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"During ceremonies, we are solemn and respectful but always linked together, by our hands, our arms. At dinners, we are borderline delirious in our love for each other. We kiss, we dance, we get caught trying to sneak away to be alone. On the train, we are quietly miserable as we try to assess what effect we might be having." – Catching Fire, pg. 71
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District 11
We notice that when we're dancing people don't bother us as much, so we dance – fast songs, slow songs, forcing oblivious laughter at each other's moves, stealing quick kisses as if we're silly enough to think no one is watching us – in reality, praying that they are.
During a quieter tune, arms around each other, I put my mouth to Peeta's ear – the crowd will think I'm whispering a lover's secret. "I can't stop thinking of the man earlier," I mumble. I keep seeing his body slump sideways on the steps.
His grip around my waist tightens. "Me either," he says into my hair. "And the other shots fired—"
"I know," I say, unable to help imagining Rue's tiny sister curled in on herself, a gunshot wound, but then it morphs into a spear and I force myself to stop. We can discuss this later on the train, which is at least a bit more private than in the middle of the dance floor, though possibly just as bugged. "Is your leg okay? Do you want to stop for a while?" I ask.
Peeta shakes his head. "No, I'm fine right where I am," he answers, drawing me closer, and I notice a group nearby admiring us with wide smiles. I manage to give them a smile of my own and then turn my face into his neck, hiding my crumpled expression.
He presses a kiss to my head and we continue to sway. I can't afford to feel anything right now other than motivation to keep my loved ones safe by being outrageously happy with Peeta Mellark. I think of his earlier question: "Was that really the only time you kissed Gale?" I don't know how to explain the guilt it gives me.
Twelve stops to go.
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