"Remember, sweetheart: you're in love with the boy."
The voice echoes in her mind, a taunting descant that refuses to be silent. It's excruciating, of course, because it isn't true, not even a little. God, she's such a fuck up. Just be in love with the boy with the bread, Katniss. The boy who's loved you all along. The boy who wants to save you. The boy, for Christ's sake.
Her heart refuses to comply, punctuates its defiance by fluttering at a million miles an hour when Effie arrives to fetch her. That is how Effie does things, on the surface: she fetches, and she trills, and she struts. She exudes some earmarked Capitol essence, something that would normally drive Katniss insane. Should drive her insane. (It does, actually, but this insanity falls on the opposite side of the spectrum from annoyance, where it belongs.) Her breath catches instantly as she takes in Effie: her powdery pale pink curls, her impeccably tailored costume, the faint crow's feet that form at her eyes when she smiles, which is, of course, all the time. They really are polar opposites, a perfect contrast. She notices a flicker of frantic relief in Effie's eyes before she composes herself, announces that this is a big big big day and they have a schedule to stick to.
Stupid fucking schedule. All she wants is to duck behind one of those unmarked doors and press Effie up against a wall, to taste skin and salt and honeysuckle lips. There will be time for that later, hopefully, but the promise of touching is never quite as sweet as instantaneous collision. She follows obediently down the hall, head down, eyes averted. She doesn't share Effie Trinket's acting skills; it is all she can do to continue walking and not ravish her. A look would decimate whatever resolve she's managed to scrape up. They reach the end of the corridor; she's ready to be handed off to Cinna. At least, she thinks that's what happens. They don't show this part. In the eye of the public, victors go straight from half-crazed and half-dead and all-desperate to sparkling, glittering kings and queens twirling in gowns or looking dapper in suits, bantering with Caesar Flickerman as if they hadn't just witnessed or participated in the murders of twenty-three children.
Cinna is there, with Portia. The rest of Peeta's prep team is there, too, but Octavia and Flavius and Venia are conspicuous in their absence. Peeta shuffles off in a haze of perfume and neon hues; Haymitch disappears, probably to find a drink. And then it's just the three of them, Effie and Cinna and Katniss. Something is off. Surely she should be lying on a table while the physical manifestations of the Games are scrubbed off her. A look passes between Effie and Cinna, weighting the air with scandal. "So, Katniss," Cinna says, feigning nonchalance. "Sometimes we let escorts talk to their tributes, get a head start on strategizing for the interviews, discuss posture and all that." He grins and directs them to a plain steel door. "Effie will let me know when you're ready for us."
The room is simple but luxurious, decorated sparsely with a simple leather ottoman and a velvet futon. That'll suit their purposes just fine, though. She considers mentioning the fact that Cinna knows; this is a liability, or at least she's sure Effie sees it that way. Risks have been taken, proof that this is something tangible and worth fighting for. She decides against confrontation almost immediately: words aren't necessary right now. In fact, they'd be a poor utilization of mouths, considering the circumstances. Effie takes control, as she so often does. The slippery leather is cool under Katniss' back. The kisses are larger than life. Her nerves magnify everything a thousand times over, every sense is on fire and every touch encourages the flames. They fade too soon, though, and she crashes over Effie's shoulder and kisses a clavicle. Effie sighs: it's a beautiful sound, so disconnected from the kinds of verbs she normally associates with her.
"Well," Effie murmurs with a resumed Capitol affectation, "I think it's time we get you off to Cinna so he can make you beautiful." She drops the accent. "More beautiful, I mean." They linger by the open door. They take a calculated gamble, lean in for one last kiss.
Of course, fortuities, even when they seem certain, can be catastrophic. Case in point: the boy with the bread is standing in the hall, mouth agape.
