The train is apparently traveling over 250 miles per hour, but it feels like we're going nowhere, literally and physically.
It's going so fast that I don't feel a thing. The only way I know we're moving is by sitting at a window seat and watching the world whiz by, my knees pulled to my chest and an incredibly sweet mug of hot cocoa held tight in my palms.
We've been on the train for just over a full day. We should arrive in District 10 tomorrow. I had always thought it would go faster, that our districts weren't that far apart, but I've come to learn how wrong I had been.
I had been wrong about a lot of things. I'm learning the hard way how altered my perception was of the world we live in.
Just a few days ago, Snow told me I had to not only convince the districts that Peeta and I were in love, but convince him as well. I've kept that piece of information to myself, mostly because Peeta and I haven't really spoken since he was ripped away from me at the end of the last Games.
I don't know what to say to him, I never really did. I can't pick apart my feelings for him; it's much too confusing.
At one point, I had thought that I didn't have the time to be fiddling with petty romantic drama when my family's lives were at stake. But I'm slowly coming to realize that the petty romantic drama is what will keep not only them, but also Peeta and I, breathing.
There's only one thing that matters: during the last Games, I was so in love with him that death seemed better than living without him. I have to think it so much that I'll start to believe it myself. It'll start to become real if I make it that way.
Jarring me out of my thoughts, I hear a sharp rap on the doorjamb of the room that I am sitting in. I look over and see Haymitch standing there, an amber-colored drink in hand.
"Meet in the bar car, sweetheart," he slurs, sloshing his drink around. "We have things to discuss."
I don't agree or disagree, I just stare at him until he vacates my space. Once he's gone, I untuck my legs and make my way to the bar car, where I find Effie, Haymitch and Peeta already sitting. There's one plush, velvet chair left for me next to Peeta. I stand.
I don't participate in the meeting, really, I just stand there and watch. More than once, Haymitch looks over to elicit some sort of reaction from me, but I give him nothing. I can't stop thinking about what Snow said, and what that will mean for mine and Peeta's future.
It's not just my future anymore, it's ours. Haymitch said it himself after we left District 11. We are, essentially, never getting off this train.
The only image that's coursing through my mind is that poor man getting shot in the head after initiating the mockingjay symbol in the air for me. It was for me. His blood is on my hands, though by now it's hard to find an empty spot.
There is a lot of blood on my hands.
The next night after we read off of Effie's cards in front of Distrcit 10, I sequester myself to the very back of the train so I can watch the world zipping by again. The stars are twinkling above; I do my best to let my eyes linger on just one so I can anchor myself to earth.
"Hey." His voice scares me so much I practically jump out of my chair.
I press my hand to my heart and feel it hammering wildly. "You scared me," I say.
"Sorry," he looks down and smiles, then sits down in the chair beside me. "How are you doing?" I shrug. "You've been quiet."
"I saw a man get shot in the head yesterday because of what I said," I say. "It messes with your head."
He nods slowly. There's not much to say in response to that, and I know it. I don't know why I said it. I have no reason to make him feel guilty. None of this was Peeta's fault.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"It's okay," he says.
"No, it's not," I say, "it's not your fault. I shouldn't be taking it out on you. You…you didn't do anything wrong." I think about what Snow said and suddenly I'm paranoid we're being watched. At this point, I don't doubt it, but I don't feel like forcing it for a camera. Right now, the air between Peeta and me is relaxed and calm. Like he said before, we finally have a start at being friends.
I have to admit, ever since he mentioned his favorite color being orange, I've watched the sunset every night.
"You didn't do anything wrong, either," he tells me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"I shouldn't have said those things. I should've just read from Effie's cards."
"We both knew you weren't going to do that," he says.
"Well, I should've," I mutter.
"You make people…feel things," he says, "You inspire people. That's not a bad thing, Katniss."
"It's a bad thing when people die because of it," I state simply. "I'm going to go to bed, Peeta. You should, too. We have another long day tomorrow, full of fake speeches and…" I trail off. "Good night."
"Good night, Katniss."
I wake in the middle of the night, my body drenched in sweat and seemingly every one of my muscles tense to the point of bursting. I'm stiffly upright in my bed, my voice hoarse from yelling, and Peeta appears in my doorway.
My chest is heaving. I can't remember it, but I know it was bad. "I'm sorry, just…a nightmare," I somehow manage to say. Along with the perspiration on my face, I can feel tear streaks as well.
"It's okay," he says, sounding out of breath, "I get them, too. Good night, Katniss."
As he turns to leave, I clench the sheets tight in my fists. "Peeta, wait." He turns back around, his eyebrows raised. "Will you stay with me?"
He doesn't hesitate. He climbs up on my elevated bed, rests his back against the headboard, and wraps one of his arms around me. I melt into his chest, laying my head over his beating heart, and keep my eyes open as he rubs the thin fabric of my nightshirt between his first finger and thumb.
"Always," he whispers, and I will my eyes to close. Knowing he's there with me, sleep comes easier. I sleep through the rest of the night with no interruptions.
In the morning when the watery sunlight pours in from the slatted blinds, Peeta's arms are still strong around me and he's sound asleep, his chin pressed to his chest. I take a moment for myself and just study him; his unbearably long eyelashes gracing his skin, his lower lip pouted out and slack, the coif of his curly blonde hair somehow still perfect even as it's mussed. Even as he sleeps, his grip is still firm on me. That could just be from the weight of his arm, though; Peeta is by no means a small person. I like that about him.
He makes me feel safe.
It seems that I'm thinking about Peeta so loudly that he wakes up due to the sheer amount of times I've said his name in my head. He blinks slowly, tightening his arm around me and therefore pulling my body closer to his. I don't object.
"Good morning," he says, and his voice is raspy. I've never heard him in the morning before, not when we haven't had a million things to worry about. And right now, I guess we still do. But for right now during this tiny, yellow sliver of the day, they're forgotten.
"Morning," I whisper, and then find it impossible to meet his crystalline blue eyes. I stare at his chest, which only proves harder after I notice the sprigs of chest hair curling up from under the neckline of his shirt.
"You sleep well?" he asks, and then untangles our bodies and brings his arm back to his side. I feel the draft of the room for the first time, but don't make a move to touch him again. It's not so easy when we're awake.
"I did," I say, and pull my knees to my chest. "I'm sorry for waking you last night."
"I wasn't bothered, Katniss," he says, and I nod. "Like I said, I get the nightmares, too."
"I never hear you crying out," I say under my breath, feeling suddenly weak or lesser from wearing my emotions on my sleeve. I have the urge to shove them back under.
"My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says easily. I can't resist looking at him; I could never say something like that out loud. "I'm okay once I realize you're here."
I can't think of a thing to say in response. Haymitch was right; I could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve this boy.
A knock on my door disturbs our corner of the world and both of us jump. The person outside, whoever it is, doesn't have to say a word. Peeta gets up at his cue. I'm suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that they knew we were together all night, but after the discomfort comes indignation. Let them know. Peeta and I deserve each other's company after all we've been through.
He's the only person I can relate to these days.
When we get off the train in District 9, my hands are clammy, my mouth is dry and my tongue feels like it's three sizes too big. As we stand backstage, Peeta looks over the cards and mouths the words as he reads along. My heart swells although I don't know why.
Effie comes in moments later and fluffs my hair, then dots a bit more lipstick onto my lips. "Perfect," she says, albeit a bit somberly for her, "just remember, read from the cards."
"Got it," Peeta says, and because the doors are about to open he reaches for my hand. I take his and we walk out together, standing in front of the masses of people waiting to hear us regurgitate words that everyone knows the President wants to hear.
It makes my stomach churn. I don't speak. I'm afraid if I do, either I'll throw up or something will happen like it did in 11. The safest thing for me to do is keep my mouth shut, stand here and look like I'm hopelessly in love with the boy I can't let go of.
His voice shakes, too, though, at some points. The crowd either doesn't notice or isn't paying enough attention. They know just as well as we do that our words are transparent. They mean nothing.
Displeasure from the crowd is better than death, though, any day. I wish there was some way for me to tell them this without putting my life in danger, but I know that there isn't.
When we step off the stage, I feel dissatisfied and inauthentic. I don't want people to think I'm becoming some product of the Capitol, although it feels like that even to myself.
When we get back on the train, I skip dinner and head to my room. I wait until it's dark and then get up from my bed to wander the halls, as I sometimes do when I have nothing else better to fill my time with.
I don't get far before I run into Peeta. We meet each other's eyes and exchange something in a glance that we can't with words. I realize that I want to be with him and only him; if I never had to see another face on this tour I would be happy.
I can't put my finger on a way to tell him that without sounding hopeless.
"Do you want to talk?" he asks, and I nod.
I want him to do all the talking, and I know he will. I want him to put words to what I'm feeling.
We sit across from each other on his bed and just stare at each other, hardly feeling the train's movement at all.
"I know you don't want to keep reading what the cards say," he says, getting right to the point.
"I know we have to," I mutter, "you don't have to tell me that."
"I wasn't going to," he says. "Katniss, I'm on your side. If you haven't gotten that by now."
"I-I know…" I say, although I'm not really sure if I did know. It's somehow reassuring to hear him say it out loud.
"What would you have said?" he asks, and I notice that he's in his nightclothes already. I'm not; I hadn't bothered to change yet. He looks soft and comfortable, dressed in his loose-fitting outfit of muted colors. I look down and see that he's put a sock over the titanium of his bad foot, though it's not really necessary. I wonder if he's self-conscious about it, then condemn myself for being so selfish as not to ask him how he's been faring before now.
"Everyone knows I would've messed it up," I say dismissively. "We already tried that once."
He shakes his head. "We're not in front of a crowd of people now. It's just me. You can talk to me, Katniss. Tell me what you would've said."
For once, I don't fight him. Instead, I take my time letting the sand of his words fall between my fingers as I figuratively shift them from hand to hand.
"I would've said I was sorry," I begin, "again. I guess I would've said that even though I didn't know the tributes from their District, that doesn't make the lives that they lost any less important. I would've said that I was grieving alongside the families that felt the loss because not only do I know loss, too, but I feel like the Games took a part of me that I'll never be able to get back." I let a long breath out of my nose. "But someone probably would've gotten shot again for that. And it probably would've been me."
Peeta has his eyes focused on me, unblinking.
"You're staring," I say, avoiding his gaze. "Was it something I said?"
"It was, actually," he says.
"Well, I'm sorry, I know I'm not perfect like you, but-"
"Would you stop?" he asks, lowering my arm that I had risen to angrily gesture with. "I'm staring because those are beautiful words, Katniss. You have some beautiful things to say." He nods. "You're a good person."
I scoff. "I'm not."
"You can deny it all you want, but it's true," he says, his eyes suddenly flitting everywhere in the room but on me.
"Well, thanks," I say, and we both know it's not genuine. I don't believe him one bit. He's the better person between us, there's no contest at all.
As I look at him in the low light of his room, though, I can clearly see that he doesn't know that.
A feeling that's quite unfamiliar washes over me, one that I can't and don't really want to ignore. I feel like kissing him.
I don't want to say it out loud, then I'll just feel stupid. But I don't know how to make him read my mind.
We both look up from our hands at the same time and lock eyes. "Peeta, I…"
"Would you mind if I kissed you?" he blurts, seemingly surprising himself.
I gnaw the inside of my cheek and nod shakily, not bothering with voicing how badly I want to kiss him, too. Since we're already going to do it, it's pointless to say it out loud now.
So sitting there, on the edge of the bed, I scoot closer to him and then don't know where to put my hands. They shuffle around for a moment and then eventually find a resting place in my own lap, which doesn't feel natural, but it feels safe. Peeta, of course, comfortably takes my jaw in his hands and draws my face closer to his. I flutter my eyes closed and my heart simultaneously plummets to my feet and leaps out of my throat.
I had forgotten what this feels like. The last time we kissed, we were in the cave and he was on the brink of death. His lips were cold, his skin clammy, and his grip shaky. Now he's completely the opposite. His lips are warm and supple, his grip is firm and unwavering, and his cheeks are soft without the faintest trace of facial hair.
How can one person be so painfully perfect?
When we break apart, his eyes are hungry and I'm sure mine are, too. I lift my hands from my lap and anchor them on his shoulders to pull myself closer to him. We kiss again, turning our heads this way and that, until our teeth meet with a loud and jarring "clack!"
"Oh, sorry," I say, backing away and wiping my mouth.
Peeta is grinning.
"What's so funny?" I ask, pressing my lips together firmly.
"You don't have to be so worried all the time, Katniss," he says, and I wonder if he's trying to fill a quota of how many times he can say my name in an hour. He sure says it an awful lot. "If you just relax, it'll be easier."
"Easy for you to say," I mumble, "I'm sure you've kissed plenty of girls. If you must know, you were my first kiss."
"Back when you were pretending," he says, still grinning.
"I was keeping us alive," I snap.
"Joking, Katniss," he says, "I was joking."
"Oh. Right," I say, and let my shoulders deflate. "I'm sorry."
"You can quit apologizing," he says, "if you'll just come here again."
I oblige him and crawl even closer to him, now we're lying side-by-side on his bed, our feet overlapping. The space between my legs feels hot and my lower belly is tightening for reasons I'm not too sure of. I've never been this intimate with a boy before.
I can tell he's nervous, too, though. He keeps biting his lower lip in a way that is not unattractive, and his fingers keep fiddling with the tiniest things. Right now, they've found the hem of my shirt.
"Come back," I say, and crane my neck up to reach him. Our lips meet again, this time easier, and we meld against each other. We find a rhythm eventually. He unravels my braid and weaves his fingers deep into my hair, scratching my scalp with his fingernails in a way that turns me to putty in his hands.
Being with him like this helps me forget about all the turmoil of my life. I know I'm selfish for doing this, for using him to forget everything and everyone else, but I don't have another option.
After a while, his lips drop to my neck. I let out a small squeal of surprise as he presses tentative kisses to my pulse point; I'm sure the blood is about to spurt through my skin it's pumping so hard.
"Is this okay?" he asks. I give him a taut nod.
He wraps his hands around my back to situate me and his bad leg gets caught under his body. It takes him a minute to get readjusted, and when he does I see the bulge in the crotch of his pants. It makes me lose my breath for a moment, I never expected his body to react to me in such a way.
He catches me staring. "You still have no idea," he breathes, "the effect you can have."
I think this twisting feeling in my gut is desire. When it clicks in my mind, I realize how curious I am to see what he looks like – all of him at once. I did see him by the stream when I cleaned him up, but it wasn't like this.
I think he wants to see me, too.
"What if we had sex?" I practically spit out the words, and once they're out in the open between us, I feel so incredibly stupid.
"What?"
"Never mind," I sputter.
"I heard you," he says, "I just never thought you'd say…that."
"You don't want to. Neither do I. I don't even know what I meant."
"I do want to," he says, sitting back on his knees. "I mean, if you want to."
I take my time drinking in the sight of him; his muscles pushing through the sleeves of his t-shirt, the sharp chisel of his jaw, the swoop of his hair over his forehead. I need him.
"I've never done it before," I admit as I sit up. I strip off my shirt and my pants and sit there in my matching bra and underwear set that the Cinna gave me. He gave me one for each day of the week, but I've been conserving them. I don't remember how long I've been wearing this set, the green set.
"It's okay," he says, and pulls off his shirt. I already know what he looks like shirtless, but I still can't help staring. As he bends over the side of the bed to take off his pants, I see him hesitate by his artificial leg.
"If you're more comfortable with it off, take it off," I tell him, drawing my knees up to my chest.
"I don't want to bother you by the sight of it," he says, still lingering.
"Peeta, you don't bother me," I say, "at least not with stuff like that. Othe stuff, yes."
He laughs like I had wanted him to, and then removes the leg. I sense relief from him right away. He seems more him with it off, and I come to the realization that I prefer him without it.
We're just in our underwear now. I want to touch him, but don't know how. He's straining against his boxers, and I can't stop thinking about it. I want to know if it will hurt, but at the same time I don't want to know.
I'm hoping a bit of pain will distract me from my intrusive thoughts about this Tour.
"Where do we go from here?" I ask from under him after we've been kissing for a while. I'm anxious.
"We…anywhere," he says, the early onset of a grin on his lips.
"Do you want to take your underwear off?" I ask him.
"Do you want me to?" he asks.
"We both could," I suggest, "that way one of us wouldn't feel naked without the other doing it, too."
"That's fair," he says. "Um…"
"What?" I ask, sitting up and leaning over in preparation to unsnap my bra.
"Do you think…I could…do that?" he asks, and his cheeks flush apple-red.
"Oh…yeah, sure," I say, and shift my hands down to let his in. He wraps his arms around me and fiddles with the clasp, and we both soon realize that he's not an expert at bras. I don't know much about this kind, either – the kind I have at home are entirely cloth, and I usually just pull this one on over my head without bothering with the little hooks.
Peeta's fingers are simply too big and not deft enough. He's struggling, it's very obvious.
"I can…I can get it," I offer, and he reluctantly moves his hands away. I pull the bra off over my head like a t-shirt and throw it to the side. My breasts bounce a little as I toss it, and Peeta ogles them with such intensity that I have to resist the urge to cover up again. "You go now," I say, nodding towards his boxers.
He strips fast. My throat clogs as I take in the entire sight of him.
I can't help but wondering how he's going to fit.
I slip my own underwear off and then we're both sitting there, completely naked, afraid to touch each other again. I wonder what's allowed and what isn't. Suddenly, I worry if there's going to be a knock at his door any second and wonder if we should just get this over with already.
"Should we just do it?" I ask.
"Can I touch you?" he says, and I nod and lay back. He covers my body with his own and I feel every inch of him touching me in places that I never thought Peeta Mellark would touch.
He covers one of my breasts with his hand and the other with his mouth. My head falls back to hit the pillow and all of the breath is stolen from me. "Oh," I moan, and grapple for something to hold onto. I find his hair, take a large fistful, and tug.
I've never felt like this before. It feels like someone is twisting a wet washcloth in my lower belly until it's about to snap, and I so badly want it to snap.
As his teeth graze my nipple, I let out a moan that's louder than I intended. An image of Haymitch storming in floods my mind, so I make sure to keep quiet. The last thing I want is to be caught like this.
I let my hands wander on Peeta, though only around his head and neck. I don't know what I can touch and what I can't. When he lifts his mouth from my breast, his pupils are extremely dilated and he's still very hard. I wonder to myself how long that lasts.
"I think we should do it now," I say, thinking maybe that his erection might fade if we don't hurry.
"Okay," he says, positioning himself above me. I have no expectations as to how this should feel, so when he goes in little by little, my eyes widen and my mouth gapes open, but not in a good way.
It feels like I'm being flipped inside out.
"Are you okay?" he asks as he's halfway in. "I can pull out if you're-"
"Keep going," I insist, because this is all my mind can focus on. This is what I hoped for. I want to be in my physical mind only.
He buries himself up to the hilt and his eyes practically roll back inside his head. I feel like I'm being impaled, but I don't say a word in protest.
His hips jerk once and his arms shake on either sides of my head. "I'm…" he grunts, and pulls out of my swiftly. White stuff spurts from him, down onto the planes of my hipbones and over my bellybutton. I see blood dotting the sheet between my legs and know that it must have come from me.
As Peeta's muscles spasm, I hear him say, "I can't believe I thought I was going to die without feeling that."
I'm not sure what he means.
He takes a while to catch his breath. When he opens his eyes, he sees the blood, too. "Katniss, you're bleeding," he says, sounding alarmed.
I press my hand between my legs and see that it's red when I bring it back up. "It's okay," I say calmly. "I'll go clean myself up."
"Wait, I…my…it's on you…"
"Don't worry about it," I say, picking up my underwear and sliding them back on. I slip my other clothes on, too, and wave him good night. "Thank you. Night, Peeta."
He stares at me like I've grown a third head.
The dull, empty ache in my groin is impossible to ignore. I need to get back to my room to shower it away.
"Night, Katniss."
When I get back to my room, I strip in the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the tub as the water's running and wipe between my legs, lifting my arms to see the damage that's done.
There is a lot of blood on my hands.
