It starts on one of those bad nights – those nights were not even the drinking seems to make a difference. It's right before the games, when the fear in the tributes eyes is mirrored in his memories. The first time he brought his knife - a slight fit of rage lead him to her bedroom. When he saw her in bed, all stripped clean of her Capitol façade, her eyes puffy from crying herself to sleep; he knew it was no different for her. Slumping down next to her bed, he held his head in his hands listening to her breathe. He stayed until the first light found its way through the heavy curtains.

He prided himself on not waking her, on these rare occasions when he would visit her room at night. How he longed to wake her, feel her arms around him, her hair against his cheek, his hands on her waist. Sometimes during the day, he tried to find her under the make-up; the woman who would sigh and wince in her sleep, who was colorful even in the moonlight without any help of the Capitol. He'd catch a glimpse of her every now and then, when he had driven her to the edge with his piercing comments, catching her off guard in a moment of weakness he would get a taste of her. When she turned away or broke off in the middle of a sentence, blinking away a tear. He'd rather catch her in a smile and he had tried for one desperately, but those moments were rare.

Little he knew that she was well aware of his visits. He is quiet, but most of the times he is drunk and when he manages to stay clear of her shoes on the floor or the furniture she would wake when he slumps to the floor, settling with his back to her, leaning against the bed.

That night she reaches out, just as she had wished to do so many nights before. Her fingers glide through his hair; her hands caress the stubbly cheek. When his hand finds hers she leads him onto the bed, under the cover, her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist. And in the moonlight he sees her smile.