Author's Note: Okay, so right now my face is melting off because your reviews were so, so, so nice! Though, admittedly, all of them are about the AN. I want to make a shout-out to all of you readers, because I feel like now I am best-friends with you (yes, you!), in the creepiest possible way. So as thanks, I wrote another chapter (but no soul-corrupting smut in this chapter... next one for sure!). Just FYI, this was supposed to be a one-shot, so if you guys want me to keep writing you'll have to keep reviewing. It's like crack. Feed my addiction.
This picks up on the Victory Tour. They're travelling by train and trains run on steam... So sue me, I was too lazy to write a new one.
I close my eyes and try to imagine that the noise from the banquet is just the sound of rustling leaves in a forest, but quickly I realize how stupid that is. I open my eyes to the crowded ballroom, full of the rich natives of District Four and visiting Capitol citizens. They all seem like they're having fun, but no one approaches me. After a brief and banal conversation with Venia about how various minor celebrities are dressed, I walk to the edge of the room and stand awkwardly between two buffet tables, eating appetizers even though I am more than full. I know why they won't talk to me; even after years of welcoming home their own victors, I am nothing more than a murderer to them. The footage of the games doesn't do me any favors; in fact, my involvement in their girl tribute's death was represented with crystalline clarity. I tap my feet but don't try to look too busy. I'm not fooling anyone.
From across the room I see Peeta dancing with his stylist Portia and a wave of tenderness washes over me. It doesn't surprise me that he can dance, but I do wonder where he learned it. He leads her in a slow waltz, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. He is clearly making some effort not to wreck her colossal hairdo and, in spite of myself, I let out a little laugh. As if he could hear me from across the room full of lively partygoers, he looks up. For the brief second that we make eye contact, I discern sadness and resignation in his expression, and something else. Longing, maybe. I look away and pop another piece of food in my mouth. It would be wrong to say that he's been ignoring me since our return to District Twelve, but our conversations are always brief and trivial. He might be angry with me, or think I'm pathetic, or both these things and more. But, as always, it's nearly impossible to see beyond the easy-going façade of his.
Haymitch, already wasted, ambles over to me and places a drink in my hand and one arm over my shoulder. Although we speak often, being neighbors hasn't blossomed into a friendship. I sip my drink- something sour and pink- and listen to him bitch about Effie for a minute. I don't really want to talk to him right now, but since I was just meditating on my own situation and don't want to be a hypocrite, I let him continue. Suddenly the conversation has switched to Peeta, and I begin listening in earnest.
"Sweetheart, Sweetheart, listen to me: you're drivin' Peeta insane," I raise my eyebrows, trying to follow. "Loverboy is still not over you, and all this moping crap has got to stop."
I address the easiest point first. "What moping crap? I spend my time with a twelve year old and a cat."
"This moping crap." He waves his arm in front of me. "It's your Victory Tour, enjoy it. It's hard enough for him to keep up the act for both of you, and even harder for me. He hasn't shut up all night."
"Hmm, that sounds like someone I know."
"Enough," he barks. It's times like these when I realize how much older he is than me. "I was just trying to cheer you up." He grabs a passing waitress by the arm and takes the two drinks on her tray. Her mouth opens as if to protest, but it shuts quickly. With a wild look in her eyes she rushes back into the kitchen to get replacements.
"Haymitch! She might get in trouble for that!"
"She's an avox; she's used to being in trouble," he grunts.
Exasperated, I tip the clear drink down my throat, emptying the glass. It burns and I cough a little, tears swelling in my eyes. "Unlike you, the rest of us live with rules and consequences, Haymitch. For instance, you didn't even think about what kind of situation you were putting us in with your little scene in the cave." Although this is the first time I've picked a fight about this, I immediately know I'm in trouble. Just as I slam my glass down on the buffet, he grabs me by the shoulder and shoves me against the wall.
"I saved your life, and without me neither of you would have made Hunger Games history," he growls, his face an inch from my own. He's so drunk that his speech is punctuated with droplets of saliva. "So, if you'll stop biting the hand that feeds you," I flinch as his grip on my shoulder tightens, "maybe we can salvage some district support." I regret having that drink; the tears are threatening to overflow and I don't want to look weak in front of Haymitch. He turns his head and sees Peeta striding over, leaving a confused Portia alone on the dance floor. He turns back quickly to me. "And, by the way, Sweetheart, let's have a chat with Cinna about this outfit of yours. You look a little too much like the spoiled child you really are." He pinches my cheek and marches off. Peeta halts, not sure which of us to seek out first, and with a fleeting glance my way he veers off course to follow Haymitch out a side door.
Fuming and flustered, I give the empty glass back to the avox girl who reappeared once Haymitch had exited. She nods sympathetically and hands me a blue cocktail napkin that I use to wipe my eyes. Trying to convince myself that the tears were really just from the drink, I wander to the ladies' room. Of course, my night just can't go well, and I encounter Effie. She's perched on the edge of a shell-shaped sink, fixing her lipstick in the mirror.
"Katniss!" She leaps up, and I assume this is as close to 'indisposed' as Effie is capable of being. She straightens her wig before focusing on my face. "Was it Haymitch? He really can be a brute, you know. You'll never believe how many times he's made me cry." I laugh, not because it's funny but because Capitol accents don't mix well with tones of melancholy. She wipes a tear off my face, which is probably the most caring gesture she's ever performed, and smiles. She places a hand on my back as she steers me out of the bathroom. Saving face, we exit through a private hallway that leads us out onto the train platform. I shiver in the cold, oceanic breeze and through the darkness see Haymitch stomping toward the train. I hop on before he has a chance to see me.
I hurry through the narrow corridor, stumbling as the alcohol reaches my bloodstream. I spin into my room and am ready to slam the door when I realize that the blue dress I was wearing earlier is missing. I had laid it out on the bed when I changed into evening clothes, and even locked the door. Was it Effie? Haymitch? One of my prep-team? In a rage, I'm checking under the bed and in the bathroom and behind the armchair and-
Peeta is in the doorway before I can pull open the top drawer, eyebrows raised. A huge purple bruise is forming over his swollen left eye. "What are you looking for?" He says quietly and with a tone of actual curiosity.
"M-my dress." I stammer. I'm itching to push him out the door.
"You know, we could get some bad publicity if they found out you were ditching your clothes in other people's rooms." A smile starts to play on his face as blood rushes to my cheeks.
"Other... people's?" Suddenly it's so incredibly obvious that we're in his room. It's clean. The window is left open. It even smells just like him. Not the scents I associate with him, such as bread and muddy earth, but like his skin. It takes me back to the cave.
I duck under his arm, storming toward the next train-car in embarrassment. But as I'm sliding open the door I realize what a huge axe I have to grind with him and turn right back around.
"No, you know what, stop-" I roar, and when I reach him I poke him in the chest. "Stop this 'publicity' thing for one minute and be real with me. What happened to you? The boy I fought beside in the arena wasn't flighty or fake. He wasn't afraid of being honest. He certainly didn't need a surrogate to tell me how he felt. Is this how you and Haymitch spend your 'man time' together? Has he been giving you the altogether shitty advice to ignore me?" Peeta's mouth opens slightly as I inhale but I rush on. "And before you start on me about how I behaved in the arena, you should know that I was fighting for your survival as much as you were for mine. And in that cave, with all the pressure to please everyone, I was fighting then, too. And you made it too easy- I wasn't even acting. A girl can't fake those things. 'You have no idea, the effect you have on me'."
This last part wasn't on the list of grievances I had compiled in my head, and it comes out sounding muted and sad, rather than mocking. Peeta lets out a long sigh and looks over my shoulder. I don't know how much of this is lost on him, but I don't stay to find out. With a lot less bravado I tromp back to my compartment and slam the door. I slip out of my sandals as I walk to the bed, peeling off my cardigan and dropping it next to the blue dress that had been here the whole time. I'm stupidly eager to cry this whole thing out because the day-and-a-half ride to District Three will give me enough time to melt down and recuperate without the presence of cameras. I hear the door quietly click open and try to hold it together for a few more moments.
"We're a match set," says Peeta and I turn around, confused. He points to my shoulder where a large and fearsome purple bruise has formed. "Haymitch punched me when I told him to lay off you. I would have done a lot worse to him had I known how badly you were hurt."
"I'm not hurt." I mumble lamely, turning back around to face the bed. He closes the door gently and walks behind me, wrapping his arms around me like he did all those months ago. He kisses my hair and now I'm crying like an idiot, letting him hold me. "You're so kind and patient and good to me. There just wasn't enough time in the arena to fall in love with you." I moan into his sweater between sobs. "I need you to keep being patient." He squeezes me tight as the train pulls out of the station.
Author's Note: Since publishing this story I have put way too much effort into figuring out Mr. Hutcherson's "oh face"... and to much avail! I've added pictures to my profile! Still, I'd like you, dear readers, to send me pictures of J-Hutch screaming, because I'm still hung up on the Brendan Fraser thing. Additionally, I've added a comic that I drew about what really happened in the cave.
Also the stats for my story are hilaaaarious. Since posting, over two thousand people jacked off to my story! Well, I don't know, maybe some of you just sat alone at a cubicle in the basement of a library and only reacted by nodding every couple of lines. But I'm not here to judge.