Chapter Text
The games are over. We won.
Peeta hugs me, holds me, kisses me. For the cameras, of course. There are tears in his eyes, which stare so deeply into mine that I almost forget about it all–the Capital, the cameras, the talk shows we will inevitably have to do. Pretending to love the games will be difficult, but Peeta has a way with words that somehow has the crowd melting at his feet. Maybe everything will be okay, I think.
“We can go home now Katniss,” Peeta says after we’ve boarded the train.
It almost doesn’t feel true. Peeta’s hand caresses my cheek softly. Will he pull me in for another kiss?
There’s a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. He must have picked them for me.
Haymitch appears, he congratulates us on our victory. He tells us to keep up the good work–keep being in love. After all, the show’s not over yet.
“What does he mean, Katniss?” there's hurt in his eyes. I don’t understand.
…
It replays in my ears as I go to sleep that night, and when I close my eyes I see the way Peeta looked at me. Anger, hurt, hatred.
It was all pretend Katniss, all of it?
A heads-up would have been nice you know.
Haymitch knew, Effie, all of them, and not me? Don’t you think that’s a bit ridiculous?
Haymitch told me beforehand that Peeta’s feelings for me didn’t need coaching. He didn’t need to be told what to say to me, how to act. Genuinity worked better for the cameras anyway. Peeta didn’t like that answer much.
You led me on, Katniss! You tricked me! How could you be so–so heartless?
Heartless? I did it to keep us alive. I kept him alive.
You expect me to believe that? I know what happens to tributes who kill their district partner. You did it to save yourself.
He’s right. Maybe I did lead him on. But the Games aren't a love story–and we were never the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve. If Peeta really believes that then maybe he’s as weak on the inside as he was in the arena.
Objects were broken, screaming ensued, tears were shed. At some point, Haymitch had to break us apart, but not before a pink bruise began to blossom on Peeta’s cheek from where I slapped him.
“She’s like a fucking chihuahua,” Haymitch mumbles under his breath, which smells of liquor and disappointment.
Peeta is locked in his room, for his own protection I assume. He never laid a hand on me but his glare felt like a punch to the gut.
“What part of keep it up did you two not understand? We’ve been out of the public eye for an hour–this better not be what the rest of the trip is like.”
It won’t be. Peeta doesn’t come out of his room until we reach District Twelve.
…
There are interviews, house tours–in a sick twist of fate Peeta and I are moved to the Victor’s Village in houses not twenty-five yards from one another. We have money now, enough to eat whenever we’re hungry–and then some. I forget about how he ever threw me burnt bread in the pouring rain. There is no longer the familiar pain of starvation to remind me.
I run into him every once in a while, in the meadow or near the bakery, and every once in a while, my mouth opens to say something. Nothing ever comes out, and I don’t even know what I might say. Apologize? I have nothing to be sorry for. He should be the one to say he’s sorry. Sometimes I think Peeta will say something to me, but he never does, just shoots me a dirty look at keeps walking. It’s strange because, before all of this started, I’d never seen him angry.
I have Gale, at least. I think I could love Gale, almost as much as I hate Peeta.
…
President Snow surprises me in my home. He tells me he doesn’t buy our love story. I’m shocked
I realize the full extent to which my life and the lives of everyone I love depends on my relationship with Peeta.
I won’t love him the way I’m supposed to.
…
When interviewers and reporters come from the Capital to check up on the star-crossed lovers and victors of the 74th Hunger Games, I accidentally drive my knee into his shin when I run into his arms. As I hoped, he slips on the ice, not before bringing me down on top of him–his vice-like grip on my waist not letting up. It hurts a bit. I hope he hurts more.
The flash of the cameras reminds me that I have a task to uphold. Peeta is already a step ahead of me, and gazing up at me like a lost puppy. It’s sickening, really. I force a lovesick grin and press our lips together. The kiss tastes of resentment.
…
I’ve taken up fashion designing as my ‘talent’. It’s easy to fake, I just read from some cards, say meaningless things while showing off Cinna’s perfect designs.
“Don’t you just love it?”
I’m sure Peeta has a talent as well. I wonder what it is.
Nevermind.
…
Haymitch doesn’t look me in the eye, just takes another sip from the bottle. Effie isn’t much pleased either.
“Fix this,” Haymitch demands.
I will never.
…
The Victory Tour is a different kind of awful. It’s as if Peeta and I are attached at the hip, his arms perpetually wrapped around me, planting kisses on my forehead. I see Haymitch shoot me a look and I realize I’m not doing enough. I slap Peeta’s behind as he walks off stage. Haymitch takes another drink.
“Real funny,” Peeta whispers as his arm finds my waist again. His fingers dig in deep, and I’m sure I have a bruise there.
We go to District 11, where Rue and Thresh lived. Peeta offers the families a month of our winnings for the rest of our lives. He didn’t even know them.
An old man brings attention to himself in the crowd–it’s a fatal mistake. Sobs wrack my body as I see the bullet enter the back of his head. Peeta’s restraining me. I kick and scream. He doesn’t let go.
We’re back on stage in an instance, this time in the next district.
“Tell us what you really think,” the crowd shouts as I fake a smile and kiss Peeta’s cold lips.
I can’t do that.
I cry to Haymitch at one point, begging him to let this all end. I can’t take all of this pretending, the lying, Peeta, I can’t do it. Haymitch tells me to grow up.
This will never end, I realize.
…
“Snow isn’t convinced, I know, surprising,” Haymitch huffs.
“You’ve really left us no other choice,” Effie chimes in.
My eyes find Peeta, he looks equally as confused. Effie excitedly gives us the news.
We have to get married. I’m going to be sick.
“No,” Peeta says, staring blankly at the two. He doesn’t meet my eye. “Absolutely not.”
I couldn’t agree more.
…
He proposes when we reach the Capital. It’s the happiest day of my life. I smile wider than I ever have–it feels as though the corners of my mouth could rip.
“Yes, I will marry you, Peeta Mellark.” tears fall from my eyes.
Peeta stares up at me a look of pure adoration on his face. Some watching faint there on the spot. I think I might too.
Peeta slips the diamond on my finger. Where did he get this ring? It’s huge. It’s nothing more than a symbol of the Capital’s disgusting wealth. I’ll wear it forever, a reminder that my life is no longer my own.
…
I don’t know what strings Haymitch must have pulled with Peeta and my family but he comes over often now, baking bread for my mom and Prim. Prim loves him more than anything. She doesn’t know him like I do.
Mother despises him I think. She never wants us in a room alone, especially after dark. I can’t imagine why.
“Be safe,” she tells me. Whatever that means.
Peeta and I keep to ourselves mostly, occasionally we bicker. Once we fought, when he asked me where my boyfriend was, and I realized he meant Gale. I told him to leave–he said he was baking. Somehow a bag of flour ended up turned over on my head. He laughed. Somehow he ended up on the ground in a fetal position clutching his groin. I laughed.
I’m not allowed in the kitchen when Peeta’s baking anymore.
…
Prim gives me false directions when I take her goat to the farmer to get pregnant. Something doesn't feel right about forcing the poor animal into such a compromising state.
I go to the West entrance, next to the slag heap.
I return home with a bruised tailbone and a broken heel.
“Where have you been?” Mother asks me, her tone indicates that I can’t tell the truth. That I was out beyond the electric fence.
“Where haven’t I been?” I drag my injured foot across the room, keeping my boots on.
“Okay, well where haven’t you been?” Peeta asks.
Peeta places an arm around me and I yelp in pain. He lets go of me then, but his eyes hold mine for a second—he hardly ever looks at me anymore.
He doesn’t mention it while the peacekeepers are inside, but I can tell he knows I’m in pain. He never asks about it.
Why would he care?
He and Haymitch laugh at me when they find out it was my fault I ended up at the wrong address.
“You just don’t listen, Katniss,” Peeta says.
“Maybe you should have gone to get the stupid goat knocked up then,” I snap. They laugh harder.
He takes a piece of the candy I bought for Prim, and I want to slap his hand away.
“That isn’t yours,” I say. Mother and Prim shoot me a look.
“Peeta can have some,” says Prim.
“I didn’t get it for him, I got it for you,” I respond, even as Haymitch gives me a warning glance.
Careful.
Peeta takes one of Prim’s candies and pops it into his mouth. I let him.
…
One day there is a blizzard, Mother refuses to send Peeta home. I beg her to.
I wake up screaming, images of Cato and the mutts ripping him apart still fresh in my mind.
The door swings open. It’s Peeta. I guess my screaming startled him, he was in the Arena too.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
That’s the end of it.
…
A box of wedding dresses arrives in the mail. Addressed from Snow. I leave them in the Box until Prim begs me to try one on. I’ll do anything to make her happy.
Peeta walks in as I’m trying the last one. It’s a simple satin gown, too plain for the Capital, but perfect for me. His eyes land on me as I’m facing the mirror, they don’t fall to the floor like they usually do.
There’s something unrecognizable in his expression.
It’s then that I realize why the gown is so plain. It was never meant to be worn in the Capital. It’s a toasting gown. But how did Snow know about our traditions in District Twelve?
…
The nightmares don’t leave, I wake up screaming every night.
…
I ask Gale to run away with me. He’s ecstatic. He hugs me, kisses me. I kiss him back.
He tells me he loves me. I don’t
Why don’t I love Gale?
He doesn’t want to run away with me anymore.
He tells me to run away with Peeta, since we are both cowards.
…
Haymitch forces Peeta to escort me everywhere I go. I’m expected to sell our relationship, constantly hugging, kissing, looking lovingly at one another. But I can tell that nobody in Twelve cares as much as those in the Capital do. If anything, this act we put on has done nothing but ostracize us more from everyone else. At least someone else can share this torture. I’m glad it can be Peeta.
There’s a commotion in the town square, a man screaming, and the crack of a whip.
Peeta stands on a crate to get a better look. He tells me to go.
I don’t.
“You’ll only make it worse,” someone says, directed at me I think. I keep pushing through the crowd. Peeta grabs my wrist. I stop.
“Don’t touch me.”
He lets go.
I see that it’s Gale, tied to the wooden post, a dead turkey nailed above him. The peacekeeper raises his whip and I understand now. “Stop it!” I scream but nobody hears.
I run in front of Gale, shielding him with my body. My face takes the full force of the whip and I taste blood. Somebody’s body blocks my view, and I smell the familiar scent of Peeta. It would look bad to the press if he didn’t protect me I suppose.
…
Gale is rushed back to my house on a wooden board–Mother is the only person in the District who can heal him. His cries reverberate through my skull. I can’t take it.
“Give him the medicine, Mom, I’ve tried those herbs, they won’t even knock out a headache.”
She doesn’t listen.
I scream.
“Get her out,” Mother says calmly. Gale still whimpers at every touch. Peeta and Haymitch grab me, dragging me from the room. I fight.
“You wanted this Peeta, I know you did,” I sob.
They pin me down.
“You didn’t want me to see, you didn’t want me to help him.”
“I hate you Peeta, I hate you!”
They have to force-feed me sleep syrup to get me to calm down. Somewhere in my daze, I recognize Peeta pressing something cold to my cheek where the whip sliced me. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
…
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."
I can’t breathe.
I hear my mother cry, the TV shatters behind me.
I run and Peeta doesn’t follow me.
I don’t know where I end up, only that my hands are cut on broken glass and shards poke into my bleeding skin. I wander for some time and wind up at Haymitch’s house. He’s alone with a bottle of liquor. It looks appealing to me. He offers–No–I demand the bottle. I’ve never been drunk, but it feels good, and drowns out the pain signals in my hands.
“So you finally did the math sweetheart? And now you’re here to what, tell me to protect you over Peeta?”
It hurts something inside of me when he says it. I’m not sure why, but my mouth runs separate from my mind. It must be what I’ve consumed.
“Is that what you think of me, Haymitch?”
“Without a doubt.”
…
“You could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve that boy.”
I leave. I take the bottle with me.
…
I tell myself I don’t care what happens. I’m going into the Arena. I will be dead in a matter of months, so will Haymitch if he is chosen.
And then Peeta. I couldn’t ask Haymitch to let him die, if only it were so easy.
The alcohol controls my feet as well. Evident as I end up at the doorstep of the one house I never want to go into.
I must have knocked because the door swings open a few moments later.
“What are you doing here?”
I don’t even catch his words, too caught up trying to figure out what I’m doing here.
“Katniss.” Peeta waves a hand in front of my face.
Peeta.
“God, what happened to you?”
I look horrible, I know. There’s probably blood dripping down my arms.
He looks at me in question, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t lift his frown. It’s okay.
“You should go home,” he says.
I can’t go home. Not now.
He must be able to read my mind, because he looks at me with silent comprehension. Does he know what it’s like not to be able to face his family?
“I’m not reading your mind Katniss, you’re speaking outloud.”
Oh.
Peeta steps out of the way with an exasperated look on his face, probably the warmest welcome I’m ever going to get from him.
“You can be sure about that,” Peeta responds.
“Stop knowing what I’m thinking,” I say, but my words slur together. How much of the stuff did I drink?
“About half the bottle by the looks of it.”
“Well, Haymitch helped,” I say, flopping down on the floor where a couch should be. Does this guy not have any furniture?
“There’s not much need for furniture. It’s not like anyone comes around.”
“What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Peeta’s always had a crowd of friends in school. I still don’t understand how he ever noticed me–when I’m sure so many other girls wanted to date him. He isn’t so bad looks-wise.
“Really, is that so?” Peeta says with a smirk, slumping down next to me. “And why is that?”
I feel my face redden. I realize he can read my mind. I need to stop thinking.
I offer him the bottle, he shakes his head. “You’ll be dead by the end of summer,” I remind him. He accepts the bottle and takes a swig.
“You’re not such a good influence,” Peeta says, handing back the bottle but changing his mind halfway through the motion. “Actually I think you’ve had enough.”
I scowl at him and try to retrieve my bottle. I only succeed in throwing my body into Peeta, who grabs me by my wrists and with a glint of amusement–or maybe concern asks, “What the hell did you do to your hands,”
Oh yeah, the glass from the window. There’s a broken window somewhere in the Victor’s village.
“Well, I’m not about to go into the arena with someone who can’t even shoot. That about completes your skillset, right?” Peeta asks, poking at the fire that’s keeping the house warm before returning attention to my injuries.
I huff. Peeta’s right, I wouldn’t want to go into the Games without full control over any major body parts.
I hear Peeta snort at that.
I remember he lost his leg. I don’t think I ever asked how it was, living with a prosthetic.
Something burns my hands, the remnants of Haymitch’s bottle, then Peeta works carefully, plucking out shards of glass with a pair of tweezers.
Did he say he was going into the arena?
“That’s right,” Peeta says. “Don’t save all the glory for yourself.”
I roll my eyes.
“In fact, I talked to Haymitch too today. I told him not to volunteer for me.”
He what?
I feel my own hands move independently of my thoughts, landing square on his chest and shoving him backward. He must lose balance because of the leg because he tumbles back, the bottle shatters on the floor.
He doesn’t get to do that, decide for me. I’ve had enough decisions made for me this year.
Peeta curses. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that right?”
I do.
“Then do you mind not being one?”
Why would he do it? Volunteer for the reaping? Why would he choose when I don’t have that luxury, only to make the wrong decision?
“God, Katniss is it really all that black and white for you? Do you think I want to kill Haymitch? He won’t survive.”
Haymitch wouldn’t survive, no. Too many years of drinking and aging have destroyed any chance of it.
And does he think he won’t die too? Is he that stupid?
“Maybe I am.”
Haymitch protected me in the last games. He prioritized me over Peeta. Even if I hate him, I don’t deserve that kind of treatment this time around. Peeta will have to live. I won’t be able to live with it otherwise.
Something fills Peeta’s eyes, something dark and miserable.
“Selfish as always, Katniss. It’s all about you, right?”
I don’t answer. Nothing I say in my head supplies an answer either. Peeta continues after a pause.
“You’re taking the easy way out because you think dying is better than coming back and facing the families of the people you killed to survive–what about your family? They need you,” Peeta says, voice raising ever-so-slightly.
“It seems like you’re taking care of them just fine,” I bite back.
Peeta nods his head, choosing his words carefully. “Would you really kill yourself in the Arena just to spite me?”
Spite him? I don’t understan–
“How do you think I feel Katniss?” Peeta shouts. “Do you really think I could just come back and live in a world without–” he cuts himself off.
It’s too late. I already know what he was about to say.
Without me.
“It’s just the alcohol talking,” Peeta says, rubbing his hands over his face. He picks up the roll of bandages and continues tending to my hands, keeping the distance between us as far as possible.
“I don’t want you to die, Peeta.”
He pauses his motions for a second, and quickly picks up again, ripping the bandage with his teeth and tying it off.
“Back atch’ya”
The light from the fire illuminates Peeta’s face, it reminds me of the outfits we wore on the carriage. It warms me. The sensation of his hand squeezing my wrist awakens a different kind of warmth inside me. Something I haven’t felt since the cave in the Arena. His eyes meet mine, blue and red from the fire.
Maybe I don’t hate Peeta.
“Yeah?” he asks, something in his expression softens. The distance is closing.
“Maybe.” My hands are in his. Peeta huffs.
“Maybe,” he repeats, and then his lips are on mine.
…
“Morning Sunshine.”
Shit.
His blond eyelashes glow in the sunlight. I’m in his bed. So is he.
What did I do? I guess he can no longer hear my thoughts, because he stays silent, staring dagger into me with a look of vague satisfaction. I feel naked. I am.
“Care to tell me what happened last night?” Peeta asks, a subtle smirk lacing his expression.
Tell him? I hardly remember myself.
“I’m sure you can put the pieces together,” I say. My throat feels raw.
“All I remember is that I was at home minding my business, and you showed up, begging me to sleep with you.”
I laugh at that. “Yeah right.”
“No, really. You were all over me,” Peeta insists.
I roll my eyes. My face feels hot.
“Anyway, training starts today. You might want to take a quick shower before Haymitch gets here,” Peeta says.
“Fine.” I get up, dragging his blanket with me for coverage.
“We’re a little past that, don’t you think?” Peeta jokes, although I see him drop his gaze to the floor as I pass him.
“Fuck off, Peeta.”
…
Drunkenly stumbling into his room, collapsing onto the bed, hot, wet, acidic kisses trailing down my neck.
More.
Strong arms gripping my waist, squeezing my thighs, every touch leaving bruises in its wake.
More.
The sensation of my nails dragging down his spine, my teeth on his collarbone. The metallic taste of blood mixed with saliva, red beneath my fingernails.
“More!”
His agonized moans as I tease him with my tongue, tasting every inch of him. His gasps and whimpers when I finally give him what he wants.
I savor the burn of his tongue as it slides across my body, my breasts, my stomach, slipping inside me while I tangle my bandaged hands into his hair.
We’re a hot sweaty mess of tangled limbs when he finally pushes into me, my legs tightly constricted around his torso, his hands run over me with exhilarating desperation as we act driven by our deepest animalistic impulses.
As I’m pushed over the edge, I feel the way Peeta’s muscles contract, rippling and dripping with beads of sweat. I recognize a hot splash of wet running down my stomach as my vision fades in and out.
Everything after that is black.
…
Peeta is sipping a mug of coffee when I enter, hair still dripping and cheeks still burning.
“Any bread left?” I ask.
Peeta looks at me quizzically. “Bread?”
“You know, the bread we shared yesterday?”
With no response, I decide to continue.
“In front of the fire.”
His blue eyes widen and the mug is soon shattered on the floor. Peeta curses as the boiling liquid splashes his toes.
I snicker, pushing past him to open the front door, Haymitch is on the other side.
“Care to explain anything?” He asks, eyes glancing back and forth between the two of us.
“What are you talking about?” I respond, feeling myself grow hot again.
“What’s with all the broken glass?”