Chapter Text
Caesar Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interviews for more than forty years, bounces onto the stage. It’s a little scary because his appearance has been virtually unchanged during all that time.
I feel my lips twitch.
When I was younger, much younger, my older brothers used to tell me the only way he maintained that sort of ‘youthful’ appearance was by eating bad kids who didn’t do their chores.
I believed them, of course. Who wouldn’t?
Year after year, we saw the same mandated face under a coating of pure white makeup. We saw the same hairstyle, the same waved pomp that he dyes a different color for each Hunger Games. We saw the same ceremonial suit, midnight blue dotted with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkle like stars.
I spent a lot of Sundays cleaning the ovens because of it. It wasn’t until I was much older that I actually learned the truth.
Occasionally, we’d get capitol citizens- capitoliltes- touring the twelve districts. They were friendly enough to us, and sometimes, they’d give out rumors. When I was younger, my father made me go to the back of the shop when they came in, but eventually, he let me stay and talk to them.
In hushed breaths and low tones, they’d talk about how they do surgery in the Capitol, to make people appear younger and thinner. How, if my father wanted to, he could take a trip and get his wrinkles lasered off- he could come back looking twenty years younger.
He always declined. When I got old enough to ask why, he told me simply: My wrinkles are proof that I’ve survived this long, son.
I smile and wave at the crowd from my seat. I can feel the energy of the crowd pulsing through my body. The roar of the audience is deafening, a sea of people dressed in an eclectic mix of outlandish clothing, adorned with tattoos and piercings, all clamoring for a moment of my attention.
I blow a kiss to a woman in the crowd, and she almost faints on the spot.
As the Capitol anthem plays, and we stand, I return to my thoughts from before.
Here, in the Capitol, people look at bodies in a different light. Aging seems to be frowned upon. Wrinkles aren’t desirable. A round belly isn’t a sign of success. It’s a blemish. An insult. A transgression.
I guess I understand it. Or, well, I’m trying to understand it.
In the Capitol, appearance is everything.
People go to great lengths to make sure they always look their best, whether it's through extensive plastic surgery, the latest fashions, or strict diets and exercise regimes.
Being thin is seen as the end goal, a sign of discipline and control.
Conversely, being overweight is considered an insult, a sign of laziness, and a lack of self-control.
Every single person I’ve seen in the Capitol so far has been thin—so thin that you’d expect them to be the ones from the impoverished, coal mining district and not me.
It’s led me to my current conclusion: the pressure to conform to the Capitol's beauty standards is intense, and those who fall short are probably ridiculed or excluded.
For many people in the Capitol, it looks like being thin isn’t just a physical goal but a moral one, too. They believe that those who are overweight are morally inferior, and lacking in willpower and discipline. This attitude is pervasive throughout Capitol society, and it reinforces the idea that one's appearance reflects one's character.
So, for someone like Caesar, who hosts one of the most-watched shows ever, being fat would be a death sentence. Literally.
“You’re far too kind, far too—oh, I love you too!” This year, Caesar’s hair is powder blue and his eyelids and lips are coated in the same hue. He gives the audience a bawdy, encoring laugh and pretends to be startled as he looks over at the tributes. “My goodness, don’t they seem like a bloodthirsty bunch?”
I can feel the camera on me, and I do my best to laugh politely at his joke. It’s not easy, considering the fact that I’m surrounded by people who will all be trying to kill me soon.
Caesar tells a few jokes to warm up the audience but then gets down to business. Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer goes off and the next tribute is up. Say what you will about Caesar, but he really does his best to make the tributes shine.
He’s friendly, tries to set the nervous ones at ease, laughs at lame jokes, and can turn a weak response into a memorable one by the way he reacts.
When I used to watch these from back home, I thought he was just being overdramatic for the sake of being overdramatic—as so many from the capitol do- but now I get that it’s more for the sake of the tributes than it is for him.
He doesn’t need to look good. We do.
Another thing the screens back home don’t fully encapsulate is Caesar’s sheer brand of charisma. I’ve been told by Haymitch and some others that I’m good in front of the camera, but Caesar is on a completely different level.
He’s got this smile—a wide, toothy grin, and the effect is electric. Every time his lips twist upward, the smile spreads like a contagion, and soon everyone in the room is grinning back at him. It's impossible not to be drawn in by their charisma.
There are all kinds of other subtle details that make him stand out more. There’s this grace he has; his eyes sparkle with an inner fire, and his movements flow with almost otherworldly elegance. He radiates confidence and charm, and it's impossible not to be swept up in it.
As he speaks, his voice is smooth as honey. It's like every word is perfectly crafted to draw you in further. He laughs, and the sound is infectious. It's impossible not to join in.
The first few tributes strike out with the audience. They’re dazzling, no doubt. Prettier, more athletic, and stronger than me and Katniss could ever hope to be.
But still. The audience’s reception of them is lukewarm, at best. They’re cocky and haughty—instead of trying to be relatable, they try too hard to show off how great they are, and how they’re going to demolish the rest of the competition.
I’ve seen this sort of thing before. The concept that so many of these tributes fail to understand is that it isn’t just about being charismatic or pretty or whatever, it’s about making a connection with the audience and convincing them to invest in their survival.
They love a good story, Haymitch’s words from earlier echo in my head. Give them something to root for. Become more than just a piece.
I spare a glance at Katniss, who looks supremely uncomfortable. She’s trying to sit like a lady, the way Effie had shown her, and it’s apparent that it’s taking every ounce of willpower for her to not slouch.
I avert my gaze before long, trying to tune back into the rest of the interviews.
When it’s her turn, at first, I fear she’s going to strike out, too. She misunderstands Caesar’s first question and almost fumbles the second one, but she’s relatable enough that it doesn’t matter. Her fiery dress helps, too, and I’m sure the boutiques in the Capitol will be sold out of them by the end of the week.
“Peeta Mellark!” Caesar Flickerman's smile is wider than ever as he greets me, his eyes twinkling with anticipation. Katniss sits down next to me, a bit dazed, and glances at me.
I stand and begin walking over to Caesar.
The stage is a completely different world than it looks like when you’re watching it from home, or the sidelines, even. The lights are blinding, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. The audience is a blur of faces, their expressions unreadable from this distance. I can hear their applause and cheers, but they feel muted and far away.
I squint against the glare, my eyes watering as I search for a familiar face in the crowd. It's impossible to see anything beyond the blinding light and the vast sea of faces that stretches out before me. I feel small and insignificant, like a speck in a vast and uncaring universe.
Make them care.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
I shake his hand firmly like Effie taught me, and he pretends to gasp out in pain and hold it to the audience. “My god! He’s mangled my hand!”
The crowd chuckles and I seize the moment, reaching out to encase his hand in mine.
"I'm so sorry, Caesar," I apologize with a smirk, eliciting a roar of laughter from the audience. As I pat his hand, I can't resist a dig. "But seriously, your hand is so smooth and soft, I could have sworn I was touching fresh dough. I guess instincts just took over from there."
“Ever the baker’s son, huh?” Caesar says with an indulgent chortle. He leans forward, as if we’re sharing a secret, and asks, “Tell me, Peeta. Just between us. If you had to guess, what kind of bread do you think the other tributes are?”
I hesitate, then glance at the audience and realize they're all waiting for my answer. I play along, tapping my chin and pretending to mull it over.
“You promise not to tell anyone?” I look at the audience, and back at Caesar, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Well, I mean, if it’s between just us,” I say, turning to the audience. They eat it up. “The girl from one…she's quick, she's clever, she's...a croissant. Yeah, that's it. A croissant. And Thresh...he's strong, he's tough, he's...a sourdough roll…”
The audience laughs as I pretend to consider the rest of my competition, assigning different values of bread to them. About halfway through, Caesar shakes his head good-naturedly and cuts me short. “Well, Peeta, it’s good to see you in such high spirits. Tell me; what about the Capitol is the most different from back home?”
“The showers,” I answer instantly. “There are so many nozzles, and buttons—the first night I got here, I spent a whole hour just trying to get water to come out. I was almost late for this because I wanted to get the settings just right.”
“The showers,” Caesar repeats, turning back to the audience. His mouth is agape, “We…we have different showers?”
I turn back to Caesar, leaning closely, again. “Do you think I smell like roses?”
“Well, I…” Surprise flits through Caesar’s eyes and he opens his mouth, aghast. “I…”
The audience chuckles and murmurs in response, amused by Caesar's confusion. I seize the moment to keep the humor going.
I lean closer to him and gesture for him to smell me. His nose brushes the fabric of my shoulder, and he raises his eyebrows. “Why, yes, actually. Do I smell like roses?”
The crowd roars in approval. Some of the women in the crowd faint. I lean in and smell. “Forget roses, Caesar. You smell like heaven. Way better than me, that’s for sure.”
“I’ve lived here longer, dear boy,” Caesar pats my leg, and we both laugh and turn to the audience, which is more animated than it’s been all night. The stage feels like it's shaking beneath me, and I worry that I might lose my balance.
“A guy could get used to this kind of treatment,” I laugh as I mirror Caesar’s pose and prop one of my legs on top of the other. “The Capitol does an excellent job of making me feel, well, pretty.”
The crowd loves it. I smile endearingly—at least, I hope it’s endearingly—at them. Caesar clears his throat. “Speaking of pretty, though. It’s a question I’m absolutely certain everyone’s dying to know the answer to. Peeta; do you have a girl waiting for you back home?”
Here it is. The question I’ve been waiting for all night. I take a moment to steel myself. The audience thinks it's adorable. I shake my head, trying to be as unconvincing as possible.
It works.
“Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what’s her name?” says Caesar. We’ve built a solid back-and-forth throughout the interview, and when he asks, I hear genuine interest in his tone. Or, well, I think I do. “We won’t tell.”
I sigh, ignoring the bundle of nerves in my chest. “Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping.”
The crowd’s quiet now. Even the lights on my face dim a little, and I spare a glance at the other victors- they’re watching me intensely now, too. It’s like the whole room is holding its breath.
“Does she have another fellow?” asks Caesar.
“I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her,” I say slowly, giving the crowd the most depressed look I can. I gesture down at the expensive suit my stylist dressed me up in. “I don’t know if I…measure up, you know?”
Sounds of sympathy begin to echo from the crowd. They grow louder and louder, and the sound of the crowd's sympathy is eventually like a wave crashing against the shore, reverberating through the air with palpable intensity.
They might not be going into the games themselves, but I’ve just given them something they can relate to: unrequited love.
“So, here’s what you do. You win, you go home. She can’t turn you down then, eh?” says Caesar encouragingly. He nods at me earnestly, as if he hopes with all his heart that I can win and go back home if only to show the girl I care about her.
“I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning... won’t help in my case,” I say quietly, trying to push as much emotion onto my face as possible. Caesar gives me a questioning look, and I imagine Katniss’ face in my mind’s eye. “She, um, she came here with me.”
I count in my head. One. Two. Three. Four.
For four seconds, I’m not even sure everyone heard me correctly. I keep my eyes trained on the ground, hoping that focusing on one point will let me act out my emotions a bit better.
“Oh,” breathes Caesar a moment later, his face contorting into a frown. He takes another shaky breath. When he talks again, there’s a real edge of pain in his voice. His voice is strained, each word seeming to cause him physical discomfort. It cuts through the silence like a knife. “Oh, no. That is a piece of bad luck.”
The screens all around us shift to show Katniss, who is gobsmacked at the news. Her face is twisted into a look of utter surprise. Her eyes are widened, and her eyebrows have shot up so high they almost disappeared into her hairline.
The corners of her mouth drop slightly as if trying to process the unexpected news. But then, as the realization sets in, a soft pink blush begins to creep up her cheeks, slowly intensifying until her entire face is suffused with a warm glow.
She bites her bottom lip, trying to conceal her emotions. A glimmer of something flickers in her eyes before she presses her lips together and stares at the floor.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. Inwardly, I’m trying my hardest to gauge the reaction of the crowd. Katniss has unknowingly played her part perfectly, and now it’s up to me to nail it home. “It’s not good.”
The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries. The few people in the crowd I can see, the ones right up next to the stage, are looking at me like I told them they’re all terminally ill.
“Well, I don’t think any of us can blame you. It’d be hard not to fall for that young lady,” says Caesar. He looks to the side of the stage, presumably at Katniss. “She didn’t know?”
I shake my head. A morose smile forms on my face, “Not until now. I didn’t want to…I don’t want to go into the arena with that on my chest.”
“Wouldn’t you love to pull her back out here and get a response?” Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. For a minute, I’m worried that they’ll start climbing onto the stage. “Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen’s time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours.”
“Thank you,” I force myself to choke out. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she comes home.”
The crowd roars like a ferocious beast, each voice merging together into a single entity, the intensity of their cheers causing the stage to tremble underfoot.
Every person in the audience is on their feet, clapping and cheering until their hands are raw and their voices are hoarse.
The standing ovation is a thunderous declaration of approval, shaking the very foundations of the building. The energy is palpable, crackling through the atmosphere like electricity.
The stage feels like it's rocking beneath my feet, and I give a bow and throw some kisses out to the crowd. I turn back to Haymitch, who’s trying to hide a smile. He discreetly gives me a thumbs-up.
I take my seat next to Katniss. I can feel her stare at me. Her eyes are burning holes into the side of my face as we stand for the Capitol’s anthem.
My gaze travels up to the screens from before, and I squint through the flaring lights. Every single screen in the room is trained on me and Katniss. She still has that blush from before present on her face, and her eyes flick on the screen—she’s looking at my face up there, and I’m looking at hers.
The anthem ends, and we’re all told to go back to our rooms. I turn to face Katniss, but she’s already sprinting away from me. I give another glance to the other tributes and hustle after her.
“Damn it, Katniss,” I mumbled under my breath, giving fake smiles to the workers as I push out of the tribute seating area and into the lobby.
My way-too-expensive Capitol-made shoes squeak and slip against the polished floors of the building. I get there just in time to see the back of her dress disappear into an elevator car.
I slam the button on the panel, cursing under my breath as the next elevator car shows up, sparks flying as the wheels churn against the railing.
Ding!
The elevator car begins moving. As the floors blur by, I find myself wondering if we should’ve told her, but I shoot that thought down instantly. Her reaction was perfect. It was equal parts flattered and surprised- if she’d known beforehand. It wouldn’t have been nearly as believable.
Katniss rushes me the second I step out of the elevator. I feel her shove me into the wall. The force of the impact shatters an urn near the elevator, and my hands are peppered with pieces of glass.
“What was that for?” I say, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain in my hands.
The blush from before is gone. Her pink cheeks and shy expression are replaced, instead, by a red, splotchy anger. Her chest heaves as she shouts, “You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!”
“What, that I love you?” I reply incredulously, scoffing. I wipe my bloody hands on my pants. “I was answering Caesar’s question.”
The elevator doors ding open behind me, and Effie’s worried voice explodes in my ears, “What happened? Did you fall?”
“Yeah,” I try to diffuse the situation. One look at Katniss, though, and I can’t help but say, “Right after giggles over here shoved me into the wall.”
Cinna and Effie surround me. Effie tuts at how I’ve desecrated the clothes she provided for me, while Cinna examines my hand.
Haymitch is the last to step out, but the first to talk. “Shoved him? You shoved the boy, right before the Games? Why not take his leg out next?”
“This was your idea, wasn’t it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?” Katniss answers, refusing to look back at me. “Making me look like some defenseless little—”
“It was my idea,” I cut her off with a glare, hiding a wince as Cinna pulls spikes of pottery from my palms. “Haymitch just helped me with it.”
“Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!” Katniss says. I’m surprised at the look of hurt and betrayal that flashes across her face when she looks at me, even if it’s only there for a second.
“You are a fool,” Haymitch says in disgust. He glances at me and then looks back at her, a sneer forming on his face, “Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own.”
“He made me look weak!” Katniss continues indignantly. “Like I can’t—”
“He made you look desirable! And let’s face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You’re all they’re talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!” Haymitch says, sarcastically raising his arms as he finishes talking. He jabs his finger at me. “He made you both the fan favorites in a heartbeat. Did you see the way some of those people were looking at you? You became real to them.”
“But we’re not…that’s not…” Katniss begins to say.
Haymitch grabs her shoulders and pins her against the wall. “Who cares? It’s all a big show. It’s all about how you’re perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Peeta Mellark is in love with you. He wants to keep you safe. Use that brain of yours, sweetheart; which do you think will get you more sponsors?”
The smell of wine on his breath makes me gag, even from over here. Katniss shoves his hands off her shoulders and steps away, trying to clear her head.
Cinna takes that moment to let go of my hand. He walks over to Katniss and puts his arm around her. She calms a little at his touch, but that isn’t saying much in the grand scheme of things.
On a scale from one to ten, with one being mellow and ten being the kind of angry that makes everyone around you pee their pants, before Cinna, Katniss was a solid eleven. Now she’s sitting at an eight.
I’m drawn out of my thoughts as Cinna backs up Haymitch. “He’s right, Katniss.”
“That isn’t fair,” Katniss says a moment later. I roll my eyes—I’m the guy with cut-up hands, and everyone’s focused on her. “I should have been told, so I didn’t look so stupid.”
“Stupid?” Haymitch repeats. He looks at me, his mouth wide open, and begins guffawing, much to Katniss’ chagrin. The flare in her nostrils tells me she’s working back up to an eleven.
“What Haymitch is trying to say is that your reaction was perfect,” Portia interjects hastily. She pats my shoulder comfortingly as if she’s been listening to my thoughts so far. “If you’d known, it wouldn’t have read as real.”
“You’re golden, sweetheart. You’re going to have sponsors lined up around the block,” says Haymitch as he regains his composure. “Both of you.”
Katniss turns to me. I wonder if she’s embarrassed about her reaction at all. Eventually, as if every word she says physically causes her pain, she says, “I’m sorry I shoved you.”
“Water under the bridge, giggles,” I reply, grinning at the angry expression that forms on her face. I raise my bloody hands in surrender. “Although it’s technically illegal, so...”
“Are your hands okay?” She asks softly, and I blink a few times. The change in emotion from her gives me whiplash sometimes.
“They’ll be okay.” Everyone gives me an unconvinced look.
“I’m not taking any chances with you,” Portia mumbles in my ears, and I’m forced to follow her back down to the main lobby.
Portia ushers me through the winding halls of the building, my heart racing with apprehension. She’s grabbing my arms and frog-marching me like she thinks I’ll injure myself more on the way there.
Eventually, we arrive at a small, nondescript door tucked away in a forgotten corner of the hallway.
She pushes it open, revealing a dimly lit medical closet with a cacophony of medical equipment and supplies stacked on shelves and littered across tables.
Portia begins cleaning my wounds, and I wince as the hot water runs over my hands.
“If I knew this was going to happen, I would’ve just picked another girl,” I mumble.
Portia laughs from across me. “Who else would you have chosen? Clove? The girl from four?”
“Could I have chosen you?” I ask, and we both laugh. “No, really though. You wouldn’t have pushed me that hard. Kicked me, maybe, but…”
“I would have done no such thing,” Portia says indignantly as she wraps my hands in bandages. “That was a very noble thing you did. Using your time to help her look good.”
“Katniss doesn’t think so,” I point out. “I didn’t expect her to get so…mad though. I mean, I get that I put her on the spot and stuff, but was it really that bad? I mean, it’s not like I said I wanted to marry her or something.”
“I don’t know,” Portia replies unconvincingly. “There could be a lot of reasons, I suppose. Maybe she does have someone back home.”
“Oh, that’s right, there is this one guy she hangs around with,” I say, trying to drum up images of him in my head. I see a tall, dark-haired boy standing next to her. “Huh. No kidding. That might be it.”
“Still,” Portia urges, snipping off the end of the bandages. She wraps my concealed hands in hers. She kisses my forehead softly. “You did the right thing. The both of you will get a ton of sponsors out of this.”
“That’s what it’s all about, right?” I reply with a smile. The smile dies as I consider what’s about to happen tomorrow. For the first time since I got to the Capitol, my confidence wavers a bit. My eyes burn, and I blame the septic smell wafting through the room. “I…thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“Of course, Peeta,” Portia smiles sadly and takes my head in her hands. “It’s going to be okay.”
By the time we get back to the room, everyone’s already done eating. Portia offers to keep me company, but I wave her off. I’d prefer to be alone for a while, anyway.
I catch Katniss looking at me a few times while I eat, and I’m disappointed that I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Is she mad? Sad? Constipated?
“Peeta!” Haymitch eventually hollers from the common room. “Reruns!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble under my breath and walk over. The only available seat is the one next to Katniss, and I debate just standing for a while. The tiredness in my legs wins out, and I sit down, as far away from her as possible.
I can’t help but feel disconnected from the version of me on the screen. Even though I’d just been down there with Caesar, say, an hour ago, it doesn’t feel real.
Perhaps it's the magic of television, the way it can take a live event and turn it into something polished and perfect.
Or maybe it's the fact that I'm so used to seeing myself in a certain way, with all my flaws and insecurities hidden away, that this new, polished version of myself is jarring.
Either way, I can't shake the feeling that the person on the screen isn’t really me. That version of me is confident, charming, and in control. That's a far cry from how I feel right now.
The only thing of note in the interviews is, as you’d guess, the ending. I hadn’t gotten the full scope of Katniss’ reaction when I was onstage, but now, it’s apparent to me that Haymitch and I did the right thing by not telling her.
When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a heavy silence settles over the room like a thick, suffocating blanket.
The air is charged with tension and anticipation, and it feels like everyone is holding their breath.
As the seconds tick by, the only sound present is the soft hum of the air conditioning in our unit, a gentle drone that fills the space between heartbeats. It’s a reminder of the outside world, a constant presence that keeps the room from feeling entirely suffocating.
And then, with almost startling suddenness, the hush is broken by a sharp intake of breath. It’s Haymitch, and he’s beginning to stand up. “Alright. Listen up.”
He walks us through what happens next.
Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games don’t start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But Katniss and I must make an early start. There’s no telling how far we will travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games.
Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here, they’ll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, and working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Portia will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena.
Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say something awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!”
Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.
Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.
“Any final words of advice?” I ask, leaning against the couch.
“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water,” he says. “Got it?”
“And after that?” I ask.
“Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave us on the train, but he’s not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?
We all go our separate ways to shower and prepare for the night. I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink, but I still try, at first.
It doesn’t work.
I lay in my bed, staring up at the ceiling, my mind a chaotic mess of thoughts and emotions. I can’t shake the feeling of nervousness that has settled deep in my bones in the absence of everyone else, no matter how hard I try.
I feel like a little kid again. Every creak and groan of the building rips me out of bed, and I stare at my door, wondering if somehow, the Games will start early, and I’ll be caught like this.
The sounds of laughter and partying from outside my room seem to magnify my unease, and I toss and turn, unable to find a comfortable position.
I try to distract myself by reviewing my training, and going over every possible scenario that I might encounter in the arena, but my mind keeps wandering back to the terrifying reality of what lay ahead.
Eventually, I just say screw it and walk myself out to the terrace. If all these people are cheering and laughing because of the Games tomorrow, I might as well try to enjoy it too.
I look down from the balcony and see a dazzling spectacle unfolding below me. As I guessed, a festive party is in full swing, a riot of color and movement that seems almost surreal in its vivacity.
The air is thick with the scent of flowers and perfume, and the soft glow of candles cast a warm, inviting light over the scene. The guests were dressed in their finest clothes, which to me, look like clown costumes.
Their laughter and conversation mingle together in a joyful symphony. As I watch, a group of dancers takes to the floor, their movements graceful and fluid, as if they’re swept along by the music.
Their costumes sparkle in the light, each sequin and bead catching the glow of the candles and creating a mesmerizing effect. It feels like I’m in a dream, watching from a distance as this vibrant world plays out before me.
I can't help but feel a sense of bitter irony. Here, in the heart of the Capitol, people are celebrating their excesses and indulging in their pleasures, while, tomorrow, just outside the city walls, young tributes will be sent to their deaths.
It's hard to fathom how these people can be so disconnected from the reality of the Hunger Games, so callous to the suffering of those who are forced to participate.
As I watch the revelers dance and drink and laugh, I can't help but feel a deep sense of anger and frustration. How can they be so blind to the injustice of it all? How can they dance while others die?
“You should be getting some sleep.”
Cold fear surges through my veins, and I tense up until I place the voice. I turn. It’s Katniss. I plaster a smile on my face and nod toward the street, “I didn’t want to miss the party. It’s for us, after all.”
She comes up beside me and leans over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are full of dancing people by now. “Are they in costumes?”
“Beats me. With all the crazy clothes they wear here, it could be just about anything,” I grumble under my breath. I make eye contact with her. “Couldn’t sleep, either?”
“Couldn’t turn my brain off,” Katniss amends softly, her gaze flickering to the bandages on my hands. A twinge of pain flashes across her face. “I really am sorry about your hands.”
“It’s alright,” I inhale the icy night air. The chill seeps into my bones. “I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that. I didn’t mean to offend you or your boyfriend. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable of a situation I probably put you guys in.”
The neon lights from the street below reflect in Katniss’ eyes, making them dance. “My boyfriend?”
“That guy that’s always with you when you come to the bakery. The tall one.”
“Oh, Gale,” she says, biting her lip and looking back out to the street. “He’s not…that’s not…we’re not like that.”
“Oh,” I mumble, my face burning hot. I stare out at the street, feeling foolish. “The way you reacted, I just thought…never mind. I’m still sorry.”
“Why did you say it?” Katniss asks suddenly, taking a step closer to me. I catch a whiff of her fresh toothpaste. Even though we’ve been at the Capitol for a few days at this point, her clothes smell of pine and cedar, and her skin carries the faintest hint of wildflower perfume. It's a heady combination—one that makes me feel like I'm standing in the heart of the woods, rather than on a rooftop in the middle of the Capitol.
She gives me an intense, searching look that I've never seen before. “What made you say that?”
I hesitate, feeling the weight of her gaze. "Well, it’s true," I admit, the lie rolling off my tongue with ease. Katniss gasps in surprise. "I do. Love you, I mean."
“Why would you say that in front of all those people?” Katniss eventually asks, and I shrug in response. The tips of her ears have turned red. “Wouldn’t you rather just make yourself look good? Why would you drag me into it?”
“My way accomplished both,” I point out, gripping the railing tightly. The coldness radiates through the fabric of my bandages. “Besides, I figured the least I could do was set you up. I’m not really a contender here, anyway. I’ve never been.”
“That’s no way to be thinking,” she retorts sharply, stepping back and retreating into the shadows. I strain to make out her form, but it's too dark. There's an angry waver in her voice. Somehow, my self-deprecation offended her.
"Why not? It’s true," I continue, the words spilling out of me like a torrent. It feels like I've been holding them in for so long, and now that they're out, I can't stop. "My best hope is to not disgrace myself and my family too much and..."
“And what?” Katniss prods.
“It’s not important,” I sigh, feeling my heart rate quicken. I can't tell if it's from the cold or the adrenaline. As I survey the rooftop, my eyes lock onto a pair of piercing gray eyes. Katniss' stare is unyielding. "Forget it. Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"
“Count on it.” Katniss disappears as silently as she arrived, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I wonder if I’ll be able to kill her if the time comes.