent and then the bird's call that precedes the appearance of the Capitol's aircraft. But my ears could never make out anything so delicate in this bombardment. The claw drops from the underside until it's directly overhead. The metal talons slide under me. I want to scream, run, smash my way out of it but I'm frozen, helpless to do anything but fervently hope I'll die before I reach the shadowy figures awaiting me above. They have not spared my life to crown me victor but to make my death as slow and public as possible. My worst fears are confirmed when the face that greets me inside the hovercraft belongs to Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker. What a mess I have made of his beautiful Games with the clever ticking clock and the field of victors. He will suffer for his failure, probably lose his life, but not before he sees me punished. His hand reaches for me, I think to strike me, but he does something worse. With his thumb and his forefinger, he slides my eyelids shut, sentencing me to the vulnerability of darkness. They can do anything to me now and I will not even see it coming. My heart pounds so hard the blood begins to stream from beneath my soaked moss bandage. My thoughts grow foggy. Possibly I can bleed to death before they can revive me after all. In my mind, I whisper a thank-you to Johanna Mason for the excellent wound she inflicted as I black out. When I swim back into semi consciousness, I can feel I'm lying on a padded table. There's the pinching sensation of tubes in my left arm. They are trying to keep me alive because, if I slide quietly, privately into death, it will be a victory. I'm still largely unable to move, open my eyelids, raise my head. But my right arm has regained a little motion. It flops across my body, feeling like a flipper, no, something less animated, like a club. I have no real motor coordination, no proof that I even still have fingers. Yet I manage to swing my arm around until I rip the tubes out. A beeping goes off but I can't stay awake to find out who it will summon. The next time I surface, my hands are tied down to the table, the tubes back in my arm. I can open my eyes and lift my head slightly, though. I'm in a large room with low ceilings and a silvery light. There are two rows of beds facing each other. I can hear the breathing of what I assume are my fellow victors. Directly across from me I see Beetee with about ten different machines hooked up to him. Just let us die! I scream in my mind. I slam my head back hard on the table and go out again. When I finally, truly, wake up, the restraints are gone. I raise my hand and find I have fingers that can move at my command again. I push myself to a sitting position and hold on to the padded table until the room settles into focus. My left arm is bandaged but the tubes dangle off stands by the bed. I'm alone except for Beetee, who still lies in front of me, being sustained by his army of machines. Where are the others, then? Peeta, Finnick, Enobaria, and...and...one more, right? Either Johanna or Chaff or Brutus was still alive when the bombs began. I'm sure they'll want to make an example of us all. But where have they taken them? Moved them from hospital to prison? "Peeta..." I whisper. I so wanted to protect him. Am still resolved to. Since I have failed to keep him safe in life, I must find him, kill him now before the Capitol gets to choose the agonizing means of his death. I slide my legs off the table and look around for a weapon. There are a few syringes sealed in sterile plastic on a table near Beetee's bed. Perfect. All I'll need is air and a clear shot at one of his veins. I pause for a moment, consider killing Beetee. But if I do, the monitors will start beeping and I'll be caught before I get to Peeta. I make a silent promise to return and finish him off if I can. I'm naked except for a thin nightgown, so I slip the syringe under the bandage that covers the wound on my arm. There are no guards at the door. No doubt I'm miles beneath the Training Center or in some Capitol stronghold, and the possibility of my escape is nonexistent. It doesn't matter. I'm not escaping, just finishing a job. I creep down a narrow hallway to a metal door that stands slightly ajar. Someone is behind it. I take out the syringe and grip it in my hand. Flattening myself against the wall, I listen to the voices inside. "Communications are down in Seven, Ten, and Twelve. But Eleven has control of transportation now, so there's at least a hope of them getting some food out." Plutarch Heavensbee. I think. Although I've only really spoken with him once. A hoarse voice asks a question. "No, I'm sorry. There's no way I can get you to Four. But I've given special orders for her retrieval if possible. It's the best I can do, Finnick." Finnick. My mind struggles to make sense of the conversation, of the fact that it's taking place between Plutarch Heavensbee and Finnick. Is he so near and dear to the Capitol that he'll be excused his crimes? Or did he really have no idea what Beetee intended? He croaks out something else. Something heavy with despair. "Don't be stupid. That's the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure. As long as you're alive, they'll keep her alive for bait," says Haymitch. Says Haymitch! I bang through the door and stumble into the room. Haymitch, Plutarch, and a very beat-up Finnick sit around a table laid with a meal no one is eating. Daylight streams in the curved windows, and in the distance I see the top of a forest of trees. We are flying. "Done knocking yourself out, sweetheart?" says Haymitch, the annoyance clear in his voice. But as I careen forward he steps up and catches my wrists, steadying me. He looks at my hand. "So it's you and a syringe against the Capitol? See, this is why no one lets you make the plans." I stare at him uncomprehendingly. "Drop it." I feel the pressure increase on my right wrist until my hand is forced to open and I release the syringe. He settles me in a chair next to Finnick. Plutarch puts a bowl of broth in front of me. A roll. Slips a spoon into my hand. "Eat," he says in a much kinder voice than Haymitch used. Haymitch sits directly in front of me. "Katniss, I'm going to explain what happened. I don't want you to ask any questions until I'm through. Do you understand?" I nod numbly. And this is what he tells me. There was a plan to break us out of the arena from the moment the Quell was announced. The victor tributes from 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 11 had varying degrees of knowledge about it. Plutarch Heavensbee has been, for several years, part of an undercover group aiming to overthrow the Capitol. He made sure the wire was among the weapons. Beetee was in charge of blowing a hole in the force field. The bread we received in the arena was code for the time of the rescue. The district where the bread originated indicated the day. Three. The number of rolls the hour. Twenty-four. The hovercraft belongs to District 13. Bonnie and Twill, the women I met in the woods from 8, were right about its existence and its defense capabilities. We are currently on a very roundabout journey to District 13. Meanwhile, most of the districts in Panem are in full-scale rebellion. Haymitch stops to see if I am following. Or maybe he is done for the moment. It's an awful lot to take in, this elaborate plan in which I was a piece, just as I was meant to be a piece in the Hunger Games. Used without consent, without knowledge. At least in the Hunger Games, I knew I was being played with. My supposed friends have been a lot more secretive. "You didn't tell me." My voice is as ragged as Finnick's. "Neither you nor Peeta were told. We couldn't risk it," says Plutarch. "I was even worried you might mention my indiscretion with the watch during the Games." He pulls out his pocket watch and runs his thumb across the crystal, lighting up the mockingjay. "Of course, when I showed you this, I was merely tipping you off about the arena. As a mentor. I thought it might be a first step toward gaining your trust. I never dreamed you'd be a tribute again." "I still don't understand why Peeta and I weren't let in on the plan," I say. "Because once the force field blew, you'd be the first ones they'd try to capture, and the less you knew, the better," says Haymitch. "The first ones? Why?" I say, trying to hang on to the train of thought. "For the same reason the rest of us agreed to die to keep you alive," says Finnick. "No, Johanna tried to kill me," I say. "Johanna knocked you out to cut the tracker from your arm and lead Brutus and Enobaria away from you," says Haymitch. "What?" My head aches so and I want them to stop talking in circles. "I don't know what you're - " "We had to save you because you're the mockingjay, Katniss," says Plutarch. "While you live, the revolution lives." The bird, the pin, the song, the berries, the watch, the cracker, the dress that burst into flames. I am the mockingjay. The one that survived despite the Capitol's plans. The symbol of the rebellion. It's what I suspected in the woods when I found Bonnie and Twill escaping. Though I never really understood the magnitude. But then, I wasn't meant to understand. I think of Haymitch's sneering at my plans to flee District 12, start my own uprising, even the very notion that District 13 could exist. Subterfuges and deceptions. And if he could do that, behind his mask of sarcasm and drunkenness, so convincingly and for so long, what else has he lied about? I know what else. "Peeta," I whisper, my heart sinking. "The others kept Peeta alive because if he died, we knew there'd be no keeping you in an alliance," says Haymitch. "And we couldn't risk leaving you unprotected." His words are matter-of-fact, his expression unchanged, but he can't hide the tinge of gray that colors his face. "Where is Peeta?" I hiss at him. "He was picked up by the Capitol along with Johanna and Enobaria," says Haymitch. And finally he has the decency to drop his gaze. Technically, I am unarmed. But no one should ever underestimate the harm that fingernails can do, especially if the target is unprepared. I lunge across the table and rake mine down Haymitch's face, causing blood to flow and damage to one eye. Then we are both screaming terrible, terrible things at each other, and Finnick is trying to drag me out, and I know it's all Haymitch can do not to rip me apart, but I'm the mockingjay. I'm the mockingjay and it's too hard keeping me alive as it is. Other hands help Finnick and I'm back on my table, my body restrained, my wrists tied down, so I slam my head in fury again and again against the table. A needle pokes my arm and my head hurts so badly I stop fighting and simply wail in a horrible, dying-animal way, until my voice gives out. The drug causes sedation, not sleep, so I am trapped in fuzzy, dully aching misery for what seems like always. They reinsert their tubes and talk to me in soothing voices that never reach me. All I can think of is Peeta, lying on a similar table somewhere, while they try to break him for information he doesn't even have. "Katniss. Katniss, I'm sorry." Finnick's voice comes from the bed next to me and slips into my consciousness. Perhaps because we're in the same kind of pain. "I wanted to go back for him and Johanna, but I couldn't move." I don't answer. Finnick Odair's good intentions mean less than nothing. "It's better for him than Johanna. They'll figure out he doesn't know anything pretty fast. And they won't kill him if they think they can use him against you," says Finnick. "Like bait?" I say to the ceiling. "Like how they'll use Annie for bait, Finnick?" I can hear him weeping but I don't care. They probably won't even bother to question her, she's so far gone. Gone right off the deep end years ago in her Games. There's a good chance I'm headed in the same direction. Maybe I'm already going crazy and no one has the heart to tell me. I feel crazy enough. "I wish she was dead," he says. "I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best." Well, there's no good response to that. I can hardly dispute it since I was walking around with a syringe to kill Peeta when I found them. Do I really want him dead? What I want ... what I want is to have him back. But I'll never get him back now. Even if the rebel forces could somehow overthrow the Capitol, you can be sure President Snow's last act would be to cut Peeta's throat. No. I will never get him back. So then dead is best. But will Peeta know that or will he keep fighting? He's so strong and such a good liar. Does he think he has a chance of surviving? Does he even care if he does? He wasn't planning on it, anyway. He had already signed off on life. Maybe, if he knows I was rescued, he's even happy. Feels he fulfilled his mission to keep me alive. I think I hate him even more than I do Haymitch. I give up. Stop speaking, responding, refuse food and water. They can pump whatever they want into my arm, but it takes more than that to keep a person going once she's lost the will to live. I even have a funny notion that if I do die, maybe Peeta will be allowed to live. Not as a free person but as an Avox or something, waiting on the future tributes of District 12. Then maybe he could find some way to escape. My death could, in fact, still save him. If it can't, no matter. It's enough to die of spite. To punish Haymitch, who, of all the people in this rotting world, has turned Peeta and me into pieces in his Games. I trusted him. I put what was precious in Haymitch's hands. And he has betrayed me. "See, this is why no one lets you make the plans," he said. That's true. No one in their right mind would let me make the plans. Because I obviously can't tell a friend from an enemy. A lot of people come by to talk to me, but I make all their words sound like the clicking of the insects in the jungle. Meaningless and distant. Dangerous, but only if approached. Whenever the words start to become distinct, I moan until they give me more painkiller and that fixes things right up. Until one time, I open my eyes and find someone I cannot block out looking down at me. Someone who will not plead, or explain, or think he can alter my design with entreaties, because he alone really knows how I operate. "Gale," I whisper. "Hey, Catnip." He reaches down and pushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. One side of his face has been burned fairly recently. His arm is in a sling, and I can see bandages under his miner's shirt. What has happened to him? How is he even here? Something very bad has happened back home. It is not so much a question of forgetting Peeta as remembering the others. All it takes is one look at Gale and they come surging into the present, demanding to be acknowledged. "Prim?" I gasp. "She's alive. So is your mother. I got them out in time," he says. "They're not in District Twelve?" I ask. "After the Games, they sent in planes. Dropped firebombs." He hesitates. "Well, you know what happened to the Hob." I do know. I saw it go up. That old warehouse embedded with coal dust. The whole district's covered with the stuff. A new kind of horror begins to rise up inside me as I imagine firebombs hitting the Seam. "They're not in District Twelve?" I repeat. As if saying it will somehow fend off the truth. "Katniss," Gale says softly. I recognize that voice. It's the same one he uses to approach wounded animals before he delivers a deathblow. I instinctively raise my hand to block his words but he catches it and holds on tightly. "Don't," I whisper. But Gale is not one to keep secrets from me. "Katniss, there is no District Twelve." END