Before we know it May has come around and it's time for the Quarter Quell Reaping. Peeta and I have slowly grown accustomed to living under one roof, though it's quite difficult. Being around each other that much when we have the issue of whether or not we will be forced to have babies hanging between us makes it harder than I had imagined. It's like neither one of us knows what we truly are to one another nowadays. Peeta keeps his distance, spending most of his days in town with his family, usually followed by a few hours over at Haymitch's house. I spend time in the woods, longing for Sundays and hoping that Gale will be there. Sometimes he comes but it's different now somehow.
The only physical contact I have with Peeta is either by accident or when I've woken up from a nightmare. His arms are still there to comfort me in the night and in a strange way I've grown to cherish those moments. It feels good to be wrapped in his arms, protected by his affection, not having to feel like I am all alone.
Ryean and Maggie had a toasting ceremony in the last week of April, about two months after Peeta's and my wedding. Their marriage could not have gotten off to a more different start compared to ours. Instead of lavish gowns, hundreds of guests in attendance, formal ceremonies, expensive food and the bride being walked down the aisle and handed to the groom like a commodity the wedding in April had borrowed clothes, a private signing of papers, a small gathering of friends and family, a small meal and a toasting ceremony. But it also had genuine smiles from the two being wed, real happiness and two people who are so obviously in love. It made me feel even more like a fraud and like my whole life is nothing but a poor charade.
On the morning of the reaping Peeta and I are woken up at the break of dawn. Two sets of prep teams come through the door, one leading Peeta upstairs and the other taking me to the downstairs bathroom. I find it ludicrous that they show up so early when the Reaping doesn't begin until the afternoon but there's no point in protesting, even though I would much rather be out in the woods with Gale like I always used to be on Reaping Day. It disappoints me that Cinna and my original prep team aren't the ones taking care of me now. They are in the Capitol, waiting for the girl tribute whose name Effie will draw today.
This new team can't seem to stop talking about how they can't believe it's only been a year. I have to agree with them. Twelve months ago I was just another Seam brat, wanting nothing more than to get through the Reaping unscathed, feed my family and live out a life of comparative solitude. Today I am a Hunger Games victor, one half of the star-crossed lovers of District 12, somebody's wife and currently the biggest celebrity in the country. I can only hope that whoever wins this year will be considered interesting enough to take focus off of Peeta and me but I don't have much hope, even though it is a Quarter Quell. Peeta and I are likely to be the main attraction for a long time yet.
Hand in hand with Peeta I leave the house, pretending not to see the camera team who are there to shoot "authentic" moments to intercut with the overall District 12 feed later on in the day. It's the first time since the toasting that Peeta and I have had to put on a performance. I can't figure out if it feels good or bad to have him show me affection for the benefit of the camera crew.
His arm comes to wrap around my waist and his lips brush against my cheek. I look up at him with a smile that can only barely hide my distress at having to be on stage for a reaping. He leans in and whispers to me that we'll get through it, but I don't feel particularly comforted.
Once we arrive on stage I look out over the much smaller crowd of possible tributes, feeling sick to my stomach. I force myself to keep my eyes open even though I would like nothing more than to close them and not open them again until the whole thing is over and done with. I hold Peeta's hand tight and fervently pray that the two tributes will be nineteen year-olds and not eleven year-olds.
Somehow I make it through the Reaping, the ride to the Capitol, training week. I make it through without cracking, without showing weakness. I make it through without being a team with Peeta, spending most of my time apart from him as he plans the male tribute's strategy and I do the same for the female. In public we hold hands, smile, and whisper meaningless things in each other's ear. We don't kiss. Each day I feel myself slipping a little bit more but I am still able to hold it together. I have to. For the sake of the girl I'm mentoring I have to. I can't let her know of my own discomfort when her agony is fifty times greater than mine. I hold it together even as I say goodbye to her the morning of the Games.
When I ride the elevator back up to the twelfth floor I'm shaking. Never before in my life have I understood so well the need for some of the victors to turn to drink or morphling. If only I had at least gotten to mentor someone who stood a sliver of a chance. Starting out by mentoring a terrified eleven year-old makes me feel sick to my very core. The look on her face, the way her body trembled, the sound of her voice when she said goodbye to me is etched into my mind and will probably never go away.
I reach the top floor and somehow manage to walk out of the car. I stop in the hallway, unable to move. Then I hear footsteps and I look up, seeing Peeta walking in from the sitting room. The look in his eyes is full of compassion and of the same horror that I'm feeling. At least he had Haymitch with him when he said goodbye to his tribute and at least he's mentoring a nineteen year-old, someone actually two years older than Peeta himself, but all the same it's horrible. He holds out his arms to me and as fast as my legs can carry me I walk into his embrace, burying my face at his neck, shaking as if I'm freezing. His embrace is the only thing that has felt good in the past several days.
"Come" he says after a moment. "Haymitch wants to talk to us."
I nod slowly, still trembling, and reach for his hand as we pull apart. I need him right now, need his closeness to tether me, and on an instinctive level I know that he's not going to turn away from me. It's like an unspoken agreement between us that we need each other now. We walk close together towards the sitting room, hand in hand, Peeta giving me looks every few seconds to make sure I'm alright even though we both know that neither one of us is even close to okay.
In the sitting room Effie is pacing back and forth, nervously chewing on the end of a hand fan. Is she always like this before the Games begin? She seems more human now than I ever think I've seen her before. Haymitch seems calm and collected, though he's probably aided by alcohol to achieve that effect. He's standing by the television screen with a remote control in his hand and points it at us when we walk up to him.
"Newlyweds, on the couch."
I share a look with Peeta.
"That sounds dirty" Peeta attempts to joke but all it earns him is a smack on the shoulder from Effie's fan.
"What's that in your hand?" I ask Haymitch.
"This…" he says, waving it around in circles, "is the remote control that we use during the Games. Now have a seat like good little mentors so we can get this done with. The tributes left late this morning which means the arena can't be all that far from here. The Games begin in about forty-five minutes so let's make sure we are prepared."
I walk over to the couch and sit down. Peeta sits down on the armrest, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I'm going to go get some water to drink" says Effie, sounding stressed.
"Make that one part water, nine parts gin" suggests Haymitch. "You need it. Stop making the new ones jittery."
"We're not jittery" says Peeta, sounding completely calm.
"We're not exactly new either" I mutter.
Effie stalks off, her heels making clicking noises as she goes. Haymitch holds up the remote again and walks closer to us so we can see it better.
"This," he says, "controls the channels that broadcasts the tributes. As mentors we are allowed access to channels that focus on our tributes only. One for the girl, that would be channel twenty-five, and one for the boy, channel twenty-six."
"Shouldn't it be twenty-three and twenty-four?" asks Peeta.
"Channel one is the main feed" explains Haymitch. "It shows the same thing that is broadcast to the rest of the country, only without any cutbacks to the studio. Channel two shows Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith, if you want commentary. There's also a channel zero which shows what the rest of Panem sees, meaning a combination of channels one and two."
"Riveting" says Peeta.
"Take this seriously, please" says Haymitch.
"What happens if we press, say, channel eight?" I ask. "Do we get the male tribute from District 7?"
"No, all we can access are our own tributes. It gives an unfair advantage if mentors can keep exact track of the other tributes at all times."
"How is that an unfair advantage?" asks Peeta. "If all mentors can see everything that's going on then the playing field should be even."
"Except that means mentors can't form strategies based on the actions of their tributes. Of course, anything that's actually interesting will probably end up on the main feed anyway but you'd be surprised at how many twists and turns over the years have come from mentors picking up on things about their tributes on the private screens."
He continues the tutoring on how the remote works and what things we should keep in mind. There's a big common room downstairs where all mentors can gather and watch the Games together but the only available feed is the main feed. Each district has its own conference room downstairs as well where mentors can bring prospective sponsors. These rooms are also used for allowing two or more mentors from the same district to watch both the female and the male feed since the television in the suites can only be tuned in on one channel at a time.
"And finally," says Haymitch, "you need to know where to find the room where we select, purchase and send out sponsor gifts." He looks at me. "The Hob of the Hunger Games, if you will."
"I've always wondered, can sponsors decide what gifts their money will buy?" asks Peeta, shifting a bit on the couch. "Or do we as mentors have full say?"
"They can put in requests. It is usually wise to follow those requests or that same sponsor might not come back next year, or later in this game. If you're looking to acquire something in particular, like the burn cream I sent to Katniss last year, then you should open with that in your pitch."
"Our pitch?" I echo.
"Yes, your pitch." Haymitch gives me a look like I'm a complete idiot. "They're not just going to waltz in here offering you money, sweetheart. You're going to have to suck up to them. Court them. Convince them why your tribute deserves their money."
"I'll be horrible at that" I say, looking down on the floor, having a strong feeling that no female tribute from District 12 will ever get a single sponsor gifts as long as I'm responsible for procuring it.
"You'll get the hang of it. You know how to barter, right? You've done that at the Hob? Well this is like that, only you have to be likeable and personable and all the other things your husband is and you are not."
I roll my eyes but pay attention as he continues his long lesson on how the sponsorship works. By the time he is finished Effie has returned and the TV has been tuned in to channel zero.
"It can be helpful to watch the two eggheads right before the whole thing kicks off" says Haymitch, giving a nod to Claudius and Caesar. "If you're lucky you might get an inclination as to which tributes are most popular at the moment."
"Will that have changed since last night?" questions Peeta.
"Sometimes."
Haymitch walks over and sits down on the couch, looking decidedly tenser now. He reaches for the large glass of liquor sitting on the table in front of him and I almost wish I had a drink of my own. Effie tells Peeta to sit down properly and not hang over the furniture like a barbarian and he walks over to where I'm sitting. I feel the couch dip as he gets up on it and then I feel him sitting down right behind me, his legs on either side of me. It's a surprisingly intimate position and I find it immensely comforting even if his front isn't touching my back. Just having him near feels reassuring.
"Alright, this is it!" says Caesar Flickerman, brimming with barely withheld excitement. "In a few short moments the tributes will be in the tubes and the arena will be revealed to us. The excitement is palpable!"
I close my eyes hard and fight the budding panic in my chest. I remember so vividly what it was like last year in those last moments before it all began. What it felt like to walk inside that tube and the utter terror when the glass comes down around you. I think of the petrified eleven year-old girl in that launch room right now and I wonder if Cinna is able to make her feel better. He couldn't take away my terror a year ago and at least I knew I had a fighting chance.
I feel like I'm back in that launch room, back in that tube. Those last few precious moments of guaranteed life and safety before being thrown into an arena you only had a one in twenty-four chance of coming out of alive. The absolute horror you feel in that moment. Knowing in the back of your mind that while you are feeling your life slipping away from you there are people in the Capitol who are excited and will enjoy immensely whatever happens to you. I don't think I have ever known fear worse than in those moments, even in the arena itself. I can't stand the knowledge that a poor eleven year-old girl is going through that right this moment.
I feel Peeta's arms wrap around me and pull me back against his broad chest. I draw a trembling breath and thank the heavens that he is there. Right now he is the only thing tethering me to the ground, preventing a full-blown panic attack. I open my eyes and move my head so that our cheeks press together, my hands reaching up and grabbing his upper arms.
I'm barely aware of the screen fading from the studio where Flickerman and Templesmith comment on events to the inside of the arena where the tributes are being raised to the ground. Not until I see the tributes, some so terribly young, look around in confusion. Some of the eleven year-olds are crying and shaking with fear, all of the nineteen year-olds look fairly calm even though some of their faces suggest that they dread the bloodbath that is going to follow. A fourteen year-old killing a twelve year-old is horrifying to watch but when you're in the arena it becomes something else, two children who are at least fairly close in age fighting for their own survival. Seeing nineteen year-olds slaughtering children eight years younger than themselves is just barbaric. I doubt a single one of the younger tributes is going to survive the day.
The countdown gives us a moment to get a glimpse of the arena. This year it's almost absurd in its design. We won't get a look at the full arena until after the bloodbath is over but they do an aerial sweep to give you an idea of the immediate surroundings. It seems Seneca Crane wanted to do something new this year, possibly to redeem himself from his monumental failure last year in letting both Peeta and I survive. The podiums around the cornucopia are in a circle-round meadow. Surrounding it is a village. A village of gravel roads and small cottages, most of which only seem to serve as backdrops because they don't appear to have any doors. However the foundations of some of the houses rest on large rocks, providing possible hiding spaces underneath a house for someone small enough to crawl under there. God only knows if some other threat lies waiting there. Still, seeing it on television this way it looks like something out of a history book. It's quaint, which is the last thing you think of when you think of the Hunger Games.
The countdown nears its end and the screen shows brief shots of each of the tributes in the order of how they're standing on the podiums. We get a glimpse of the cornucopia, full of weapons and small gunny bags containing God knows what. Seeing the weapons turns my stomach. Those weapons will in less than twenty seconds be taking the lives of eleven year-old children. Some of the nineteen year-olds will probably be killed as well but I can't muster up the same sympathy for them right now. At least they look more adult. At least they stand a chance.
The countdown reaches zero and I feel Peeta exhale sharply. So it begins. The third Quarter Quell.
I feel numb inside as I stand in the middle of the crowds, watching the recap of the 75th Hunger Games and third Quarter Quell. As predicted our tributes didn't do so well. The girl survived ten minutes, the boy seven days. This year's winner is a District 2 male called Scipio, a huge, big brute of a nineteen year-old who looks cocky and completely unaffected by the ordeal he has been through as he sits up on the stage next to Caesar Flickerman, watching the Games unfold on screen.
At key points we are expected to applaud, cheer and even sometimes laugh. When those moments come Peeta usually gives me a light nudge to remind me to smile in case the camera is on us. Can't let anybody know how appalled we are by all of this. Peeta, Haymitch and I are even expected to appear proud because one of our tributes was killed by Scipio and we should feel honoured that the winner was the one to take our tribute's life. This is a whole side of the Games that I've never given much thought to. I despise it as much as every other part of the show.
Peeta's arm is linked with mine, never letting go even when we are applauding. We've been seeking comfort in each other since the Games began and I've begun to nurture the hope that things might be better when we return home. That we have turned a corner of some sort and can be on true friendly terms again.
Once Caesar has wrapped up the show there is a lot of mingling to be had and it hasn't been more than a minute before somebody approaches Peeta and I. I recognize her as the District 6 escort and a friend of Effie's. She smiles brightly at us and gives us each a kiss on the cheek.
"So lovely to see you" she crows.
"Likewise" says Peeta politely.
"How do you feel, no longer being the reigning victors?"
I want to answer that it took the death of 23 children to accomplish it so therefore it's hard to find anything good in it at all. Instead I smile, lean against Peeta's shoulder and give her an answer I think she'd find more appropriate.
"It's been an overwhelming year but we are more than happy to welcome somebody new to have the spotlight." I glance up at Peeta with what I hope is a lovesick expression. "The one thing we haven't gotten this past year is enough time to ourselves."
The woman puts a hand to her heart and I think I see tears in the corner of her eyes.
"Of course" she says. "Of course." She leans in closer and lowers her voice to a coquettish whisper. "I hope you will soon bring us the happy news of an upcoming birth!"
I feel Peeta tense up beside me but the woman is too absorbed in her enjoyment of the evening to notice. She flutters off to talk to somebody else and I hide my face against Peeta's shoulder for a brief second, feeling utterly disappointed that even on the eve of crowning a Quarter Quell victor people still care far too much about Peeta and me having a baby together.
"Babies here and babies there, that's all these people ever seem to think about" mutters Peeta. "When they're not glorifying the slaughter of children, that is."
I lift my head and shush him. It's not safe to utter such thoughts in a public place, no matter how loud the crowd around us is being.
"Let's just dance" I say. "It will give us something to do that will discourage people from coming up to us to talk."
I lead him to the dance floor and we begin to move to the music. I don't know if it's just my imagination or if people around us actually are cooing at the sight of us. I feel quite sure that Scipio will grow to despise us, if he doesn't already, for stealing his thunder.
We dance two more dances and then Peeta excuses himself to go to the bathroom. I'm reluctant to let him go, feeling isolated and vulnerable without him, but I can't very well follow him into the men's room. While I wait for him to return I walk over to a table full of fruits and tiny cookies and I pick out a thin slice of melon. I had never even heard of melon before coming to the Capitol and I can't say that I care for it much. It has very little taste and doesn't seem to be as nutritious as apples or pears considering how much water is in a slice. I eat the piece of fruit and reach out to grab a cookie when a voice right by my ear makes me jump.
"Alone at last, girl on fire."
At least the voice is familiar. Finnick Odair, playboy of District 4, probably the most popular victor of all time. He is standing close enough that when he leans in to take a slice of melon his entire front is pressed against my back and I very hastily move aside so that we're no longer touching.
"I don't know about you, but I think fifty is a crowd" I reply dryly.
He laughs a little, flashing those pearly white teeth.
"I've been meaning to get close to you since we arrived here for the Quell" he says, eating the melon and then licking his fingers slowly in what I can only assume is supposed to be a sexy fashion. "But your baker never seems to leave your side for long."
I'm tempted to reply that if he thinks so then he obviously hasn't been looking but I hold back the urge.
"Now you've spoken to me" I say instead. "You can check that off your list and die a happy, accomplished man."
He laughs and it bothers me to acknowledge that it's a pleasant sound.
"Trust me, fire girl, there are a lot of things left on my list of unaccomplished accomplishments." He picks up a cherry and sticks it in his mouth, chewing it for a few seconds and then swallowing it, keeping his eyes on me the entire time. "And I am nowhere near accomplished enough with you."
I look in the direction of the bathrooms, wondering if Peeta won't return soon. I'm beginning to feel very uncomfortable but I can't think of anything to say that would excuse me from the conversation.
"So how's mentoring?" asks Finnick.
"What? Oh…" I shrug. "It's fine."
"Fine, huh?" His eyes travel over my body and I feel myself pulling back a little. "I hope you and your dear husband have been able to get enough quality time since Reaping Day. Would be a shame to keep everyone waiting for that lovechild, no?"
Oh god, not him as well.
"What's it to you?" I ask in a snarl that reveals far too much of my inner emotions.
"Nothing, really…" says Finnick, sounding far too casual. He reaches over for another piece of fruit. "In the interest of full disclosure I think it's a crying shame you two were in such a hurry to be married."
This catches my interest, though I try not to let it on.
"Oh?"
"Such a lovely, fiery girl…" he says. "Crying shame that you'd be a taken woman within a year of your victory. You could have had a lot of… fun… here in the Capitol."
There's an undercurrent in what he's saying that makes me deeply uncomfortable. It doesn't sound like he's saying he would like to take me to bed. It almost sounds like a cloaked warning.
"I have sufficient fun as is" I say, averting my eyes.
"Are you?" The blunt question make me blush. "Not to imply that your husband doesn't know what he's doing… but you don't know what you are missing, do you? Got nothing to compare it to, I mean."
"I know that whatever it is that I'm missing it's something that I never wished to have" I answer back, almost breathing an audible sigh of relief at the sight of Peeta coming back and locating me.
Finnick follows my gaze and then turns to me with another smile, though this one doesn't seem quite as genuine.
"Well if you ever do tire of the monogamous life and begin to wonder what more a bedroom has to offer then you're in luck. This is the Capitol."
A poisonous reply about his own sexual escapades is about to leave my mouth when Peeta reaches up to us and speaks before I get a chance to.
"Hello Finnick."
The bright smile is back on the older man's lips.
"Peeta" he greets with a nod. "Just keeping your delectable wife company while she waits for your return."
"And now you're back and I want another dance" I announce, grabbing Peeta by the hand and leading him out on the dance floor before either one of them has the chance to say anything else.
"What does 'delectable' mean?" mumbles Peeta in my ear as we begin to dance.
"Ignore him" I say. "He's just being a creep. It's what comes natural to him. Like spearing people with a trident."
"He looked like he'd want to spear you with something other than a trident."
"Peeta!" I gasp.
"Sorry, but it makes me a little uncomfortable to see how some of the men here look at you. Scipio, for instance."
He feels like such a hypocrite to me in that moment. Acting the part of a jealous husband when he himself is trying hard to keep our marriage a mere façade. Up until now I haven't been entirely comfortable either with some of the looks I've been getting but suddenly I don't mind them. They feel like validation. At least some men in this room would like to take me to bed, unhindered by Peeta's ideas of propriety and morality. It seems insane that the one man in this room who is allowed to have me whenever he so pleases has made up his mind to never touch me like that. Even more insane because he's not refusing out of dislike or lack of attraction but because he loves me.
That thought softens me a little.
"Let them look" I hear myself say, resting my cheek against his chest. "They'll never dare to touch me as long as I have you."
But when I think of the things Finnick Odair said to me earlier I get a gnawing feeling that I might not have spoken the real truth.