The moment has come! Confrontation time. This is where things start to heat up. If you have stuck with me this far, I give you my greatest praise, thanks, blessings, and 1,000 sugar cookies with unicorn blood icing and dream sprinkles and hot smexy men raining from the sky. FYI: I do not own the Hunger Games, or any of its characters.

Katniss' POV

The discourse during dinner is dismal. I'm on my third drink by the time I've realized a few things, and among them is Peeta: rigid, tense, and ramrod straight. Every few minutes he eyes the flowers on the table, flowers that Haymitch brought that I didn't see him bring but flowers he brought nonetheless. And the eyes, eyes that he sets on me, surveying me and testing the air between us between bites of lemon-ginger duck and asparagus.

The food moves around on my plate like the boundaries of the districts, and I'm surprised at the way I regurgitate the pleasant lines I learned in the Capitol back to Delly. I make small talk with all of them, about the weather, about reconstruction, about trivial things that will never matter to me half as much as they matter to anyone else. Every now and then, the corners of my mouth will genuinely twitch at something that Haymitch has said, mumbled just loud enough for some to hear as he swirls around his wine glass, creating a blood red tornado in his glass, locking eyes with me every now and then. The alcohol kicks in about two hours in, and suddenly, Haymitch becomes comedy gold.

He takes cracks at Roper, a friend, and some others before moving on to me and then Peeta. I take it politely and quietly, as it's only a couple of quips about birds and fire. But with Peeta, Haymitch lets everything loose. Even after adjoining to the sitting room for dessert, Haymitch just won't stop. A couple of times I put my hand on his arm imploringly, ready to drag Haymitch away from the complete disaster area.

It's almost too easy: a meaningful glance at Haymitch (who's buzzed but not so entirely hammered that the gesture goes unnoticed), a small smile at Roper and some classic District 12 line to graciously disappear and still remain polite. I could go home, put on the comfy silk pajamas that Effie had gifted me after the first Games, and forget. Forget that I ever knew Peeta Mellark, forget that I ever kissed Peeta Mellark, forget that I ever slept in the same bed as he did, of course, because it seemed that everyone else had. I could scrub the past away, and later tonight, I could wash away any remnants of this poisonous evening.

Why was I here? Because I was happy for Peeta Mellark and Delly Cartwright?

"Katniss."

I look up in the direction of the voice, and am met with the cold eyes that I once loved. "Can I have a word with you?"

A quick survey of the room tells me that Delly is engaged with a vivacious and chatty ginger from District 5, a friend of Justin's. There's absolutely no escape, and I know that the moment that I had been dreading had come. Fingernails painted red dig into the fabric of Haymitch's jacket. He leans into me, hot booze-scented breath washing over me as he sighs, "Sweetheart, you're killing my arm!"

Peeta's eyes have never left mine, and I feel Haymitch growing restless at my side. I can feel the irritation radiating in waves. My grip remains steady.

"It'll only be a few minutes," Peeta insists curtly. I look at Haymitch, and quite clear is that something has snapped inside of him. He sets his wine glass down a little too hard, and liquid threatens to slosh out on Delly's fine mahogany.

"The fuck you want to talk to Katniss for?" He asks evenly and yet vituperatively, never drawing a glance from any of the other guests with his simmering, silent anger. As of recent, Haymitch had grown to be a particular belligerent drunk, especially around Peeta. I knew that Haymitch would never hurt me, but I couldn't assure the same level of safety for Peeta. Did he forget the pocket-knife?

Peeta's face hardens; his fists clench and unclench. The animosity developing between the two men is palpable.

"Huh, boy? Fuck you want to talk to Katniss for?" Haymitch asks again.

My arm shoots out to hold Peeta back, subsequently letting Haymitch stumble quietly into a wall. "It'll only be a minute, Haymitch."

"You have a girlfriend, you know," Haymitch taunts, looking up at Peeta through his hair, a strange and sinister look on his face. "Isn't that why we're here?"

A nerve jumps in Peeta's jaw, and my hand on his chest holds him back.

"Fuck it," growls Haymitch, picking up his glass once more and tossing the whole thing down his throat. "I'm not her dad. I don't give a damn."

The fabric of Peeta's shirt is drawn under my hand as I grab him and thrust him away, anywhere away from here, because what kind of hairpin turn in conversation was that? Peeta stumbles into a dimly lit hallway, and I'm on his heels, familiar with the layout of my own house.

The soft cornflower blue wallpaper looks like the walls of a crypt, and swinging above the neatly arranged yellowed photographs of the Cartwright family is a chandelier that was quite alien to my memory. We exit the corridor into the sunroom and onto the balcony. I was still fuming about what Haymitch had said, and the cool air lashed my face with its touch.

Why did he have to bring up my father? Why did he have to bring up the age difference? He had been like a father to me, sure, in some aspects. He had been my mentor in the Games, and a mentor on the battlefield, but he was more like a friend to me. A good friend. My only real friend, in the social minefield of both the Games and Panem's revolution. I had only had a mother, a father, a sister, and a hunting partner. And a fellow Tribute. I had never really had a friend. He had been like a father to me, and, as of recent, not so like a father. I ran my hand through my perfectly tousled waves, which suddenly felt stupid and fake.

The night air still stung my cheeks, a gentle reminder that not only was I mad as hell, but that the alcohol was staring to work. I began to understand why Haymitch liked to drink. It made things make more sense. Maybe if I had seen this coming, whatever I had agreed to experience on this desolate terrace, I would have gotten inebriated as well.

"Katniss, look—" Peeta starts, and in the near darkness, I actually look at him for the first time.

His face is so gaunt, and his eyes are merely two hollow orbs in the darkness. He looks half-dead. I wait for him to begin as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, his lean body no longer leonine but simply slim, a fraction of the muscle taped onto the bone. "I want to apologize."

Apologize?

Apologize, you say?

Apologize? For trying to control me, to smother me, to drown me, to burn me, to kill me? I couldn't stand his vice grip. I had to get away; I had to break it off. I could always sense his restlessness, the way he was forever put out with me when I was trying so hard to be what he wanted. I could see his pained expressions, all the respective complaints buried underneath gentlemanly charm and strained wit. He wanted more than I could give emotionally. We could hold each other for nightmares, but we could never hold on.

"Thanks," I answer, numb and trying to keep the anger away, because what else can I say? His apology means nothing, because nobody knows as well as [Haymitch and] I do that Peeta Mellark's words are only that—words. If it wasn't his looks, it was his words, because he's always had a talent for speech and language. Nothing—not the honey-colored hair nor the sun-kissed skin nor the wholesome lovely smile nor the well-oiled machine nor the penchant for baking— could ever replace the moments of my life that I wasted with Peeta Mellark.

So I stand there for a few minutes, not sure what to do. His look is controlled but expectant, as if waiting for a whole hearted confession, a warm and clinging embrace, or a kiss on the cheek, to let him know that he's back in my good graces and that he's available for a little bit of action any time that he pleases. But I give him exactly what I got from him.

Nothing.