Chapter 2

Once again, sweat dripped down Catniss' back in a most unpleasant fashion – did she really have to wear a sweater to the dinner party? It was making her skin shine with an unpleasant film of grease, which was probably much more improper than if she'd just stuck to her old shorts and cami top. Anyhow as if the heat was not bad enough, the air conditioner seemed to be either out of service or nonexistent. Anyways, the current she'd been counting on – that was the entire reason she had sat in the corner! - was leaving her high and dry; er, high and wet.

And speaking of high, had she had one or two too many bloody maries? The lights above her, which she swore were stationary when she had arrived, were spinning and slightly less uniform in shape and size than before. The pools of sun from the window were wavering more than they were supposed to.

And then, all of a sudden, Pita's arms were around her.

"Are you all right, Catniss?" His voice was soft in her ear, and his chin was surprisingly rough – stubbly – against the side of her cheek. Catniss resisted for a moment, then collapsed into his arms.

"I'm… I – I'm… Fine!" Catniss had been searching for the word in thin air, and when she found it, and grabbed it, a sense of false ease released her from all the tension in her shoulders.

Which of course, mercilessly, returned a moment later.

"Well if you're not," Pita said, obviously doubting her slightly woozy response, "we can always go home." Then he paused. Checked his watch, combed his fingers through his light hair, which was slightly mussed even after several tons of gel had been forced into it. Then he whispered quietly, almost as if he thought he was letting her down, "It's just… you're sort of the guest of honor at this party, you know."

"Its… A… Benefit." The words flowed out of Catniss' mouth in what seemed to be a drunken tone, and she wondered as frantically as she could in her state, how this had happened. It was just so much worse than she'd thought, and she had realized that as soon as she opened her mouth.

"Yeah, well, that isn't the point and you know it." Pita looked over his shoulder and Catniss squinted at the tall, obviously animate thing behind him. A few moments later, she realized it was a person, and Pita was trying to hold up against his flow of questions.

"…Look, look… Later… Busy now, she's… Can't you see?" Pita's voice itself was disintegrating now, pulsing in and out of the beat of the music along with the beat. It was sickening, for some reason, to Catniss. Well, not necessarily Pita's voice… She just felt sick.

Once again Pita seemed to notice the change in Catniss faster than anyone else, and she was comforted by knowing that this was probably a good thing.

"Catniss? Catniss, you're obviously not ok." Pita, who was for some reason torn, looked once at her greenish face, then at the vibrant, bright lights, the people, and the grandiose room itself. His gaze rested on the award – the award of Valor in Times of Need, her award, his award – which was hanging like a crown jewel from the mantelpiece.

"G… G… Go. I can get home… m… myself, y'know." Catniss suddenly slackened her body; just the thought of saying so many words at once tired her to the point of collapse, never mind actually speaking them.

Oh crap. Oh, no – she had actually spoken them, right?

Obviously, Pita thought not. He was looking into the depths of her eyes, which were not actually depth full right now, seeing as they were just… about… to close…

Pita had no time to loose, he couldn't just stand here; he had to make a decision. Should he turn Catniss' limp body over to the event planner who was standing by the door, and run, hoping that said event planner had some smelling salts? Or should he be true to himself, virtuous, and shove her into the passenger seat of the car to home, hoping there were no cops on the road?

To him, and probably anyone, the choice was obvious.

Grunting, but in a sort of pleasurable way, Pita slunk around the back corner of the district mayor's green room, with Catniss' left arm slung across his back. He tried to look natural; he waved goodbye to the event planner, gave a forced smile to the host, Mayor Greenburg himself, who had probably wanted a great deal more than that. Oh, well.

Once outside, Pita rested against an oak tree, and got up moments later to continue his miniature journey. He was at the moment muddling in his own thoughts, stewing in his own juices. He was confused, of course; Catniss had as strong a stomach as anyone. Couldn't she handle a bit of dry wine? Or if not that, what had made her decline so surprisingly, and suddenly, into unconsciousness? As he shoved her into the car, Pita looked into Catniss' face, searching for some sort of clue. He found none. And he found nothing on the road either; no spark of light, no revelation. The world had suddenly become a rather fearful place, at least for a few moments.

And even when the fear was gone, and Pita was alone, and Catniss was roused – if slightly vacant - and in the bedroom, he could not help but think that whatever had happened to Catniss was not an accident.