After a few more words with Caesar, we are shuffled quickly to the banquet, which is also taking place in President Snow's mansion. I smile up at Peeta as we walk together, and when he smiles down at me, I pull him in closer and whisper in his ear, "We did it. We convinced him."
"Of course we did," he whispers back, so quietly I almost don't hear him. "We're in love."
"I guess we are," I say, grinning. The relief I feel is so freeing, it's making me feel giddy. I wonder idly if I'd feel this free if he had said no. Probably not, as it would be a death sentence for my family. For Gale and his family. I ruminate on the subject of Gale a little, as well, wondering what if he watched the broadcast tonight. Technically, it was mandatory, because it had to do with the Games. But he goes into the woods for most of them.
I wish I could feel guilty about the fact that I'm with Peeta now, but I honestly can't. I love Gale, but it's a different love. Like he's my brother. He never indicated any romantic interest in me before I was went to the Games; I don't owe him anything like that. I decide to talk to him when I get back to Twelve. It's either I do that or lose him as a friend forever.
Peeta leans down to brush a kiss on my cheek, and pulls me out of my reverie. He asks what I'm thinking about, but I tell him nothing. I don't want to tell him that I'm thinking of Gale. Even if I'm just trying to resolve a conflict in my mind.
"Wow," I breathe as we walk through the doors of the banquet hall. This party truly has no equal. The ceiling is forty feet tall and has been transformed into the night sky. The stars look exactly as they do at home. Musicians float on fluffy white clouds, but the real star of the evening is the food. Anything and everything you could never dream of lie on the forty or so tables that line the walls of the room.
My appetite rears its ugly head again and I turn to Peeta and tell him, "I want to taste everything in the room." He grins at me and squeezes my hand tightly.
"We'd better pace ourselves, then," he says back, holding out his arm for me to take. I do with a small smile in his direction. We're stopped incessantly on the way to the food tables for photographs, which annoys me because I'm hungry, but Peeta manages to make me smile, as always.
We eat everything we can from every table, but I barely make it past the first ten. I lean against the wall, rubbing my stomach while Peeta talks to a tall blue woman. If I didn't know him well, it would seem like he's having a good time. But the muscle in his jaw is jumping wildly. I sigh and walk over to him as the blue woman is walking away.
"What's the matter?" I ask, putting my hand on his shoulder lightly. He rolls his eyes and looks around the room before turning to me.
"That woman," he whispers, pointing inconspicuously in her direction, "told me to give you this if you were full." He gestures to a champagne flute full of clear liquid. I raise my eyebrows.
"Okay," I say cautiously. "And what's the issue?"
"It makes you throw up so you can eat more," he murmurs to me. "Want to dance?" Puzzled, I follow him to the dance floor, and he guides me slowly in a circle. I rest my head on his shoulder. I hear camera shutters clicking wildly. But Peeta leans down and whispers in my ear, "Maybe we were wrong. About trying to subdue things in the districts."
My head snaps up, and Peeta gives me a warning look. I try to play it off by giving him a kiss. "Do you even care that we are in the president's mansion and that saying that could get both of our families killed?" I whisper angrily to him.
"If you want to hide something, put it in plain sight," he retorts. "No one is going to be listening for that kind of talk tonight. Calm down."
"Save it for home," I shoot back at him.
"Fine." We continue dancing in angry silence, but I have to wonder if Peeta is right. Maybe it would be better if unrest in the districts reached a boiling point. If the nation rebelled, maybe there would be no Games. A place where Peeta and I could have children that wouldn't be doomed to certain death, as the child of two victors. But it's too late. We convinced President Snow, and to anyone watching, we are not rebels. We are playthings of the Capitol.
I take a deep breath and tell myself that it's better for Prim, for my mother, this way.
"Sorry," I whisper to him. He kisses my forehead and tells me that it's okay, and soon enough we're swept off to the bar to talk to someone.
The someone we meet is Plutarch Heavensbee, apparently the new Head Gamemaker for the Quell that's coming up this year. He brushes a kiss lightly against my cheek, and I have to root myself to the spot so I don't visibly recoil. The only people whose touch I'm familiar with is my family's and Peeta's. And I rank a Gamemaker somewhere below a maggot in terms of what I want touching my skin.
I manage a smile.
"Hello," I say, and he nods to me.
"I just wanted to tell you how splendid you both look tonight, and to personally let you know that I haven't touched strawberry punch since last year," he chuckles. I wrinkle my eyebrows, then it comes to me.
"Oh! You're the one who—"
"I am. And you'll be pleased to know that I've never recovered." I suppress a snort. The twenty-two children who died in my Games will never recover either. I think again of what Peeta said. About rebellion.
So I just say, "Good." I turn to Peeta. "Last year when I fired an arrow at the Gamemakers, he fell into a bowl of punch." Peeta laughs good naturedly, like he is completely comfortable, completely at home with this stranger.
Peeta and Heavensbee chat while I try not to think of next year's Games, which is the subject of conversation. The Quarter Quell. Every twenty-five years, the Capitol puts on a special Hunger Games with a special twist just to keep the horrors of the Dark Days fresh in everyone's mind. The first Quell, the 25th Games, the districts were made to vote for the tribute that would go into the arena. The second Quell, I remember with a glance at Haymitch—who is passed out at the bar a few feet away—demanded twice as many tributes from each district. Four from each district, forty-eight total. Haymitch won the 50th Hunger Games.
I try not to think of the girl that I will be forced to mentor and, most likely, watch die this year. Then I purposely think of what it would be like to mentor for twenty-three years, watching sixty-six children die, before you produce a victor. Two victors. I like to think, in this moment, that I understand Haymitch's alcoholism more than I did before. That would destroy anyone.
I rub my temples with my fingertips and sneak a glance at the clock on the wall. Nearly twelve, nearly over. When I take note of that, something distracts me. A mockingjay flashing on the watch of Plutarch Heavensbee.
"It starts at midnight," he murmurs. He directs his attention to me. "The meetings are top-secret, so don't tell anyone."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say back, wondering if he can detect the sarcasm in my voice. For safety's sake, I add, "Have a good night." He nods to me and shakes Peeta's hand again, and when he's out of earshot, I lean over and whisper to Peeta, "Did you see that?"
"See what?" He asks, looking puzzled.
"His watch. For a second or two, a white mockingjay flashed on it," I explain hurriedly, because I can see Effie making her way across the room. It starts at midnight.
He glances around before whispering, "Home." I understand what he means, and I nod, letting his arm fall around my shoulder. Effie is nearly to us now. "Anyway, the mockingjay is so trendy in the Capitol now. That's probably what it was. A trend." His voice is louder, so I know he's saying this for the benefit of people that might be listening in.
"Probably," I say back, relaxing my shoulders, twining my arm around Peeta's waist. I smile up at him, partly because there are cameras on us, and partly because I'm so relieved that he's mine. That he's safe. "You know, Peeta, you should get a mockingjay tattoo. To prove your undying love for me." He laughs then, a real laugh, deep and rumbling, like thunder. The sound makes me smile, and I find again that I can't tear my eyes away from him.
"As long as you get a tattoo of bread," he retorts, making the reporters around us laugh.
"Deal," I say back. He looks down at me while I look up at him and for a moment, we're trapped. Trapped in a little world all our own, where he's painted the sky with evergreen trees, where it smells like cinnamon and dill. Caught in a world between reality and fantasy, a world of our own making.
Even though Effie is trying to hurry us on, we stop in our place and look at each other. The only thing I can feel is a completely dissociation from the world around me, with every cell in my body reaching towards his, every part of my skin tingling with electricity, the beat of my heart aligning with his, caught, transfixed, in this little universe of ours.
Neither of us moves, neither of us breathes. In all of my revelations about Peeta, I never prepared myself to feel like this. So completely vulnerable, so completely raw—like an exposed nerve—but at the same time, so overcome with a feeling of belonging. I thought I'd seen love, I thought I was educated enough from watching my mother and my father steals looks at each other—the same look Peeta and I share now. But this is love unlike I've ever seen, unlike I've ever felt. In the moment we share leaving the mansion—probably a minute at the longest, but feeling like it lasted for twenty years—I realize something that should terrify me. That should paralyze me with fear. That should send me running for the hills. But it doesn't.
I could never, in a thousand years, live without Peeta next to me. If he was taken from me, I would be broken and damaged beyond any hope of repair. He is the person I can't live without.
I think he realizes this at the same time that I do, because we moved towards each other at the same time. Our lips find each other, and like we've known each other forever, like this is the most familiar thing in the world, we kiss in front of a hundred reporters—still trapped in a galaxy made of our own imaginations.