Chapter 1
Snow's gently falling, settling on the lampposts, mailboxes, and shrubbery. Although it takes a moment for me to identify beauty nowadays, I manage and just sit on the windowsill admiring it. The way it sparkles in the morning's rays of sunlight, the powdery appearance it has as it drifts down the walk.
A pair of hands cover my eyes. Peeta. When he first did that to me, I felt a pang of fear. It brought me back to my first Hunger Games, imagining Clove or someone covering my eyes and readying themselves for my kill when I wasn't suspecting. Now, I know its only Peeta.
I smile at him as he takes his place beside me, putting his arms around me, as strong as they were from the very beginning.
"Pretty, isn't it?" he asks, craning his neck to look into my eyes.
I nod, as a drunken Haymitch wanders a little lopsided into view, carrying a twig of a walking stick and occasionally hitting a goose in the rear with it, encouraging it to catch up with the rest of them. He must have at least 20.
We both can't help but to laugh.
"Haymitch," he whispers exasperated, "You know, we should really consider inviting him to dinner tonight. He hasn't been over in quite a while. We don't want to make him a stranger."
"Don't you think there's a reason," I muse, cuddling up more to him.
"Perhaps."
We watch the snow flurry down, softly landing on the geese's backs and things. I remember the woods on snowy mornings. I remember being overwhelmed with the grandness of it all; Gale really recommending we bring our little siblings to show them it. I sigh. Gale. Prim. Everybody for that matter.
"We should work on the book some more," I say, rising and beginning to head over to the cabinet we keep it in.
"We've worked on it so much lately," he answers quietly, "I was thinking we maybe could ice some cupcakes. I just made two batches. I could teach you how to frost a primrose."
"Alright," I say. He's been doing whatever I ask of him, so I may as well show my gratitude by putting frosting on cupcakes.
"I went to the market this morning," he says, a smile crossing his lips as he makes his way to the kitchen and pats a brown paper bag, "I bought some pink and blue icing and a white thin tipped frosting marker."
I listen to his rant on the necessity of being patient and having a steady hand. I try my best to mimic what he's done to his cupcakes, producing a beautiful primrose made of frosting. Its as if he had taken a photograph of it. Mine turns out to look more like what Buttercup would spill if she had eaten Peeta's cupcake.
"I don't care," I say, throwing some sort of icing tool down and walking over to the living room, where I settle on an overstuffed armchair and stare into the fire.
Peeta calmly collects his tools and puts them away.
I feel bad. He just wanted some bonding time. He's been doing everything that I want with a smile and good attitude.
"I'm sorry," I apologize when he sits down across from me, in the big sofa.
"It's fine, Katniss," he says, giving me a small grin, "We can try it again some other time."
"Okay," I, too give a small smile.
We sit in silence for a little bit, before I decide to tell him something that's been on my mind for quite a while.
"I was thinking that maybe I could go to 2," I say, looking down at the plush carpeting and not meeting his gaze.
He hesitates a moment, like my prey in the forest before they take off running, "Why's that?"
"I haven't seen… you know, Gale for… for… three years!"
"Four," he corrects.
"Yes," I say, "Four years!"
"I thought you said you don't mind not seeing him," Peeta crosses his legs and I can't help feeling like I'm a mental patient and he's my shrink.
"I did," I assure him, "but now, I feel like… I have too. There's just something nagging me about it."
"Okay," Peeta says, "I can't stop you from doing what you like."
For some reason, this rubs me the wrong way.
"What do you mean you can't stop me?" I ask him, a note of annoyance in my voice. Alright, maybe a few notes.
"I didn't mean to offend you," he tells me, "I'm saying you're a independent woman that will make her own decisions. If you want to go and see him, there's nothing holding you back."
"Alright then," I say.
"Fine."
"Fine."
Peeta and I get bundled up in some furry coats we took from a closet on the upstairs' corridor I never even seemed to notice. Luckily, they're in mint condition and neither of us has found so much as a moth hole or lint ball in any.
We stand outside in the cold, before our house, our hands deep in the silk lined pockets of our garments. He doesn't say a word, so neither do I. But, he's probably thinking the same thing.
"I'll miss you," he finally says, giving me a quick look.
"Me, too," I say. This doesn't seem like enough. "I'll miss you, too, Peeta."
He seems content with that answer, so I let my gaze rest on the cobbled streets of Victor's Village and don't say anything else.
A small car, the color of a cherry and gleaming speeds up to where we are standing. The tinted windows roll down and I catch a glimpse of Messalla. He is seemingly unchanged by Capitol measures. He looks normal. I guess now that the districts have control of the Capitol, no one really does alteration anymore. You'd think I wouldn't find this surprising, but I do. I just always put facial reconstruction and other sorts of alteration with the Capitol. Along with awful and horrifying.
"Hell-o!" he says slowing, taking in the sight of me.
I remember the last time I saw him, I was completely disgruntled, my hair bald in patches and choppy, my skin… well, my skins still the same, but I had a crazed look to me then. I've actually noticed my eyes look more calm now.
"Hey!" I say, showing my excitement by leaning in through the ajar passenger window and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
"How are things?" he asks. Something's different about him. He isn't as… reserved? It feels like he's acting more like himself. I guess during the war he was much more quiet and just filming me without so much as a conversation every now and then to get his job done and over with. Now, with the fear and hatred for Snow gone, he can be himself. Granted, the reserved him was the Messalla I'd grown to know. But, it's no matter. I like him still.
"Good," I answer.
He looks over in Peeta's direction.
"How 'bout you, my man?" he calls.
Hopefully my slightly confused feeling didn't register on my face. I'm a hunter, so I don't understand why I'm concerned.
"Good," he agrees with me. Ah Peeta! I can tell he isn't thrilled with this, even though he too does a good job of hiding his feelings for my sake.
"Good, good," Messalla nods, "Damn! We've used good far too many times in this conversation."
I open the car door and right before I sit down, I remember to run back to Peeta and give him a little kiss on the cheek.
For the duration of the car ride, I listen to Messalla's songs. They aren't like the Capitol's typical grand orchestra of both modern and traditional instruments, creating an overpowering and slightly painful gurgle of sounds. It's simple, just the sound of a man's deep voice that reminds me of my father, accompanied by a beautiful sound that I can't place.
"Guitar," he tells me, "Abostic – no wait, acoustic. Sorry. The instrument was around since before Panem."
My mouth makes a small O.
"Yea," he agrees with my face, "It's my favorite."
After a short pause, I tell him my favorite instrument is a mockingjay. He smiles.
"Why are you smiling?" I ask him, a little harsher than intended.
"What?" he turns toward me, like a deer caught right before I pull the arrow, "I just thought… well, the mockingjay's a bird, Mockingjay." – "I'm sorry if I offended you. That was not my intention."
I settle down in the cushioned seat, which are actually quite comfortable, "It's fine… but I must just say that although the mockingjay technically isn't a instrument, it's capable of making sound."
He grins at my assessment, "That's good, but if I were to use your logic and say 'well, it makes sound', I could tell you a human's a instrument, because 'technically it's capable of making sound'."
I realize then that I really like him. I like his challenging, yet sincere and sweet demeanor and that his face reminds me of Cinna's.
"Correct," I say, "A human is an instrument, capable of making sound."
"Well, so are pots and pans."
"They too are instruments," I say smiling at his sudden confused face.
His eyebrows are knit together for a moment, "How about just a regular, plain old bird? When it flies, it flaps its wings. That makes sound."
"Right," I nod, "Regular, plain old birds are instruments. They make sound."
We smile at each other until our eyes flint away, embarrassed.