"So, Peeta, welcome back." The words were easy, comfortable almost, and Caesar settled back in his chair, looking at Peeta for a long moment.
"I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar." A smile, more easy words (he was always good at words, this boy with the bread, they were a game to him, but one he could win).
He had barely been inside the Capitol a day when they shuffled him in front of the camera, painting him pretty, stuffing him inside a stiff suit of clothes. There had been growled instructions, thrown at him like he was a little kid, like he didn't know what was at stake.
He did though, of course he did. Katniss. Her name tasted strange on his tongue, all blocky letters and sharp edges, and he faltered a moment on screen, fingers running over the chair. A sharp voice at his side, a look from Caesar, and Peeta snaps back, snaps back to the script they wrote for him. "But other people had plans as well," he heard himself say, wrinkling his eyebrows.
The interview dragged on, and he played his part, talking of the arena, of the ticking clock, of that last night. He wasn't paying attention, not really, he knew his script and he stuck to it, but they couldn't make him listen, couldn't make him be there any more than he had to. Until he heard Caesar's voice saying something about suspicions, about Katniss being a part of the rebel's plan. And then he was on his feet, shouting, eyes locked onto his interviewer's, and he could almost feel Snow's anger radiating at him, could almost see the reception he was going to get once this was over. But he didn't care, couldn't make himself care. "She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything except that we were trying to keep each other alive!" He was yelling, spit flying into Caesar's face, making his pretty decorations run. He could feel hands on his chest, could feel the echo of his heartbeat in them, a frenzied kind of beat, and he slumped back in his chair, messing up his hair, feeling the hairspray stick to his fingers, all static and glue.
The questions were simple after that, and Peeta played it careful, knowing what another outburst would cost him, would cost someone else. Then Caesar brought up the war, and Peeta fell back into the script, in relief almost. It's almost nice, he thought, to know your lines, to play your part. He had always been a good actor.
He heard himself make another joke, another attempt to seem like it was all fine, and then the interview was over. He was hustled off the stage, hands gripping his arms so tight he thought they might break off, and as he was marched away, he could hear Caesar talking to someone, sighing. "It's just the stress, you know," he was saying, "and losing her, to top it all off, well what else could we really have expected?"
An anger flared up inside him, and he wanted to wrench free, to shout, I didn't lose her! She lost me! But did she? He didn't know, couldn't separate his dreams from reality, wasn't even sure if he wanted to.
And then the hands were letting him go, and Snow loomed up in front of him, grinning and shaking his hand, leaning in close, too close, hissing, "it's time we had a talk, you and I."