Thank you so much for the incredible response to this story. I hope this doesn't let you all down! I had to break this second part up because it was getting a little out of hand. It picks up from Peeta's POV. Hopefully I'll have the last part up soon!
Peeta draws back the torn curtains and ducks his head enough to peer beyond them to where his house is. The only track of foot prints lead here, to Haymitch's door, where he's been hiding out since before the sun rose. Which means Katniss hasn't left yet.
Nearly two feet of snow fell during the storm the night before, and since there are only two residents in Victor's Village (both hermits, on top of that) their roads are the last to be cleared, if the district even gets to them before the snow melts.
It could be another day before it's safe to make the trek back to the Seam, maybe two if the wind picks up again. He feels a small thrill at the prospect of spending more time with her, no matter what the fee may be. She doesn't want him. Not really. But even if she's just using him for his wealth, or some misplaced guilt, in a way, he knows he's using her too.
Using. That's an important distinction. It's safe as long as it's just about the money.
He presses his forehead against the smudged glass. What is wrong with him?
Haymitch stirs behind him, rustling the glass bottles that litter the lopsided table.
"What are you doing here?" he slurs blearily, scrubbing the sleep and hangover from his face.
"I brought you breakfast," Peeta says, nodding towards the bread on the table before his attention returns to the window.
Haymitch scowls at it. "I don't want it," he says.
"More for me then."
Haymitch picks up the loaf and rips away a chunk with his teeth. "I changed my mind," he mumbles around a full mouth. "Bird watching?" he says, noting the direction of Peeta's intent gaze.
"I'm hiding out."
"That house isn't haunted boy," he says gruffly. "It's you."
Peeta wants to roll his eyes, but can't bring himself to do so. "I had some unexpected company last night."
"Oh," Haymitch says lifting his eyebrows curiously.
Peeta feels a flush rise to his ears at the implication. "It's not what you think," he says shortly.
"I wasn't thinking anything."
He sighs heavily, feeling Haymitch's eyes on him. "Maybe it is," he admits.
Haymitch grimaces with a loud, displeased groan. "Kid, there are some things I really don't need to know."
Peeta chances one last look out the window before he moves to sit in one of the broken chairs at the table. Haymitch's house is styled and furnished identical to his, but his former mentor has taken wear and tear to another level.
He takes the loaf from Haymitch and slices off a corner that hasn't been crumbled. "I did something stupid last night," he says, staring at the piece of bread in his hands.
"Doesn't sound too out of the ordinary."
Peeta thinks over his choice of words, his eyes flitting around the room wondering where the Capitol is listening from. There's no reason to censor himself too much; he and Katniss spoke openly about the terms of their trade, although there was no mention of how she acquired so much meat. It doesn't matter though, Peeta is pretty sure that Katniss's poaching is the least of her troubles now.
"A girl came to buy bread," he finally settles with. "I guess the stock at my father's bakery has been running low lately."
Haymitch perks up at this. "How so?"
"There's barely been any flour on the trains for weeks now," he says dismissively. He didn't come here to discuss his father's business.
"Did she say anything about the other shops?"
Peeta narrows his eyes. Haymitch rarely puts in the effort to chain more than a few monosyllabic grunts together in his presence and now he wants a rundown of the town gossip.
"She didn't mention it, but anyone would have to be pretty desperate to come all the way out here."
"It's stuffy in here," Haymitch says. It's always stuffy in his house, and the stale odor of vomit and liquor has seeped into every flat surface leaving a vile stench no matter how many times you scrub at the stains.
But Peeta knows how Haymitch operates, and an offhand comment like this one isn't about cracking a window. It's about getting away from the bugs that infest every room.
"You want to take a walk?" Peeta says.
He grabs the shovel he'd left on Haymitch's porch after the first snow fall of the season. All of Haymitch's tools had been buried in the shed out back, and when Peeta's own shovel had broken, he had to dig out the door with his bare hands to get to it.
Peeta begins to clear a path from the porch to the cobblestone walkway that joins all twelve houses in a large courtyard. The fountain at the center probably has a wire along with the iron gate at the edge of the fence, so they settle someplace in between and use the metallic cut of his shovel to shroud their voices.
"The districts are rebelling," Haymitch tells him.
"You think?"
Peeta's been hearing this kind of talk amongst the Victors for years now. Rumblings here and there about how easy it could be if they all banded together. He thinks their intentions are good, but it only takes one flash of District 13's rubble to remind him what's at stake. The Capitol isn't afraid to level an entire population to make an example out of them.
"If it's grain, it must be nine and eleven," Haymitch says.
Peeta plants his shovel in the snow and takes a minute to catch his breath. The exertion makes him warm yet cold at the same time, his heart beating rapidly while sweat freezes at his temples.
"How's that supposed to work? We're supposed to blame the Capitol because other districts are letting us starve?"
"Trust me boy, everyone already knows who they want to blame. We've all got a common enemy, there's no way around that."
"Yeah? Then why don't we just take him out? Instead we line up a bunch of dominoes in between and wait for them all to tumble. What good is that?"
"Because if another Snow steps in to take his place, we'd like to leave some more pieces to pick up," Haymitch says.
Peeta clenches his jaw and reaches for his shovel again. He's tired of sitting around helplessly while he watches other people suffer, but there's nothing he can do. Not without others having to pay a price.
The door to his house slams, the crack echoing all throughout the village. He sees Katniss trudge through the snow with her hands balled into fists at her sides. She makes her way to the path he's cleared, marching towards him.
Their eyes meet coldly and he waits for her to make the first move. He should probably be angry with her, she used him after all. Sure, she never asked him for any money, but he can't shake the feeling. He's seen how Katniss is with unpaid debts. Every transaction with her down to a smile comes with a monetary value.
He can't help it though. He clings to the blissful moments when he thought she could love him. It's pathetic, he knows, but he's been numb for so long, to feel anything - even pain, is a welcome relief.
He wishes he could kiss her one last time, while he still has the chance, but the fire in her gaze tells him he'd be crossing a line.
Ripping up the Capitol Credits in her hand, she lets them flutter to the ground like confetti, and then she spits right into his eye. "Stay away from me," she sneers before walking away.
"I like her," Haymitch says, watching after her as she fights with the iron gate, then hops over it when it doesn't budge.
Me too, he wants to say, but he can't even trust Haymitch with that type of information. He digs his shovel into the snow and tries not to look wounded. Indifference means everything, and he's worked hard to perfect the part.
Except around her. It's better that she hates him. He only wishes that this scene unfolded where the Capitol could hear, because then she'd be safe.
"Well what are we doing, standing around out here," Haymitch says, bundling his jacket tight. "It's freezing." He pulls his flask from his coat pocket and empties it in a long swig as he stumbles back up the stairs that lead to his house.
Peeta isn't ready to go inside. All he'll be able to think about is her. The way she felt, the way she tasted, her scent still lingering on his sheets. Instead he stares at the shreds of paper caked into the slushy snow.
She didn't take the money. It would be foolish to think that means anything, so he doesn't dwell on it.
He continues to shovel until all of Victor's Village is cleared, and when he goes inside, he bakes through the night; every type of loaf he used to make at the bakery. He throws the bread into a sack and takes it into town, dropping it off with his father. He is sure to set one loaf aside - the hearty one with the nuts and fruits, which he's made just for her.
He does this every morning for a week. Two dozen basic loaves and a special one, which he specifies to his father is to be traded only with Katniss. She doesn't come back to the bakery, but he persists, certain that she'll eventually return.
On Monday morning, when Peeta makes his delivery, his father tells him, apologetically, that Katniss has refused his trade, opting for his father's flat, tasteless loaves instead. He can't say he's surprised, and he's not sure what he expected, but he's disappointed all the same.
Haymitch is running low on white liquor, and since the winter has been a harsh one, Peeta has been sure to keep a large stock at home. He stops at the Hob to buy a few more bottles from Ripper, and while he's there, takes the time to spread some of the credits weighing down his pockets.
Katniss was onto something, shredding the bills the way she did. The paper always burns in his hands. The whole lot of it. It doesn't matter where it came from - winnings from the Games, his earnings as an escort - it's always dirty.
"What are you doing here?"
He looks from the fold of money in his palm to meet a familiar gray gaze. "Hey Katniss," he says, slipping the money into his pocket.
"I told you to stay away from me," she says harshly. "I don't want anything from you."
"I was doing some shopping," he explains, gesturing to the pair of white liquor bottles he cradles in his arm.
She rolls her eyes at him and roughly adjust her game bag over her shoulder. "You're trying to get to me. With the bread at the bakery," she says. "Your father's always been good to me, but I won't trade with him anymore if you don't stop what you're doing."
He looks away, unable to meet her eye when he says, "You didn't take your payment - for the squirrels."
Her face pales. "You're disgusting," she says, her voice burning like venom.
Peeta sets his jaw to mask the sting he feels. When he was in the arena, he had to do this often. School his expression into a different person entirely so he could get beneath his opponent's skin. It sickens him to act this way - it reminds him of his mother, hardened and cruel, but it's proven to be one of the greatest weapons he has.
"I'm sorry if there was any confusion about our arrangement," he says.
She snorts at this, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's crystal clear now, believe me."
He can't stand it anymore and he sighs, taking a step closer and bowing his head to lower his voice. "You should have taken the money, Katniss," he says, then slips past her and into the crowd.
It's true. It would have been so much easier if she'd taken the money, because then he could hate her. He could go back to feeling cold and empty inside rather than holding onto this small sliver of hope that he could have had her if the circumstances were different.
Now he's trapped in this prison, unable to let her go, but terrified of what will happen if he tries to get close to her.
"Why'd you do it?" her voice stills him from outside the old coal storage house.
He turns to face her, heels crunching in the snow. "Does it even matter?"
Her round eyes shimmer slightly, and for a brief moment he almost mistakes her as vulnerable.
"It does to me," she says.
He let's out a heavy breath, which clouds around his face in the frigid air. "I meant what I said that night," he admits. "Every word. I told you I'm not a good person to get close to, and now you know."
She turns her chin away, her Everdeen pride finally catching up with her. "I guess so."
It's quiet for a moment. Out of all of District 12, The Hob is probably the safest place to speak freely, assuming those in the Capitol who matter don't know it exists. Peeta chances it anyway. He needs to know for certain.
"What about you?" he says abruptly. "If it wasn't for the money, why did you do it?"
"I don't know," she says, same as she did the night they spent together, and he wants to laugh because he'll never be able to unravel her code.
"That's not an answer."
She hesitates. "You were being so kind to me. I wanted to do something for you," she says, her eyes trained on her boots. She chews her bottom lip between her teeth, her tongue peeking out just enough for him to see. "And... I liked it."
His cock stirs at the memory of her face, flush with desire each time he made her come. For him. It had been because of him.
He purses his lips doubtfully. "That's because you'd never done it before. It could have been anyone and you would have liked it just the same."
"Yeah. Probably," she adds with more conviction. Her gaze lingers on him and he wonders if he could get away with kissing her. He's always thinking about that now, but the way she's looking at him makes him think she actually wants him to. "I'd probably like it better."
"Well you let me know when you find out. I'll make you a counteroffer," he says then turns on his heel but not before catching the undeniable red hue staining her cheeks. Is she thinking about that night? he wonders to himself. He laughs quickly, just a short jut of air that barely passes for humor. She's probably considering all the ways she wants to destroy him.
He's only made it a few steps when his conscience overwhelms his bravado. His shoulders deflate and already he feels small and weak. He can't pretend around her. It's too hard.
"I'm sorry," he says. Their eyes lock in a long moment of silence. When she looks away he knows that it's time for him to go.
Peeta pinches the stem of his ornate glass and swirls the bright liquid still lingering at the bottom. It's far too tart, but even that doesn't hide the sharp sterile taste of the alcohol lingering behind it. He empties it in one heavy gulp and then exchanges his glass for a full one when an elaborately dressed avox passes by.
The room is smoky and dark, more intimate than the usual Capitol gathering. The sparsely placed lights have a purple glow that only seem to catch the light colored pigments, highlighting eyes and teeth and neon colored lipsticks. The drinks and appetizers are also colored in a way that radiates light in an unearthly way.
"It's a shame they don't have more of those jumbo shrimp," Finnick says beside him. He's nursing his own drink and picking apart some sort of savory puff pastry. "They're only serving the canned stuff. What do they think we are animals?"
Peeta gives him a pointed look. "Why don't you lodge a formal complaint with the mayor of your fine district then."
"Oh he's busy with much more exciting things," Finnick says with a dramatic sigh.
Peeta catches the hinting tone in his voice and looks away. Haymitch was right. Nine and eleven have rebelled, and District Four is in the process as well.
"How's good ole District Twelve?" Finnick says, his grin too broad and his green eyes daring. "Think we'll all stay warm this winter?"
Another loaded question. Peeta stares straight ahead as he takes a sip from his drink. "We really can't do much else," he says. District Twelve leading the charge in a rebellion is ridiculous. The people are too hungry to be angry. And picketing the mines almost guarantees the district freezing to death. They don't have the bartering powers of the other districts.
Peeta catches the gaze of a woman sitting at a crystal table where the room lofts. Her auburn hair cascades in ringlets around her shoulders and her sleek black dress is accented with metallic details that pick up the purple lighting. What's most striking about her is her stunning makeup, painted in a way that makes it look like her eyes are open even when they're closed.
She calls an avox to her table and places a small fold of paper in their hand. Then her finger lands on him from across the room.
"Who's that?" Peeta asks Finnick. He's never seen her before.
It only takes a brief flash of recognition before a wolfish grin spreads across Finnick's face. "Dracaena Kane," he nearly sings. "That's Snow's favorite mistress."
The avox from her table approaches him and places the slip of paper in his palm. Peeta's afraid to open it. He already knows what it will say. A room number and a time.
"What would she want with me?"
Finnick cuffs his hand around Peeta's shoulder. "You're one of the prettier less broken things around here." Finnick plucks the note between two fingers and waves it grandly at Dracaena before slipping it into the pocket on his suit jacket.
She shakes her head and points a sharp looking finger at Peeta again.
"She's either looking to give or to dig up some information," Finnick says, his tone now guarded, a contrast to his earlier easy going lilt. "You think you're up for it?"
Peeta doesn't have a choice. He flashes a polite smile towards his suitress then takes the written request from Finnick to pocket it.
"Don't tell her anything. Just be a real good listener."
Peeta's starting to feel a little dizzy and the neon green drink isn't helping. His ears are ringing and although he can see Finnick's lips moving - relaying important instructions, he's sure- he can't make out a single word.
He's just been hand selected to be the president's bed warmer. A mere connection away from the most powerful man in the country. Every breath of pillow talk will damn him, no doubt. That is if Snow even knows that they'll be sharing a lover.
He'd rather not consider the alternative.
An hour after she's left the party, Peeta hails a car to take him to the address she's left him. When he slips into the backseat, he pops a few of the pills Finnick had handed to him upstairs and swallows them dry. The drugs take too long to sink in, and he finds himself staring listlessly out the window as the bright Capitol lights flash by in blurring streams, trying not to think of her.
What Katniss would think of him right now? High out of his mind while he tries to fuck another stranger.
He catches a flicker of his reflection in the pristine glass and has to look away when he's overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.
It's better not to think of her. It's better not to think of anything at all.
When he arrives at the suite, she's sitting at a small vanity in the corner beside the washroom. She's removed the dramatic makeup from the party and is reapplying a fresh coat of something more appropriate for bed. It's still flashes of bright colors and intricately drawn patterns though, and Peeta finds himself longing for fresh, clean olive skin and thatches of body hair drawing him in with a heady, natural scent.
Nothing in the Capitol feels real. Not like Katniss.
His hands clench into fists at his sides. No more thinking, he reminds himself.
"I received your invitation," he says, drawing her attention to his side of the room. He forces himself to smile. "I'm Peeta Mellark."
Her eyes are large for her face and round too. Her face is also perfectly round it seems, except for her chin which ends at a sharp point. She lights up when she sees him. "You are!" she says. She finishes drawing some sort of looping swirl around her eye then stands slowly. "I've been waiting for you. Come. Sit, sit," she says ushering him towards the bed at the center of the room.
She crawls onto the silk duvet on her hands and knees and tilts her chin to the side, her face mere inches from his. "How does this look?" she says.
Peeta's eyes follow the twisting patterns of lines drawn along the side of her face and gives her an approving nod.
"You think?" she says cringing slightly. "I hate it. Whoever runs the fashion industry must be blind."
He smiles tightly.
"You men are so lucky. You get away with only having to wax your chest." Her lips purse and her eyebrow lifts into a perfect arch. "Or are the rumors true, about the enhanced endowments?"
His eyes widen and she laughs. "Everyone thinks you're such a Lothario, but I see right through you."
He feels even foggier than he did before. Usually he can keep better wits, but he's never really drank this much beforehand. He blinks a few times somewhat blearily then tries to regain control of his suddenly heavy tongue. "Do you now?" he manages to say.
"Oh yes," she says, picking up his chin with her fingers to keep his head steady. Her wide eyes peer into his, too close to focus. "All my friends say you and Finnick Odair are one in the same. But I don't think that. I think you're soft."
He smiles lazily at her. "I can fix that if you just give me a minute."
"I know how it works," she says. "The arrangement was the same for me. But your family is still breathing so you must not care for them much." He tenses at the suggestion, but keeps his expression passive. "What does he have on you? How does he own you?"
"I do what I'm told."
"I bet," she says, cocking her head to the side. She stares into his eyes searching for something he refuses to reveal. "I want to know what breaks you. You only pretend to be broken. I don't think that's fair."
"Why are you doing this? Snow?"
She climbs off the bed and returns to her vanity where she continues to color the design around her eye. "Like he cares," she scoffs. "You haven't crossed him yet. You've been a good little pet. No. I've taken a personal interest."
"Why?"
"I'm not originally from the Capitol," she says. "My brother was a tribute from District One." She pauses to stare daggers at him and says flatly: "He didn't win."
Peeta scrubs a hand over his face tiredly. "I didn't kill him, did I?"
"No, this was long before your time." She smiles coyly. "How old do you think I am?" His scrambled brain would guess around Finnick's age, but he doesn't trust his brain much right now. "He made it to the top eight, which is how I was discovered. Apparently I have the face of Snow's great love. At least a face close enough. They were able to fill in all the missing details. But me being the unruly teen I was, I wasn't exactly a model prisoner. I enjoyed the perks and power that came along with it, but I got bored with playing the part and I was ready to go home." She leans in close to the mirror to brush a dark line beneath her lower lid. "That wasn't an option."
She places the brush in a small cup beside her makeup pallet then pivots on her stool to face him. "My sister was reaped after I'd been assured all my siblings would be exempt from the Games. He let her win when I agreed to stay."
"What does this have to do with me?" Peeta says.
She crosses to the bed and he falls easily against the mattress when she taps him on the shoulder. "I think you're hiding something," she says as she climbs into his lap and straddles his hips. "And I think you're desperate enough to keep that secret."
He's been home for three days when there's a knock at his door. The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds in dusty beams, too bright for his ragged eyes, and he rubs them as he stomps to answer the door.
It's Katniss.
She bunches her canvas game bag in her hand. "I heard you were in the Capitol," she says, never meeting his eye.
His throat tightens and he has to clear it before he can speak. "Yes," he says simply. "Have you come to trade?"
Her eyes flick up, a quick flash of gray and then it's gone again. It's enough to make his heart swell and his hands ache to touch her. He's so tired and lonely and empty, he's ready to lose himself in her again.
"You should leave," he says, more harshly than he intended, but it's better that way. It would be better if she left.
She reaches into her canvas bag to retrieve a small wooden box and climbs the three porch steps to hand it to him. He hesitates to open it.
"It's checker pieces - for your set," she says when he finally lifts the lid. "I saw them at the Hob, someone made them out of a corn cob or something. I thought we could maybe play sometime, since I'm not any good at chess."
He lets out a heavy, pained sigh and replaces the lid. "Why are you doing this, Katniss?"
"I'm worried about you," she says.
"You don't owe me anything."
"I know," she says quietly. "I never asked you for help, when we were kids - the bread..." She's looking everywhere but at him and it makes him feel shameful because she knows where he's been and what he's done and she pities him and is disgusted by him at the same time and he can't tell which one is worse. "You helped me anyway."
He should say something nasty to her so she'll leave, but he can only stare at her.
"I'm so tired, Katniss," he admits.
She climbs the last step and wraps her arms around him. He resists at first, his arms limp at his sides, but then his entire body shudders, collapsing with a violent sob and her tiny frame is supporting his full weight.
She guides him back into the house and deposits him on the couch where he cries into her lap. The feeling of her fingers stroking his scalp is impossibly good and the soft, soothing melodies she hums warms him to the bone, and then he's crying again because he'll never be able to keep her, and then finally, exhaustion takes him under.
Katniss isn't a very good cook. It's dark out when he wakes and almost instantly a bowl of stew is being pushed into his hands. It's all salt and pepper and boiled meat that's tough to chew. It's obvious that Katniss isn't used to having a rack full of spices. There are a couple of green sprigs he sees mixed in, but only a small, experimental pinch that barely makes an impact on his taste buds.
He cleans the bowl anyway and accepts seconds when she offers. He'd do anything to make her stay a little longer.
She perches herself on the edge of the coffee table across from him. "How are you feeling?"
He feels embarrassed over his earlier outburst. Showing weakness is dangerous, but he can't help himself around her.
"Sorry about that," he says sheepishly. "I get a bit wallowy from time to time."
There's uncertainty in her gaze, like she still doesn't trust his sincerity. That's a good thing, he reminds himself, but it still stings.
"It's getting late," she says. "I should get home."
He bites his tongue before he can offer to walk her. Parading around town with Katniss will probably put her in more danger than letting her go alone. His moment of vulnerability has passed. It's time to let her go again.
He walks her to the door and lingers behind it when it shuts. The box of checker pieces sits forgotten on the table beside the large bay window. He flips open the lid and scatters a few pieces across the board, replacing the crystal chess pieces with the lopsided slices of stained husk.
He takes the king first, but quickly sets it back in its place. It could never be that easy. You could never win the game in a single move.
She returns on Sunday with a bag full of game. He shows her how to fry squirrels in a shallow pot of oil and after they drop spoonfuls of biscuit batter into the sizzling grease. Peeta can't take his eyes off her as she licks her shiny fingers clean, her smile beaming around a mouthful of food.
They spend the rest of the evening quietly pushing checker pieces around the board. Katniss has the rules all wrong and bounces a disk in moves and directions that aren't allowed, clearing all of his pieces with a triumphant grin. Peeta doesn't tell her this, only bows his head in defeat with a chuckle.
"You're letting me win," she says, her eyes fixing him with one of her suspicious glares.
"You're making me lose," he corrects her.
The following weekend he's sent to the Capitol for an important official's birthday party. He's one of the gifts.
He sits beneath a scalding stream in the shower until his skin is raw and the water turns to ice. At one point he covers the drain and lays face down on the porcelain tile so his nose and mouth are submerged. He keeps still waiting for the tightening in his lungs as the last ounce of oxygen burns away. When he can't hold on a moment longer, his arms slacken and the water swirls away and he lies on his side gasping for air.
Why won't he just put himself out of his misery. What's the point of hanging around? "Victor" is such a taunting title. He didn't win anything.
He can hear the muffled sound of knocking, dull thuds that taper off then start up again just as quickly. He shuts off the water and reaches blindly for a towel to wrap around his waist.
"It's Sunday," Katniss says timidly when he answers the door. She looks everywhere but at him again. Somebody must have told her where he was. His father, probably.
He scrubs a hand over his face and leans against the edge of the frame. "I'm kind of tired," he says.
She stares at his chest and he wonders if there are scars from the night before that catch her eye.
"From your trip?" she says, her voice cool and even.
"Yeah."
He looks down at her canvas game bag hanging loosely from her hand. "I'll take whatever you have," he says. "Go and take what you want for it."
He steps aside to allow her entrance and she meanders through the kitchen while he dresses upstairs. When he returns she's weighing a bar of baking chocolate and a tin of cocoa in her hands.
"I want to make hot chocolate," she says. "For my sister. She has a goat."
"Okay..." he says slowly. He moves to the cupboard to retrieve a glass jar and a large tin of sugar. He takes the baking chocolate and deposits it back in the fridge. "This stuff tastes awful," he says waving it at her for good measure. "This stuff too," he says when he takes the tin of cocoa. "It's mostly sugar, actually," he says, filling the jar about two thirds of the way with white crystals, and then topping it off with the fine, powdery cocoa. "I've never made it with goat's milk though. I'm sure it tastes the same."
"Thank you," she says, slipping the jar into her game bag. She starts towards the door.
"Is that all you want?" he says. Suddenly he doesn't want her to leave, even though he knows that she should. "I can make you something."
"It's fine," she says. "Now that it's warmer there are more plants in season to pick. There's a hill north of here -"
He cuts her off before she can finish her thought. He taps on his ear and then points up toward the ceiling where their voices are being recorded. It seems like a silly precaution since she's been bringing him poached game for weeks, but she's never said how or where she's gotten it from.
He's not even sure there's anybody listening.
She bobs her head with a comprehending nod, but then an idea seems to flicker, brightening her eyes. "Do you want to go for a walk?"
"I kind of try to keep a low profile."
"Discretion will be important for this," she says and then he understands. She wants to take him into the woods. "I think some fresh air will do you good."
"I'm tired."
"I know," she says. "And I don't think being in here is helping."
Being around her isn't helping, but he doesn't say it out loud. A victor slipping beyond the fence sounds like a suicide mission to him. And when they're caught, the peacekeepers won't be going after the most photographed man in District Twelve. Katniss will be the one to be made an example.
But then he begins to think about the other side. The idea becoming too tempting. For once a few blissful moments where he doesn't feel like he's being watched. Maybe they'd decide to stay out there. Maybe they'd never come back. He clings to these thoughts as improbable as they sound to him even now. Revels in them.
"Okay," he says.
She knows of a few places where the fence sags, making it easy to pass through. One isn't too far from Cray's house, and Katniss makes a point of flipping his door the bird before she ducks beneath the warped chain link. The trees thicken almost instantly and they're quickly guarded behind their cover of the woods.
After about twenty minutes of hiking, the sun brightens between the thinning branches, and the forest opens up into a beautiful meadow. The grass is still crisp and yellow from the winter, but there are patches of bright greenery heavy with buds that are waiting to blossom.
"It's early for strawberries, but sometimes I find them out here around this time of year," she says, guiding him around the base of the hill.
The ground is steep and he's out of breath by the time they reach the top. The rocks are still warm from baking in the day's sun even as it begins to recede towards the horizon. Tucked between the cracks, small vines with wide green leaves peek through. Some are feathered with a few tiny flowers, while others hang low with a plump fruit that looks like blueberries.
It's far too early for blueberries though. The bakery only got blueberry preserves late in the summer, closer to when the fall began. And when he leans in to inspect them, he notices how misshapen they are. Not round like a marble, but lopsided and lumpy.
"What about these, Katniss?" he says, plucking one from its vine and holding it up for her.
She looks at it for only a second before swatting it out of his hand. "Not those," she says. "Skin as black as night will seal your fate," she recites from practiced memory. "Lock you in slumber before it's too late."
"So they're poisonous?" he says, scrambling a few paces from the patch.
"That's putting it mildly. Most poisonous fruits just cause mild irritation. All it takes is one berry of nightlock and you'd be dead in a minute."
Peeta's eyes linger on the tempting fruit. His tongue drags across his lower lip, imagining if the juices are tart or sweet. If he'd even be able to tell before it was over.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, mesmerized by inviting, morbid thoughts. He's somewhere far away from Panem and even these woods, only being drawn back by the sound of her voice.
"Look!" Katniss calls to him. She's crested the peak and climbed down the hill to where the land flattens out and overlooks a deep valley. His eyes follow the path of her gaze. Through the hills, the sun is starting to set.
Rays of orange light seem to shadow the land ahead and color the clouds in warm hues. The thin stream that trickles through the valley reflects the image with glistening detail, enough to take his breath away.
He stumbles towards Katniss to get a better view. He's seen the sunset a thousand times, but always over the apple tree in his back yard, or between the buildings in the Capitol skyline. Sometimes on the train, he sees it begin over fields or through canyons, but they're moving so fast, it's over in a brief flash.
This sun is frozen in time. A moment that could last forever like the paintings he used to craft when that was considered his "Victor talent." He glances at Katniss then. Studies the way the orange glow highlights new angles of her face he hadn't noticed before. He wants to hold onto this moment too before it dips beneath the horizon.
He takes her hand into his and when she doesn't pull away, he kisses her. Soft and tentative until he feels her arms snake around his neck and feels her sigh against his lips ever so slightly. Then he loses himself.
He'll never be able to escape her. He'll never be able to protect her. He'll always be a goner when it comes to her.
"It's getting late," she says too soon. "They sometimes turn the fence back on at night."
He doesn't care. He's not ready to go back, but he follows her anyway and he doesn't say a word when she tells him she's going home instead of coming back to his house with him, and he pretends he doesn't notice when she doesn't show up the following Sunday or the Sunday after that.
He's being selfish; thinking that he loves her when she doesn't love him back. It only puts her in danger, like Finnick's love for Annie and Dracaena's love for her sister. He recalls Dracaena's warning. His secret that he was desperate to hide.
He has to let that secret go before it's too late.
For the 50th year of Coriolanus Snow's rule over Panem, a giant celebration is held. The party is decadent with over 500 guests filling the lawns of the President's mansion. Peeta plays the part of the perfectly charming guest to a T. He entertains everyone who looks at him hungrily, collecting room numbers and times from the highest bidders.
"There's something different about you." It's Dracaena, sipping a potent liqueur from a miniature champagne glass with an extravagantly drawn on arched eyebrow and an arm folded defiantly across her chest.
"What? Am I glowing?" he asks flatly.
"Absolutely radiant," she says in the same tone. "Have you become a man?"
He casts a side way glance in her direction and plucks a drink off a passing avox's tray. "I think you know the answer to that."
She feigns innocence. "You seem awfully broody. Did you get your heart broken or something?"
"Is that what that is? I thought it had to do with my life being ripped away from me and getting passed around like property."
"Oh no, that's old news. This is different. You seem angry," she tips back the rest of her drink. "I like that."
"Thanks?"
"Be careful Peeta, you're teetering towards your breaking point," she says, flashing him one last smile before she rejoins President Snow on the main platform.
Peeta finds himself glaring across the room at the guest of honor, his hand gripping the glass in his hand so tightly, he's afraid it may shatter.
It's dusk the next day when Twelve's train platform comes into view. For the Games the tributes are driven from the town square to the station, but that's only because they're too paralyzed with fear to walk. Peeta remembers feeling like he was weighed down with cement against the brown velvet seat, stuffed in a cab between folds of Effie's ridiculously huge dress, which he used to hide from the other tribute, Levy Johnson's ghostly stare.
He didn't kill her, but it felt like he did. It felt like he killed all twenty-three of them. And the ten tributes he's failed to bring home since becoming a mentor. Their blood is on his hands too. Because he cowers to his oppressor. He allows himself to play a piece in this game.
The shop lights are already dim as he trudges through town. Electricity has been spotty lately - not for him in Victor's Village, but in town where only one in ten windows seems to glow. The Capitol has been hoarding supplies since some of the other districts began sending empty cargo trains. Even though Twelve has been sending more coal than ever, they're still paying a price. Finnick and Haymitch promise it'll be over soon, but to him, it can't end soon enough.
He climbs the steps to his house already shucking his light jacket before he reaches the door. There's an extra pair of boots lined up along the wall and a familiar leather jacket hanging from the banister.
He feels his heart quicken, and when he spots her, curled up in the corner of the couch, he's struck with this unfamiliar sense of relief. Like the weight that plagues his shoulders has been momentarily lifted in reprieve.
A celebration like the one last night for Snow would be required viewing for all of Panem. Peeta's certain he appeared in some of the footage. Caesar Flickerman probably interviewed him for longer than anyone, and he saw camera pods weaving through the main ballroom all night. He wonders what all Katniss saw.
He stretches out to lie beside her, wrapping his arms around her sleeping form and resting his head in the curve of her waist. She smelled like pine and dirt in the winter, but now that it's spring she smells like sap and that sharp scent of broken greens. Like the woods. Like freedom. He inhales her deeply and tightens his hold, causing her to stir.
Her eyes are foggy when they meet his. "You're back," she says and her mouth turns up slightly in recognition.
"You too." She looks away.
"I saw you at the party," she says, her voice still groggy from sleep.
He feels her fingers tangle and comb through his hair and his eyelids grow heavy. "And you decided you missed me?"
"I didn't like it," she says, silencing herself when she realizes she doesn't have the right. "I'm sorry..."
"You don't owe me anything," he murmurs against her hip.
"You don't either." She touches a hand to his cheek, forcing him to look up at her. "Do you want me to stay?"
"Yes," he says quickly before she can take it back. "Always."
She rolls onto her back and he shifts his weight for her to open her legs to him. He doesn't know where to begin, he wants all of her at once. His hand moves from her belly to her neck, bunching her thin cotton blouse between his fingers. He pushes aside the fabric to reveal her underclothes. A simple tank top with elastic straps. Nothing like the complex lacy garments the women wear in the Capitol.
He cups one of her breasts, weighing it in his hand, cupping his palm around the mound until it fills it perfectly. She covers his hand with hers and gives a slight nod, working their hands in tandem over the tightening peak. He muffles his groan against her bare collarbone, taking the opportunity to taste her. Hints of salt and lye from her unscented soap.
"You're perfect," he says, dragging his lips across her skin.
She plants her feet on the sofa to cage his hips between her knees. He's already hard but his cock stiffens painfully when she swivels against him. He aches to be inside her. To bury himself so deep, he'll never find his way out.
He thrusts against her center. Fabric to fabric to fabric to fabric. She mewls, fingernails fighting through his shirt. He finds the button to her pants and unfastens them, smoothing his fingers over her dampened sex through her underwear.
"Peeta," she gasps.
His eyes snap to meet hers. The gray pools are heavy with lust as they were the last time, but the uncertainty that clouded her gaze before is gone. She came back to him. She keeps coming back to him.
He's tired of questioning everyone's motives. He's ready to believe that this could be real.
Their pants and underwear are still around their ankles when he enters her. The room silent save for her sharp grunt which quickly wanes to pleasure.
In the morning, when he wakes, for the first time he can remember, his bed is warm. Her black hair is fanned across the discarded white pillow beside him, while her head rests against his chest, right over his heart.
He's afraid that any movement will disturb her so he stills his breath, focusing on the ceiling to maintain this one simple task. She stirs anyway, and rolls to the other side of the mattress, uncurling her tired limbs like a cat as she wakes. He catches her hip before she can get far, letting the sheet fall away in the process.
He grins and flicks his thumb over her pebbled nipple, then bends forward to kiss her quickly. If he were allowed to be happy, this is what it would be like.
"I'm never getting married," she warns him, her languid smile still dreamy. "Or having children or falling in love, none of it."
He nods. Not in this world. Not with the odds he has.
"Me either," he says. Her smile sobers, his as well. This is all they can have. There's no future beyond this bed. Not as long as the Capitol casts its shadow on everything he cares about. He wants it all back.
He's going to get it back.
He rolls on his back to stare at the ceiling. "Glad we're on the same page."
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