I do not own The Hunger Games.

(A/N: For those of you reading/who have read "Moving On", you will notice that this Chapter corresponds to one from that story. This is on purpose because the two stories run concurrently, often with the same events told from different points of view. I will post the timeline for the overlap timeline before the next Chapter and on my profile.)

Chapter 11: Panem et Ludos

Marus Aurelius's POV

I have been meeting Peeta at the president's mansion for our sessions since coming back from 13. This is part of the new "positivity and trust" therapy that came out of watching his older videos. If I am honest, it is also because of my desire to see Brinna. It helps that Peeta and I tend to meet in either his studio, where I can see his paintings and work those into therapy, or the kitchen where I can watch him make all sorts of treats.

I am watching Peeta knead bread dough. I never thought that bread making was as physical as it is. It is easy to see how Peeta had the physical strength to survive both Games. I make a mental note that I should get a book or two about the process so I can understand it. He explains to me that Plutarch's idea to "paint happy memories" seems to have some merit to it. I think back to his conversation with Primrose and I think that Plutarch has unwittingly hit upon the same idea for Peeta's therapy. It will be a good thing because we will be reinforcing Peeta's recovery from two different angles.

Peeta begins talking about moving on and how it means leaving his loved ones behind. Whereas I have no desire to remember my past, Peeta clings to his as his lifeline and stability. I also know that he values his memories – even the painful ones - from his rejection of my memory cleaning serum. Peeta equates moving on with forgetting. Since most of his memories revolve around the dead, it also makes sense that Peeta's grieving process is involved and that he has significant survivor's guilt. If I knew more about baking, I would use an analogy for him: I would say something learning how to bake bread with nuts and raisins does not equate to forgetting how to make a basic loaf.

Peeta mentions how it seems like a shame to work so hard to recall all of these people and events, only to let them go. I watch him for a moment, this boy, making a loaf of bread. He is practicing a basic skill that he can build upon later. Primrose's talks with him did the same thing. I can get him to remember some basic, happy memories that will do double duty of reinforcing neurological connections and give him the confidence in his own recall to remember and then let go. It's like Peeta's dough: we will mix up memories like ingredients that Peeta will knead before letting them rest.

I stick to things I know when I say, "Peeta, I think it's safe to say that all of the normal grieving emotions are going to happen. And I can see that your hijacking and work to recover memories is also going to play into your grieving process. We've talked before that losing more of your memory is a fear of yours, so it makes total sense that you would be feeling all of this. How about we play a game? Perhaps that will help to reinforce those memories and, at the same time, reinforce the concept of looking for something good. Are you interested in a game?" I explain that it is a word association game: I will say a name and he should think of a positive memory associated with that name.

We talk. I give Peeta a name and he reminisces a bit. I find out that Delly was his first kiss, and his brothers were lively and protective and he remembers Primrose visiting him in 13. Mention of Rue, a fellow tribute in his First Hunger Games, triggers an episode that lasts several minutes.

I do not want Peeta's hard work to go to waste, so I take the bread out of the oven and breathe deeply as I do. Peeta recovers from his episode but seems unusually pensive afterward. I decide that I have pushed him enough for one day, so I bring the session to a close. Whatever Peeta is thinking of must be a good thing because he shakes my hand at the end of the session and gives me the still hot loaf of bread as a gift.

I head to Brinna's office, knowing that I want to share it with her. When I get there, I see that Plutarch is sitting with her.

Brinna Paylor's POV

I am thrilled when Marus interrupts my conversation with Plutarch: meeting with Plutarch sets me on edge, especially with his veiled innuendos about further uprisings. Plutarch invites Marus into our conversation and I see the annoyance on Marus's face even as I feel relieved.

"Dr. Aurelius! So good to see you!" Plutarch is effusive in his greeting. "I haven't seen you since before your visit to District 13. I heard that you helped our president close the deal there." I see Marus's eyes narrow at the inference. It would make me laugh if I weren't so exhausted already by Plutarch's enthusiasm.

"President Paylor did a wonderful job in 13." Marus says quietly. I acknowledge the compliment with a tilt of my head and a small smile.

Plutarch waves the compliment away dismissively. "Yes. Yes. Well, we're here just discussing that it may not be enough: what happened in 13. We may need…more."

"More?" I ask. I realize that District 2 may still be an issue and require special handling, but what beyond that?

"More, Brinna. Something to hold the public's interest. Something to make them hold their breath and remember passion and love and loyalty and bravery…"

Oh no - he is going to bring up reinstituting the Hunger Games again. "Plutarch," I interrupt him, "there is no way I am supporting another Hunger Games. I have already told you that."

"We have to do something. Panem needs a distraction."

"The Games is murder, not a distraction." I lock eyes with him to let him know I am serious about this. "What about the exhibit? Isn't that enough?"

Plutarch makes an oddly dismissive sound. "It's a bunch of people walking around, looking at pictures! It doesn't have the panache of an epic, televised event, the way a Games does."

There has to be a way around this.

"What about your singing-show idea?" I know Plutarch has talked about it once or twice, trying to get the idea off the ground.

"It has to be new and fresh. The only way to really get people interested is if we had someone like the Mockingjay singing. Everyone else is just a tired old performer and it's been done to death." I look over at Marus. There is no way that either of us can picture Katniss as we last saw her performing on a singing show. Plutarch continues, oblivious to our shared look. "I was really hoping for a wedding. They are always such a great distraction; such feelings of love and passion." He looks from one of us to the other. I'm not sure what is more comical – my expression of shock or Marus's. No. Not happening.

I counter with, "What about…interviews? What if we made an event out of the exhibit and we showcased the recovery of the nation? I could do an interview, we could cover the Capitol recovery first and then we could show the exhibit footage too." I don't like the idea of offering myself up to be interviewed, but I like the other options even less. I remind myself to have a good laugh over the wedding idea later, when I am alone.

Plutarch senses an angle, "What about if Peeta did an interview too? That might be enough for Panem." He draws his hands in the air in front of him, "The Star Crossed Lover from District 12 recovers from his torture and desolation, as our nation does the same…We can showcase stories of courage in the face of extreme loss across all 13 districts."

I can't tell if it's the idea of putting Peeta on display or Plutarch's theatrics that make me a little queasy. "Marus, is Peeta well enough to be interviewed for something like that?"

Marus meets my eyes thoughtfully. I hadn't noticed before, but he is holding a loaf of bread wrapped in paper. I raise my eyebrow at him, silently asking him about the bread. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly: whatever story is behind the bread, he doesn't want to share it with Plutarch.

"Yes. I believe he is healthy enough. We would have to control what sorts of questions would be asked. Anything touching upon Katniss or the Games would need to be left out."

Plutarch sighs deeply. "That may not be good enough, but I suppose we will have to make due. The two of you need to consider what else we can use in the event that this idea does not do the trick. Meanwhile, I will keep working on the singing-show idea. Perhaps I can come up with some way to make it fresh."

"Plutarch, you are the Secretary of Communications. I am sure that whatever programming you put together will be more than sufficient to hold Panem enthralled." Plutarch puffs a bit at the compliment. I hear the threat below his words, though. We have to find something that makes the country forget its recent losses.

There is an awkward pause in the conversation. Marus takes it as a cue to leave, but Plutarch is not so kind. We talk for a few more minutes, fleshing out the idea of the interview, the party for the exhibition and discussing other interview formats from the other district. Plutarch asks what I know about the whereabouts of the other Victors because he thinks they will particularly resonate with Panem as an audience. I give him the information I know, wondering the whole time whether any of the remaining Victors – Johanna Mason comes to mind – is going to agree with the idea of being interviewed.

-Later—

I hack and slash at another dummy in the Training Center. It will only be another few days before this place is off limits for a while because of the exhibit, so I am taking advantage of it while I can. I find that I sleep better when I can take out my frustrations with some physical exercise before bed. I find it ironic that I can now get the rest I need, but my body won't shut down unless it is exhausted.

I've decided to try archery tonight, since I do not have the focus when Marus is here to try it. I recall Katniss's skill and try to duplicate it with laughable results. I keep trying for thirty minutes, just shutting out every thought but my breathing, my bow, and the target but the results remain tepid. I know why: Marus is late.

He isn't coming.

My disappointment is overwhelming. What could have kept him? We have an unspoken agreement to see each other every night at the Training Center. I briefly wonder if something might have happened to him or if his feelings for me have changed. I thrust both of those thoughts out of my mind because they are too terrible to contemplate.

I am sure there is an explanation. Just go home. Go to sleep. Tomorrow is another day.

Except I want to see him. We have seen each other every day, even if only for an hour and it relaxes me. I get the feeling that it does the same for Marus. We have not discussed our relationship, nor have we kissed again after 13, but neither of us is in a rush: we have all the time in the world to think through what we are doing. So why didn't he come to the Training Center tonight?

By the time I am standing outside his quarters, I feel the exact same trepidation I did in 13. I shake it off this time and knock briskly. My foot taps impatiently for someone to answer the door and all sorts of things run through my head. Is he injured? Should I have brought guards with me? What if he doesn't want to see me? I shake all three thoughts out of my head. I will have answers soon enough.

When he answers the door, my first thought is that he has, indeed been injured. He has white stuff in his hair and on his cheek, his glasses are smudged, and his shirt is half un-tucked and wet in places. He looks disheveled and disoriented.

"Everything ok?" I ask him.

He blinks owlishly. "Brinna! Yes. Oh…Yes. What time is it?" He rubs his face, and I notice he has more white stuff and what looks like chunks of something clinging to his hand.

"It's late. When you didn't come to the Training Center, I worried." What is that on his hand? Wet paper?

"Is it that late? I apologize: I got distracted by some work. Why don't you come in? I can show you what I am working on."

Marus's quarters are neat and almost Spartan, despite being a Capitol residence. I see no clutter, no personal effects strewn about, no clothes hanging over chairs. His kitchen, on the other hand, looks like a bomb exploded. That bomb was, evidently, filled with white stuff. On the counter is the bag I spied him holding earlier in the day. On that bag rests a loaf of perfectly formed and baked bread. Two others, much less perfectly formed and about half as high, sit next to it. Marus has been talking almost compulsively since he opened the door.

"Peeta was baking today. It seems to be one of his happy memories, and I thought that I should try and learn more about it, since it seems so core to who he is. After I left your office, I stopped by a bookstore and purchased a book on bread making, bought some ingredients and came back here. I was right back in 13, Brinna. Therapy for him must be a mix of chemistry and hope." His tone is beyond enthusiastic. I realize that I must be seeing the scientist side of Marus. He looks relaxed and in his element, almost happy.

"Marus, that was hours ago. And that still doesn't explain…" I motion to the white stuff that coats every single surface and the chunks of what I presume to be dough caking his hands and counter.

He clears his throat and looks embarrassed, "Yes, well, my first five attempts did not turn out at all. Bread making is quite difficult. I underestimated how much patience is required."

"Five? Exactly how many attempts were there?" No wonder his kitchen looks like a bomb went off in it.

"Around ten. I lost count. A few burned because I baked them too long. Several did not rise at all. One memorable one overflowed the pan: I had to go out and buy a new pan after that one and I am afraid I almost set off the fire alarm." I don't think I have ever seen Marus look satisfied with himself.

I shake my head. "Ok, let me slow down for a minute here. You have spent the entire day baking and wrecking your apartment. You lost track of time and didn't meet me at the Training Center, but are ok. Is that about the extent of it?"

"Not baking: making a connection with Peeta. This is the best part of Peeta, the part that is most core to him. Doing this helped me to understand not only what works, what he finds comforting, but how his mind works and what he considers important." I stand there, looking lost.

"Brinna, bread is science: ingredients and chemical reactions. I thought it would be easy based on what I saw him do today to replicate his work."

"Like an experiment?"

"Exactly." Marus nods, glad I am making the connection. "But that isn't all bread is: bread is all of that plus a little something more. Perhaps it is art, or perhaps it is hope. Whatever it is, it tells me that Peeta is a highly adaptable, patient, perfectionist with an eye for detail. He must have done what I did today hundreds of times in his life. He must have failed repeatedly. -Did you know that even the humidity of the room must be taken into account for bread to be a success?—All of this tells me that Peeta will continue to beat his hijacking because he has all of these skills. I fully expect him to have complete control of his episodes at some point. Perhaps soon."

That may be the most I have ever heard Marus say; it is certainly the most enthusiastic. "And you learned all of that from those?" I point to the three loaves.

He grins almost wolfishly. "I did. Are you hungry? I was going to slice one and try it." I follow Marus into the ruin of his kitchen because I am hungry. Marus dishes up slices of bread – it appears to be some sort or raisin nut – and I take a bite. It is not as good as Peeta's, it is more crumbly and it lacks a certain flavor that I have gotten used to, but the raisins explode with sweetness and the nuts are chewy, just like they should be. Each bite takes away a little more of my worry that Marus did not want to see me. He lost track of time, that's all. My relief makes each bite taste better and better.

When we are both done with our bread, I put my dish in the sink and motion for Marus's as well. He hands me his plate, grabbing a rogue raisin and offering it to me. I don't think anything of it and take it from his hand as I take the dish. We both freeze as I feel his fingers brush my parted lips. I chew and swallow conscious of his eyes on my mouth. I can't help but drop my eyes to his lips as well. We stand, each staring at the other for a few seconds. Marus reaches between us for the plates, places them gently in the sink, and slowly steps toward me, like he is giving me time to refuse him.

My eyes are already shut in expectation by the time his lips meet mine.

Marus Aurelius's POV

This kiss is even better than our first, flavored with sweetness instead of nightmares. I concentrate on the feel of her lips beneath mine. When I brush the skin of her throat with my hands, I feel her chuckle lightly. I pull away with a question in my eyes.

"You still have dough stuck to your hands." She laughs as she turns my hand over and shows me little bits of stuck on dough. Before I can say anything, she has turned us toward the sink and is washing my hands like I am a schoolboy. At least, I am sure that is her intent.

I feel nothing like a boy when I feel her soapy hands glide against mine. The sensation is warm and wet and skin against skin. I wonder if she can feel the air being sucked from the room as every nerve ending in my hands become supersensitive. What would it be like to feel her whole body slippery like this? I have to back away from thoughts like that about Brinna; I do not want to scare her away. She is nothing like my other relationships, which were limited largely to physical gratification. She is special. I close my eyes, willing the blood pounding through my veins to slow down.

She starts to quietly speak. "I didn't think you wanted to see me tonight. I thought maybe you had changed your mind about…about us. Please…don't just walk away without telling me that your feelings have changed. I would rather know than be left in the dark." She stops moving her hands against mine and the absence of friction coupled with her words tells me that it is my turn to do something.

I grasp her hands in the warmth of the water briefly, and then shut off the water. "Brinna, I could never just walk away from you." I take step toward her in such a way that she is cradled between my body and the sink.

She rubs her wet hand gently against my nose. "You still have flour on your nose."

"Oh? Anywhere else?" I watch her eyes drop to my neck. I cannot imagine I actually have flour there, but I feel her damp hand traces across to that spot and rub. I swallow and drop my eyes to her lips. "Brinna, if I…if I ask you to stay the night, what would you say?"

She laughs her deep, throaty laugh. "I would say that the president can't go sneaking out of some guy's apartment in the morning wearing the same clothes as the day before." There is a big pause as she stares at my lips. "Are you asking?"

"Yes." She wets her lips and forms a silent oh. I lean in and kiss her, showing her with my mouth and the pressure of my body how much I want her to stay. I do not believe she will change her mind, but I want her to feel the fierce need I feel for her.

When we come up for air, I hear her breathless, one-word answer like a shock all the way to my toes.

"Soon."

Even after she leaves, the warmth of that one word carries me into dreamless sleep. It is all the promise I need.