Part One
i.
The smell of sex, cigarettes, and dark liquor permeate the room. He stands on his knees on the bed, trousers halfway on, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, his hands gripping the hips of the woman on her elbows and knees in front of him. As he thrusts into her not caring for her pleasure or needs he is thankful she had enough sense to bury her face in the pillow in front of her. He didn't care if the entire world could hear her screams, but he couldn't stand her painted on heart shape lips, her fake drawn on mole, or the way she had sneered as she tried to seduce him; so her face in a pillow, greasepaint smearing, suited him just fine. He watched in fascination as the ash of his cigarette broke off, landing on the small of her back, and he was slightly disappointed the cherry top hadn't fallen with it. When he felt the telling tightening in his stomach signaling the end, he inwardly sighed in relief that the experience was almost over.
Pulling out he held her in place with one hand, holding himself in the other, shooting milky white streams onto her back, and holding back his laughter when some of his release landing in her awful Louise Brooke bob. Turning from her he stood, pulling up his trousers and tucking his shirttail, before sitting on the edge of the bed to hastily pull on his shoes. He ignored her when she crawled on her hands and knees to where he sat, ignored her when she rested her cheek on his shoulder, and he ignored her when she began to trace his thigh – in what he assumed she thought was a seductive manner – with the tip of her fingernail. Hw was nearly finished lacing one shoe when her affected accent (which grated against his ear, his soul even) filled his ears.
"So baby, do ya' really think you can get me into the pictures?"
As she talked she incessantly smacked her gum, making his hair stand on end. Instead of answering he snorted at her, and tried to shake her off in order to begin work on his remaining shoe. He could feel the shift in her mood almost immediately. Good, he thought, she's finally getting it.
"You promised!" She screeched, causing him to roll his eyes.
"Yeah? And you promised you'd be the best lay I'd ever had. We both lied doll." Standing, he adjusted his tie in the mirror of her dimly lit apartment, while she rocketed to stand on her knees on the bed.
"You can't do this to me! Just who do you think you are?"
Collecting his suit jacket and placing his hat on his head he turned to her one last time.
"I'm Peeta Mellark, and you sweetheart, well, you're nobody."
Slinging his jacket over his shoulder he walked out of her door, closing it just as the vase she had thrown from her night table slammed against the wall.
ii.
She watched the California landscape glide past her eyes as she rode in the backseat of the car with vapid disinterest, longing for the thick lush forests she had left behind in Sweden. At 19 she had done more than anyone she had ever known would even dare dream, but she couldn't help miss her home and the anonymity it had granted her. Sighing, she turned her attention to the driver of the car, who was desperately trying to keep his driver's hat on his head against the cross winds. It was amusing if not somewhat pathetic. She wanted to lean up and tell him to take it off, so as to be able to drive more cautiously, but as experience told her, she knew he would scoff at her.
Americans, she thought, rolling her eyes. As a people they were all together too proud, too close-minded, and as she was quickly learning, too starved for entertainment. When her mentor Haymitch had brought her to America as his protégée, she had been endlessly excited. America was the golden world, Hollywood Land it's Acropolis, and he assured her she would never want for work, and thus far he was right.
Coming off her success in Panem Studio's "Torrent" and "The Girl on Fire", she was quickly on her way to being a star, but at what cost? In her non-American films, before she had sold her soul to Panem, she had played innocent girls, finding depth in their characters, and meaning in their struggles. Now she was, as it was called in the papers, a "vamp", seducing men, motivated purely by her need to manipulate, lust and sexual desire. She hated it, but had no choice in it. Now, sat in the back seat of the car, she was on her way to play yet another out of control, horrible woman.
"Men will be out of their minds to fuck you and women will spend all of their money trying to be you. You're going to be a star kid. Now get your ass to the studio."
The words of Mr. Crane echoed in her head. Walking off the Panem lot after being assigned her new movie had been a brash move. Telling the press she hated her roles had been even more daring, but she couldn't bring herself to regret her actions.
As the car pulled into the lot, she shrank further into her seat, hiding from the glaring billboard of "The Girl on Fire", mocking her from outside her window. When they came to their stop the driver opened the door, bowing at her.
"Miss Everdeen, we have arrived."
Tugging her coat tightly against her shoulders, she stepped out of the car with a sigh.
iii.
"That will be 10 cents sir."
The cigarette boy who walked around the lot with his tray of cigarettes looked expectantly at Peeta. Grumbling, he reached into his pocket to find the necessary money.
"Keep the change." He mumbled as he handed over a quarter.
Tips weren't commonplace for the boy, and he gawked at the extra 15 cents.
"Thanks mister!" He exclaimed, handing Peeta the pack of cigarettes. Peeta nodded at the boy sped off, no doubt trying to meet his daily quota before the heat of the Californian sun became unbearable.
Absentmindedly he began to place the cigarettes into his golden case, selecting one when he had finished, and striking the match to light it with against the brick wall behind him. As the flame caught on the edge of the paper, he pulled in on the smoke, watching as a chauffeured car pulled up a few feet away near the dressing rooms provided for the stars. The woman the driver helped out of the auto was stunning, and Peeta watched, dumbstruck by her seemingly effortless and natural beauty, until the fire of the match singed his fingertips. Cursing out loud he shook the match out, smoking deliberately slow as he watched the woman walk into one of the dressing room doors. Glancing at the name on the door, he felt his lips curl into a smile.
So that was Katniss Everdeen. She was stunning in her films and photographs, but clearly neither could do her beauty justice. Turning on his heel, Peeta walked to the main office lobby, not bothering to acknowledge the women who were the office gatekeepers. Approaching the elevator, he tipped his hat at Buckley, the man who attended to the device. Wordlessly the man took him to the top floor, and Peeta pressed a nickel into his hand before stepping out into the grand lobby of Crane's office.
The marble clicked beneath his shoes as he walked towards the receptionist's desk. Her platinum blonde hair and overdone make-up made Peeta want to roll his eyes, but he knew better. She may be a trend follower, but Effie Trinkett took no one's bullshit or mockery. She was on the phone, but the nod she gave him was all he needed.
Pushing the heavy oak doors open, he strolled into the office. Everything inside screamed of decadence, of power, and of money. People around the lot often joked that Crane's office put the oval office to shame. The lush red carpet and the shined mahogany furniture had been something Peeta had marveled at when he first signed his contract. Now he viewed it with the same distaste he viewed everything else. Powerful men used suits, expensive décor, and young trendy girls to reassert their position in the world, and to Peeta it was pointless and often quite sad.
"Ah Peeta my boy!" Seneca Crane rose from behind his desk, setting his glass down and stretching out his hand to his biggest star.
"Seneca." Peeta shook Crane's hand, before gesturing towards the perpetually stocked drink car. Seneca nodded, sitting back into his plush chair, propping his feet up on his desktop.
"Help yourself old boy. I just got my hands on some fine scotch whiskey from Canada, aged to absolute perfection. It's my opinion that Prohibition has done absolute wonders for the quality of high class liquor."
Peeta examined the glass bottles, selecting the one filled with the dark liquid he knew too well. Selecting a malt glass with an exquisitely tapered end, he poured in the liquid, filling the glass more than halfway. Swirling it, he breathed in the scent, and sighed. Adding a splash of water, he tuned around, and noticed for the first time, that he and Crane were not alone.
"Ah, I must have forgotten my manners. Peeta, this is Haymitch. Best director Sweden's ever seen. He signed with us recently. I believe you've heard of his protégée, the lovely Katniss Everdeen."
Haymitch stood from his chair, smoothing back a long lock of hair that had fallen out of place before extending his hand. Peeta shook it, hiding the smirk that threatened to emerge at Haymitch's overly strong grip.
"Peeta Mellark. Pleasure."
Haymitch didn't try to hide his grin as the two men sized each other up. Skipping pas pleasantries, he sat down, diving into conversation as well as his drink.
"So you're the famed Peeta Mellark. You're about to do a movie with my girl."
Peeta sat back in his chair, eyeing the man on his right, slowly sipping his drink, nodding.
"Seems that way." His mind flashed to the woman who he had seen just minutes earlier, her expression serious, her hair long and braided. His train of thought was interrupted by a snort produced by Haymitch, and he whipped his head to see what the commotion was about.
"She's going to eat you alive if you go around with that dopey look on your face."
"I have no interest in Miss. Everdeen, of that I can assure you." Peeta's temper flared, his words sounding sharp, and while most would have quickly apologized, Haymitch guffawed loudly, bringing a cigarette to his mouth to light.
"I like this kid." Haymitch said to Crane, who smiled, watching their interaction as if it was a match of tennis.
"Hopefully he can knock some sense into her about her place here." Crane said thoughtfully, watching the sunlight from the picture window behind him reflect off his glass. Peeta noticed as Haymitch tense, his interest piqued.
"And what place is that?" Peeta took more of his drink, awaiting either man to answer. Crane set his glass down, sighing, looking at some spot in the distance.
"She's not particularly thrilled to be playing, as she so eloquently puts it, 'bad womens'. But she's spectacular at it. She radiates sexuality whether that's her intent or not."
Out of the corner of his eye, Peeta say Haymitch drown his drink, fighting an obvious impulse to defend his girl.
"Perhaps I'm a little fuzzy in the head due to the heat, but what does this have to do with me?"
Seneca removed his feet from the desk, seemingly switching his personas, from an easygoing friend, to a disgruntled studio mogul effortlessly.
"Mr. Mellark, you and I both know most actors and actresses on this lot would eat your shit if you so much as asked. I highly doubt Miss. Everdeen is any exception. Talk to her. Play up how important vamp movies are, how they accurately portray every Jane and Moll in America. This is the 20's for fuck's sake. Sex is hot and she's our new It girl."
Peeta turned the words over in his head. Despite what Crane obviously assumed, he had a feeling Katniss Everdeen couldn't care less about his status, and he had to admit the idea that she detested using her wiles to sell a move was intriguing to him. Not because he thought her wrong, but rather for the first time in a long while a feeling was bubbling up inside of him that he hadn't felt in a long while. Respect.
Crane was right. Sex and loose women sold, and sold well, but Peeta was tired of floozy women who ascribed to the belief that a vamp was what men wanted. Perhaps it was, but Peeta knew that the movies they made were watched by impressionable people, men and women of the new generation, where booze was illegal but flowed freely, where gangsters were the talk of the town, and sex was so open the entire city of Los Angeles smelled like rank pussy and day old cum. Tipping his drink back, Peeta finished the liquor, placing his glass down and extending his hand to Crane as he stood.
"I'll see what I can do." Crane shook Peeta's hand, and nodded once.
"Good. Do me a favor and show Haymitch to the dressing rooms so he can find Miss Everdeen and give you a proper introduction."
Peeta nodded and Haymitch followed him out of the office. The two men were silent as they rode the elevator down. Once outside the building, Peeta offered him a cigarette and broke the silence.
"Crane's an ass. If Miss. Everdeen doesn't like playing loose women I won't do anything more than respect the hell out of her for having the guts to say so."
Haymitch grinned and clapped Peeta on he shoulder as they strolled.
"Trust me, that's the smartest decision you will ever make."
iv.
Katniss sat at her vanity staring at the stranger in the mirror. Her make up artists had transformed her into her character seamlessly for her screen tests. The thick makeup lay heavily on her face and she glanced longingly at the sink in the corner. She had good skin, had always been told he had naturally expressive eyes, so she preferred to go without the greasepaint, but she was no longer the one making the decisions when it came to her appearance. She was awaiting her new costume designer, an import to Hollywood Land just like she, so she was still wearing the silk dressing gown her makeup artists preferred her in while they "fixed" her appearance.
Standing, she made her way over to the window, shutting it tightly in hopes of drowning out the sounds of the busy studio lot. Loud laughter came from the dressing room of another "up and coming" starlet, called "Glimmer", followed by more muted moans. Katniss rolled her eyes. She had no aversion to sex, had no problem at all with it actually, but Glimmer had recently told her that Marvel was a horrible lover. When Katniss had in turn asked why she continued the affair, Glimmer had laughed as if it was the funniest joke she had ever heard.
"Darling, the best way to get your name in the lights is to convince these hot shots they can make you see stars."
Katniss snorted at the memory. Glimmer was much more cut out for vamp characters, she was one in real life, yet she was playing nuns and whole women while Katniss spent her days swinging her hips and batting her eyes in an effort to ensure men across America could get themselves off thinking of her.
Turning on the radio, Katniss crossed over to her dressing room's couch. Sitting down, she tucked her feet under herself, lighting a cigarette and absentmindedly thumbing through the newspaper. There was a knock at her door, and Katniss assumed it was her new designer.
"Come in!" She shouted, not bothering to get up or make herself decent.
"Shit sweetheart, put some damn clothes on. You're going to send me to any early grave."
Kanitss let out a sound of disgust, not even looking up at her mentor.
"Yes Haymitch. Seeing me in a dressing gown is what will kill you. It definitely won't be the liquor. Which I can smell on your breath from here I should mention."
"I'm afraid I agree with Haymitch, Miss. Everdeen. I think my heart has stopped at the sight of your undress."
Katniss' eyes snapped up, immediately locking onto the pair of blue ones directly across from her. She made the effort to erase the shock and the spark of embarrassment from her features, masking her emotions as she could do so effortlessly.
"If I make you uncomfortable you are welcome to leave."
The smirk that had been dancing across the man's face fell at her words, and Katniss could have rolled her eyes if she was no so occupied with studying his features. He was attractive, of that fact there was no denying. His blonde hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven, causing his boyish features to stand out, but there was something about him that was undeniably all man.
Haymitch slumped down on the couch next to Katniss, drink in hand, taking in the scene before him. Katniss had affixed a cold stare on Peeta, his discomfort becoming increasingly obvious.
"Sweetheart play nice. Poor Mr. Mellark looks as though he may shrink under your gaze."
Katniss scowled.
"So, you're Peeta Mellark."
"At your service Miss Everdeen."
She studied him a moment more before standing from the couch. Her nightdress was white silk, and when the sunlight hit it, Peeta could see everything underneath. When she turned and made her way to the drink cart in the corner, he quickly sucked in his breath, in hopes of calming himself down.
As she went about fixing her drink, Haymitch finished his, slamming the empty tumbler down on the table.
"I've got a meeting to get to sweetheart. Play nice with Mr. Mellark, he's only human you know." Haymitch shot a grin in Peeta's direction as he stood. Katniss didn't turn from her current task, instead raising an arm and flicking her wrist, effectively dismissing the drunken older man.
When she returned to her seat, drink in hand; she made no effort to alleviate the silence. Peeta shifted slightly in his seat.
"So, we are to be co-stars it seems Miss. Everdeen." He said, hoping for a response.
"So it appears." She stated, calmly sipping her drink.
"How are you finding America?" He was grasping at straws, breaking her icy demeanor his new goal.
"It is no Sweden Mr Mellark."
He laughed and she raised an eyebrow.
"I'm afraid I've never been to Sweden, but I'm sure you are right. " Standing he made his way to her drink car, gesturing as to ask if she minded. She simply nodded, and he tuned to make his drink.
"I have to say, for a woman of few words you've still managed to make quite the impression on Mr. Crane."
She stiffened slightly at his words, fighting to quell the rage that rose in her at Crane's name.
"How so?"
"He seems to think you need to be, how did he put it, 'put in your place'." He rejoined her then, and watched as her eyes narrowed. He grinned. "I however have always entertained the idea that Seneca Crane is an absolute imbecile."
She smiled a small smile at him, and his heart leapt in his chest.
"He doesn't like that I don't want to play such foul women."
Peeta considered her words.
"Do you think them foul because of their sexual nature?"
She scoffed.
"I have no problems with sex Mr. Mellark. I do not like how these women use sex and their bodies to manipulate men."
"And how should they use their bodies, if not for the bending of men's willpower?" He leaned forward and offered her a cigarette, which she gladly accepted.
"For passion. For love." She simply replied.
"Well then, that's how you should play them. Make them sympathetic characters. Make these women slaves to passion and victim of circumstance."
She raised her eyebrows, and turned his advice over in her mind for a few minutes.
"I think I may just do that." She said slowly. "Perhaps I misjudged you Mr. Mellark."
He grinned.
"I'm happy to have redeemed myself. I do believe you and I will be great friends."
She matched his smile, hoping he was right.
Part Two
i.
Every day begins the same. They develop a routine of sorts. He comes to her dressing room and they talk freely, slowly lowering their guard until the only thing between them is honesty. As their inhibition melts away, so does the space between them. It happens slowly.
When she cries silent tears after telling him of her father's death, he reaches his hand out, grasping hers, comforting her as his heart breaks.
When he stares blankly at the far wall, remembering the harshness of his mother, she moves next to him, hooking her arm through his, resting her head on his shoulder to let him know she's there for him.
When a lock of her hair falls into her eyes as she animatedly talks about her forest, he uses his fingertips to brush it away, because watching the excitement in her expression makes waking up worthwhile and he won't let anything – not ever a lock of her hair – keep him from seeing it.
When he tells her about his first love, and how she broke his heart; shattered it really; she traces his eyebrow with her thumb, resting her palm on his face, because she cannot fathom how any woman would dare to hurt him, but she doesn't know who to put that in words.
When she lets it slip that she feels safest curled onto the couch next to him, his arm around her, he kisses her, slowly and softly. Because he can.
That fits kiss sets something alight in them both, the passion held in two tortured souls erupting into an all-consuming inferno. Their mornings spent together become full of feverish couplings, with whispered promises, and cries of ecstasy behind a locked dressing room door.
The first time it happens they are sitting on the couch in companionable silence, he is reading the paper, and she is content to just study him, until suddenly, she isn't. He watches curiously as she stands and walks quickly towards the radio, flipping it on before crossing the room and locking her door. He slowly folds up his paper as she makes her way back to him, her eyes full of fire. His heartbeat quickens when she pulls of her silk dressing gown revealing her naked flesh unimpeded for him for the first time.
Her breath catches when he pulls his clothing off to match her, and she is unable to stop her fingers from touching the muscles of his chest, finally freed from the confines of his clothing.
When his lips close around the peaked nipple of her left breast, she breaks their heavy silence, his name a whispered plea on her lips, his touch the answer to her prayers. He lays her down on her back, using his fingers and his lips to worship every inch of her. He doesn't believe in God, he never has, but as he pushed his tongue inside of her and watches as her chest heaves in pleasure, he thinks he has found religion.
When he makes her come with his mouth, and then again with his fingers, she tries to remember if any other man has ever made her feel this way, ever made her feel so alive. She thinks back on her previous lovers, but the moment he pushes inside of her, her mind goes blank, and all she can think is that perhaps there was no one before him, because there is only him.
When he buries his face into her breasts, muffling his shouts of her name, she comes undone for a third time, and once again when she feels him pulse inside of her, signaling his own undoing. When he lifts his head, she smiles at him, brushing the hair out of his eyes. She likes it when he doesn't have it slicked back. She tells him so.
ii.
Later that day, the two share their fist kiss on screen, the passion palpable, the director giddy. Soon though, his giddiness morphs into awkwardness when he yells cut once, twice – three times; to no avail. So slowly he and the crew vacate the stage, while he grumbles about the now lost day of filming.
What he doesn't understand, can't understand really, is that Peeta and Katniss were not purposefully ignoring his calls to end the scene, they truthfully didn't hear him. It seems that the moment their lips and bodies melded together, every part of the outside world ceased to exist.
All that existed was them, the way their bodies felt together, the discoveries they were making. It wasn't until Peeta pulled away to catch his breath he noticed where they were, and that they were alone. Katniss' cheeks burned red and he grinned sheepishly at her, taking her hand.
"Perhaps we should get out of here." He suggests, and she nods enthusiastically.
(The next time it happens however, they do hear the director. They just don't care.)
iii.
The movie is a roaring success, but honestly it's more Katniss' and Peeta's "affair" that makes it so. The studio publishes weekly stories about their love, and Katniss has never hated anything more, while Peeta doesn't seem to really care. One night, when she thinks she cannot take it anymore, he gingerly kisses her forehead.
"Do you love me?" He asks.
"You know I do." She responds simply.
"Then the rest is of no matter."
She believes his words, because she does love him. Even more, she trusts him.
iv.
He helps her perfect her English, by having her read to him from the great novels of the past. They position themselves in front of his fireplace, his head in her lap as she read aloud, pausing occasionally for his help. There are cherished nights for them both. He loves listening to her voice, loves watching the way her lips form around certain words. So, one night, as she read to him, he can't help but interrupt.
"Move in with me Katniss."
She pauses, and looks down into his eyes, brushing the hair from his forehead.
"Yes." She says simply, leaning forward to kiss him lightly, before picking up where she left off. Neither of them can help the small smiles they wear for the rest of the night.
v.
She goes on strike, with Peeta's full support. She won't play bad women anymore. Crane threatens to ruin Peeta's career, but he knows that as long as he and Katniss are together, Crane can't touch him. No one can touch him or hurt him as long as Katniss Everdeen loves him.
vi.
He only drinks recreationally now, and she cries less for the home she left behind.
(It helps, Peeta thinks that he built her a cabin and surrounded it with pine trees on his estate for her. It helps that he built her her own forest.)
vii.
Sometimes though, he does still drink, and sometimes she refuses to leave her room. Their fights are as legendary as their romance it seems.
The public loves it.
viii.
Four months into her strike, Peeta throws a party, and she is made to play hostess. When Crane arrives she is horrified, stalking off to their room. Peeta gives her some space, but after a few drinks, he can't understand why she won't come out, why she won't speak to him. When his pleas to come out and "be a good girl" are met with silence, he becomes angry.
Katniss can hear the anger in his voice, but she ignores it, simply returning to the letter she is writing. When he finally snaps, she expects a lot of yelling on his part, and even more drinking after. She doesn't expect him to leave abruptly from his place outside the door. What she expects even less is for him to scale the house onto their third floor balcony.
When she sees him pull himself up, she is caught between anger and pure amusement, clapping her hand over her mouth to hide her grin. When he storms into the room, fully intent on throwing her over his shoulder and returning to the party, he himself cannot help but to laugh at his actions when he catches her eyes.
"You wouldn't come out to me, so I had to come to you." He explains sheepishly. Her returning smile is full of something akin of adoration he thinks.
"You silly man." She walked to him, and brushes the dirk off of his shoulders.
They both forget about their anger, as well as the party going on downstairs.
viiii.
After 8 months, she wins the strike. She's thrilled, as is he. Her first project will be a movie thy will star in together, one of love and passion and true intentions. As they celebrate over dinner, he is hit with the realization that he could spend every moment of his life with her, and never be bored.
The next day, he buys a ring.
x.
The first time he asks, she tells him no.
"Why not?" He is crestfallen.
"I cannot put it into words I don't think. I've never wanted to be any man's wife. Is it not enough that we are in love, that we belong to each other?" She asks him softly. He can't help it when he smiles at her.
"Yes it's enough."
xi.
But it isn't. Not for him. It consumed him entirely that she won't marry him. So he asks again, and again she says no.
This time there are no soft words. They scream at each other through the entire night until she packs a bag and he falls face first into a bottle of scotch.
He thinks she will come home the next day.
She doesn't.
He drinks.
On the fourth day of her absence, he is at his wits end. He can no longer tell what he is feeling, the liquor has diluted his thinking and the only thing he knows for certain anymore is that she's not here and everything is wrong.
When Crane calls him (gleeful at the current development in Peeta's personal life and intent on stirring the pot), and tells him that he saw Katniss today on the arm of a handsome man come to visit from Sweden, Peeta snaps in two, and all he sees is red.
He barely remembers the drive to her hotel, or the reason he brought with him his revolver, until the conversation with Crane replays itself in his head.
He storms up to her room, kicking down the door, not bothering to knock.
"Where the fuck is he?"
Katniss' eyes are wide at the sight before her. Peeta looks absolutely crazed, his eyes bloodshot, clothes and hair unkempt, waving a revolver in the air, screaming like a mad man. She slowly sets down the bowl of fruit she had been eating and takes a deep breath.
"Where is who, Peeta?" He turns on her, pupils nearly black.
"The man you're fucking behind my back!"
She furrows her eyebrows.
"Peeta, there is no other man, why would you think there is?"
"Crane told me he saw you today with a man from home. Don't lie to me Katniss! Where is he? I'll fucking kill him!"
She stands slowly and walks towards him as though she is approaching a wounded animal.
"Peeta, the man I was with today was Cinna. You've met Cinna."
He deflates for a moment. Yes he knows Cinna. Cinna who is a confidant for Katniss. Cinna who was exceedingly flamboyant. Katniss pries the gun from his hand, and he crumples against her, consumed by his tears. They sink to the floor wrapped around each other.
"Shh, Peeta, it's ok." She murmurs into his hair.
"No it's not. I can't live without you Katniss. I can't."
"I can't marry you Peeta."
"I don't care Katniss. Please just come home."
"Ok Peeta. I'll come home."
xii.
His drinking worsens. She begins taking trips to Sweden more frequently. He hates that she won't marry him, that she is pushing him away.
When she returns after a particularly long trip, she finds him passed out in his own vomit. Sighing, she picks him up, dragging him by his underarms into a bath, before putting him to bed.
He remains unconscious the entire time. She cries herself to sleep.
xiii.
She turns down his proposal of marriage again even though he has the gall to ask in a room full of their friends.
The next day he sends a note to her dressing room suggesting she start paying rent if she is to continue living with him without marrying him.
She doesn't come home for two weeks.
xiv.
He doesn't get asked to make many movies anymore. When talking pictures are introduced his career crumbles while hers soars.
He doesn't care. He just drinks.
xv.
They haven't touched each other in weeks. They sit in silence in front of the fireplace while he drinks from his glass.
"I wish you wouldn't let the drink consume you so often." She whispers.
"Yeah, well I wish you would marry me." He states coldly. When she leaves, he knows it's to hide her tears. He hates how he makes her feel. He begins to drink straight from the bottle.
xvi.
"I can't do this anymore Peeta." She whispers into his chest one night, tears spilling freely. He tightens his hold around her, buries his face into her hair.
"I know. I know."
xvii.
She leaves. He falls apart.
Life goes on for her.
Drinking becomes his.
xviii.
He sits with his friends one night over drinks several years later, despondent, as he always tends to be anymore. Once asks if he will ever move on.
"There's never been a day since Katniss and I parted that I haven't been lonely for her." He murmurs before drowning his drink and leaving.
xviiii.
She can still smell his scent on her clothes sometimes, even though she knows it isn't really his.
She hasn't said the words I Love You to any one since him. She doesn't think she ever will again.
xx.
She's in Stockholm when the telegraph telling her of his death arrives. A heart attack. He was 38. She falls to the floor.
xxi.
Rumors spread that when she found out, she said his death was of no importance to her.
She's never been so livid. She does something she has never done, will never do again.
She addresses the public on her personal life.
xxii.
"I have never loved as I loved Peeta Mellark. I will never love in that way again. My heart is his just as it always has been." She states simply, hoping no one can see the tears welling in her eyes.
(They can.)
xxiii.
She lives a long life. She never marries. She rarely speaks of him.
But those close to her know the truth, that when she prays at night it isn't to a God.
It's to him.