A/N: Presents first. Some of you may have already received them if you have me on alerts. I posted two outtakes. One from Prim's POV titled Always Trust Your Wingman, and one from Madge's POV titled My Last Date with Peeta Mellark. Both take place following chapter 11 so I strongly suggest reading them first as they are referenced in this chapter.

I have to say a big all caps THANK YOU to everyone who voted in the Pearl Awards. This story got some very cool recognition: Best Peetniss, Most Addictive Story, Best Characterization of a Minor Character (Prim), and Best Author (which I am so not deserving of). I was truly touched.

If you're not reading An Extra Dividend by Medea Smyke, you're missing out on an awesome story, not to mention letter-writing, espionage, and cake-eating.

Okay, this is the chapter where First Date and The Hunger Games universes crash into one another. Consequently, there are quotes taken directly from the Canon. And of course, I do not own The Hunger Games.

*Mature language warning.*

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy!

Chapter 12:

"Peeta! Come on. Get up," Rilee growls. He doesn't want to be doing this—this being a chore and all. I hold my blankets tighter around my shoulders, even though the room is stuffy and sweat is gathering on my neck and behind my knees. "Man, come on." A pillow hits me on the shoulder. "Dad's going to be back in ten minutes. Mom is about to throw a fit."

I grunt a wordless response. Rilee scoffs as he leaves my room. Good. If Mom's repeated wake up shrieks haven't gotten me up Rilee's weak attempts aren't going to do the job.

With one eye open I peek at the clock sitting next to my bed. Almost noon. Sleeping until noon is like sacrilege to a baker. Not that I've been doing much sleeping. Sleep would be a welcome change. Getting up before eight or earlier every day since I was six has inundated me with a sleeping cycle near impossible to break. I just don't want to get out of bed.

"PEETA! Get your ungrateful hide down here now or don't expect any lunch!" One guess who that is. Despite the brash sound of Mom's voice the homey scent of griddle cakes wafts up to my room. My stomach gurgles with hunger for the first time in a week. Then I think of the occasion and my gut twists. I make a run for the toilet.

Nothing comes up. Nothing but dry heaves. A dizzy spell fills my head when I'm done, so I knock down the lid of the toilet and lift myself onto the seat. I hang my head forward as close to my knees as I can get, gulping in air to push down the nausea. Simultaneously, I reach into the shower, only an arm's length away, and bat at the faucet until the water comes on. Mom will think I've jumped in the shower and she can save herself the stroke in trying to motivate me. No worries about wasting water. I'm last. There's no hot water left anyway.

Sweat cools on the back of my neck. This morning…afternoon…whatever...feels worse than yesterday and the day before. It should be getting easier, not harder, right? Maybe if it wasn't reaping day.

A quick rinse takes care of the grease in my hair and the sweat on my back. I grope mindlessly for my clothes, coming across the items I wore last year. Gray corduroy slacks that are on the cusp of being too short. A button down that was pure white back when Miche wore it. Good enough.

By the time I fumble my way downstairs the whole family has already assembled at the table, including Dad, whose face is a little red either from standing too close to the ovens or because of sunburn. Dad never tans. Only burns.

"Nice of you to get out of bed and join us, Peeta," Mom says bitingly. She stabs at a piece of boiled ham on her plate and chews it loudly.

"We just started, son. Have a seat," Dad says politely.

I fall into my usual chair next to Rilee. It's a decent spread Mom put together. Sure, the leftover scones and nut muffins are too stale for birds to eat, the eggs are kind of gray, and the ham is gristly, but Dad brought fresh bread from the bakery and cracked open a jar of blackberry preserves. And Mom made griddle cakes—this being the only day of the year that she makes them. It's our family tradition. Brunch before the ceremony. Most people celebrate after, but we start early—as if we're already confident of the results. I don't know if this is meant to comfort us or potentially nourish us in anticipation of being chosen, but either way, it's what we do. When I was younger and didn't have a sound grasp of what the Games were yet, I used to look forward to it each year solely for the griddle cakes. Now I feel too sick to eat.

I take a portion of everything, especially the tea because God knows I need the jolt, and eat without making eye contact with anyone else at the table—this being another part of the tradition. We eat in silence. Well, not complete silence. Someone needs to ask how things went at the bakery this morning.

"How was business this morning?" Mom inquires. And there it is.

Dad swallows the lump of griddle cake in his mouth before he answers. "Just fine. A few customers. Made a trade for a squirrel."

My fork screeches across my plate. "Traded with who?" I ask before I can think better of it. Everyone peeks up from their food, eyeing me warily. They know something's been…wrong with me. I've been holed up in my room for pretty much every minute I wasn't working for the past week and I don't need a mirror to know I look like shit. Miche asked about it, but I haven't been in a talking mood.

Dad slices up another bite of cake and explains. "The same young man who comes in once a month to trade."

I settle back into pushing my food around on my plate. What was I thinking? That it would be her? I'm glad it wasn't. I think I'm glad.

"That washerwoman's boy?" Mom asks while spreading a generous amount of preserves over her bread. Dad nods in reply. She bites into her bread. "Wha did you gif 'im?"

What is it with my family and talking with their mouths full?

"Some rolls," Dad replies. He attacks his ham with rigorous concentration.

Mom swallows. "The leftovers from yesterday?" Dad nods again. "Good," she declares.

He's lying. I can tell by the way he refuses to look Mom in the eye. Dad wouldn't fail to honor a trade by giving stale bread in exchange for fresh meat. I have no doubt if we check the ledger and the bread count we'd find some discrepancies.

Mom proudly guzzles back some tea while the rest of us shovel in the remaining food on the table. While I enjoyed this meal as a kid, it's cruelly ironic to serve it now. A feast on the one day I can't stand to eat it. Or maybe it's just me. Dad, Mom, and Miche don't seem to have a problem. Rilee clears his plate in record time.

Yeah. It's just me and my week from hell—complete with a judgment day exactly seven days after the fact.

This will probably be the last time it will be like this: all of us together at one table. By this time next year Miche will be married and living in his own house. He finally popped the question a few days ago. Reaping day can make you a bit antsy for stuff like that. Rilee will be done with his eligibility after today. I'll be the only one left in the running.

I swallow the last of my bitter tea at the same time Mom orders us to start the clean up. "Ceremony at two!" she announces like she's channeling Caesar Flickerman. When I look down at my plate I'm surprised to see at least three quarters of it gone. I'm struck with a strange feeling of regret at the sight for not enjoying it. I can't even remember what it tasted like.

Mom chooses to leave early. She mumbles something about cameras damaging the roof of the bakery. Before she and Dad depart she appraises our clothing. I pass; however Mom also takes this opportunity to point out how pale I am and that I need to run a comb through my hair. I use my fingers.

After we clean up the meal my brothers and I leave the house together, but Miche doesn't stick around long. He ditches us to meet up with the Grace and the Fieldings. This will be the last year their family will have to go through the agonizing wait with Gusset; although, I wouldn't put it past Rilee to hope that Gusset gets picked.

The weather is beautiful, despite the grim events of the day. Blue skies. Soft breeze. Perfect day for a walk. Naturally that's right where my mind would go. I've grown quite fond of taking walks, on Tuesdays especially. That thought makes my stomach roll over. I wish I'd stuck with tea and skipped the food. It sits like lead in my stomach.

The whole silent thing from lunch carries on between Rilee and me. He keeps his eyes on the ground and his hands in his pockets. That's typical. Not only of Rilee, but of nearly every family we pass. A few offer a somber nod, but most everyone is clearly preoccupied and stick very close to their families. This isn't a day for celebration, despite the trappings and the media attention provided by the Capitol that do everything they can to reaffirm that it is. I don't know what they're drinking in the Capitol that causes them to lose all sense of humanity, but we're not getting it around here.

The square has undergone its reaping day transformation, which amounts to red and blue banners hanging from the front of every business, including ours, displaying the same logo that's on the cover of my history book. A basic stage and podium in front of the Justice Building is wrapped in matching fabrics to disguise the simple construction.

Since we got here barely before two the square is already packed with people either looking for their friends to offer words of good luck or placing bets on the results. Rilee and I push through toward the stage where the kids ages twelve to eighteen are sorted out. Anyone who doesn't make it to the square will stand in the alleyways. We get a front row view of the action. Lucky us.

Rilee bounces nervously on his toes while we wait in line. After we're checked in we'll be separated from the girls and then by age. The closer we get to check in Rilee grows more and more anxious to the point that he looks like he's having some kind of attack. He searches around the square in jerky movements too quick for him to actually absorb what he's looking at. One of the Peacekeepers at the front of the line, a hefty fellow obviously brought in for the day, notices and he doesn't like it.

"Who are you looking for?" I ask under my breath.

"Who do you think?" Rilee snaps back.

Before I form a guess, a girl with auburn hair snakes out from the mass of people. "Rilee!" Kinnian calls out as she runs towards us. Her parents huddle together near the edge of the crowd, but they hold back from following their daughter. Nice of them to give the kids a moment together before the ceremony starts.

"Hey," Rilee says gently as he takes her hands. The relief in his voice is obvious. And we haven't gotten through the difficult part of the day yet. "You look beautiful."

Kinnian rolls her eyes at the compliment. She's wearing the same blue and white gingham dress from last week. Her hair is different though; pinned up instead of loose. She looks grown up and too good for my brother, frankly. "Are you nervous?" she asks him.

Rilee shakes his head adamantly. "We'll be fine." He gulps. He tries to smile, but it's forced. "Fourteen entries between us. Our chances are good." Rilee's right about that. There are no better odds for a pair of kids in their final year.

"Eighteen," Kinnian corrects quietly.

"What?" Rilee gasps. My eyes widen as well. Even with a family of five we've been fortunate to never need to pick up a tessera, meaning my brother has the lowest number of entries possible. Seven. He assumed Kinnian was in the same situation. Anyone would have. She's a townie and an only child.

Kinnian lowers her voice further. "Business hasn't been great the last few years. Still isn't. That's why my dad can only offer you room and board." She smiles through an embarrassed grimace, trying to make light of the situation. I never got around to asking what Rilee would be paid in return for his work as an apprentice to Kinnian's father. My mind has been elsewhere. I figured it wouldn't be a lot, but I'm getting the impression it was much less profitable than Mom would have liked. Nevertheless, most anyone would take room and board over employment in the mines. I didn't expect Rilee to be moving out so soon. How am I going to handle being alone with my parents for the next few years?

"Yeah, but you never told me about any…tesserae," Rilee whispers the last part.

A memory from weeks ago lights up in my head. On my very first date—or outing or whatever you want to call it—with Katniss and Prim, Prim walked into the flower shop without a penny, yet she came out with a bundle of primroses just the same. At the time, I figured Kendrick Klee was being generous or Prim was being her charming self, but if Kinnian has been taking out tesserae, maybe Mr. Klee was willing to give away flowers because nobody's buying these days.

"My parents didn't want anyone to know about the tesserae. I didn't even tell Gusset when we were together," Kinnian explains.

Geez. I can imagine what my mother will say when she finds out: "Rilee might as well marry a girl from the Seam for all she's worth." Or something to that effect. And that's precisely why Kinnian's parents kept their need for tesserae a secret. If my mother knew the Klee's business was near worthless, she might not let Kinnian and Rilee get married in the future. At the very least she'll make the world's worst mother-in-law. Grace would say she's already got that down.

"I would have done something," Rilee declares, putting a hand on her waist and pulling her closer.

"Like what?" Kinnian replies firmly, but with a grin. Her question reflects my own thoughts. What could he have done? Shared his allowance with them? We do have some that we could spare if Mom had a generous bone in her body, but we're not exactly raking in the profits. And with Miche getting married our resources are going to stretch. We don't have enough to rescue another family from a business failure. It's getting to the point that no one does.

"It's done." Kinnian puts a comforting hand on Rilee's cheek. "And like you said, our chances are good." Rilee leans down and plants a kiss on her shamelessly, desperately. The few remaining kids in line stare at them, but they don't notice. They're in their own world. I look away.

"Okay! Break it up!" the stout Peacekeeper shouts. Rilee and Kinnian jump apart at the command of the Peacekeeper, but hold tightly to the other's hand until the last possible second. Kinnian sits at our dinner table on Sundays, I overhear them laughing in Rilee's room at night, and I see Rilee leave for work with a content smile on his face even in the early morning, but I've never been more acutely jealous of my brother than I am in this moment. He has someone to lean on as we wait. He has someone who cares if his name is drawn.

And the odds of that happening are slim. Hell, the odds of Kinnian being picked with her four extra slips are pretty slim as well. How typical of us townies to be so appalled at the prospect of needing to take out tesserae when there are some kids who need to take out as many tesserae as there are members of their family. I never had the chance to ask how many entries Katniss has.

Katniss. I sigh internally.

I fight the impulse to search for her. I looked for her last year. I look for her every year. But if I did now, how pathetic would I be? That fight wasn't like the other ones. It was final. I thought about going to her house, but what would be the point? When you tell a girl you love her and she responds with, "Don't come back here" there isn't any strategy that can overcome that. I couldn't explain to anyone why I was miserable, so over the past week I went through the motions. Showed up for work, sat down at dinner, even went on another date—one that was orchestrated by Mom and was a complete disaster. To make it all worse, it's not only that I'm miserable, I'm angry. I know Katniss has feelings for me, but like Madge said, I can't force Katniss to do anything. I have to move on with my life.

The clock tower strikes two. The crowd settles to a hush as Mayor Undersee approaches the podium, but we can't help twitching now and again, anxious to cut to the main event. The mayor can't ignore tradition, but at least he has the good sense to try and get through things quickly, starting with the history of Panem. For the first time…ever, I actually try to listen to the words. Natural disasters, country in turmoil, the Capitol is our redeemer, etcetera, etcetera. It's just the kind of fun, light story you want to read on a glorious summer day. My attention span lasts all of four minutes. There was a reason I barely passed History.

Mindlessly, I scan the crowd, identifying the students I know and speculating on how other families handle this day. If they eat special foods like my family does or spend time at the park or drink at the tavern. I recognize Boothe in the row in front of me by the scruffiness of his hair that he probably forgot to comb this morning. That's what I should do today. I should go over to Boothe's and straighten things out between us. One step in getting back to my life.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," the mayor drones on. Notice how he didn't actually name anything specific that we're thankful for. The mayor moves on to reciting the list of victors, of which there are two. Just as he removes his reading glasses a gruff, unintelligible shout interrupts him. A group of onlookers shuffle aside to make way for none other than our victor, Haymitch Abernathy. He stumbles onto the stage, falls into an open chair, and tries to tackle Effie Trinket in a hug. A few sympathetic souls actually clap for our only living victor, our very drunk living victor. I bet he's walking over from Zeke's, District Twelve's only tavern. I'm pretty sure I saw him there last Saturday.

The mayor wipes his forehead with a handkerchief he pulled from his suit pocket. I can practically feel the cameras zooming in closer. Effie Trinket, who's dressed in all her Capitol finery, garish pink hair and a green suit that screams for attention amongst the muted palette of Twelve, pushes Haymitch away and bounces up to the podium after the mayor's introduction.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Effie practically sings. She's acting like the kids picked are going to be shipped off on a luxurious vacation instead of being humiliated and tortured. I guess someone has to perform for the cameras. No one in Twelve will.

Effie yammers on about how honored she is to be acting on behalf of our district. I snort at that. If you like it so much, why don't you live here? No one wants to be stuck with us. It's kind of what we're known for. "Ladies first!" she announces shrilly. She reaches deeply into the mass of paper slips contained in the clear glass ball. The crowd settles into an absolute, startling silence. A couple rows in front of me Rilee stares to his left instead of the stage—locking eyes with Kinnian I assume. I try not to think of any name—as if doing so will cause some kind of jinx. But no amount of willpower stops the prayers that go out with each beat of my heart. Don't let it be Kinnian, I plead for Rilee. And I may not have her, but…don't let it be Katniss.

"Primrose Everdeen!" Effie announces into the microphone.

For a brief, indeterminable moment, my entire body relaxes. It ends when a sick wave of recognition washes over me. My heart sinks. I must have heard wrong. It can't be.

The crowd releases its breath in the form of hushed whispers. Whether or not they know Prim, everyone feels it's unfair when the twelve year olds are chosen. If they do know Prim; well, they're probably saying she doesn't have a chance. And they're right. Prim is soft and gentle; a healer in the making. The Games will eat her alive.

The girls clear a small path for the tribute, Prim, to pass through. I catch glimpses of her as she approaches the platform. She's sickly white with her hands clenched in fists at her sides, taking small, brave steps. And then I see Katniss. I might not have recognized her at first glance. Her hair is pulled back from her face and she's dressed in a blue dress I vaguely recognize. Her expression is vacant, and not in the same way as when she's trying to hide her emotions. Katniss is truly in shock.

"Prim!"

I flinch at the sound of Katniss' sudden cry for her sister, as do a couple people around me. Everyone was watching Prim, but all eyes are on Katniss now.

"Prim!" Katniss shouts again. She's a blur as she runs the short distance to the platform. She swings Prim behind her like a rag doll. "I volunteer," Katniss gasps. "I volunteer as tribute!"

My stomach joins my heart somewhere down by my feet.

Effie puts a hand to her chest and looks back at the mayor who displays a similar expression of confusion. I've seen during the telecasts, some districts, the ones with money to throw around, have special events and voting ceremonies to decide between dozens of kids who volunteer. They see participating as an honor. Insanity. As far as I know, District 12 doesn't have any such ceremonies, but it also never has any volunteers. Until today.

"Lovely!" says Effie encouragingly. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" she fumbles. So we do have a ceremony? Who knew?

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He swipes his handkerchief over his forehead repeatedly, and then he awkwardly stuffs it into his pants pocket. And for the first time I wonder what kind of toll this takes on him. It must be hard to send your own citizens to the Capitol year after year. Nothing like sending your own family members, but it would be a strain all the same. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" Prim shrieks as she wraps herself around Katniss' middle.

Yes! Stop her! I think. And I know later I'll feel guilt for having the thought, but right now I'm all panic.

"Prim, let go," Katniss says harshly. Prim holds tighter to her sister. Hard, choking hiccups upset her tiny frame. "Let go!" Katniss repeats. Prim refuses to relent, and suddenly Gale Hawthorne appears next to Katniss, grabs Prim, and hauls her off toward the surrounding crowd, still bawling. Just as suddenly, it's done. Katniss is on the stage. Standing beside the mayor. Standing beside Effie Trinket who looks even more insane as she talks animatedly at Katniss. I've always understood this was a possibility, that she could be chosen. Katniss hinted that she had fears about it as well. But to see it in action is like animating a cruel nightmare. My head feels as if it's been packed with sand. I see their lips move, but I don't hear the words.

Katniss. My girl. A tribute in the Hunger Games.

Effie lifts up her hands in a dramatic motion. I must have missed some grand announcement; however, the crowd does not react. No one applauds or rings out a cheer or a jest. There are small movements in my peripheral vision. I slowly turn around, my back to the stage and Katniss. I see it done by Kinnian's father, by Boothe's mother, by citizen after citizen. Three fingers pressed against lips with a small wave, a kiss farewell. Piercing jabs penetrate my lungs with each breath. I twist back toward the stage with my eyes toward the ground. With my hand shaking, I press my fingers to my lips and look at her. Katniss is somehow strong and fearless. Untouchable. I lift my hand to her in respect and love as others have done.

It's not enough. Not from me.

"Look at her. Look at this one!" Haymitch hollers, interrupting the solemn quiet. He launches up out of his chair, an impressive maneuver for someone so blatantly trashed. "I like her!" He throws a heavy arm around Katniss. "Lots of…" Haymitch's face contorts as he searches for the word. "Spunk!" he cheers. "More than you!" He leans away from Katniss and staggers to the front edge of the platform. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing a meaty finger directly into a camera. The cameraman moves backward. Haymitch in his drunken stupor mistakenly follows and careens right off the stage at the feet of the senior girls. When he doesn't move or moan or vomit everyone can assume he blacked out. Up on stage the mayor directs some Peacekeepers inside the Justice Building. No one checks whether or not Haymitch is breathing. The Peacekeepers return with a white stretcher and work on rolling our proud victor onto it.

Katniss hasn't moved an inch despite the mayhem going on around her. Her eyes are steady, staring off into the distance beyond the square, to the woods.

"What an exciting day!" Effie Trinket says to guide attention from Haymitch and back to her. For a moment I think she's broken her neck, but then I realize it's her hair that's not on straight. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" she warbles on with her hand attached to the pink curls on her head. The gesture strikes me with a perverse curiosity about what in under the hair…er…wig. Effie doesn't waste time with the dramatics. She picks up the first slip she touches and sidesteps back to the microphone. "Peeta Mellark!"

My schoolmate on my left and the one on my right both take a step back, as if Effie asked the boy tribute to step forward and everyone is playing a trick on me to make it appear like I volunteered. There's no prank. There's merely a name. And it's mine. Five slips out of thousands. And she picked mine.

I'm surprised when I don't throw up my special reaping day brunch right here in the square.

Faces stare at me expectantly. I need to move. That's what I need to do. That's what a tribute does when his name is called. I've seen this before. I know what happens. So, I walk. I go through the motions. Even though I've known the kids surrounding me my whole life, even though one of them is my brother, they're unrecognizable smudges of color now. And then I'm on the stage; close enough to Effie Trinket to see that the hair left uncovered by her wig is silvery gray. God knows why I fixate on that.

She blabs something into the microphone. It's in the deafening silence that follows that I realize she must have asked for volunteers. There's no one for me, including Rilee. He has Kinnian to take care of now. As for friends; well, I'm well-liked, used to be anyway, but not that well-liked. Satisfied, Effie trots to an open chair while Mayor Undersee stands behind the podium once again. Now comes the Treaty of Treason—a long, boring document listing the general rules of the Games and the reason we're contracted to take part, both the tributes and the viewers. Yet all I can think is, I'm going to die. I won't go home after this and bicker with Rilee for the last of the fresh bread. I won't see Miche get married. I won't watch the Games on television with my parents. I'm in the Games. And not long from now, I'll be dead.

When the mayor finishes, he motions for Katniss and I to shake hands. Katniss. My brain pushed out all my concerns for her after Effie read my name. What a calloused thing for the guy who claims to have loved her for a decade to do. For now, I'll blame it on the shock. Her hand is cool in mine, but familiar. I never thought I would feel her touch again. But like this? As district partners in a death match? How can I…how can she…I can't finish that thought. Katniss' eyes remain astoundingly steady, always steady. I try to be like she is.

We're immediately marched into the Justice Building by Peacekeepers the second the anthem of Panem ends. I've been in here a few times on school trips when I was younger. It's not much to see—mostly offices for town officials. However, there is this mural on the way in depicting each of the industries of every district. All except Thirteen. That portion was painted over roughly with thick rose-colored paint that doesn't quite match the faded walls. A reminder of its obliteration.

I attempt to keep an eye on Katniss, but we're immediately separated. I'm left alone in a room with a fuzzy apple green loveseat. This is where I'll say goodbye to my family. Why not let me spend the hour at home? Or in the bakery? Maybe they worry a tribute might try to escape. Or kill himself.

With that cheery thought my parents and brothers shuffle into the room all at once. We stand on opposite sides for more than a few seconds, my farewell hour silently ticking away. This is my family. We should have more to say, but they don't know how to deal and neither do I. How does anyone deal with attending their own funeral while they're still alive? That's what this feels like.

I don't know if it's the shock that finally subsides or my family's sad inability of to express emotion, but my chest seizes up and I collapse onto the creaky couch. Hot tears impossible to hold back spring up swiftly.

"Look at that. He's already falling to pieces."

Choking back a sob, I cover my face with my hands. If anything could make this whole getting chucked into the arena business more uncomfortable for my mother, it's me crying about it. I'm vaguely aware of someone sitting next to me and an arm slinging around my shoulders.

"Son, it'll be alright," Dad rasps while patting my shoulder, not all that reassuringly. Alright? How is it going to be alright? I can't take on those kids who've been training like assassins since they could walk. I don't know how to use a weapon. One faulty bow and arrow lesson is not going to cut it. Dad continues to pat my back. Miche appears in my blurry vision on my other side.

"I can't believe it, Peeta," Miche murmurs, gripping the fabric of his pants awkwardly. Of course. This wasn't supposed to happen to us. "Grace sends her best."

"I can't believe I'm going to miss your wedding," I choke out. It's an odd thing to regret or think about right now, but I will regret missing it. I witnessed practically every milestone of his and Grace's relationship from holding hands on the front lawn of school to offering support on reaping day. I'm glad Miche will have her in the coming weeks. He doesn't handle the Games well. He usually listens from the kitchen while rolling out experimental bread recipes during the broadcast.

"It won't be anything big. A toasting at her parents' house probably," Miche says. Mom snorts indignantly. "Grace doesn't even like cake that much."

I laugh through my runny nose unexpectedly. Miche half smiles at me. He never makes realizes when he makes a joke.

"It's an absolute travesty!" Mom abruptly barks. All three of us on the couch look up at her. She begins to pace back and forth in front of the door and in front of Rilee who's neither moved nor said anything since entering.

Dad throws out an appeal. "My dear—"

"Well, it is!" Mom interrupts, coming to a standstill. Her face is flushed red, but not because she's on the brink of tears. "Why is my son reaped? We're overrun with Seam children and they take a boy from a respectable family!"

Yeah, that's my mother. I get chosen and she somehow makes it about her prejudice against the lower class. If there's anything I don't care to listen to right now, it's that.

"Then again, maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner," Mom says thoughtfully.

Wait. What?

"She's a survivor, that one."

"Silla! Enough!" Dad snaps. His hand grips my collar tightly; however, I don't think he realizes he's doing it. Dad never snaps, not at Mom. I've watched her push him around my entire life and not once has he ever stood up to her. Mom opens her mouth like she's going to carry on, but Dad cuts in. "That's enough," he repeats firmly. We're all mutually shocked when she actually closes her mouth with her lips set in a thin, fuming line. She plops into a matching green chair set against the wall, folds her arms, crosses her legs, looks as mad as hell, but is otherwise blessedly quiet. Never thought I'd see the day.

Dad sighs and releases his hold on my collar. He angles me toward him. His eyes are tight with worry and more than likely, fear. "Peeta, there's no real way to prepare for this, not for any of us." He gestures to my brothers and mother. Sorry, Dad. But you can't blame Mom's behavior for being unprepared for reaping day. There's too much evidence against her. "I can say you're strong and smart, but I think you already know that," he continues. "What I want you to remember is that I'm proud of you and always have been. And when you're…" He pauses to clear his throat.

Just spit it out, I want to say. When I'm killing or about to be killed?

"When you're out there…just…do yourself proud."

I swallow at the lump in my throat. That's not the kind of thing you say to someone about to be put in a battle to the death. Forget my pride. How am I supposed to live with myself knowing I've murdered someone, which I'll have to do if I have any hope of winning? I don't have time to consider it now, but I will grant my Dad as much peace as I'm able. He deserves it. "I'll try, Dad," I reply.

He stands and I do the same; my knees a little shaky. Dad hugs me tightly. I haven't received or expected affection like this from him in…I don't know how long…and even in these dire circumstances I find it a bit awkward. Miche hugs me briefly as well. Then he steps back and looks to Rilee expectantly. Rilee hesitates before he steps forward. Maybe he thinks I'm angry that he didn't volunteer for me. No one would blame him. No one would have given it a second thought if not for what Katniss did for Prim. I hold my arms out to him a little, so he knows there's no bad blood between us, and he finally moves.

"Give 'em hell, little brother," Rilee says next to my ear. His life will change the most out of all of my family members as a result of today's events. Rilee won't go live with Kinnian or serve as an apprentice to her father. My parents will need him at the bakery again, which won't be a bad life, but he'll always know why he's there and it won't be because it was his choice. We're all learning about having our choices taken away today.

"There are some friends of yours out there. Would you like to see them?" Dad asks.

"Yes, the grocer's boy is out there," Mom says bitingly. "What's his name? Stall? Cart?"

"Boothe?"

"Whatever," she spits out. Huh, so that's where I get that.

"Sure. Yeah," I say.

Rilee walks out first, cringing at the sight of the Peacekeeper standing guard outside the door. Miche and Dad follow him, and then there's only me and my mother. She stands, holding her chin high. There are cameras out there still. She won't allow them to capture any weakness on her part.

"Mom?" I call out before she steps through the threshold. She looks over her shoulder and for a split second her expression shifts, from one of coldness to one of regret. That's what I think I see. It may only be what I hope I see.

"Good luck," she declares. The door closes. I fall back onto the couch lean my elbows on my knees. I barely have a moment to take a breath when the door bursts open a second time and Boothe tumbles in.

"Peeta! I—" He trips over the plush carpeting on his way across the room. His eyes are red and he needs to wipe his nose. The kid is a mess, like always. "Dammit, man. I'm so sorry," he wheezes. It's been a month since Boothe and I last spoke, the fault of which is mine. We're not acting under ideal circumstances, but I'd hate myself if we never had a chance to clear the air.

"I was an asshole. I'm sorry."

Boothe leans back and his eyes squint in confusion. For someone who gave me the silent treatment for weeks you'd think he'd appreciate an apology. "Who gives a fuck about that anymore?" he croaks.

I lean my forehead in my palm. I can't get my head on straight. One second I'm saying a final goodbye to my family and contemplating my own death and the next I'm back to the everyday business of my normal life. And Boothe has a point. Do the events that have happened prior to today matter anymore?

I'm aware of Boothe drawing closer to me. He digs into his pants pocket and when he pulls out his hand several wrappers, an empty key ring, and a smattering of sunflower seeds shower the pristine carpet. "Take this with you," he says, holding out his most prized possession, his red metal box cutters. His is a hand-me-down of course, and a pain because you need a screwdriver to open it in order to change the blade. Boothe received it for his ninth birthday and to him and his brothers—who unpack groceries nearly every day—it's a big deal. But I doubt it's going to stand up well against guys wielding swords and mases.

"They're not going to let me take a pair of box cutters into the arena."

He grabs my hand and presses it into my palm. "Take them for good luck then. And you have to give them back when you win."

"When I win. Right." I shake my head dejectedly.

"You can. It's not impossible. There have been more unlikely victors," Boothe practically shouts. Haymitch comes to mind. That girl who won on accident a few years back. The occasional tribute that pretends to be weak in the training then turns out to be a calculating psychopath turns up now and again. It's extraordinarily disorienting to think I'll be compared to them in any capacity. Who am I going to be pegged as?

Still staring down at the carpet, which now seems more the color of mold than apples the more I stare at it, I notice Boothe kick around some of the garbage from his pocket with his oversized boots. "What are you going to do about…you know? The girl?" he questions, his voice quiet.

If I were in Boothe's place I'd probably ask the same thing, especially since Katniss was part of the reason he and I stopped speaking. My mind can barely wrap around the idea that I've been reaped, therefore I lack the ability to process anything beyond that. "You know, if they find this on me they'll probably confiscate them," I say, changing the subject. I flip the box cutters once then toss it to him. "Call it a weapon."

Boothe almost drops it when he snags it from the air. Coordinated he is not. "It's way too dull to be used as a weapon."

"I wouldn't want you to lose it. You can't work without it."

Boothe reluctantly slides it back into his pocket. It clinks against something metal.

A knock at the door warns us that a Peacekeeper will escort Boothe out soon. He quickly and haphazardly throws one arm around my shoulder, his pockets jingling the entire time. "Be careful," he says at the same time the Peacekeeper informs us it's time's up. I wave goodbye to my best friend.

I spend the next few seconds guessing who else might be out there. Dad mentioned a few of my friends were waiting. Who besides Boothe would actually step up?

And then Gale Hawthorne graces the room. He did not make my list of guesses.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I say coolly. The threat of the cameras keeps my voice low. They might be recording these goodbyes for all I know. I can't lose control. Or could that be a good strategy? If I start ripping into Hawthorne before I've even left my home district maybe it will make me seem tough. Worth a try, right?

Gale stands proudly, as if his presence is to be expected. "Saying goodbye," he replies.

"Get out," I snap. As appealing as clocking Hawthorne is, I'd rather he go away. Our last meeting did not exactly make us great friends.

He folds his arms over his chest, making a point that he's not leaving. "I have something to say concerning Katniss."

"You've said more than enough concerning Katniss and me." If Gale wasn't the direct reason for Katniss dumping me, then he sure as hell wasn't doing anything to stop it. He harassed my brother, threatened me, kissed Katniss, bought into rumors, and he possibly convinced her to break up with me. There's nothing he could say to undo it and I'm sure he has no desire to do so.

Gale takes a few steps through the room, observing the flower-patterned wallpaper and wasting my time. "You asked her if she was pretending," he says flatly and without looking at me. "She never answered you."

So he came to relive the good old times? Great. What a nice guy. Except, he's speaking about a particular time he wasn't present for. And it's not something Katniss would talk about freely. That much about her I do know. "You followed us?" I deduce.

Gale sniffs. There's an attractive bouquet of roses in the corner, but mostly the room smells musty, like it hasn't been used since this time last year. "I went to her house that day to check up on her," Gale admits. "I knew she was planning on breaking it off, but she said you didn't show that day."

"Got held up at the bakery," I say as explanation. Then I remember he admitted to following us so he already heard it and didn't need me to repeat it.

"Right." He sniffs again.

So, Gale knew Katniss planned on breaking up with me. More than likely he had a hand in the whole decision-making process, but he still felt compelled to wait for us to leave the house and tag along? "You followed us to make sure she went through with it."

Gale shrugs absently. He turns around to face me, but doesn't meet me square in the eye. Even without his confirmation I know it's the truth.

This whole mess feels so unbelievable I nearly laugh. Forget that I was chosen for the Games today and have to spend my goodbye talking to the guy that's probably happy to see me go. I'm laughing thinking about Gale cowering in the grass in the Meadow like a rabbit…or a rat. "You've got some fucking nerve, you know that?" I say, rubbing at a tight spot on the back of my neck. I should have held onto those box cutters. Dull as they are they'd come in useful right now. "Katniss and I are none of your business."

"She's my friend," he replies automatically.

"You're so full of shit. You wanted her and you were going to do anything you had to do to get her."

Gale drops his arms to his sides, his hands in fists, like he's issuing a challenge. "How is that any different from what you did?"

"I never told her to end her friendship with you," I say sharply. "We barely talked about you. I'm guessing that wasn't the case when you'd go on your hunting trips together. How often was I the topic of discussion?"

The tightness in his shoulders lessens and he actually looks away. Seems like I hit a sore point. And I want to take pleasure in it. I want to feel some kind of thrill in seeing Gale suffer just as much as I've been suffering for the past week. With a sigh I lean back against the couch, resting my elbow on the armrest. As much I was want to feel some satisfaction, I only feel numb. Besides, Hawthorne doesn't need me to cause him pain. His best friend was taken by the Games. He is miserable.

However, as long as I have one last chance, I have a question for him. "What did you say to her?" I ask quietly.

"Only what she's been telling me since we met," Gale murmurs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Nice. Vague. Goes with the whole aloof teenage criminal persona.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

How many times am I going to hear that phrase today? "Then why are you here?" I reply. Hawthorne didn't come to apologize nor has he made a request. What does he want from me? Then I recall the first thing he said before I got caught up in the spying aspect. He mentioned his observation that Katniss never confirmed or denied that she was pretending, or in other words, she didn't deny having feelings for me. If Hawthorne put his pride aside enough to come here and talk to me then he must be unsure, really unsure, of what the truth is. The sad thing is I'm not sure either. And I suppose I now know the answer to that other question. Yes, the Games have changed everything for the future, but what has happened before still matters. "Gale. Katniss didn't say whether she was pretending or not, and I don't believe she was, but that's not a lot for a guy to go on. She never said she had feelings for me. Hell, she doesn't like me all that much."

"Yeah." Gale half smirks for a moment. His face is all scowl again in less than a blink. "You know what she told me? 'I don't know how I feel. I can't know because we live here.' "

Huh. That's different from the list of reasons I got. Katniss didn't mention doubting her feelings; she just refused to admit she had any. I also got the added bonus of class differences. "Thanks for the bread," I mutter.

Gale lifts an eyebrow. "What?"

"That's what she said to me that night. 'Thank you for the bread.' " Gale lowers his brow, but doesn't seem to comprehend the significance of that statement. I suppose that's more of an inside…well, joke isn't the right word, but I can attest to how much it hurt. "I'm starting to think once Katniss puts you into a role in her life that's all you'll ever be. I'm the baker. You're the hunting partner. You can't change it."

"Maybe," Hawthorne replies grimly. I can't say that this conversation comforts either of us, but at least we know where we stand with one another.

Oh God. Am I actually bonding with Gale Hawthorne?

"Don't hold her back," he says abruptly. Severity returns to his voice. "She's strong and talented. She knows how to survive, and she can't afford any additional weight."

And by additional weight, he means, dead weight. Nice of him to hold back. "I think you should leave."

"Peeta—"

"I heard what you said," I interrupt. "There isn't much time left. Katniss will want to say goodbye to you." With barely another glance Gale exits. Feeling oddly wound up I start pacing the tiny room. What does he think? That I want to put a strain on Katniss' chances of winning? Of course I don't. I could never hurt her and I know I'm not as skilled as she is in survival techniques. She has a lot more going for her than most tributes from District Twelve. More than me. But how can I…how can I help her…or not help her…and not get myself killed? We can't both win. Then again, who am I kidding? I'll be lucky to get through the first ten minutes.

The door props open for what I assume is the final time because a Peacekeeper fills the threshold. I pause and prepare for instructions. "Five minutes," the Peacekeeper says gruffly. He shoves in a visitor. My smallest one so far and the one I'm most happy to see. My little wingman.

"Peeta!" Prim cries. She hobbles across the carpet with open arms that she tightly wraps around my waist. I hug her skinny little shoulders that shake with the force of her sobs.

"Hey, little wingman. Don't cry."

Prim looks up, her chin pressing into me. "W-what did you call me?" she asks, her voice watery.

There's no way I can explain that in the time we have left. "Nothing," I mumble. "Try not to cry."

"I c-can't believe this is h-happening." Prim stammers around hiccups. It makes my heart ache. Katniss and Prim mean the world to one another. And Katniss wouldn't be in this position if Prim hadn't been chosen. This must be incredibly confusing and heartbreaking for her. Carefully, I guide her to the couch. It's only when we sit down I notice a familiar paper bag clenched in her hand.

"Did my Dad give you cookies?" She gazes at the bag and nods. "Remember what I told you. Don't eat them all at once." I try to smile at her, but her lip quivers anyway. So instead, I wrap and arm around her and let her lean on my shoulder, tears and all.

"You don't have to promise me anything," Prim whispers so quietly I barely hear her. The lump in my throat returns with full force. Prim has more right than anyone else to demand something from me, but she doesn't. She can't. It's not who she is. I understand fully why Katniss could never let harm come to her sister. We should all be bound to protect such goodness, especially in our world.

"Prim—"

"I just wanted to say goodbye," Prim cuts in. She pushes her hair away from her face and takes a deep breath to settle herself somewhat. "And I'll m-miss you."

"Well, you better keep your promise to me. The one about guys? Watch out for that Rory kid." I tweak her nose playfully.

Prim laughs a little, but most of it comes out as a cough. "I will." She stares up at me and I'm glad my last visual memory of District Twelve is her shiny, blue eyes. "Thank you. For everything."

The door opens and instinctively I hold tighter to Prim, but thankfully it's her mother instead of a Peacekeeper. After he shoved Prim in here Mrs. Everdeen must want to avoid scaring her daughter further. "Time to go, Prim," she orders, her voice oddly calm despite the obvious signs of tears on her face.

Prim stands obediently. She pecks my cheek, leans toward my ear, and cups her hand over her mouth and my ear like she's telling me a secret on the schoolyard. "Don't give up on her, Peeta," she whispers.

The Peacekeeper wastes no time after Mrs. Everdeen whisks her daughter away. Per his instructions I follow him back down the corridor. Several Peacekeepers loiter in the hall, hands resting on the weapons at their waists. There's a gruff command issued from the doorway of a red-patterned room. Everyone looks over at the commotion.

"Don't let them starve!" a voice rings out. Katniss.

"I won't! You know I won't! Katniss, remember I—" A door slams, cutting off the second voice. Katniss is thrust in line behind me.

I don't see her again until we arrive at the train station, in a car. I spent my time there considering how far I could get if I somehow shoved the driver out and drove the car until the fuel ran out. I've never driven a car before, but it didn't seem that complicated, and it's not like I'm going to run into another car. Unfortunately, I don't get a chance to test this theory because within ten minutes we're at the station and attacked by cameras and reporters. We're pushed through the chaos and told to stand in the doorway of the train car. They shout questions that neither Katniss nor I answer. If anything, Katniss appears bored by their enthusiasm, but to be honest, I try not to look in her direction much or too many conflicting emotions will cross my face.

When the door finally closes and the train begins to churn with movement, Effie Trinket appears beside us, her wig finally on straight once again and wearing a different outfit. This one is lilac from top to bottom. "Welcome! Welcome!" she sings pleasantly. "Let's get you settled!" She escorts us to our rooms and tells us to change into whatever we like for dinner. We're not only provided a bedroom, but a bathroom and a giant closet with a couch in it. I don't really need a shower, I'm clean enough, but I exchange my slightly ill-fitting clothes for a pair of dark blue pants and the first shirt I find without a collar.

I watch the landscape whip by for a few minutes. It's hypnotically peaceful. The way it sucks the noise out of my brain is a welcome relief. I should be planning, figuring out a strategy of survival. However, it's not only my own survival I need to be concerned about. I also have to think about Katniss. In fact, everybody is concerned about it. Gale ordered me not to weigh her down, Boothe wondered how I would handle it, and Prim said…not to give up on her. Not protect her or help her win. Don't give up on her. What do I make of that request? How do I compromise how we left things with this new impossible task before us? For god's sake she never wanted to see me again! It would help if we were at least on speaking terms. Restless, I leave my room, hoping Katniss will be out there.

She isn't. Instead, I find paunchy, greasy-haired Haymitch digging through every cabinet and drawer in the sitting compartment. When he slides open one particular door above a sink he pulls out a bottle filled with clear liquid and makes a noise of delight.

"Stocking up?" I question, alerting Haymitch to my presence.

Haymitch twists around with a bottle in each hand. When he sees me he lifts them up and smiles like a kid with candy. "Just enjoying the spoils of the Capitol," he says, sliding both bottles into the pockets of a grimy suit jacket. Effie won't approve of that piece of clothing at all. "And Trinket likes to clean the place out. Need to keep one step ahead."

I never would have pegged Effie for outsmarting anyone, let alone Haymitch. He finds two more brown bottles in the cabinet, slides one into a pants pocket, and unscrews the other. "I think you're on your way," I observe.

"You're not kidding, kid." He raises the bottle to toast to…I don't know. A guy like him doesn't need something to toast to. Then he tilts it back and swallows a drink. His face pinches up. Must be better stuff than what they sell at Zeke's. "Sorry I missed your drawing," he says between drinks. Oh yeah. He'd already taken a nose-dive off the stage when my name was called. "What's your name?"

"Peeta Mellark."

"You from town?"

"Yeah."

He takes a longer drink, peering at me through narrowed eyes simultaneously. The movement of the train makes him sway, but amazingly enough, he stays standing. "You look familiar. Where have I seen you?"

"My parents own the bakery." I shrug. Haymitch doesn't come in often. Mom both loves and hates it when he does. He usually comes in not looking much better than this, but he also never sticks around long enough to get his change.

"That's not it," he grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Somehow, I don't think this is how most meet-and-greets between mentors and tributes go. "You were with Margaret Undersee last…what day was that? Friday? Saturday?" He rubs a finger over his eye.

Margaret?

"Now why would you take a lovely young waif like her to seedy place like Zeke's?"

Oh. Madge. He's referring to my date with Madge that was set up by my Mom and mayor Undersee. I'm surprised he noticed we were there what with his face plastered to the bar. "It's a long story." I sigh. I take responsibility for my actions that day, but unfortunately I wasn't making the best decisions that day. Madge was understanding.

"Hey, if the mayor's daughter is your girl you ought to let the world know. They'll eat that shit up," Haymitch says with a grimace. Before I grasp his meaning, he walks by me, nearly wobbling, and announces "I'm taking a nap," on his way out.

Madge? My girl? Not quite. After our date there isn't much chance of that happening. Wonder what Haymitch would say if I told him I'm in love with my district partner and she dumped me the week before the reaping. If he's ever sober enough to actually listen.

I spend the rest of my break wandering the train. Besides the sitting area there's a dining car, plenty of bedrooms, a room lined with wood and filled with steam, a kitchen of course, and a room bursting with clothing. It's all fascinating, but nothing I couldn't live without. Eventually I retreat back to the sitting room because of the constant interruptions by the attendants. They're cheerfully willing to assist me in any way they can, but the way they stare at me creeps me out. Capitol citizens are nuts about the Games and their victors, borderline obsessive. I don't want to be around them—or anyone who truly regards the Games as entertainment—in general.

Before long, Effie tells me it's suppertime. I sit alone in the dining compartment while she fetches Katniss. The dishes rattle with the flow of the train. Effie returns with Katniss in tow. She's changed out of her blue dress to something utilitarian and comfortable. She sits quietly in the chair next to me, keeping her eyes artfully away from mine. Some things never change.

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie chirps as she shakes out a napkin swan to place in her lap.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I answer. Effie is clearly relieved. Just wait till she checks the liquor cabinet.

Servers swoop in with bowls of soup that smell amazing. And all of the sudden I have an appetite again. The trend continues on through the rest of the meal. A new course arrives before I finish the previous one. Effie tells us to save room, but it's all so intensely good. I rarely miss a meal, but my meals are nothing like this. Katniss reacts the same way, by shoveling it in and savoring every bite. It ends with a massive chocolate cake layered with raspberries.

"At least you two have decent manners" Effie comments somewhere between the salads and the honeydew melon paired with sharp, smelly cheese. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion." After that Katniss eats the rest of her dinner with her fingers and wipes them on the tablecloth. Effie makes a face through the whole thing.

I seriously begin to regret that piece of cake when Effie escorts us back to the sitting compartment. It's the second, no third, time today I have the urge to throw up and the wavering of the train does not help. Katniss and I sit on opposite ends of a sofa. Sitting down is the key. Sitting and focusing on anything but my stomach.

Effie Trinket grants me a distraction in the form of reaping day recaps. A panel opens up in the wall revealing a thin television as large as the screens they set up in the alleyways so those who can't fit in the square during the reaping can still watch the action. One by one the winners are chosen. Our competition. Watching the broadcast has never been enjoyable, but now it's pointedly unsettling. Katniss tenses up near the end when a little girl from District Eleven is reaped. I would hold her if Effie wasn't here, if I still had a right to hold Katniss.

The footage of our reaping is the most dramatic, even without the large crowds or the expensive fanfare. The commentators are stumped by Katniss' brave action in volunteering for her sister and by the crowd's refusal to applaud. They're saved by Haymitch's appearance and following drunken mishaps, groaning with delight.

Weirdly enough, out of the three of us Effie enjoys the replay the least. Crooked wigs don't look great on camera. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior," she says snappishly.

I laugh, unable to hold back. "He was drunk," I say. And with the liquor cabinet he's carrying in his pockets he's likely to be drunk for the rest of the trip. "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss adds, a small smile playing on her lips. She glances at me and meets my eyes for the first time today. The first time since I last saw her in the Meadow. The laughter adds life to her eyes, but at the same time they're clouded with uncertainty. We hold one another's gaze for several seconds until Effie's shrill voice causes us to jump back.

"Yes. How odd you two find it amusing," she chastises. "You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

As if on cue, Haymitch stumbles into the compartment, using the wall to stay upright. "I miss supper?" he slurs. Then he vomits all over the floor and slides down the wall into the puddle. His clothes mysteriously do not clink with the sounds of bottles hitting together. Did he finish off all that liquor?

"So laugh away!" Effie yells. She snakes by Haymitch and his pool of sick back to her quarters.

Katniss and I stare at the sight for a few moments. This is our mentor. Our mentor who is supposed to advise us and act as the difference between our lives and our death? Or so Effie says. We are beyond screwed. Why should anything be easy?

Somehow, Haymitch regains his tentative hold on consciousness and attempts to stand, or at least get out of the vomit. "I tripped?" he asks. "Smells bad."

No kidding. Without hesitation both Katniss and I grab an arm and stand him up. We both know this guy brings it on himself, but he is our mentor. He's all we've got. "Let's get you back to your room," I say. "Clean you up a bit." We pretty much drag Haymitch back to his room. Four bottles rest on his nightstand—two of which are empty. How did he manage to wake up from his nap? Instead of laying him out on the bed I motion to the bathroom. Having done this once with Rilee on the night of his eighteenth birthday I decide it's best to get him rinsed off first. We dump him in the tub. Turn on the water. Haymitch stirs, but lacks the energy to move.

I turn to Katniss who, for all her bravery, is horrified by the sight. "It's okay. I'll take it from here."

Katniss visibly relaxes. "All right," she says. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."

"No. I don't want them," I reply. Haymitch doesn't need any additional rumors spread about him and those Capitol people would jump at the chance to be interviewed by the media.

Katniss nods and leaves the room. Looking back upon Haymitch, I sigh. Haymitch better appreciate this, if he remembers any of it tomorrow. I untie and slide off his boots and socks. Then I push his legs completely into the tub. I peel off several layers of clothes, throwing it all into the corner of the bathroom. Haymitch gurgles occasionally throughout the process. When he's fully rinsed, I pull every towel from the closet and pat him as dry as I can. Then I begin the arduous task of lugging him back to his bed. I'm careful to lay him on his front with his head turned to the side. I even fill a glass with water and leave it on his nightstand. Then, for added effect I pour out the two full bottles of liquor and refill them with water as well. Hopefully, he'll blame Effie.

I return to my compartment with my shirt soaked and all of me stinking of Haymitch. A quick shower and another change of clothes are in order, or just a change of shorts and a t-shirt. I climb into bed feeling exhausted and intent on sleeping. The sheets are incredibly soft and the mattress is one big pillow. My body longs for rest but my brain won't turn off. I go back and forth between thinking about tomorrow's events, what the Capitol will be like, to thinking about what I'd be doing if I were home. Plus, my stomach still doesn't feel so hot.

A soft knock barely louder than the whirring sound of the train startles me from my non-sleep. Probably an attendant wanting to ask if I need anything yet again. I pull the covers up to my neck and lie silently, hoping they'll take the hint.

They don't. They knock again; this time a fraction louder. I throw the blankets off with an aggravated grunt, stalk to the door, and wrench it open. In place of an attendant, Katniss stands outside in the door in a dim pool of light. She's wrapped up in a shiny white robe that ends at her knees, which leads me to immediately remember that I'm not wearing any pants. Too late now. "Katniss?" I ask. Her fingers twitch and she glances down the hall, like she's playing lookout. "Is something wrong?"

She reaches for the slack ends of the tie around her waist and squeezes it. It's been a while since I've seen her do that. "How is Haymitch?" Katniss asks.

"Out cold." I snort.

"I'm sorry. I should have helped."

I shake my head. No one should have to see that much of Haymitch if they can help it. "Don't worry about it." Katniss doesn't say anything more about it. Her eyes bounce from place to place, down the hall, at the doorframe; everywhere but directly at my face or below my waist. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she replies in a clipped voice. The movement of the train causes her to waver, but not with the same lack of balance as it caused Haymitch. Surrounded by glossy surfaces and sparkling lights, wrapped in expensive clothes from the Capitol, I've never seen Katniss so out of her element. It reminds me that she's a sixteen year old girl. And that despite our last encounter I'm the closest thing she has to a friend here.

"Would you like to come in?" Stepping to the side, I pull the door open wider. Katniss walks through in answer. When the door automatically closes the room is cast in darkness. I quickly fumble for a button next to my headboard that turns on a pair of wall sconces. Katniss stands motionless at the foot of the bed, hugging her arms to herself. I consciously keep several feet between us. "How are you doing with all this?" I wave my hand at nothing in particular.

She swallows thickly. "Okay. I think." Knowing her, she's already got a strategy in mind that will take her all the way to the end of the Games. I won't judge her for it either. God knows I should be asking her for advice. "How are you?" she asks. I like to think she says it as more than an afterthought.

"Same." I shrug. Had a bit of a breakdown back at the Justice Building, and I am more or less scared shitless, but no reason to let her in on that.

The long pause of silence that falls between us reminds me of our very first meeting months ago. When the best response I could get out of her was a blank stare and a blink. We've been through so much since then and I can't ignore it. As much as I might want to take her in my arms and grasp for the comfort we both seek, her decision to break up stands. The emotionally numbing events of the day soothed any anger I had about it; however, the Games haven't undone everything. Whatever her reason for knocking on my door tonight I'll wait and listen for patiently, but I won't make any assumptions. As far as I know, we're district partners. And that's all.

Katniss is quiet for a long time. Oddly enough, I've grown comfortable with it. When I notice a change in the pattern of her breath, I know she's ready to speak.

"I had to do it, Peeta," she says in one quick breath. Her face crumples. "I couldn't let her…I couldn't let Prim—"

"Hey, you don't have to explain it to me." I rush up beside her, touch her elbow, and guide her to sit on the end of the bed. Much like I did with her sister. Would I have volunteered for Rilee in the same way Katniss volunteered for Prim? I honestly can't say. And I'd be lying if I were to say his inaction to save me didn't affect me somewhere in my subconscious. Yet, with Prim there's significance in saving her.

I lean onto my knees and clasp my hands together while Katniss calms her breathing. I watch her bare toes dig into the thick carpeting.

"I wonder what they're doing right now," she says.

I know what my family is doing. Dad is asleep on the couch. He never makes it to the end of the broadcast and Mom never prods him awake to tell him to go to bed. Miche is snoring alongside him. They're used to going to bed before nine. Mom added her own commentary to the recap as it aired. She'll place a bet in the morning. And Rilee snuck out sometime after dinner to meet up with friends. That's what they did last year, anyway. However, to give Katniss some peace of mind I say, "Worrying about us. Trying to sleep."

"Your dad gave me some cookies."

"And you accepted them?" I ask incredulously. She nods. Damn. My dad's got better game than I have. "My mother told me District Twelve might have a winner this year." Katniss looks up at me as skeptically as I looked at her seconds ago. "She said, 'she's a survivor that one.' "

Katniss catches on after a beat. She jerks her eyes back to the floor. "I hate your mother," she says unapologetically.

Yeah, well. Sure. People don't call you a witch for nothing. I wonder if she'll put any money down on me. She wouldn't go so low as to bet against—

"Peeta. I wasn't pretending," Katniss interrupts my thoughts.

For a moment, I assume the words are some residual noise from my imagination. Could she really be answering my question? Has it been haunting her the way it's haunted me, haunted Hawthorne? I look for the truth in her eyes, but unfortunately she hides her face by staring at her toes. Nevertheless, the way she twists the life out of her sash, that old nervous habit, convinces me it wasn't a trick of the ear.

I suppress a sigh and about a hundred conversations that all begin with: I know. I feel the same way. I haven't forgotten the hurt. There's more that she owes me. "What happened with Gale?" I ask. "I deserve to know."

Katniss rises from the bed. She pads over to the window; although, because it's night it's nothing more than a black hole in the wall. She takes over a minute to think it over and I admit I get a little impatient. "He said something about how you don't know how you feel about him because you live here, in Twelve I mean," I prompt.

"We talked about running away sometimes," she replies point-blank.

That much I could have guessed. I've only been to the woods twice and each time it was difficult to turn back and go home. "Why didn't you?"

"He has three younger siblings. I have Prim. And our mothers. It would be hard."

That much I understand, but I can't make sense of what Gale said and what Katniss is saying now. "So if you ran away from Twelve you could have feelings for him?"

Katniss turns her body from the window and leans against the wood paneling "Gale is my best friend," she declares, making the statement sound as concrete as her eyes being gray or that her hair is black. "When we first started…" She waves between the two of us, indicating our relationship without putting a label on it. God forbid she admit we were dating. "I felt like I was betraying Gale. He resents anyone born with advantages."

"But you don't."

"You can't control who your parents are, what you're born into." Katniss shrugs.

So what Katniss said about a class difference, those were merely well-rehearsed words; not some kind of deal breaker. That revelation is all well and good, but I feel like we're getting off track here. "What does that have to do with running away with Gale?" I ask.

"Nothing," Katniss says.

A frustrated breath escapes my throat. Is she seriously going to continue to avoid the question like she has time and time again? Did she think she could come to my room late at night and act like nothing is wrong? "Katniss, he kissed you. He's in love with you," I say, my voice rising in volume.

"I know!" she nearly shouts back. She turns her face away, sucks in a breath, and holds it there.

I can't decide whether to be grateful or depressed that she isn't in denial for once.

Katniss pushes off the wall with a second wind of energy. Her irritation drives back any reluctance she felt before. "I know," she repeats. "And I hate him for it. I hate both of you for confusing me!" She accidentally yanks on the tie of her robe, causing it to fall open. She, like me, avoided the silky pajama outfits and went for familiar cotton.

Ironically, seeing her temper softens mine. Call me pathetic for caring this much after she dumped me and possibly has feelings for another guy, but to see Katniss hurting, hurts me. I stand and gradually close the space between us. "What are you confused about?"

"Because it's not what I want." Her voice cracks on the last word. "It's never been what I want."

A relationship. A boyfriend. Marriage. Kids. Anything she couldn't stand to lose. Those are the things Katniss said she didn't want. Gale and I both knew this and we still pursued her. Maybe that makes Katniss emotionally unavailable, but it also makes us idiots for trying to change her. I finally comprehend the explanation she gave Gale about her feelings. If they ran away, if they were free of the Capitol, she would be free to be in love, with him. And when Katniss takes a quick breath before she speaks, that exactly what I think she's going to tell me now.

"And then, because I need one more reason to hate myself, now each time he and I talk about this it feels like I'm betraying him over and over." She covers her face with her hands, groaning through her fingers.

What? Gale has known Katniss' stance on relationships for longer than I have. The only way Katniss could betray him is if…if she fell in love anyway. "Why, Katniss?" I ask earnestly. Say it, I silently beg. Because you weren't pretending. Because you didn't have to be free of the Capitol like you thought. Because you fell in love with me even when you didn't want to.

She drops her hands to her sides, her shoulders sagging with unseen weight. "Why are you here?" she whispers. And suddenly we're back in the present; on a train headed to the Capitol. Katniss lets her gaze lock with mine. She doesn't hide the pain in her voice. "It shouldn't be you."

I swallow once, but my voice comes out thick anyway. "Would you have ever spoken to me again?"

"No," Katniss replies without hesitation. As much as that stings, I believe her.

"The odds were in my favor today," I say, taking her hand.

"That's not funny."

I laugh, twisted as it may be, pull her to me and hug my arms around her fully. Katniss doesn't resist. She doesn't hold me as tightly as I hold her either, but she does put her hands on my back and rests her cheek on my chest. I press my lips against the top of her head and breathe her in. I'm amazed that she smells the same. We stand there for a while, letting the train rocks us now and again.

"You should rest," I suggest when we eventually pull apart. "Do you want me to walk you back to your room? Or you could sleep here? I can sleep on the floor."

Katniss nods solemnly. It's only when she removes her robe and throws it on the end of the bed do I understand which option she decided to go with. I check the closet for extra pillows and sure enough there's three plus a blanket. Even if there wasn't extra I could have pulled all the clothes out and slept in those like a pile of laundry if need be. Katniss waits for me to lay out my bedding and turn out the light before she lays her head on the pillow. I listen to the sheets rustle and try not to think too much about how there's a girl in my bed, technically.

That thought amongst of sea of others makes sleep an impossibility. I lay there with my eyes open, waiting for shapes to emerge from the darkness as they adjust.

I wish we could run away, cowardly as it may sound. I wish there was someone else out there who could pose a challenge to the Capitol's corruption. I wish someone could save us from the Games.

It's remarkable and beautiful how Katniss was able to do just that; save her sister from the Games. No matter what she does here, she can remember that act of bravery, and at the very least, she can live with herself. The Capitol will never take that piece of dignity away from her. I want that, too.

"Peeta?" Katniss asks in small voice. "What happens now?"

And then I know. My plan. My strategy. The Capitol can take me from my family, my home, put me in an arena, and tell me to kill or be killed. But I can be more than a pawn in their games. I can do something to make myself proud, as my father said. I can participate in the Games, but I don't have to try to win. "You go home." The words slip from my mouth with such ease and sincerity it almost frightens me, but not enough to take them back.

Katniss however, snorts at the idea. "Sure." I can't see it, but I imagine her rolling her eyes. We've got that District Twelve track record to uphold."

"Just close your eyes and think of home. Before you know it you'll be there."

Katniss is quiet for about seventeen seconds. "What are you thinking about?" she questions.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. A scene is painted in my mind's eye with billowing trees, a clear sky, and calm water. My best memory. "The lake."

The rustling of fabric prompts me to open my eyes, wiping the image from my brain. Blankets haphazardly fall around me like a cocoon. I feel, more than see, Katniss sidle up next to me on the floor. I turn on my side and search for her eyes in the darkness. I barely make them out. I swallow back any thoughts or questions. Whatever this is, I'll wait for her to explain it.

She lays her head near mine; close enough to share a pillow. It feels familiar—kind of like it was at the lake when we dried off under the sun. A lifetime ago.

"I wasn't pretending," Katniss repeats. This time it's more than just a statement. It's a promise.

She shifts closer, brushing her lips against mine. Soft. Reserved. And still, it makes me feel exhilarated. Invincible. She leans into me to deepen the kiss, yet the way she nervously touches my cheek with her fingertips reminds me of her inexperience. When she teases my lips with her tongue I open my mouth to her. When she tucks her body close to mine I rest my arm over her waist. When her breath turns raspy and quick I let her breathe while placing small reverent kisses across her face. We don't talk much. Enough has been said.

At some point we'll slow down, come to our senses, and remember where we'll be around this time next week. On a date with the Capitol. For now, we're together. And we're fearless.


A/N: Epilogue to come.