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K. POV

In the bleaker moments of the Games, when I was alone and afraid, I fantasized of life as a Victor: My pockets lined with coins. The cupboards fully stocked. Prim in pretty, new dresses. Mother beginning to smile again. What I did not take into consideration was time. With school still out for summer and the day-to-day struggle to keep alive long gone, I find that there is an absurd abundance of it now. It seems to stretch on endlessly; a great yawning void to sit and think about what I had done.

From the start, I looked for normalcy in distractions. I wandered around town, did household chores, visited Haymitch, and found diversions with Prim. Even after a lifetime of knowing nothing but hardship, the lack of purpose grew tiring quickly. Still, I knew I should enjoy the monotony while I could, before the Past could come rushing back with the winter Victory Tour.

I never once throught my respite would be cut short or that the Past would be a tangible being come to haunt the room below mine.

"Has there been any progress?" I ask tersely. I'm standing in Haymitch's den, arms folded over my chest. In my visits for the past few days, I've caught him sleeping or lounging around with a drink; anything, it seems, but working towards securing a fresh start for our guest.

"Didn't you hear? Patience is a virtue." He doesn't look up; busying himself with carving an apple with a paring knife. Mother insisted I bring him over a basket of fresh fruit today. She doesn't think it's healthy for him to live off canned food and liquor, but if it hasn't killed him yet, I'm sure he'll be fine.

"And mine is not the only one wearing thin," I retort. "How do you think he likes being held prisoner in that room all day?"

Haymitch raises his brows in exaggerated surprise. "Is that sympathy I detect?"

Though I know better, I take the bait and bristle. "Don't change the subject. I want to know that you're doing everything you possibly can."

"What do you want me to do? Put in an ad in the paper?" he grunts in annoyance. "Even with that list of names, it's still too early to make phone calls around the Capitol without rousing unwanted attention." When I still look unconvinced, he rolls his eyes. "It's a waiting game, Sweetheart. Things will fall into place soon enough. When it does, you'll be the first to know."

I sigh in frustration. Haymitch is hardly a model example of finesse but a part of me admits that he's been around long enough to know what he's doing, especially where the insidious ways of the Capitol is concerned.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask.

"Do what you've been doing. Amuse Crane."

"Amuse? That's what you're calling it?" I scoff as I sink down beside him on the sofa. "If I remember correctly, it was you who said I had the charm of a dead slug."

"Did I?" He grins. "Well, don't take half the things I say to heart, especially when I'm hammered."

"Trust me, I don't usually." I pick up an apple and roll it around in my hands. "But you're right. I'm not good with people. And with him it's even worse. I look at him and all I see the person he was in that horrible place."

To my irritation, Haymitch begins to snicker.

"How is that even remotely funny?" I growl.

"You must be driving him up the wall."

My scowl deepens. "It's not on purpose."

"Think about it. Capitol society is like a pit of snakes ready to strangle and swallow any poor sap whole. Crane's a smart one. He knows how to handle people; he wouldn't have gotten anywhere without it. Hell, he was Snow's favorite for the longest time and that ain't easy to do. But you…" Haymitch smirks. "He's probably trying his damnedest to get you to put away that cold shoulder of yours."

"Are you saying I should try harder to get along with him?"

"I'm saying I'd pay good money to see who breaks first; the snake charmer or the stubborn mule."

As tempting as it is, I ignore the stubborn mule comment. The only thing that seems more dangerous than a pit of snakes is something cunning enough to live not only safely, but advantageously among them. Something doesn't add up. "You said before he wasn't all bad, that there were worst men than him. Was it true?"

"Do you remember everything I say or what?" he grouses with a mouthful of apple. "Yes. If it makes you feel any better, I find Crane tolerable in comparison. Stick around for as long as I have and you start to notice that there are evils and then there are lesser evils."

"He was the Head Gamemaker. How can he possibly be a lesser evil?" I ask in disgust.

Haymitch shrugs vaguely. "Politics aside, he's not as close-minded or hackneyed as the typical Capitol drip."

"Maybe he's manipulated you into thinking that."

I expect a reprimand for my rudeness and a drawn out explanation why I'm wrong. Instead, he shakes his head and says, "It must be tiring to constantly look over your shoulder and think the worst of people."

I open my mouth, ready launch into a combative reply. However, at the last second a strange notion flits through my consciousness. Before I can stop myself, I say it out loud.

"Peeta would have made a better host." It isn't a question, a wondering what-if. It's a fact; plain and simple and a little morbid.

Haymitch goes silent. "Right," he mutters finally. "He would have rolled out the welcome mat."

"Nursed him back to health himself," I add.

"Given him his bed to sleep in."

"And his clothes to wear."

"Baked him a cake as a sign of goodwill," Haymitch concludes.

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. "That would be something Peeta would do," I agree quietly.

In the silence, I stare at my hands and wonder what Peeta's life would have been like as a Victor. He would live in the house I live in now, maybe even in the same room as mine. Haymitch would still be well looked-after, when Peeta wasn't working at the bakery. Even though his pockets would be lined with coins and his cupboards would be fully stocked, I picture him up at dawn, kneading dough and frosting cookies; just because he enjoyed it.

I think he would be stronger than me. Somehow, he would find a way to cope so that the nightmares wouldn't be as bad, and there would be a passing sense of sadness now and then. Peeta would beat the Game long after it ended by living a happy and long life.

And if he did come across Seneca Crane, he would be kind and forgiving. That much I'm sure.

It dances on the tip of my tongue but I'm too afraid to ask it out loud; if Haymitch wished that it was Peeta who lived. Not me, the thorn in his side, always bothering him and starting arguments. A small new guilt piles on with the rest of them. Perhaps I shouldn't give him such a hard time.

I'm about to set the apple back in the basket but Haymitch stops me with a slight rap on the knuckles.

"Eat something once in a while," he grumbles. "Victors are supposed to gain weight not lose it."

It sounds almost touching coming from him. Maybe he doesn't mind me as much as I think he does. Though I'm not hungry at the moment, in a show of compliance I lift the apple to my lips and sink my teeth into it.

With some maneuvering, I balance the tray with one arm so I can knock on the door with a free hand. Mother cooks, Prim provides company, and because I have little talent in either one, I am the errand girl; something I would resent if the situation didn't call for his sequestering. At least the work helps whittle away the long hours.

While I wait, I think back to the conversation with Haymitch from earlier. It's unnerving to know the power Seneca wields with words; especially since its one of my weaknesses. I wonder if every interaction we've had so far had been carefully orchestrated to win my favor, and if this one will end up just the same. This isn't very upsetting news, probably because I know his actions aren't unfounded, nor are they effective. I've been almost unfairly cold, shoulders and all. I can't exactly fault him for trying to dispel the tension I'm creating.

It would do me well to be more like Peeta.

The door finally opens. He takes a step back to let me in. "Good evening, Katniss."

He's been drawing. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms and there are faint grey smudges along his knuckles, the heels of his palms; darkest along his fingertips. It's strange to see such long, aristocratic hands sullied by charcoal dust. They almost look like working hands. Almost.

"Good evening," I return calmly. I stride in, careful to keep my hands steady. He shuts the door behind me, but I can feel his gaze track me from across the room.

I set down the tray on its usual spot. My work is almost done for the night. I always stop by after dinner to take his plates away, but like this, it's a near-wordless affair. I'm about to leave when I glance over and notice loose papers and pencils strewn on the usually neat bed.

"Am I interrupting something?" I ask.

"No. I was planning to take a break anyway." He wipes his hands clean with a towel and becomes himself again.

I glance back at the scattered pages. I've seen him sketch from afar many times, but have never seen any of his work up close. Prim enjoyed looking through them and often made admiring remarks. "I like this one!" she would declare, pointing. Or, "I wish I could see this someday!"

On impulse, I reach over with extended fingertips and gently fan the papers out. I absorb the images in silence; the steel cityscapes, exotic flowers and animals, elegant ladies and dashing gentlemen. Some are half-finished gauzy shapes, mere suggestions of things. Others are constructed out of bold sweeping lines and accentuated with dusky shadows.

I know little to nothing about art. While I can't comment on composition or style using technical terms, I find that this needs no words. It has an unnamable quality, the kind that can only be sensed and appreciated innately. How he managed to make the one place I hate with a passion into something so beautiful, I'll never understand.

I clear my throat, releasing a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "These are good," I say. The words come out plain and stiff. They sound like a lie.

"Maybe for an amateur," he concedes humbly. "Which one do you like best?"

It's a friendly, offhand question; something I would easily counter with an acidic remark. But I slow down to think about what Peeta would do in this situation. Taking far longer than I should, I finally gesture to what initially caught my eye; a profile of a woman with a long-lashed gaze, butterflies decorating her towering pile of curls.

He draws nearer to get a better look. There's a respectable distance between us where he stops, no closer than it is when I pay my visits. I fight back a small ripple of nervousness anyway. Alone, with the darkness slowly descending outside, it feels different. Intimate, almost.

"Ah, yes." Seneca nods as if I've made an astute observation. "I like that one too."

"Is she someone you know?" I feel a slight sting of embarrassment once I say it. The question is invasive and unnecessary out loud.

But he smiles, pleased by my interest. "Yes, from a long time ago."

"Then all of these pictures are based on real people, places, and things?" I ask, unable to rein in my curiosity. Even with my brief experience in the Capitol, I have a hard time believing that these lovely, whimsical things actually exist, or that such details could be perfectly rendered from memory.

He pauses, cupping his chin in thought. His beard, so perfectly manicured when I first met him, has gone out to seed. The scimitar design is a lot less intimidating now that it's lost its edge, so to speak.

"In a way," he replies. "They're based on what I know but I'm sure they've been sentimentalized to a great degree. Memory does that. You see things not as they were, but how you want them to be."

I give the drawings another appraising look; this time with a better understanding. To an outsider, they might seem like nothing but a fantasy world but for him, it's home. I never imagined that he would keep a lingering attachment to the place that abandoned and replaced him so readily. He's never indicated as much, but then again, I'm no stranger to putting on pretenses.

"I was thinking about expanding my horizons," he goes on to say. "Work with something more immediate, for example."

"You mean District Twelve things?"

He nods. "The aspect of unfamiliarity would be a challenge, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but what's there to draw here?" I ask. I gesture at the four walls and plain furniture surrounding us. "You see the same boring stuff day after day. It's nothing worth putting on paper."

"The ordinary inanimate objects, yes, but living models are a different story."

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. I shake my head. "I hope you mean Buttercup."

"He's not my first choice but now that you mention it, he would be an interesting subject," he replies dryly.

There's no use wondering who his first choice could be. Prim or Mother are the only ones here who are as pretty and delicate as his drawings. I change the subject. "I never would have guessed that you were the artistic type."

"Is that so?" His quizzical expression brings out a surprising warmth in his eyes.

"You don't look like it." I furrow my brow a little, trying to put it into words. "You seem too… what's the word? ... Logical for it."

"Sketching requires a bit of logic, actually," he says. "Physical concepts are important, such as the geometric composition of an object, the ways shadow and light move, and size in relation to space." He pauses and then chuckles ruefully. "But I won't go into it and bore you to death."

"It sounds interesting," I say, mostly because I don't want to be thought of as stupid, and partly, secretly, because there's something about his way of speech that intrigues me. I want to understand what he sees and how he sees it, and why there's that spark of passion in his voice.

"Are you thinking of pursuing it as a Talent?" he asks curiously.

I give a non-committal shrug. "It never crossed my mind. I always assumed you had to be naturally gifted for that sort of thing."

"Anyone can learn. I had a knack for drawing when I was a child but it wouldn't have gotten anywhere without proper lessons."

"That's a big difference," I point out. "You started young and took it up as a hobby. There's no way I could compete."

He smiles knowingly. "Actually, the lessons began when I was twenty-two. They were required and very boring, I might add. There's hope for you yet."

It's a harmless response but something about it strikes me as odd. I stop and think. Required… Why would it be required of him? And at that age?

The swift revelation triggers my blood to crystallize into ice. Of course. Art lessons, to bring his ideas to life.

The horrible dog Muttations are what first come to mind. He was the one responsible for sending them out, but now I wonder if he had personally created those monstrosities as well. Maybe they started out as nothing but rough sketches of his; born from sleepless nights, fatigued eyes, and dirty hands.

Suddenly I'm back in that place. Peeta is scrabbling to join me atop the Cornucopia. I dig my fingers into his arms, trying to haul him up. The sound of snarling and barking in the distance blend with his gasps.

I blink and it changes. Now Cato's on the ground. His agonized screams echo in the night as the pack of Muttations rip him apart, chunk by chunk.

"If he wasn't exiled, he would have kept playing his twisted games. Capitol people are all the same."

"Katniss, are you feeling all right? You're looking pale." His voice sounds muffled in my ears, as if I'm underwater and he's speaking from the surface.

I look at him dazedly. My stomach is one giant knot that seems to tighten with each breath.

"I'm fine. I need to go," I say tersely. "Your food is getting cold."

I'm barely aware of turning to leave or my feet taking me to the dining room. I find my mother setting down the silverware and I tell her I'm not hungry; I need fresh air and I'll be outside.

I'm sitting on the porch swing, slowly rocking myself back and forth by the heels of my boots. From here, I can see the rest of District Twelve in the distance; a composition of small dots of light and the faint outline of clapboard houses. Beyond that, there are the trees of the forest, standing out stark and black against the darkening hues of the sky. It's a beautiful from here.

This is my home and it always has been but I feel sick for the one I knew when I led a simple and ordinary life. I hug myself tightly, even though it isn't cold. Maybe it's just my memory sentimentalizing things.

Gale was right; I used to be a callus. Living here, you need a thick skin and I had protected myself well. I was the girl who always sacrificed emotions for practicality, who wasn't afraid of anything except a starving family. The Games have changed that. It's sloughed me down to raw nerves, sensitive to smallest of things. Not a day goes by where I'm not nervous or suspicious or moody. I hate it.

The old Katniss would sneer if she could see the person I've become. I tried to be her; I did. I gave him a place to stay, told him the past was in the past, and even defended him against Gale. But as noble as these actions might seem on the surface, they're rendered meaningless with my constant inner struggle; the way I keep him at an arm's length.

I frown. As soon as I think that, I retract it.

The porch light flickers on automatically, sensing the darkness. It buzzes overhead. The squeaking of the swing hinges abruptly stops and I am still, save for my slight breathing.

The distance is debatable. Just a few moments ago, I felt myself drifting in too close. It happens when I least expect it; a slight almost gravitational pull towards him. His voice, his eyes… the very things I feared not too long ago have a curious way of drawing me in. Like the tide rippling back and forth on a shoreline, I always catch myself and resist only for it to happen again and again.

I don't understand it, but then again, I'm not the most rational person at the moment. Just now, I had lost my head over the hasty assumption that he personally designed the Muttations I encountered in the Arena. For all I know, it could have been someone else. I wonder what it would take to let go of my prejudices once and for all.

Before I can venture any further on this train of thought, I see it, out in the distance. A figure ambles past the iron gates that flank Victor's Village. I press my lips into a straight line and slowly rise from the swing. I begin to walk and we converge somewhere in the middle, on the smooth bricked path that sprouts straight out into the main road.

A tiny hope sparks in my chest. "Hey Gale."

"Hey Catnip." His voice is missing its usual warmth. Up close I can see his grim expression clearly. My relief melts into doubt and then concern.

"I'm glad I caught you out here. I didn't want to interrupt everyone's dinner." He pauses awkwardly. "Thanks. For this; and all the other things you sent over to the house." He offers the knapsack to me. "I was hoping you'd stop by. I'd rather see you than the delivery boy from the grocer's."

"After the first few attempts, I got the feeling you didn't want to see me," I say as I take it.

There's a flicker of guilt on Gale's face. "I'm sorry for the ways things ended that day. I shouldn't have taken out my anger on you. That's why I came here; to set things right between us."

I study the bag hanging lightly in my hand. "What's the real reason you're here?"

There are a few beats of silence. "… Nothing gets past you, huh?"

"We've been friends for years. I know when you're being secretive."

He exhales and shakes his head. "Please don't be angry with me, Katniss. I have to do it."

That's when I catch it, a faint and familiar whiff on his breath. "You've been drinking," I say. It's a Friday night and this shouldn't surprise me but given the circumstances, a tingle of alarm shoots up my spine.

"Not that much," he retorts, frowning. I suppose that's true. He isn't stumbling or slurring his words but the odd brightness in his eyes is unmistakable. "Look, I'm trying to tell you something…"

A chill settles on my skin in spite of the warm evening air. "Then tell me."

Gale stares into my eyes, grey mirroring grey. He finally speaks. "I'm reporting him to the Peacekeepers."

The words roll around in my head like marbles, clashing and bouncing and slipping from my grasp.

"Have you lost your mind?" Panic sets in and constricts my lungs but I manage to choke out my words. "You'll get us all killed!"

He grips my wrists to keep me from doing something I'd regret. "Listen to me carefully," he insists, his voice a grating whisper. The smell is stronger now as he puts his face close to mine. "I'll say that I saw someone sneaking around Victor's Village. Turn him loose, leave him on his own. He can hide out somewhere or find his way back to the woods. If they find him and question you, deny knowing anything or say he threatened your family if you didn't help. Either way, he'll be out of your life and punished like he deserves."

For a moment, the idea is gloriously tempting. And then reality sinks in. I wrench free from his hold, stumbling a little. "It's not that simple. They'll find him and they'll make him talk. It's not about the District Peacekeepers, the people we know to look the other way. The Capitol will get involved and you know exactly what they're capable of."

His eyes narrow. "That won't happen," he says stubbornly. "They won't care what he has to say once they have him. For all they know, it's lies to save his own hide."

"Gale, you don't understand…"

"No, you don't understand," he cuts in sharply. "He's a cold-blooded murderer. He damn near killed you, and you're just going to protect his worthless life? Don't you see how backward that is?"

I have no choice but to throw in the only bargaining chip I have on him. "Please. If you care for me at all, you wouldn't do this."

"I care, Katniss. I'm doing this with you in mind. This is your chance to prepare yourself. It'll be an hour before they come looking for him." He sighs, suddenly looking tired. "Catnip, come on. Don't give me that look. It'll turn out okay, I promise."

He tries to touch his hand against mine but I step back warily, as if he's a stranger. Perhaps he is. The Gale I know would never do something so selfish and reckless.

Hurt flashes across his face before hardening into an unyielding mask. No amount of pleading or threatening will change his mind now.

The minutes are ticking away. I turn and begin to run back to the house.

/

A/n:

Inspiration: 'Sour Cherry' by The Kills

Happy New Year to you all! After ten chapters and 30,000+ words, Katniss is finally reaching some sort of breakthrough. About time, right? Turning hate into love is tricky business, especially when it might be thwarted by other plans.

So far, I have pre-written the next two and a half chapters. It's taking all of my will power to not upload everything I have. I'm super excited about how things are turning out but I'll have to be patient and spread the updates so that they're regular. I'm hoping to post at least once a month while I'm in school so I'll see you guys again in February!

- Chiisana inori