Welcome back to another chapter! Has anyone ever told you that writing fanfiction is exhausting? Well, it is. I always fall about a week behind my goals for each chapter, so maybe if I aim to get the next one done in the week, I'll finish it in two! As always, I can't thank you all enough for your awesome, constructive reviews! They're really what keeps me going!
This chapter is a bit of a change in pace, but in a way that I hope you'll enjoy. You might even find it a little fun, which the last couple chapters definitely were not! Enjoy!
His coppery brown hair is slicked back neatly. His suit jacket is a deep purple. Were I not sure that the rebellion had succeeded, I would mistake him for a young Ceasar Flickerman. His eyes are bright. His smile is what I find most disturbing. It's glazed over, too wide and too enthusiastic to be real.
Plutarch Heavensbee smiles at me like a cunning thief.
"Are we sure that nobody else will be joining us today?" he asks once again.
I shake my head without saying a word. I try to make eye contact, but feel the need to break it every time I go to speak.
"I told you," Greasy Sae, who has come to supervise without Plutarch's permission, sighs from behind him, "Peeta was sick all morning. He said he'll be up for it tomorrow."
That's the best lie we've managed to come up with: disease. Plutarch doesn't buy it. He suspects that Peeta and I do not want to be interviewed together. He heard about the argument from his camera crew, but remains unsure as to whether or not the situation has dissipated. He actually had the nerve to ask me why I wasn't tending to Peeta.
But Peeta and I had come to an agreement, via Greasy Sae, to simply make up excuses to avoid each other as much as possible during Plutarch's stay in District Twelve. Lest we avoid rumors of a rift between the Mockingjay and her lover appearing on the national news.
Plutarch swivels around and gives Sae a flash of his brilliant grin, but turns back looking annoyed. "It's too bad that your mentor couldn't be there for this," he adds.
I look down at my hands. Plutarch brought along a single stylist who spent all morning bringing me back to Beauty Base Zero. Thankfully, nobody felt the need to transform my hair and stick me in a gown. Instead, only one embellishment was added: black nail polish with a fiery design on top, just like my first games.
I want to slap the grin right off his face.
Plutarch looks to his cameramen. "Are we ready?"
One of the men gives him a curt nod and Plutarch leans in toward me "Like I said, this is just a preliminary interview. We'll probably come back for a quick secondary run after we've talked to Peeta."
"Just try to act natural." He winks at me as he gives the cameramen the signal to begin shooting. If only he knew what acting natural would entail for me. It would be a disaster.
As the red recording light powers on, part of me desperately wishes that Cinna were still here. I need a friend to guide me through this.
"You can start by saying a little bit about yourself to the camera," Plutarch instructs.
I stare at the camera shakily, my mouth as dry as sandpaper.
"Hello," I manage to squeak out. "This is Katniss Everdeen."
My mind fills in the blanks from my old repetitive therapy. I am eighteen years old.
"I was a soldier in the rebellion. I was in the Capitol on the day that President Snow fell from power," I repeat obviously, doing my best to stay away from my former title as "the Mockingjay."
My sister is dead.
"I am currently living back in my home in District Twelve."
My mother is gone.
A few sentences in and I'm already at a loss for words. I do my best to keep the tears from welling up in my eyes. I can't look crazy. Not today.
"What's been going on in District Twelve since the end of the war?" Plutarch prompts.
I turn back him, struggling to process an answer to his rather mundane question.
"District Twelve is doing well. There's only a few hundred people who have come back so far, but they've built new houses. The recovery team has done a lot. They've finished the Mayor's house and they're working on the Justice Building."
Plutarch's voice is far too cheery. "And the new bakery that you've set up with Peeta Mellark!"
My stomach drops at the mention of his name. The wild mix of emotions flusters me.
"I didn't do much with the bakery," I answer lamely. "I was just around when it was being worked on."
It's the truth, but I know instantly that it's not what Plutarch wants to hear. He leans back in his chair, looks back to ensure neither camera is facing him, then gives me a cautious glare.
"Oh Katniss, you don't have to be bashful!" He exclaims boastfully, spilling over with false enthusiasm.
Paylor may be president now, but she made Plutarch Heavensbee the Secretary of Communications for a reason. A number of lies were told in order to gain rebel support during the war. Plutarch was in charge of most of them.
Right now, he's assuring these lies must stay in tact for the sake of the new Panem. He wants me to recall tales of reconciliation and devotion to Peeta. It's as if I've been sent straight back to the games.
"If anything, I worked more on the memorial. Peeta and I spent weeks on it." I offer up the fakest of all smiles. "I can't show you the design until it's built. We want it to be a surprise!"
When he asks how Peeta is doing, I mention that he's started painting again. The vicious part of me wonders how uncomfortable Peeta will be when Plutarch asks him about his art tomorrow. I concede to these few facts, but offer him nothing more.
From there, the questions get harder. Plutarch asks me about District Thirteen, which I review favorably. He asks me to recount the last few days in the Capitol, after the Star Squad was attacked by the pod that killed Boggs. Though Plurtach has a good idea what happened, I realize that most of Panem has never heard the story. Five members of the Star Squad survived. There are only four of us who can recall it aloud.
The recollection is long and agonizing. Certain events are blurred so much that it's hard to tell the story in chronological order. Others, like Peeta's fit of insanity, I refuse to mention. I seem to be missing large chunks of each day. Who died where? I forget the mention the deaths of Mitchell and Messalla, then clumsily try to add them in, apologizing profusely each time.
My story ends in the middle of City Circle. Everyone in the room knows why.
Plutarch hangs his head in sympathy. "And that's where you lost your sister."
"Yes."
There's no room for discussion. It's a cold, solid fact.
"How are you coping, Katniss?"
It's such a pathetic question. He knows how I'm coping. I suppose this is the point where I'm supposed to break down and spill all of my emotions, but I refuse to do that in front of Plutarch. I don't respect him enough to let him see my tears.
When I don't answer, Plutarch helps me along again. "I hear you and Peeta have made a book."
The reference to Peeta doesn't even phase me now. I'm in a near vegetative state when I get up to fetch the book. I'd meant to do more by the time Plutarch got here.
"There's not much," I tell him, embarrassed by my lack of results.
The book opens to my parents' wedding photo, followed by copious notes on my father. Plutarch seems less interested in that than the next few pages on Prim, much of which he asks me to read aloud before having the camera focus in on Peeta's portrait of Prim.
My personal tragedy will be broadcast as the nation's tragedy. Another child lost to the cruel, unforgiving hands of our former regime.
I lose my grip on the edge of the page as I hold it out to the camera. I let out a soft gasp when I see the page beyond. It's a near-perfect painting of Peeta's parents, followed by stories written in a loopy, slightly messier handwriting. I never knew Peeta had finally added his entries. Perhaps he'd found some solace after all.
I snap the book shut. "You should probably ask Peeta about those ones." I offer him the book and he accepts with thanks. We discuss my future plans to add all of the rebels and tributes that we've lost since my journey begin.
Everything is flowing, it's almost pleasant, even. Plutarch is living up to his promises to make me look like a decent, stable human being up until the very end of his line of questioning.
"Now Katniss, I know this isn't something that you want to talk about, but the nation needs to know." He plays up every word to the point where I'm positive he'll be quoted on the show. "Why did you assassinate President Coin?"
My eyes dilate and my mouth hangs open. It's as if Plutarch has shoved a massive cotton ball down my throat, making it bone dry and preventing any sound from escaping.
He said he wanted me to look good. He said he wouldn't ask. I should have known better than to trust him.
Do I tell him, tell everyone about the double-exploding bombs? They'll ask for my proof. I don't have any. If the government denies it, nobody will believe me. I am, after all, mentally unstable.
My only option is to go along with the defense Dr. Aurelis had come up with for me during the trial.
"Alma Coin.." Something sticks in my throat again and I'm not sure how to continue. Plutarch watches me with feverish anticipation.
"She was corrupt!" I burst out, then slowly harden my facial features and get a hold of myself. "She was no better than Snow. She had no problem killing innocent people to take control of Panem!" I try to bite my tongue then and there, but one more word slips out.
"Ruthless," I spit out in anger with a shake of my head.
Before I continue on an unbecoming rant, Plutarch comes to my aid.
"Is it true that Coin had planned to create another Hunger Games with Capitol children?" He asks. I resist the urge to smirk. Plutarch knows it's true. He too is trying to distance himself from any involvement with Coin.
"Yes," I say confidently. "Just before Snow's execution, she told the victors what she planned to do."
I feel a little guilty not mentioning that the victors had voted on the matter and the majority of us, including myself, agreed to it. I didn't want to see Capitol children die. I wanted revenge for Prim. I realize now that I got it shortly thereafter on the steps of the City Circle, watching Alma Coin plummet down from the balcony where she placed herself high above the rest of Panem.
The urge to explain it all in fine detail burns my insides, but I understand the chaos that would cause. There's no way I could mention any of that now.
Plutarch's voice breaks my chain of thought. "Think how many children's lives you saved that day," he comments pensively.
I smile weakly and give a slow nod. So this was his strategy. I killed Alma Coin to save the lives of entitled Capitol children who were mere victims of circumstance. How noble I am.
Plutarch turns to his cameramen and gives them a whirling hand signal. The red lights on the camera go off. We're finally done. I look outside and I guess that not much time has gone by, but it felt like an eternity.
Greasy Sae examines me from a distance, gives me a reassuring nod, and promises to be back at dinner. Then she's gone.
As the crew packs up, Plutarch is forever talking to anyone that will listen.
"This anniversary special is really shaping up," he says. "The nation will be riveted." He turns to one cameraman. "Pack the lights but leave your camera out. I'll have to speak to Haymitch again, of course. His reaction is an integral part of the story line."
I grimace, both at the idea of Plutarch confronting Haymitch with a camera and his use of the term "story line" to describe my reality.
I decide to hide in my room the moment he leaves. I watch anxiously as they gather the last bits of equipment and begin to walk down the hallway. My heart sinks when Plutarch spins around to face me.
"Oh, one more thing!" His voice is as light and airy as ever. "Peeta had requested some pictures for this." He shakes my memory book in his hand carelessly. "I put them in the study on the way in. Annie Odair also handed me a few for you when I was in District Four."
"You talked to Annie?"
"I had to!" he says was aplomb. "When we look back in the history books, Annie and Finnick Odair's tragic love story will become the stuff of legend!"
I grit my teeth. He's far too excited to exploit Finnick's death to play on national sympathies. Once a Gamemaker, always a Gamemaker.
The seconds ache as I wait for them to exit. When the door softly clicks into place behind them, I'm off like a shot into the study.
Peeta had asked Plutarch for a significant amount of photos, but I'd assumed he would ignore the request. Yet the box sits on the desk where I'd had my first confrontation with President Snow. I grab it off the table as quickly as I can. A few photos fly off the top of the box, but I don't pause to gather them up.
Why did Plutarch have to put the box in the study? On most days, the room doesn't phase me. But today, after a painfully exhausting talk about death and rebellion and the Capitol, any other room in the house would have been better. I can't be in here.
I run into the kitchen with the box clutched close to my chest, thinking of how silly I would look if any outsider were peering into my home at this moment.
Once I'm safe in the bright light of the kitchen, I allow myself a few rasping breaths and examine the box. It's much smaller batch than I expected, but when I open it up, I realize that every picture has been selected carefully.
By the looks of them, the many of the photos from Thirteen were captured off video footage. There's Boggs, looking strong but somewhat concerned inside the makeshift hospital in District Eight. Another picture displays Castor and Pollux sitting side by side at the lake. Messalla directs a small crowd outside of Thirteen's Justice Building as Cressida prepares to interview Finnick in the background.
I flip over to the next photo and gasp. She's smiling up at me so bright and child-like, her hair frozen mid-bounce as she faces off with me in a dance. Prim. I never thought I'd find an actual photo of her, but she was in the propo from the wedding.
For once in my life, I'm thankful for Plutarch Heavensbee.
The tears are starting to sting my eyes. An emotional tidal wave threatens to spill over me, but a shriek rips through the silence, grabbing my attention before it comes on.
"I TOLD YOU TO STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME WITH YOUR CAMERAS!"
Horror shoots through my body as a loud crashing noise follows the screaming. I rush to the window to find Haymitch, furious and stumbling in front of Plutarch, who continues to invasively question him as if it were of the utmost importance. The cameraman is fumbling around on the ground where his video camera has fallen. Haymitch must have knocked it out of his hands.
I rush through the front door with very little thought. It took Plutarch a decent effort to make me look like a good person for this special. Too bad I'm about to ruin it.
"Plutarch!" I call out, but he doesn't seem to hear me over the commotion with Haymitch.
"The nation has the right to know what you were up to all those years!" I hear him tell Haymitch. "You were one of the top rebels in the revolution, the mentor of the Mockingjay! Don't they deserve to know how it was done behind the former government's back for so long?"
So that's why Plutarch wanted to talk to him. When I think about it, it seems so simple. Haymitch is perhaps the longest standing member of the rebel movement outside of District Thirteen. He's a loner and a drunkard, but he has information that even Plutarch himself is not privy to.
Haymitch fumbles back inside and goes to slam the door shut, but he's not very quick or strong. Plutarch catches the door with relative ease and tries to force his way past the threshold.
"Leave him alone!" I hear from behind me. The voice rings out louder and stronger than mine, catching the attention of the raucous crowd beyond us.
I whip around and see him for the first time since our encounter in the woods. Peeta looks worse for wear. He could easily pass as sick, like Greasy Sae had told the camera crews earlier, but upon examining him I know it's something else. He's exhausted and moody and struggling through the days, just as I am.
Days ago, I found relief in his misery. Today, worry and guilt threaten to crush me.
He walks right past me without a glance in my direction, but I follow close behind. Not for him, but for Haymitch.
The drunk aging man is shouting out an endless obscenity-filled rant about the new media and Plutarch's motives, standing just inches away from his new enemy. The video camera is trained back on him now, catching every moment of what will surely be aired as Haymitch Abernathy's psychotic break.
"Haymitch, stop!" I plead, quickening my pace toward them. Peeta tries to follow suit, but can't run as fast with his artificial leg.
"IT WAS HELL!" Haymitch shouts out as I reach him. "YOU COULD NEVER UNDERSTAND! You never lost anything in this war besides your cozy fucking apartment in the Capitol, Plutarch! The rebels practically catered to you and you destroyed their families, you prick!"
Before Plutarch can respond, I snatch his wrist and pry the door out of his hand. He's ready to defend himself against an attacker, but soon realizes it's me. He stops himself before he's recorded trying to beat down the Mockingjay.
He's still trying to find the proper reaction when Haymitch's door slams shut with a powerful slam. I look behind me to see Peeta's arm stretched out, having just pushed the door in place.
"Lock it, Haymitch!" Peeta's demand is met moments later by a few fumbling clinks of metal, then the sound of the door locking securely in place.
I stare back at Peeta, impressed but not yet willing to compliment him, until his gaze turns back to Plutarch.
"He told you he didn't want to be interviewed," Peeta says, a bit of authority rising up in his tone.
"Multiple times," I add, even though I know it's futile. Plutarch's unsure smirk in directed toward Peeta, not me.
"I just wanted to give it one last try," he sighs, sounded unconvincingly defeated. "Haymitch and I were such good friends! I thought he'd be willing to sure his experience with me if we just spoke face-to-face. I never dreamed I'd receive such a volatile reaction!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cameraman moving to the other side of the steps to catch our faces. I give a smirk of my own. "If you try it again, I'll put an arrow through your cameras."
Peeta lets out an amused snort behind me. For a brief moment, we are once again Haymitch's tributes in the dining car of the train heading toward our first Hunger Games, fighting back against the unfit powers that be. The only difference is that we're now defending Haymitch rather than trying to challenge him.
Defeated, Plutarch turns to his crew member. "Shut that thing off for now, okay?"
He turns back to Peeta. "You seem to have regained some strength! Maybe we can move up that interview after all. Perhaps we can head down to the bakery!"
"He's sick!" I remind him forcefully before Peeta has a chance to answer. I see him walking down the stairs as I give Plutarch a death glare.
The older man knows very well what we're avoiding, but refuses to acknowledge it aloud, at least while standing right in front of us.
"Of course," Plutarch responds, trying to sound positive despite the shakiness cracking through his voice. "We want you in top shape for the big appearance!"
It takes a conscious effort to keep from scoffing. I struggle to remember how Peeta talked me into giving an interview in the first place. I knew that Plutarch had always been a bit selfish and centered on public appearances, but I was too busy dealing with bigger issues to realize the extent.
Something comes crashing down in Haymitch's house. From the sound of it, I suppose he dropped a pan.
"You should start heading back to the square," I suggest to Plutarch. I'm trying to be kind, but I'm certain that the anger still comes across in my voice. He gives a quick nod of assent before making his way off of Haymitch's front steps. Peeta and I watch him suspiciously.
I turn away, relieved that soon Greasy Sae will be back again and my life will sink back into a state of semi-conscious normalcy. I won't be happy. I won't be doing anything of value, but I won't be dealing with Plutarch Heavensbee either.
"Katniss!" He chirps one last time. I spin around, frustrated and ready to snap. If he notices, he certainly doesn't act like it. "We'll need you to stop by tomorrow during Peeta's interview, if possible. It's really imperative that we get a few good shots of the two of you together."
My feelings are mirrored back at me by the look on Peeta's face. He stares at Plutarch in utter disgust from the foot of Haymitch's front steps. I turn back around, cursing under my breath.
"For national morale!"
"Go to hell, Plutarch," Peeta mutters angrily. I hear the telltale sounds of his artificial leg ever so slightly scraping the ground when he begins to walk back toward his house. A genuinely pleased grin spreads over my face for the first time in ages, though no one will ever know.
It's not until I'm back in the house that it hits me. For a few minutes, we were so close, Peeta and I. He wasn't hiding from me. I could have reached out and touched him if I wanted to. But he wasn't there to see me, he was sticking up for Haymitch. So was I. Someone had set out to harm us, but we took control of the situation. We were a team once again.
I miss him.
I try to quell the feeling by going back to look through the photos Plutarch had given me for the book. Staring down at such a beautiful photo of my lost sister stirs up nostalgia within me, but it doesn't overpower my newly discovered thoughts toward Peeta.
I place the picture down on the table and stare at it intensely, feeling greedy and ungrateful. How could I think so much about him while remembering her? Prim should always be first in my mind. Always. What a horrible sister I am.
I couldn't take care of Prim. I couldn't take care of Peeta. I can't even take care of myself.
I resign myself to laying on the couch, occasionally peering out at the setting sun until I hear the familiar sound of Greasy Sae's key scraping the lock to my front door. By that time, I've resolved to do something new. I want to make changes, but not because someone else has influenced me to do so. I need to regain control over my life, for me.
So when Greasy Sae gives me her usual partially toothless smile and walks into the kitchen, I follow her.
"Is something wrong?" She asks, confused by my appearance.
"No, not at all," I tell her. Despite knowing the old woman for years and feeling comfortable with her, my smile is small and unsure. "I just want to help."
Her expression moves from slight confusion to utter bewilderment. "Help... cook?"
"Yes," I say, but it doesn't feel sufficient. It requires further explanation which has some potential to be offensive. I let out a frustrated sigh before beginning. "You've been great to me. Really, you have! But it's pathetic that I have to have you cook for me," I pause before begrudgingly adding "or have Peeta cook."
I can't quite read the expression on Greasy Sae's face, but I decide after careful consideration that it is not offense or betrayal.
"I just want to be able to fend for myself," I offer up quickly, hoping to make my point clear.
The smile on her face is much wider and more genuine than the one she gave me upon entering the house.
"Let's get you started then," she croons, thumping a slab of venison on the counter.
By noon the next day, I've decided that the worst part of cooking is scrubbing pots and pans after eating. I've tried my hand at cooking venison stew and omelets with Greasy Sae. Neither were perfect, but they were edible.
I remain a work in progress.
It took me nearly two hours to convince myself to clean the dishes, which Greasy Sae has deemed my responsibility from now on. I stare out the window above the sink as I scrub, trying to catch a glimpse of Haymitch alive and moving about. All I manage to see are a few geese waddling around in the backyard.
Something tugs at me from inside, wishing that Haymitch, Peeta and I had gotten together to recoup and discuss tactics in dealing with this situation, just as we would have before the second arena. Now, they don't even think I merit a telephone call.
My hands feel soggy and look like prunes by the time I'm finished. I go to shut off the water, but my entire body freezes before I get the chance. At the bottom of the window, the top of a head covered in close-cut chestnut hair passes by, sneaking around inches away from my house.
I consider grabbing my bow, but decide the pan will do just fine.
I don't bother running upstairs to change out of my pajamas. I kick my boots aside before I open the door stealthily. If someone is spying on me, I'm going to catch them before they notice me.
I tiptoe down the steps, across the front of the house, and swing around the corner with my pan in attack position.
One of Plutarch's frightened men almost drops his Capitol-issued video camera on my feet.
"Are you spying on me?" I accuse, refusing to lower the pan from a striking stance.
Despite being much bigger than me, he's lost his nerves at my sudden appearance. "Of course not! We're getting exterior shots of Victor's Village to be edited in!"
"Why are you filming so damn close to my windows, then?" I know I should let him go. He's just following orders from Plutarch, but he's no better for doing so.
"This is the best angle into Mr. Abernathy's yard," he gulps. The look in his eyes tells me he's anxious to hear my reaction.
I stare him down as menacingly as possible. "You stay away from Haymitch."
When I turn around and follow the straight line along the primrose bushes to the front of the house, he regains his Capitol swagger and begins to follow me.
"Will we be seeing you at Mr. Mellark's interview? It's in one hour down at the bakery!"
I rip open the door and slam it shut without saying a word. That answer should suit him well enough.
With camera crews peeping around every bend, my house begins to feel like a prison. Hunting is a tempting option, but I can't convince myself to walk to the square and chance being spotted. I elect to hide in my bedroom, tucked safely under the covers until Sae arrives.
While we cook up boiled rabbit and peas, I tell her of the incident from this morning. She nods and never interrupts, but doesn't look surprised.
"I heard," she says, then adds upon noting my confusion, "Peeta told me."
Something that feels like a rock drops in my stomach. "How?"
Sae picks up a pea and pops it in her mouth nonchalantly. She shrugs. "I went over for his interview. Said he saw you walking about in your pajamas with a frying pan, threatening a man with a camera."
I let out a painstaking groan and for the first time ever, I think I hear Sae giggle.
"There ain't nothing wrong with that," she quips. "He was just worried about ya, that's all."
The words come as a strange comfort, though I try not to make my reaction noticeable. I consider asking how Peeta's interview went, but something holds me back. Plutarch could have interrogated Peeta about his time as a prisoner of war or his hijacking. Something could have been said about me. He could have had a meltdown again. In any case, I don't want to know.
There's not much for conversation tonight. The dishes are done before Greasy Sae leaves. When she's gone, I sit in silence for a long time before turning on the television solely for background noise. I think more and more about the rapid changes in my life over recent weeks. Anxiety flows through me until I'm stretched to the limit like a balloon filled with too much air.
When the night falls, it stands clear and crisp. Through my window, I can see every star in the sky. Every cricket in the surrounding woods chirps out an uneven melody. Its beauty only serves to laugh in the face of my depression and fear. I shut off the television to listen.
I listen to nature's symphony with eyes closed, occasionally humming my own song into the mix, until I eventually fall into a jagged, uneasy sleep.
The banging noises come as an unwelcome surprise.
I jump so violently that I nearly fall off the couch. For a moment I hide behind it, ready for a spray of gunfire or the effects of whatever pod has been triggered. When nothing comes, I slowly remember where I am.
Standing up, I see no movement in the shadows outside. The night is still dead quiet. I must have dreamed it up.
Just as my wired nerves begin to calm themselves, another string of stunningly loud banging begins. With more of my wits about me, I notice the source: the door.
As I march my way down to the door, I try to guess the hour. I can't pinpoint it exactly, but something tells me I'm up in the wee hours of the morning. How is it that no one will talk to me during the day, but someone thinks its a good idea to knock of my door now?
A gust of cool autumn air bursts into the hall as I open the door. It feels refreshing, but chills me at the same time. It's a warning.
When the door is fully ajar, I find myself staring into his blue eyes once again. He looks miserable. Surely he hasn't slept. I'd guess that he's been crying as well. I can see the goosebumps rising off his flesh in discomfort.
"I'm sorry to show up like this," he bursts out before I've even managed to take in the scene. "I just need to know..."
I'm perplexed by so many things. Peeta's disinterested attitude toward me just a day ago, his sudden appearance tonight. But I begin with his unfinished thought.
"Know what?" I ask. I'm pleasantly surprised by the gentleness in my voice, which usually comes out terse and cold without my permission.
"I need to know that you understand!"
I know what Peeta wants to hear. He wants forgiveness. He's explained his reasons for the painting twice now and both times I haven't offered him any signs of acceptance. I realize now that his reasons were genuine, but I'm not sure if it's something I can forgive.
"No one ever wanted anything to happen to Prim!" His voice is laced with anxiety and desperation that makes my chest ache. "I know you've suffered because she's gone, but nothing in that painting meant to suggest you were at fault, only that I thought she'd moved on, having accepted both her place as your sister and her death! I swear I never meant to say it was your fault!"
I put my fingers to Peeta's lips to keep him from rambling like a madman. The motion confuses him immensely, leaving him momentarily cross-eyed, trying to stare at my fingers.
I choose my words carefully, knowing that I'll probably never get the opportunity to explain this again if I screw it up tonight.
"Do you ever feel personally responsible for the death of your family?" I ask him.
Slowly, his hand reaches up and clutches onto mine, releasing his lips to speak.
"All the time," he tells me.
"That's how I feel about Prim. I was always afraid that other people saw it too."
Peeta's voice is raw with worry. "I didn't think that! I never-"
"I know you never thought that," i interject, hoping to calm him with slow, soft words. "I shouldn't have blamed you even if that painting really did mean to confirm my worst fears, though. I already think it everyday."
Peeta looks as unsure as I feel, so I finally say what I should have said the day after our initial argument.
"I should have let you explain."
As I look into his eyes, I can see the glazed over look of agony melting away. But instead of relief, his expression contorts into a mix of both need and uncertainty. He chokes on his words a little before he's able to get it out.
"You still care about me more than anyone in the world. You don't want this to be over. Real or not real?"
I don't know exactly why the rush of emotion that's threatened me for days chose to run in this moment, but the tears being to slide down my cheeks as I move closer to Peeta.
"Real," I whisper.
Our lips meet with such strength and promise that I'm taken aback by its power. Peeta presses up against me, leaning me against the doorframe and running his hand across the back of my neck as my arms wrap around him.
Every piece of my being feels alive again. A tiny bud of hope for us blossoms inside me and I promise myself I'll do better this time. I've missed him so much. I couldn't bear the idea of missing him like that for the rest of my life.
When the kiss breaks, neither of us says a word. Instead, we intwine our hands and I lead him back home, shutting out the world behind us.
