Disclaimer: All Hunger Games characters and uses of the original sentences or paragraphs are the property of Suzanne Collins. I own nothing, nor do I plan on profiting from using her work. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Thanks for reading, sorry for typos. -Taryn(:


Chapter Seven

I wake up, my body morphed up against Peeta's sleeping back. Somehow, during the night I'd rolled from my side of the bed, onto his, and unconsciously stanched myself up against his innocently dormant form. He's still slumbering. I don't know what woke me, but my heart is slamming against my ribcage, and it echos inside my ear drums, drowning out most everything else.

One of my arms are thrown over his side and across his chest, underneath his arm. Squashed up against his back are my bare breasts and my icy cold feet are pressed against his sizzling warm calf. And from where my head lays on his pillow I can smell that scent again. Nutmeg, sugar cookies, musk, everything I could ever want.

Making me hungry in every way possible.

I know I should roll away. Roll away, flee to the bathroom, change in peace. Where, after I slip away, Peeta never even has to know about this. But it's just so... and I'm so weak... and Peeta's suddenly stirring, his shoulders moving back, trying to turn.

Startled, terrified, I close my eyes, and feign sleep. Unable to face the issue, that I'm entirely untried to.

When Peeta has turned over completely, my arm pulled off of his side, I know because I hear his breath catch. I feel him lean away, and notice the sound of his artificial leg touching the floor, the springs groaning as he sits up. I peek out of my eyelashes to see Peeta's turned his back to me, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands are fists at his side, his spine rigid.

The effect it has on him is nothing short of satisfying. But wrong, so, so wrong, and different and not me. It's the hunger. The side of me that I didn't think would be. That wants things like this; nakedness, beds, Peeta. And so it's not really me, who reaches out and grasps his wrist when he makes to stand and leave, it's the want. The fire begging for more fuel.

"Peeta," I say.

He still hasn't moved, facing away. "Katniss..." Peeta's voice suggests something wrong.

"Lay back down." My tone merits no question, no request, but an order. And after a few minutes, Peeta stiffly sits back down on the edge of the bed, then lays out along the very side of the space between me and open air, his face pointed at the ceiling, his eyes modestly cast there.

"I should go," Peeta says.

"Stay."

"I don't think, this isn't..." His face turns ten different shades of red. "What are you doing?"

Nothing that will hurt anyone. "Close your eyes," I say and he's eager to obey, most likely hoping I'm going to use that time to make myself decent. Instead, it's to buy myself thinking time, as I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I know I should be feeling vulnerable without clothes on, but it doesn't protrude me in the least, not with Peeta around.

At first, my hand is hesitant, but then I grow more sure, and I take his hand into mine. Peeta's whole form alters, and when I roll closer, onto my side, one leg pressed against his, he lets out a nervous series of exhales. "Trust me," I tell him, then I press my lips into the back of his hand. Mimicking something he did to me once.

"I do," he says.

Then I pull his arm around me, his hand flat against my middle back. Peeta begins to shake his head, eyes still closed, but I stop that with my hands, clutching each side of his face. It forces him to turn on his side, facing me, and he opens his eyes, meeting my hungry gaze.

"Kiss me," and he does. Light at first, then stronger, deeper. There's still a few inches of space between our bodies. My hands glide from his face to around his neck, pulling myself closer, but the hand I put around me locks me in place, an agonizing amount of space wedged between us.

No matter what I do, that space is there, so I let my mouth travel to the salty skin of his neck. Peeta's breathing turns heavy, growing tenser, and my heart is rattling inside of me. Then, abruptly, as my teeth nip into the skin of his shoulder, my thighs are moved apart by his knee.

I gasp, the open air a jolt from my center, through my lower abdomen, and splintering itself all the way through my shoulders and back. A pleasure, so teasing, so fleeting, so foreign that in my shock, Peeta's managed to pull away, sit back up with his back toward me.

"No," I say, reaching a hand out to him. "Lay down."

"Katniss, we shouldn't be doing this."

"Why not? Because we're not married? Because you don't believe me whenever I say that I care? You don't think I want this?" I'm breathless, and even my argument sounds a bit more harsh than it should be. "Because we're going to be dead in a few days? Those all sound like weak excuses to me."

"Because... because you're more to me than this."

"And I want this from you, Peeta." You gave me this hunger, you cure it, fulfill it, dammit.

There is silence, then, self consciously, "I don't know what to do."

"Come here." And he does, rolls over obediently, stares eagerly at my face, completely attentive. "Give me your hand." He does and I lead it to just below my breasts, laying warm and heavy against my ribcage. Already it sends a wither of new pleasures down to my toes and Peeta's face grows a little more uncertain, a little more excited. "Kiss me."

Again and again he does, at first just light, little kisses. Slow, wet, deep. Then Peeta seems to get into it, seems to realize his hands still hasn't moved in what couldn't have been longer than a few minutes, but felt like eons. The warm fingers trail up, hesitant. "Katniss," Peeta gasps against my lips.

I nod, wordlessly, deepening the kiss in the only way I know how, parting his lips with my tongue, experimentally. The fingers are softer and less unsure. Brushing upwards, nails trailing over hot skin. Shivers running down my spine. His thumb traces the outline of my breast, timid, then they travel elsewhere. They work there, then move right passed, up my collarbone, along my shoulder, down my arm, and I close my eyes, give into the feel of his hands. The occasional kiss, the sound of his ragged, excited breathing.

Peeta has traced my upper body five times over, every last inch, from neck to ribcage, before he finally leans forward and places a kiss at the hollow my throat. My breathing grows sparse. His other hand lies useless between us and I grab it, pull it flat across my stomach. "Trust me," I say when he pauses at this new step.

A few more kisses lower, then his other hand finally moves, an inch, then another. Hungrier, feathery-light fingers, not unwanted, brush past my center. It sets a wave of the fire roiling up my body, from my bones outward, from an ache in my lower abdomen to my heating cheeks. Tingling every nerve.

They stop after that, scared, and my fingers move to his, pulling them back. More permission. And the fingers turn into a hand, caressing past, then cupping me. I gasp, and his mouth finds mine.

Then there's a knock on our door and both of our hearts stop dead.

Peeta throws himself away from me, and I sit up, clutching my knees to my chest, just as the harmless, chirping voice of Effie calls through my bedroom door, "Time to get up! It's another big, big, big day! Don't be late for breakfast, strategy meeting," her last words ringing out like a train's whistle.

When we hear her clacking footsteps walk away, my heart starts up again and Peeta rushes out something about probably needing to go, and it would be best and that he's sorry and tagged on an awkward thank you there at the end, just before he slipped out the door, redder than blood.

Numbly, once my breathing returns to normal, I get up and do everything that needs to be done. I shower and dress in the outfit Cinna had brought to me for training. I expect it matches Peeta, which amuses me some. I – we – got away with sleeping in, but I don't want to go to breakfast and discuss our Game strategy. What's to discuss anyway? Every victor already knows what everybody else can do. Or used to be able to do, anyway. So Peeta and I will continue to act in love and that's that. Somehow I'm just not into talking about it, especially with Darius standing mutely by. Though he didn't seem to protrude on my thoughts before.

I find I'm growing hungry as I avoid meeting them so I order some food from the menu in my room by speaking into a mouthpiece. In a minute, sausage, eggs, potatoes, bread, juice, and hot chocolate appears. I eat my fill, trying to drag out the minutes until ten o'clock, when we have to go down to the Training Center. I'm sucking the last dregs of liquid from the cup of hot chocolate my mind wanders briefly to the nightmares of last night and a violent chill rakes over the surface of my skin. What irks me the most wasn't the bloody parts, or even Prim being violently ripped away from my mother, but it is the look on Snow's face as he leered ravenously at the place my child nested. These thoughts are interrupted by Haymitch, pounding at my door around nine-thirty, ordering me to the dining room now!

Still, I brush my teeth before meandering down the hall, effectively killing another five minutes. The dining room's empty except for Peeta and Haymitch, whose face is flushed with drink and anger. On his wrist he wears a solid-gold bangle with a pattern of flames–this must be his concession to Effie's matching-token plan–that he twists unhappily. It's a very handsome bangle, really, but the movement makes it seem like something confining, a shackle, rather than a piece of jewelery. "You're late," he snarls at me.

"Sorry. I slept in after the nightmares of– " my voice caught there. I didn't want to say anything about children, not when I know Peeta's nightmares are so similar. Plus in that exact moment, I catch Peeta's eyes from behind Haymitch's back, and he blushes and turns away so similar to the way he used to all the time when we were younger that I can't help but stumble over it.

Haymitch gives me a scowl, glances between the two of us, but then relents, wanting to move forward. "All right, never mind. Today in-training you've got two jobs. One, stay in love."

"Obviously," I say.

"And two, make some friends," Haymitch continues over me.

"No," I say. "I don't trust any of them, I can't stand most of them, and I'd rather operate with just the two of us."

"That's what I said at first, but—" Peeta begins.

"But it won't be enough," Haymitch insists. "You're going to need more allies this time around."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because you're at a distinct disadvantage. Your competitors have known each other for years. So who do you think they're going to target first?" he says.

"Us. And nothing we're going to do is going to override any old friendship," I say. "So why bother?"

"Because you can fight. You're popular with the crowd. That could still make you desirable allies. But only if you let the others know you're willing to team up with them," says Haymitch.

"You mean you want us in the Career pack this year?" I ask, unable to hide my distaste. Traditionally the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 join forces, possibly taking in a few other exceptional fighters, and hunt down the weaker competitors.

"That's been our strategy, hasn't it? To train like Careers?" For Peeta's benefit, I remark silently. "And who makes up the Career pack is generally agreed upon before the Games begin. Peeta barely got in with them last year."

I think of the loathing I felt when I discovered Peeta was with the Careers during the last Games. "So we're to try to get in with Finnick and Brutus—is that what you're saying?"

"Not necessarily. Everyone's a victor. Make your own pack if you'd rather. Choose who you like. I'd suggest Chaff and Seeder. Although Finnick's not to be ignored," Haymitch says. "Find someone to team up with who might be of some use to you. Remember, you're not in the ring full of trembling children anymore. These people are all experienced killers, no matter what shape they appear to be in."

There's a slim chance he's right. Only who could I trust? Seeder maybe. But do I really want to make a pact with her, only to possibly have to kill her later? No. Still, I made a pact with Rue under the same circumstances. I tell Haymitch I'll try, even though I think I'll be pretty bad at the whole thing. Plus, I really don't think I'm completely on track with the alliance thing.

Part of me just wants to cut ties, pull Peeta behind me and push through this. I think I could do it, even though logically it seems idiotic. It's just what I want to do, rather than dealing with the other stuff; loose ends.

Effie shows up a bit early to take us down because last year, even though we were on time, we were the last two tributes to show up. But Haymitch tells her he doesn't want her taking us down to the gym. None of the other victors will be showing up with a babysitter, and being the youngest it's even more essential that we come off as self-reliant. So she had to satisfy herself with taking us to the elevator, fussing over our hair, and pushing the button for us.

As soon as the doors are shut Peeta turns to me.

"If you're expecting a kiss, I'd think now's not really the place."

He rolls his eyes. "Sometimes I think you consider me a complete idiot."

"Well, what else am I supposed to think?" I retort.

Peeta doesn't take the comment literally, just smiles it off. "I thought we should talk, about this morning.." His statement is cut short by the doors dinging open and Peeta hurriedly takes me by the hand. I don't realize why at first, then I remember that we're in public now. This is the open and in training we must appear as an inseparable team.

In a low voice, to satisfy him, I tell him, "We can talk about it later." And he nods, that topic mercifully put off for another time.

Effie needn't have fret over us being the last to arrive. Only Brutus and the woman from District 2, Enorbaria, are present. Enorbaria looks to be about thirty and all I can remember about her is that, in hand-to-hand combat, she killed one tribute by ripping open his throat with her teeth. She became so famous for this act that, after she was a victor, she had her teeth cosmetically altered so each one ends in a sharp point like a fang and is inlaid with gold. She has no shortage of admirers in the Capitol.

By ten o'clock, only about half of the tributes have shown up. Atala, the woman who runs training, begins her spiel right on time, unfazed by the poor attendances. Maybe she expected it. I'm sort of relieved, because that means there are a dozen people I don't have to pretend to make friends with. Atala runs through the list of stations, which include both combat and survival skills, and release us to train.

I tell Peeta that I think we'd do best to split up, thus covering more territory. He agrees readily enough, snagging a kiss before he goes off to chuck spears with Brutus and Chaff, and I head over to the knot-tying station. Hardly anyone ever bothers to visit it, even though I told him we were splitting to cover more people, I just don't know how well I could do that.

I like the trainer and he remembers me fondly, maybe because I spent time with him last year. He's pleased when I show him I can still set the trap that leaves an enemy dangling by a leg from a tree. Clearly he took note of my snares in the arena last year and now sees me as an advanced pupil, so I ask him to review every kind of knot that might come in handy and a few that I'll probably never use.

I'd be content to spend the morning alone with him, but after about an hour and a half, someone puts his arms around me from behind, his fingers easily finishing off the complicated knot I've been sweating over. Of course it's Finnick, who seems to have spent his childhood doing nothing but wielding tridents and manipulating ropes into fancy knots for nets.

I watch for a minute while he picks up a length of rope, makes a noose, and then pretends to hang himself for amusement. I narrow my eyes, then roll them at his ridiculous expression, heading over to another vacant station where tributes can learn to build fires. I already make excellent fires, but I'm still pretty dependent on matches for starting them. So the trainer has me work with flint, steel, and some charred cloth. This is much harder than it looks, and even working intently as I can, it takes me about an hour to get a fire going. I look up with a triumphant smile only to find I have company.

The two tributes from District 3 are beside me, struggling to start a decent fire with matches. I think about leaving, but I really want to try using the flint again. Plus, I might as well try to make Haymitch happy. They're a bearable choice. Both are small in stature with ashen skin and black hair. The woman, Wiress, is probably around my mother's age and speaks in a quiet, intelligent voice. But right away I notice she has a habit of dropping off her words in mid-sentence, as if she's forgotten you're there. Beetee, the man, is older and somewhat fidgety. He wears glasses but spends a lot of time looking under them.

They're a little strange, but I'm pretty sure neither of them is going to try to make me uncomfortable by doing something to tease my 'pureness'. And they're from District 3. Maybe they can even confirm my suspicions of an uprising there.

I glance around the Training Center. Peeta is at the center of the ribald circle of knife throwers. The morphlings from District 6 are in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls. The male tribute from District 5 is vomiting wine at the sword-fighting station. Finnick and the old woman from his district are using the archery set up. And Johanna Mason is naked again and oiling her skin down for wrestling lessons. I decide to stay put.

Wiress and Beetee make decent company. They seem friendly enough but don't pry. We talk about our talents, they tell me they both invent things, which makes my supposed interest in fashion seem pretty weak. Wiress brings up some sort of stitching device she's working on.

"It sense the density of the fabric and selects the strength," she says, and then becomes absorbed in a bit of dry straw before she can even continue what she was saying.

"The strength of the thread," Beetee finishes explaining. "Automatically on its own. It rules out human error." Then he talks about his recent success of creating a musical chip that was small enough that it could be concealed in a flake of glitter but could hold hours of songs. I remember Octavia talking about this during the wedding shoot, and I see a possible chance to allude to the uprising.

"Oh, yeah. My prep team was all upset a few months ago, I think, because they couldn't get a hold of that," I say casually. "I guess a lot of orders from District Three were getting backed up."

Beetee examines me under his glasses. "Yes. Did you have any similar back ups in coal production this year?" he asks.

"No. Well, we lost a couple of weeks when they brought in a new Head Peacekeeper and his crew, but nothing major," I say. "To production. I mean, two weeks sitting around your house doing nothing just means two weeks of being hungry for most people."

I think they understood what I'm trying to say. That we've had no uprising. "Oh, that's a shame," says Wiress in a slightly disappointed voice. "I found your district very..." she trails off, distracted by something in her head.

"Interesting," Beetee fills in. "We both did."

I felt bad knowing their district must have suffered much more than mine did. I feel I have to defend my people. It made us come off as cowards who are just made of talk. "Well, there aren't many of us in Twelve," I say. " Not that you'd know nowadays by the size of the Peacekeeper force. But were interesting enough, I guess."

As we move over to the shelter station, Wiress stops and gazes up at the stands where the Gamemakers are roaming around, eating and drinking, sometimes taking notice to us. "Look," she says giving her head a slight nod in their direction. I look up and see Plutarch Heavensbee in the magnificent purple robe with the fur-trimmed collar that designated him Head Gamemaker He's eating a turkey leg.

I don't see why this merits comment, but I say, "Yes, he's been promoted to Head Gamemaker this year."

"No, no. There by the corner of the table. You can just..." says Wiress.

Beetee squints under his glasses. "Just make out."

I stare in that direction, perplexed. But then I see it. A patch of space about six inches of it, in the shape of a square at the corner of the table that seems almost to be vibrating. It's as if the air is rippling in tiny visible waves, distorting the sharp edges of the wood and a goblet of wine someone has set there.

"A force field. They've set one up between the Gamemakers and us. I wonder what brought that on," Beetee says.

"Me, probably," I confess. "Last year I shot an arrow at them during my private training session." Beetee and Wiress look at me curiously. "I was provoked. So, do all force fields have a spot like that?"

"Chink," says Wiress vaguely.

"In the armor, as it were," finishes Beetee. "Ideally it'd be invisible, wouldn't it?"

I want to ask them more, but lunch is announced. I look for Peeta, but he's hanging out with a group of about ten other victors, so I decide to eat with District 3. Maybe I can get Seeder to join us.

But when we make our way into the dining area, I see some of Peeta's gang have other ideas. They're dragging all the smaller tables to form one large table so that we all have to eat together. Now I don't know what to do. Even at school I used to avoid eating at a crowded table. Frankly, I'd probably have sat alone if Madge hadn't made a habit of joining me. I guess I'd have eaten with Gale except, being two grades apart, our lunch never fell at the same time.

I would sit next to Peeta, but the thought that he might distract me seems certain. Still undecided, I take a tray anyway and start making my way around the food-laden carts that ring the room. Peeta catches up with me at the stew. "How's it going?"

"Good. Fine. I like the District Three victors," I say. "Wiress and Beetee."

"Really?" he asks. "They're something of a joke to the others."

"Why does that not surprise me?" I say. I think of how Peeta was always surrounded at school by a crowd of friends. It's amazing, really, that he ever took any notice of me except to think I was odd.

"Johanna's nicknamed them Nuts and Volts," he says. "I think she's Nuts and he's Volts."

"And so I'm stupid for thinking they might be useful. Because of something Johanna Mason said while she was oiling her breasts for wrestling." I bit my cheek the second the words were out.

"Actually I think the nickname's have been around for years. And I didn't mean that as an insult. I'm just sharing information," he says. His tone is cautious and border lining on an inquisition, but he wasn't going to say anything that could lead to something else.

To the outsiders it just looks like we are whispering together, like perfect little love birds.

"Well, Wiress and Beetee are smart. They invent things. They could tell by sight that a force field had been put up between us and the Gamemakers. And if we have to have allies, I want them." I toss the ladle back in a pot of stew, splattering us both with gravy.

"What are you so angry about?" Peeta demands, wiping the gravy from his shirtfront. "Because Johanna? Because I teased you?" Then he pauses, pursing his lips before scanning the area and whispering, "It's not about this morning, is it?" He looks pained. "What were you saying earlier, in the elevator?"

"Forget it," I say tersely with the shake of my head. "It doesn't matter, what I said. No, not this morning, that was just... not bad." Peeta shifts his weight onto his opposite foot and I bite my cheek now, to hide a sly smile. "It's just a lot of things."

"Darius," he says.

"Darius. The Games. Haymitch making us team up with the others," I say.

"It can be just you and me, you know," says Peeta, placing a gentle hand on my lower back.

I don't immediately move away, and his words give me a jolt of pleasure as well as the warmth of his palm reassuring me. I liked that idea a surprising amount, especially coming from him. He must have seen the light in my face because he's suddenly smiling. "Is that what you want?" he asks.

"I... don't know." I don't want to let on how much I like it. Plus, "Maybe Haymitch is right about the ally thing. Don't tell him I said so, but he usually is, where the Games are concerned."

"Well, then, you can have the final say about our allies. But right now I'm leaning towards Chaff and Seeder," Peeta compromises.

"I'm okay with Seeder, not Chaff."

"Come on and eat with him. I promise, I won't let him kiss you again," he assures me.

I agree to it, but as we are walking towards the table, just before we're back in hearing range, Peeta adds under his breath, in a light cheerful tone, "If you change your mind about doing this alone, just tell me and I'll be right there next to you." I nod curtly and there is no further discussion on the matter.

Chaff doesn't seem as bad at lunch. He's sober, and while he talks too loud and makes bad jokes a lot, most of them are at his own expense. I can see why he would be good for Haymitch, whose thoughts run so darkly. But I'm still not sure I'm ready to team up with him. I try hard to be more sociable, not just with Chaff, but with the group at large.

After lunch I do the edible-insect station with the District 8 tributes; Cecelia, who's got three kids at home, and Woof, a really old guy who's hard of hearing and doesn't seem to know what's going on since he keeps trying to stuff poisonous bugs in his mouth. I wish I could mention meeting Twill and Bonnie in the woods, but I can't quite figure out how.

I really start to like Cecelia, who talks calmly and sweetly to the bewildered, dazed Woof, when I would have lost my patience. She tells me about her kids, all boys, and she confesses that if she ever had a daughter, she would have wished her to be like Prim, my little sister. Cecelia recalls almost every word that she'd said in the family interviews and the ones they took during the Victory Tour.

Cashmere and Gloss, the sister and brother from District 1, invite me over and we make hammocks for a while. They're polite but cool, and I spend the whole time thinking about how I killed both tributes from their district, Glimmer and Marvel, last year, and that they probably knew them and might even have been their mentors. Both my hammock and my attempt to connect with them are mediocre at best. I join Enorbaria at sword training and exchange a few comments, but it's clear neither of us wants to team up.

Finnick appears again when I'm picking up fishing tips, but mostly just to introduce me to Mags, the elderly woman who's also from District 4. Between her district accent and her garbled speech–possibly she's had a stroke–I can't make out more than one in four words. But I swear she can make a decent fish hook out of anything; a thorn, a wishbone, an earring. After a while I tune out the trainer and simply try to copy whatever Mags does. When I make a pretty good hook out of a bent nail and fasten it to some strands of my hair, she gives me a toothless smile and an unintelligible comment I think might be a praise.

Suddenly I remember how she volunteered to replace the young, hysterical woman in her district. It couldn't be because she thought she had a chance of winning. She did it to save the girl, just like I volunteered last year to save Prim. And I decided I want her on my team.

Great. Now I have to go back and tell Haymitch I want an eighty-year-old and Nuts and Volts and the most motherly victor in all of existence for my allies. He'll love that.

So I give up trying to make friends and go over to the archery range for some sanity. Maybe I could work off some of my frustration. It's wonderful there, getting to try out all the different bows and arrows. The trainer, Tax, seeing that the standing targets offer no challenge for me, begins to launch silly fake birds high into the air for me to hit.

At first, it seems stupid, but it turns out to be kind of fun. Much more like hunting a moving creäture. Since I'm hitting everyone he throws, he starts increasing the number of birds he sends airborne. I forget the rest of the gym and the victors and how miserable I am and lose myself in the shooting. When I manage to take down five birds in one round, I realize it's so quiet I can hear each one hit the floor. I turn and see the majority of the victors have stopped to watch me. Their faces show everything from envy to hatred to admiration.

After training, Peeta and I hang out, waiting for Haymitch and Effie to show up for dinner. It's mostly spent loitering in the television room, in sight of the Capitol attendants, so we don't get around to talking or doing anything of importance. When we're called to eat, Haymitch pounces on me immediately. "So at least half the victors have instructed their mentors to request you as an ally. I know it can't be you sunny personality."

"They saw her shoot," says Peeta with a smile. "Actually, I saw her shoot, for real, for the first time. I'm about to put in a formal request myself."

"You're that good?" Haymitch asks me. "So good that Brutus wants you?"

I shrug. "But I don't want Brutus. I want Mags, and Cecelia, and District Three."

"Of course you do." Haymitch sighs and orders a bottle of wine. "I'll tell everybody you're still making up your mind."

After my shooting exhibition, I still get teased some, but I no longer feel like I'm being mocked. In fact, I feel as if I've somehow been initiated into the victors' circle. During the next two days, I spend time with almost everybody headed for the arena. Even the morphlings, who, with Peeta's help, paint me into a field of yellow flowers. Even Finnick, who gives me an hour of trident lessons in exchange for an hour of archery instruction. And the more I come to know these people, the worse it is. Because, on the whole, I don't hate them. And some I like. And a lot of them are so damaged that my natural instinct would be to protect them. But all of them must die if I'm to save Peeta.

With Haymitch constantly hounding us from dawn to dusk about strategy plans, and Darius that haunts the hallways by night, Peeta and I have found very little time to talk and even less time alone, to continue or not to continue whatever it is that I had started. So when dinner ended the night before the final training day, and Haymitch is so drunk and exhausted that he merely wanders off with his bottle of alcohol, Peeta catches my eyes and we–reluctantly on my part–both excuse ourselves from Effie's presence.

I make it to my doorway, before Peeta rests a hand on my elbow, and I turn to look up at him. "Maybe... we should talk out here?" Peeta asks.

"What if Effie or Haymitch come along?" I say, shaking my head. "If you really need to talk about what happened, then come on. I don't have all my life."

Inside, I sit on the bed and Peeta stands nearer the door, clearly on edge. I don't want to have this conversation. I'm confused enough about what I want from him, and to talk about it seems unnecessary on a lot of humiliating levels. But Peeta has been persistent on the subject.

There's no beginning explanation, no indication at all to what he's talking about, and Peeta says, "Aren't you worried? At all?"

"Worried about what?"

Peeta makes a frustrated, helpless hand motion. "All of this. I don't know, you're acting so different.." He looks away from me, at the ground, discomfited. And I realize oh so suddenly, that he still doesn't trust this new bond. Doesn't want to hope in it. Doesn't want to be hurt again, when it turns out I was lying, while he's been playing a fool the whole long time.

I'm frustrated and uncomfortable myself, now, and I shift on the bed, searching my mind frantically for the right words. Except, I'm not good at words, or talking. Prim had been hard enough to talk to, but Peeta, who lives in the middle of a maze, is even more of a challenge. Prim is easily distracted, Peeta is not.

Almost petulantly, I know I have to admit there is a new bond. How can I deny it? We are closer than ever, on so many different levels. All the new touches, physical attractions and wants that neither of us have known. Emotionally, because I tried to let him in, minimally, as a small thank you, a pay back, and he attempted to do the same in return. None of these things were admitted out loud, though. Not acknowledged at the forefront of the situation, something I hated and still loathe, to do.

But I know it's the only way I can get him to believe me.

Sacrifice a little self comfort, to give Peeta more. Just like in the Games, when I forced myself to tell him that he had no competition anywhere. An extra scrap of drift wood for him to hold onto.

I swallow hard and get the words out. "I like kissing you."

"I like kissing you, too," says Peeta.

My arms cross tightly over my chest, eyes cast to my lap. "And I liked what you did, the other morning."

"I liked that, too."

I wait, for something more, an objection, a confession, anything. The finger nails of my left hand are leaving indents on my right forearm. "Then what's there to worry about?" I ask peevishly, when it became too much, waiting for him to react.

"Effie," Peeta says, smiling. "She might catch us."

And then he moves across the room to kiss me.