I don't own it and I'm not making money off of it.

I'm dying.

Because of the fire I thought I couldn't live without, the fire that was not worth dying for after all, they found me and killed me. A night in the freezing cold seems so easy now. It seems wonderful, actually. But I know I won't last that long.

I don't know much about the outdoors and survival, but I knew enough to stay far away from him in training. He was so talented, so angry, so eager. I remember the way he hollered in celebration as he and the others ran away from me. Was I his first kill, or just another body on his checklist?

I half expected one of them would find me eventually. But I never expected the boy from 12 to be with them. He just doesn't seem the type to get his hands bloody. And he didn't – he just stood there and watched along with the others as Cato ran me through, as the hellish pain hit me and I crumpled to the ground. It hurt like I never imagined it would. Even after he pulled his sword out, I could still feel it inside me – twisting, burning, slicing. I thought any minute I would burst into bloody pieces, because surely no one's body can hold together through that kind of pain.

But now, a few minutes after they left me to die, the pain is easing. It still hurts, but it's manageable enough that I can think. And maybe – just in case the cameras are on me – say goodbye to my family. To the boy I planned to marry. I've never seen any tribute do this, but I have to try.

My parents wanted me to wait to get married since I'm only 18, but choices like this tend to be pretty easy in my district. We never know when someone will get reaped, get a disease that costs too much money to cure, die of starvation, catch the business end of a Peacekeeper's whip. When we find good things, we hold onto them. That's why I decided that if by some miracle I survived the Games, Michael and I would visit the Justice Building the minute I got home.

"Michael…" My voice, weaker than I expected, is just a whisper. I look up at the sky and try again. "Michael…I love you." It's louder this time, but it's cost me some of the precious little strength I have left. I draw a breath as carefully as I can, trying to work through the pain. "I want you to be happy." And I do. I can't stand the thought of him spending his life alone in mourning for me.

There's so much more I want to say, but I have to save my energy. I'm considering what to tell my parents and my younger brother when I hear footsteps in the trees, fast and then slowing as they get louder, closer to me. Of course. They sent someone back to finish the job. But the person who emerges in my sightline is not who I expect. It's the boy from 12. I remember a flinch and queasy expression on his face right after Cato stabbed me. Maybe he doesn't enjoy this killing game like the others do. Maybe he'll make it quick.

He's still several feet away, but I can hear him whispering something under his breath – the same word over and over again. "Please." Suddenly I understand what he means. And to my surprise I feel pity for him, especially when he discovers I'm still breathing and falls to his knees beside me, a look of horror on his face.

"Sorry," I whisper, watching as his eyes widen. They're an interesting shade of brown with hints of dark green. I notice they've taken on an aspect of warmth and openness, which I suspect is much more his true nature than the cold unconcern I saw earlier.

He tries to speak, but the words choke him. Finally he manages just one: "Why?"

"Not dead yet." Full sentences are slipping out of my reach, but I know he'll understand. And he does. Tears begin coursing down his cheeks as he fixes me with a look of such agony and grief that I find myself reaching for his hand, wanting to comfort him. I can't quite make it that far, but he sees what I'm trying to do. He takes my hand in both of his and looks down at it, and a change seems to come over him. I watch as he struggles to stop the tears and quiet his breathing. When he raises his eyes to mine, it's as if a mask has fallen into place. The warmth I saw before is still there, but he's erased all traces of his own anguish. His eyes radiate compassion, and I find I can't look away.

"Help me," I say, trying to grip his hand harder.

He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "Anything."

"Say…" My voice is so weak that he has to bend over to hear me. "Say…goodbye…love…Jeffrey." My little brother. The year he turns old enough to watch the Games is the year he sees me die. This is what finally brings my own tears. The boy lifts his hand, gently brushes them off my cheeks, and raises his face to the sky.

"Jeffrey…she loves you very much. She wants you to remember she'll see you again someday."

How did he know that? It was exactly what I was thinking, but I couldn't spare the words to tell him. He looks down at me, waiting for more. I nod and he bends over me again, his ear right next to my mouth.

"Mama…Daddy…love…see..." Breathing is harder now and my words are disappearing for good.

"To her mother and father…she loves you both. She'll be waiting for you." He looks down at me again, inquiring, and I sigh. There's only one thing left.

I look for the knife I saw him carrying earlier and see it sheathed at his waist. I try to raise my hand to point to it, but I can only manage a slight movement of my fingers. His gaze follows the motion and jerks back to mine. This time I see something new – fear.

"I can't," he whispers.

I try to shake my head, but it doesn't work too well. "I was…always dead." He gives me a look of startled recognition, and I see the idea is not a new one to him. So why has he teamed up with the most brutal players in the Games?

Then I know. His confession in the interview wasn't a trick, it was a death sentence – one he willingly took on himself. I open my mouth to speak, and he leans over to listen. "Fire girl." He freezes, still leaning over me. Then he pulls back slightly and nods as our eyes meet. For a brief, eternal moment, we see each other's lives as they might have been – marriage to the ones we loved, children, long years with our families. If not for the Capitol. If not for the Games.

"Help me," I say again. One last plea.

He closes his eyes briefly, seeming to gather his strength. When he opens them, he's already unsheathing the knife. He raises it slowly and holds it, point downward, over my chest. His eyes meet mine once more, and I nod slightly. The blade glints in the moonlight as it breaks my skin and enters my breast.

Then the pain is over.

I can still see him, but differently now. Outside myself. The knife falls from his hand as he brushes the hair off my face and pulls my jacket around my body, zipping it up to conceal my wounds. He bows his head over me, his forehead touching mine. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Then I hear my cannon, and the sobs begin to wrack his body. I reach out to touch his shaking shoulders, but I'm beyond this form of contact now. So I do the only thing I can think of, on the off chance he can hear me.

"I forgive you," I tell him. The words sound so faint and far away to me, not even as strong as a whisper, so he probably can't hear them at all. But in another moment or two, his sobs start to quiet. He raises his head and looks around. Then he closes his eyes again, and his face takes on a look of perfect peace.

"Thank you," he says softly as he opens his eyes and gets to his feet, wiping away the tears. He picks up the knife, cleans off as much of my blood as he can, places it carefully in the sheath, and turns back to me. "Goodbye," he whispers. Then he walks away.

I silently thank him for giving me one last look. Then I turn toward the light streaming over my shoulder, and as it hits my face it's more beautiful than anything I've ever dreamed of. I won't need a fire here. It's as warm as I could ever want.

As warm as his eyes.

I wrote this based on what I think the fabulous JHutch would do with this scene – and yes, post-Josh, I can't even fathom a blue-eyed Peeta anymore. Feel free to leave a review. Thanks!