A/N:

Uhh, I definitely didn't start and finish this this morning if that's what you're asking…

Thanks to Lola23 for your review!

"Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark."

The way Sam says their names holds a sort of companionship in it, as if he has known the famous couple for years, although none of us have ever met. Katniss looks us over, her eyes widening a bit in surprise. She likely recognizes us. It would be hard not to, as the stunt I pulled was the talk of the Capitol after my Games. She is quiet, not saying a word in response. I make a note that she is nothing like the naïve girl I saw in the interviews.

Peeta must sense that Katniss is unwilling to, so he offers a smile to both of us in greeting, even going so far as to shake Sam's extended hand. "Sam Ivory," he says, and then, turning to me, "And Waverly Mongelle. Honor to meet you two."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine," Sam replies, perfectly in sync. The two of them are alike, I realize. Both of them always seem to know exactly what to say. And then there is Katniss and I, who I already sense is much like me as well. Neither of us enjoy the limelight much, though we always seem to be trapped in it. I look at Katniss again. She is still staring at me as though surprised.

"I must say," I can hear Sam saying, "You two were…inspirational to us with your Games." My stomach clenches up.

"Inspirational?" repeats Peeta. "How so?"

Katniss is still staring at me. I am unnerved, but at the same time perplexed. Plutarch did tell us to befriend Katniss. With Peeta and Sam around, I'll barely be able to get a word in. So I make a decision.

Plastering a smile unto my face, I put a hand to Sam's shoulder. "Sam," I say sweetly, "It is absolutely too hot in here. Why don't you take Peeta to go get Katniss and I something to drink?" I flicker my eyes just the slightest after making the request, further baffling an already surprised Sam. He gets the message, however, because he turns back to Peeta.

"Well, they're in charge," he says with a clearly rehearsed laugh. Peeta relents, but casts a worried glance at Katniss before leaving. I am bewildered at this strange action. The way he looks at her, it's as if he's afraid he will never see her again. But I try not to dwell on this, and as soon as he is gone, I turn to Katniss.

"Go on, you can say it."

She raises an eyebrow, confused. "Say what?" I shrug.

"Whatever it is that you are thinking."

For a moment, she hesitates, clearly unused to such open speaking. She is looking me over, trying to decide what to make of me, and trying to not be obvious with her glances over at where Peeta is every two seconds. Then she laughs, as if she can't help it.

"I was thinking how much you look like last year's tribute from District 5," she admits, "She had red hair too."

I begin to laugh with her, mostly in relief. Here, I am thinking that her thoughtful gazes meant she was wondering why Sam and I are here together. And all the while, she is thinking how my hair color is similar to a dead girl's.

"Ah, yes," I recall, suddenly much more comfortable with the girl on fire, "Mila Goren."

"That was her name?" Katniss asks with a light laugh. "I always just called her Foxface."

"Foxface?" I repeat with a laugh that is actually real. She is funny, this girl on fire. Most other victors I have spoken to over the years usually brag on the ways they have killed people; here I am talking with the spark of the rebellion, and we're discussing nicknames. And as preferable as this is, I know we should probably talk about other issues.

"So, that was quite an interesting end to the Games you pulled off." The words have barely left my mouth and everything about Katniss tenses. Obviously it is a sensitive topic with her, but I know it's a necessary one. And with Sam momentarily out of sight, it's much easier to do so.

"So I keep getting told," she mumbles in response. Pretending not to notice her discomfort with the subject, I press even further.

"It's definitely been inspirational to some of us victors." The hint I try to drop is probably way larger than necessary, because she begins to look suspicious. So I quickly cover up by looking over at Sam with a shy smile, as if trying to be discreet but failing. Katniss immediately understands—or at least thinks she understands—and her features flood with relief.

"Oh… is that so?" she says, still sounding uncomfortable. It occurs to me for the first time that Snow has probably threatened her severely for her incident at the Games. I realize that any act of rebellion may and will come back to her. Her family, her little sister, anyone who is remotely close to her… they are all what we are risking with this plan.

"For you," Sam says, returning with Peeta and holding out a dainty looking glass filled with a reddish liquid. I stare at it blankly for a moment, and then it's too much.

"Excuse me," I mutter, rushing from the dance floor.

Outside, the air is fresh and cool in my lungs. The door slams shut behind me in my haste to escape the party and I collapse against the wall with a sigh. All around, Capitol citizens are giving me strange looks, some looking down in contempt and others as if watching a rather amusing spectacle. Or both, in some cases. But I couldn't care less.

Not unexpectedly, Sam is quickly behind me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before he can even get the words out.

"Don't," I warn breathlessly, "I can't go back in there. I can't do this. It's wrong. We are risking her family and friends. It's wrong."

Sam gazes at me for a moment, curiously. He is trying to figure me out again, I can tell. But I don't want to be figured out. Not by him and not by anyone. I just know that I can't go through with this plan.

"Okay," he concedes, sitting beside me against the wall, "Then we won't do it." Not even bothering to snap at him for sitting next to me, I stare at him incredulously.

"What…that's it?" I say. "No trying to talk me into it?"

He shrugs. "What's the point? If you don't want to do it, you're not going to do it."

This makes me stumble, leaving me at a loss for words. I was expecting protests, arguing, even dragging me back inside. But I was not expecting him to give in so easily, as if the matter were as simple as deciding what to eat for dinner. It confuses me to the point that I don't even know what to think, let alone say. For the first time, I realize that I really have no clue who Sam Ivory is, because I never would have thought he would respond like this.

"Why are you doing this, Sam?" The words leave my mouth before I even think them, my body reacting faster than my brain. "You're from District 2. You have everything you could possibly want." He laughs softly. The distant look has once again returned to his dark eyes.

"I've never liked the Capitol," he mutters quietly. "I wasn't even supposed to volunteer for the Games. I'm no Career."

My eyes widen with the realization. "You mean…you weren't the one chosen to volunteer?"

"No." he laughs again, bitterly. "That's why I teamed up with your brother, you know. I refused to be a part of the Career pack." The usual tenseness comes over me that always happens when Sam speaks about Cory, but I find that this time I am feeling not anger, but interest.

"Why?" I ask curiously. "The Careers are almost always the ones to win."

"Yeah, they do," he agrees, "They band together, kill all the other tributes, and then kill each other. The Capitol's slaves." There is silence for a long minute, each of us thinking about that awful year: the seventy-first Hunger Games.

Laughing again, the bitterness growing with each word he speaks, Sam says, "But I guess I have no room to talk…being one of the Capitol's slaves myself." I say nothing; he continues. "I was so determined. Going into the arena, I swore I was not going to kill anyone. I was determined to win without spilling any of the blood myself. Selfish, I know."

Not selfish, I think, just impossible. I should know, from my own Games.

"The Hunger Games change you," he goes on, looking suddenly very interested by the grass at his feet. "Everything was different in the arena. Your survival instincts kick in, and suddenly all that matters is that you live to see the next day. I was barely in the arena for an hour before I killed my first victim." He laughs yet again, and it might be the saddest laugh I have ever heard. Then he looks me in the eyes. "Do you remember how your brother saved my life?"

Slowly, I nod. Of course I remembered. While Cory was alive, no one could remove me from the television in the living room; I was so anxious to see what would happen to him. "That guy from 1 attacked you," I say, "He was going to kill you, but Cory came and knocked him out."

"Exactly," Sam says, "he knocked him out. Cory had knives on him; he could have easily killed him. But he chose not to." Another bitter laugh. "He wasn't even trying to win the Games, I think. He was trying to do something." He gets extremely quiet all of a sudden and jerks his eyes away from me, too ashamed to even look me in the eye.

"Your brother saved my life," he says after a while, "And when there was only the two of us left, I killed him..." Slowly, he looks into my eyes again, and all I can see is regret. "I'll never be able to repay him for saving my life…That's why I'm doing this."

I can't speak. I can hardly breathe. I want to say something but I have literally no idea what.

It turns out I don't need to. The door bursts open and Yula rushes out, searching for me in panic. As soon as she finds me, she sighs in relief, not even noticing the fact that I'm sitting next to the very person I'm supposed to hate. Her hair nearly comes undone in her hurry.

"There you are, Waverly!" she says. "Get inside, President Snow is about to address the victors!" before I can even say anything in response, she has rushed back inside.

I swallow, knowing what I am going to do before it happens. I take Sam's hand, a gesture that is rare for me to do with anyone, let alone the person I hated for years. He jolts in surprise, not expecting it. I don't blame him; I don't expect it either, and I am the one that did it.

It's just for the act, I tell myself, but I know it isn't. I don't know why I do it, but I do.

"We should go inside now," I say, "Now seems like as good a time as ever to make the announcement."

Sam hesitates for a moment, but then smiles, returning the grip onto my hand. And together we go into the house of the president.

When we walk in, the music has momentarily ceased. Up on the large staircase, I see President Snow, dressed in an expensive looking black suit with a haunting white rose at his lapel. Even from a distance, I can see his piercing blue eyes, able to chill anyone to the bone. All of the cameras are pointed towards him as he makes his customary speech.

"Welcome, victors," his voice echoes through the house. He reminds me of an especially deadly snake, calculating each move before striking. I find myself gripping even more tightly to Sam's arm. "Let each of you congratulate yourselves, on your individual Games where you rose. To fame…and to glory!"

The Capitol citizens immediately erupt in wild applause, but I only sneer in disgust. He is telling us to congratulate ourselves for murder, and back in the districts, families of dead tributes are forced to watch as their children's killers receive the thunderous ovation.

"And in this," Snow continues, "the seventy-fifth year of the Hunger Games, let this be a reminder. A reminder that you are each honored guests of the Capitol!"

"He's trying to turn the districts against the victors," I whisper to Sam.

"Then let's show them whose side we're really on," he whispers back. And then, he is walking forward and I follow in a daze, the two of us still holding hands.

"Yes, we are," Sam calls out. A thousand faces turn to us, including the perplexed face of the president. I try not to look at him, but it's either him or the dozens of cameras pointed at us. All I can do is force a smile as Sam continues. He looks exactly how he should, nodding respectfully to the president and grinning happily at the cameras.

"That is why," he says, "My fiancée," he lifts my hand to his lips, gently kissing it as I try to ignore the rising hysteria in my veins, "Waverly Mongelle, and I, have decided get married here in the Capitol."