Peeta and I stop sneaking around. We shift between his house and mine. We spend a lot of time with my mom and sister. I walk Peeta home after dinner one night, and the second the door closes behind us we're a tangle of mouths and limbs and pulling and breath. He carries me to the couch, unable to wait long enough to get me upstairs. He's tugging my shirt away from my shoulder, kissing my skin sloppily, when his hand slides down to my waist. With a quick intake of breath, my heart pounds as Peeta begins releasing the button on my pants. I bite my lip and I watch Peeta's eyes on me grow more eager. I move my hips in response, and he's sliding his hand over me when the phone rings abruptly. Peeta jerks up.
"Leave it," I beg, pulling him back into me.
"No one ever calls me unless it's important," he says.
"It's probably just Effie," I breathe into his ear, pulling his hips into mine. His eyes roll back into his head.
"Katniss," he pants, and drops himself back on top of my body. His hand wastes no time finding its way back to me. He pushes my underwear aside and gently glides his hand over me until I curl up under his fingertips. He smiles and begins to rub me slowly with a steady rhythm, our eyes locked on each other. He watches my every reaction and responds when I sigh or moan. It feels so intimate yet so exposing to have his eyes on my face while he's coaxing pleasure from me. My hands rush over him. I want him here with me. I run my hand over the length of him through his pants, and he groans before bucking forward. It sends a wave of excitement through me, and it makes his fingers almost feel electric as they move against me. I run my hand over him again, and everything I'm feeling intensifies. His body quakes over mine and I run my fingers up his back when the phone rings again, the tone piercing the room like a needle into skin.
Peeta groans in frustration and pulls away from me. I drop back onto his couch and sigh as he crosses the room to get the phone. I peek out at him and he blushes before turning away from me. His excitement is evident, and he feels sort of naked being watched, but I like it. I like that I make him feel alive.
"Hello," he greets the intruder on the other end of the line. I rise from the couch and walk over. Peeta eyes me warily, but I act innocent. It's not until I'm right in front of him that I push him into the kitchen wall. "Yes, I just saw Katniss a little while ago," Peeta lies, and I fumble with his belt. "What are you doing?!" he mouths frantically, but I already have his pants dropped to his ankles. I wrap my hand around him, bare in my hands. Peeta begs me with eyes. Stop. Go… I slide my hand up over him and his whole body shakes as he pushes himself back into the wall. He's trying not to make a sound, but he pulls the mouthpiece away as he shudders into my neck. I move with more purpose, and Peeta's eyes flutter. "Yes, Effie, I'll tell her to call Cinna as soon as she gets home," Peeta repeats, and when I squeeze him tight he begins to tremble. "Of course, Effie, I understand," he confirms, and I hear her voice on the other end and pick up my pace. His spare hand is clinging to the wall for all he's worth. He pants and gets wet in my hand as I continue to work him. "Yes, Effie. Mhm," he throws in occasionally, so she thinks he's still listening, but his eyes are on my hand. "Okay, see you then. Bye!" He slams the phone onto the receiver to conclude the phone call, then he finally lets go for me. It's only a few seconds before he's overcome, and then slides to the floor shivering and happy.
"You are crazy!" he teases, his eyes drooping. I sit on the floor next to him and rub his back as he tries to regain his composure. "That was so sexy," he whispers, and I feel my cheeks blush.
It turns out Cinna and Effie are coming to 12 tomorrow to do a photoshoot with some of the wedding dresses Cinna has designed. Apparently the Capitol has been voting on their favorite sketches, and the top six finalists have been constructed to be modeled by me for one final round of voting. I can't imagine what Capitol wedding gowns look like. In 12, we wear a clean, linen dress. It's not special. It's probably the same dress you wear to the Harvest Festival every year. Maybe even an old reaping dress. I wonder if I'll be donned in feathers or have some kind of grotesque head dress. All I can hope if Cinna was able to do something to satisfy their insane sense of fashion while still letting me feel like me.
They arrive with some fanfare. My prep team is in tow. Peeta has made himself scarce. "I'm not supposed to see you, remember?" he whispered before climbing out of my bed in the early morning, but I'd rather I had him here. None of this is real anyway. When Cinna squeezes me in a tight embrace I remember I'm not alone in this. The living room has been cleared and lit for the shoot. The dresses hang on a garment rack in the far corner. Some are just gaudy. Creamy satin with pink roses. One has an entire diamond sheath. Another has every inch covered in pearls. Each requires their own hair, make-up, head piece, jewelry… The whole process takes hours. When we finally reach the last dress, Prim bounces in from school. She stares at me like I'm made of glass, and I see tears glisten in her eyes. The dress is strapless and the bodice hugs my body tight before an A-line skirt falls away from my hips. The dress is made of lace and intricate frills line my skin, but in a subtle and refined sort of way. It's like I walked out of an old book. This feels sort of like home.
"I insisted we put this one in. The other five were voted on, this one was designer's choice. I know it won't win, but I wanted you to have a chance to wear it once," he whispers in my ear. I could see myself in this dress. It is beautiful, but bittersweet. This whole spectacle reminds me that our lives are not our own. That we were allowed to survive solely to please the people. That we have obligations we have to fulfill, that the courses of our lives will be determined for us. That in a few short months we will have to mentor a boy and girl from our district. Watch them die. Bring them home to be buried in the special part of the cemetery that is reserved for skeletons of children. I swallow a lump in my throat.
When the shoot is over, Prim looks at all the dresses, clapping and bouncing as Effie shows her each detail. The show will be in the next couple days. Cinna reveals to Prim a sketch of the dress he's working on for her and she gasps. "Now, stop looking so pretty. You don't want to show up the bride," he winks at her, and she giggles. I don't want Cinna to go. I want him to stay here with us, but their luggage is packed on the evening train and he and Effie are whisked back to the Capitol. My mother and Prim both seem exceedingly happy about the shoot, and I realize that they think this means we are safe. That Snow wouldn't invest time and energy into our wedding if he was just going to kill us. I shake my head, but let them bubble in their joyful obliviousness. That night Peeta climbs into my bed, but we don't talk. He just holds me while I dream of drowning in ten feet of silk. I wake up choking and he pulls his chest into mine, reminding me how to breathe.
The next morning I'm feeling frustrated about the rebellion. Everything seems to be moving forward on Snow's timetable, but I've hardly heard anything on our response. After Peeta heads home to bake, I walk to Haymitch's house. I'm sullen, and he can see right through me. We walk outside, our pace unhurried. "Can't we stand up here, like they did in Eight?" I ask.
"It won't work in Twelve," he replies.
"How do you know?" I spit back, less patient than I should be.
"Those other districts are huge, sweetheart. Eleven. Eight. Even if half the people hid in their homes, there would be enough rebels to mount a resistance against the Peacekeepers. Twelve isn't like that. It's all or nothing, and right now it's nothing," he replies calmly. I know he's right. Most of my neighbors would retreat from a fight. Us, Gale, and a few miners aren't going to overcome the Capitol on our own. I kick the dirt in defeat. "I just want to do something," I mumble.
"Keep doing exactly what you are doing. You'll know when it's time," Haymitch says before retreating back inside. You'll know when it's time. You'll know when it's time. His words ring in my head. I hope they are true.
When Prim comes home from school, she is effervescent with excitement. Her teacher said there will be a special broadcast from the Capitol tonight. "It's got to be your dresses! I told everyone at school how beautiful you looked!" Prim bubbles.
"It can't be tonight, they only did the pictures yesterday," I reply.
"Well, that's what everyone at school is saying," she replies back with unwavering optimism. I can't help but smile at her. We gather around the television after the dinner is cleaned up. Peeta sits on the couch with my mom, and I sit at his feet, my back leaning against his legs. It appears Prim was right. Pictures from yesterday flood the screen, along with instructions on how to vote. Prim jumps from her seat and covers Peeta's eyes playfully. Caesar Flickerman narrates the whole event to a standing room only crowd. Just as the broadcast seems to be drawing to a close, Caesar adds that we are to stay tuned for a big announcement regarding the Third Quarter Quell.
Fashion. Death. Pearls. Death. Diamonds. Death. The Capitol is insatiable.
"What will they do about the Games?" Prim asks. "It isn't for months yet."
"It must be the reading of the card," my mother mumbles under her breath. She's done a Quell before. It's even more brutal and awful than a normal Games. I think we should go get Haymitch, but there isn't any time. President Snow has already taken command of the stage, and the crowd is screaming wildly in their support. Snow is followed by a young boy carrying a plain, wooden box.
The president reminds us of the importance of the Quell. That every twenty-five years we hold a special anniversary Games, with a new twist to remind the districts of the power and brilliance of the Capitol. He tells us of the previous two Quells. On the first Quarter Quell, as a reminder that their children were dying because the rebels chose to initiate violence, every district was forced to hold an election and choose the children to be sent to the Games as tributes. The entire notion makes me feel sick. It's almost worst being turned over to the Capitol by your family and neighbors than blaming the randomness of the reaping bowl. On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two district rebels were lost for every one Capitol citizen, the districts were required to send twice as many tributes. I imagine facing forty-seven opponents in the Arena. I imagine the boxes and boxes of bodies sent home. That was the year Haymitch won, against impossible odds.
"This, on what will mark the seventy-fifth anniversary and Third Quarter Quell, shall be a glorious display!" The boy steps forward and Snow draws an envelope from the box with a large 75 embossed on the back. The box holds hundreds of envelopes. They've planned for centuries of Games. Snow rips open the envelope and a small smirk crosses his lips for a moment before disappearing. I question if I actually saw it. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power and glory of the Capitol, the tributes shall be reaped from the existing pool of Victors!"
My mother shrieks. Prim buries her face in her hands. I scan the faces of the crowd on television. The existing pool of Victors. What does that even mean? Then it hits me.
I feel like I'm drowning. Me. Peeta. Haymitch. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Before I know what I'm doing, I push myself to my feet and run out the door. I hear my mother call out behind me, but the throbbing in my ears buries the rest of the sound. Outside my door I stare at what surrounds me and I realize there is nowhere to go. The fence is electrified around my woods. The houses here are all Capitol-made, full of reminders and spies. My chest heaves uncontrollably, and I drop to the ground. I fist dirt in my hands and throw it wildly into the night air. I don't want to be here.
When Peeta approaches me, I spin around and beat his chest with my fists, as if any of this is his fault, but it is. It's his fault for making me love him. I scream and pound into him, but he just holds me tighter and tighter until we both drop to the ground, a sopping mess of mud and hurt and desperation and hopelessness. I cry until my lungs run out of air. He rocks me back and forth, stroking my mud-caked hair, whispering platitudes that aren't true. This is all useless. But I know what I have to do.
Peeta lives.