Stew bubbles merrily on the stove. Katniss watches it roil, then plucks another pan from a nearby rack. She hefts it for a beat, considering, then drops it, whoops. It lands on the floor with an ungodly racket. Perfect. When it settles, she stands and listens, the house beyond.

Still, nothing.

No response to her knocks, no response to the waft of the stew, no response to her excessive clatter. No hint of life. Perhaps Peeta hasn't heard. Or perhaps he's refused to hear.

She's worried.

It's the second time she's tried his house that Peeta has been suspiciously absent. He didn't respond to her earlier knocks, so she pushed inside, letting the screen slam, clinking and clanking as she reheated his stew. Yet even after its pungent aroma wafts to the far reaches of the house, it doesn't reach Peeta.

She hasn't even seen a hint of him in town or in the woods. Laying low, she suspects, giving Gale time to cool down, nothing further to fuel the gossip mill. Peeta's monthly supplies from the Capitol aren't scheduled for another couple of weeks, the shelves in his pantry now ribs on a skeleton, their former bounty smuggled throughout the Seam. No further excuse for them to spend time together.

A clock on the mantel counts down time, tick tock. The sound is maddening, never-ending. The sound reminds her she's all alone, here in this mausoleum of a mansion.

One by one, Katniss drifts through the rooms on the first floor. All sparse, all empty, filled with caricatures of what the Capitol thinks it means to live in District 12. Then she comes to a new door, one she hasn't noticed before, set into the side of the staircase, unassuming. A closet, perhaps, some nook tucked under the stairs. She turns the handle, curious, but it won't budge, the only door that won't open to her. She rattles the handle again, ear cocked to the wood. The sound seems to reverberate, some space beyond.

Tick tock, goes the clock.

Wandering farther down the hall, she finds the actual coat closet. Inside hangs a single jacket, a pair of boots lined up neatly below it, the first evidence of Peeta she's seen.

Eventually, she returns to the kitchen and sets the stew to simmer. Eventually, she leaves this place, other errands to run, other people to see, who want to see her.

Daylight fades.


Later, errands complete, Katniss finds herself again in the Victor's Village, a last-ditch effort for the day. The house at the end of the street sits, dark and imposing. It's later than she'd considered. She should be on her way home, darkness encroaching, but something keeps drawing her back here. A hope, a promise, a chance. If nothing else, she should turn off his stew, likely now burnt beyond use.

She lets herself in again and sees, with relief, that he's been here. A small lamp now sits on the counter, weak light a hazy halo. And the kitchen is impeccable, the way he keeps it, stew consumed and utensils cleaned, the pot dangling again from its hook. She wonders if, perhaps, he'd crept from behind the locked door, after she'd gone. Tick tock, still goes the clock.

"Peeta?" she calls, into the gloom, reverberating through too many empty rooms. The walls seem to hear, but they can't answer. She stands at the bottom of the staircase, staring up at the maw of a corridor beyond. There's a distant sound, from above, a shiver in her bones. A moan, it could be, and her mind goes places. It's stew day, after all. He might not be alone.

More sounds now, wild and animal, disturbing. She follows them up the stairs, silent and careful, to the room at the end of the hall. Through a sliver in the door, she can see a figure prone on the bed. The sounds are coming from him, lying face-down on his pillow, legs thrashing, arms clutching at the sheets, like he's drowning in his bed.

And he's alone. So very alone.

"Peeta," she says, creaking the door open and taking a step inside. He thrashes, oblivious, muttering something in sleep. She says his name again, more loudly, chancing a few more steps into the room. Something is wrong, all wrong. He wouldn't want her to see this, in the grip of whatever this is.

As if in response, he surges to a crouch, facing away from her, toward an elaborate headboard. His hands are still desperate, grasping for something. He's wearing nothing but a pair of dark shorts, look away, focus on his face.

She hovers next to him for a moment as he stares, sightless, at some invisible vista. His expression is blank, horrible, eyes dead. For an unsettling moment, she's not even sure it's him, not sure that this is Peeta with her in the room. His skin is tinged white in the half-light of the rising moon, a ghost of himself.

She's seen what she needed to see. He's here, he's safe, and now she should go. Right now.

But as she turns to retreat, Peeta twists, lunging toward her, lightning-quick. She can't do anything but throw her hands up to try to fend him off. But he's too big and too strong, and she's up against the wall, her skull slamming so hard into the wood that stars explode.

"You're not her!" he shouts, hoarse. "I know better, you can't fool me." His diction is garbled, teeth bared, eyes glazed and crazed as they rake her face, pupils blown wide by the night.

She tries to tell him—it's me, it's Katniss—but his forearm across her throat has stemmed her air. She can't speak, can't breathe. The only thing that comes out is a choked hiss, which seems to enrage him further.

"Liar!" he snarls. "You're a filthy liar, a stinking mutt, a coal-sucking whore…" He goes on, a litany of ugly words that she would never expect from those lips. In this moment, he's all Victor. She can't see Peeta anywhere. Feeling the darkness close in, she claws at his arm, but it's like clay against stone.

She thinks: Gale was right.

She thinks: The Victor is going to kill her.

Kill her like he killed the others. But she can't die like this, can't let Peeta do it. It would break him, beyond repair. And then Gale would kill him. In the forest, where no one would know. Maybe leave his body hanging from their rope in the tree.

A split second, she thinks these things, and then she's throwing up her knee, hard as she can, harder than she'd intended, a reflex. With a cry, Peeta releases her, buckling. She joins him on the floor, coughing like a miner.

They lie there for a while, just breathing.

"Katniss?" Peeta says, and she can tell by the way he says her name that it's really him, released from the clutches of dream, of madness. He's wide-eyed and awake at last, lolling to look at her.

The moment he sees her face, he shoots up. Looks around wildly, eyes finally landing on something near his bed. She can't see what it is, obscured by the breadth of his bare back, but it hums when he touches it. Not a light; they remain shrouded in gloom.

Then he's crouching before her, his hands flitting to her shoulder, her face.

"I've hurt you," he breathes, frantic, one hand gentle on her cheek, so warm.

"No, no, it's okay." She waves him off, sits up, propped against the wall. He curls away, to the bisecting wall and slumps down to just look at her. He's so lost, with his hair all sleep-tousled, sweat-soaked. He looks like the younger version of himself, the one she'd watched in school.

It's then, for the first time, that she looks down from his face.

"Peeta," she gasps.

Her turn to shift closer, alarmed, worried that he's hurt himself somehow in the scuffle. For his skin is marred and puckered across his shoulders, his chest, down his stomach. She dabs at him tentatively for a moment, expecting her hands to be sticky with blood.

But these lines, they're dry and withered, more ancient than the scar on her leg. Her fingers skim this story on skin, trying desperately to read between the criss-crossed lines, to understand what it all means. She thinks back, to his Games, but doesn't recall anything like this. None of the other Tributes had gotten close to touching him. Not like this. This is something else. Something deeper and darker.

After a while, Peeta catches her searching hands, stilling them, cradling them between his own.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, his voice wavering like a child's. In his eyes, she sees the gentle boy he once was. The boy who risked a beating for some bread. Who always had a shy smile for her when they passed in the halls. That boy isn't gone, he's still in there somewhere. He's as close as he's ever been. Twin moons in Peeta's eyes, just staring at her, pale and afraid. Always so afraid.

"Why?" he asks again, and she knows he's not just asking why she's still here. He's asking so much more, like why she's come to him, time and again. Why is she helping him distribute food? Why is she still trying to be his friend, despite everything he's done to drive her away? Despite everything he's done?

She can't answer that. Not in words, she's never been good with words. Her eyes flit to his lips. They're chapped.

But before she can show him, why she's doing this, Peeta shoves up and away, digging in a nearby drawer for a shirt, which he throws over his head. Covering himself, closing himself off from her. From whatever this was. From whatever this could have been, a moment dissipating like a nightmare.

"I said no to Gale," she says, an answer to a question he hadn't asked. It's important, that he know. It's the most important.

Peeta's expression fractures at the name, no sound on those lips, eyes still round with the moon. With effort, he turns his face to shadow. "You should go." He's trying to gather it all back to himself, his casual indifference, his armor.

This time, she doesn't listen to him, doesn't let him scare her. She knows better now, having seen his cracks, literally visible on his skin.

"No," she says, standing, stepping closer, backing him against the bed, itching for him to do something, anything, to make her leave, if that's what he really wants.

"Please," he begs. "I don't want to hurt you." He remains very still, holding himself in, holding himself back. Everything in her yearns. She's seen that little baker boy again, the closest he's ever been. She just wishes there was something she could reach, something she could touch.

"Go," he whispers, a final gasp, staring out his window at the moon, alone in the sky. He's a statue. He will not yield.

After a moment, she does as he asks, as he's always asked.

She goes.


"It's Gale," Prim calls from the door, and Katniss, standing almost-naked in her room, is immediately sour.

Gale has taken to dropping by after his shift. For no reason that she can see, just stopping to say hello before he heads home for dinner. She's not sure what he's trying to do. Checking in on her, maybe, making sure each day that she's alive, now that he knows she's made a deal with a devil.

Their conversation is inane, stilted, and he never stays long. She misses their easy camaraderie, the hours they used to spend in the forest, talking about everything and nothing. Now it's all how was his day, how was hers, did she catch anything.

Today, he's later than usual, and she's already started drawing her bath, thinking he wasn't going to show. Now, her water will get cold. She's grumpy as she throws back on her clothes, leaving her hair long and loose.

"Katniss," he says, the moment she steps into the kitchen. "You'll never guess what I heard today…"

He trails off, interesting thing apparently forgotten. He stares.

Her first idle thought is that she's somehow made him uncomfortable, with her hair down like this. He's rarely seen it outside of the braid. Few people have. But then he goes very still, the way he does when he's watching an unsuspecting animal edge closer to a trap. Emotion wipes off his face, leeches from his eyes, leaving behind hard coal.

Her face. He's staring at her face.

And on her face is…

"Gale," she warns in a low voice, hoping to calm him. But to no avail. Without a word, he turns and slips out of the house.

Her Mother and Prim look over from where they're trying to make themselves scarce in the living room (nowhere else to go), curious at hearing the screen door close again so quickly.

"Katniss?" Prim asks, alarmed, as she rushes past, back to their room, grabbing what she'll need. Her jacket, her boots. Katniss doesn't have time to fill them in. There's no way to warn Peeta, and there's no one else to warn, either. Because no one else would care.

"Stay here," is all Katniss says. Then she's off, following Gale into the night.

She'd seen the bruise for the first time herself, in the mirror. From Peeta's nightmare, one of his elbows or fists must have caught her in the face. An accident, she hadn't thought a thing of it. She told Mother and Prim that she'd gotten into a tussle with a tree.

But Gale knows better. And in a way, he's right. But he's also very, very wrong.

She's only a few minutes behind him at most, stuffing her feet into her boots as she goes. But these kinds of things, they take only a few minutes. She saw Gale grab something propped against their porch. She's pretty sure it was his pickaxe.

He won't do it.

He won't.

If he hurts you, I'll kill him.

She tears through the wide corridor of the Victor's Village, pushing herself to run until her lungs burst, faster than she ever has before. Her boots, loose and untied, chafe against her ankles. She feels ungainly and slow and too late.

When she arrives at Peeta's house, light peeks from around the curtains in his kitchen. Her heart sinks. He's home, then. She'd hoped that maybe he wouldn't be, give her a chance to talk to Gale, calm him down.

Leaping on to the porch, she sees that the front door is ajar. That stupid door that Peeta never locks. Not even after Bo. Beyond, instead of silence, she can hear the sound of violence, the wet, suck of flesh impacting flesh.

She kicks the door open, surging inside, already notching an arrow on a spare bow, which she'd grabbed from her room. As she explodes onto the scene, both Peeta and Gale look up, startled. He has Peeta in a wrestling choke hold, strained up to his tip-toes. Both of them are breathing hard, faces red. Blood beneath and upon their skin.

They are a stark contrast—light and dark, Townie and Seam, fury and calm. Gale's arms envelop Peeta's shoulders, half a head taller. While Gale's features are twisted, brows drawn heavily down, Peeta seems utterly calm, completely still. His head is forced at an unnatural angle by Gale's choke hold, but his eyes are clear, bearing into her own.

Evidence of their scuffle surrounds them, overturned chairs, a broken plate near her feet, soapy water in the sink and splashed all over the floor. Peeta must have been washing up after supper.

For a moment, the only sound is Peeta's strangled breath.

Then Gale smiles. It's not the good kind of smile. "You Townies and your wrestling matches. Should have let the Seam kids in. We'd have shown you. But you didn't want to dirty yourselves."

Gale's tone is light, a teasing smile.

Katniss' bow doesn't waver. Her arrow points directly at Gale's head. His eyes drop to it, once, and then back to her face. He doesn't believe it, her aim.

"It was an accident, Gale."

"So I'm right," he says. "It was him."

"Yes, but he was asleep, having a nightmare, and I got too close. It was my fault." Unthinking.

Gale's eyes become coal. This situation is a minefield. Before his father died, Hazelle was often "clumsy." And she'd just admitted to him that she'd been with Peeta when he was asleep. Innocent, but Gale won't see it that way.

"Your fault," he echoes bitterly. "That's what they all say."

"Gale—"

"This is how you did it, right?" Gale cuts her off, turning his attention to the crown of Peeta's head. His voice betrays tension, the effort he's expending to keep Peeta in place. Tendons strain in their forearms, the one Gale has wrapped around Peeta's neck. Peeta's arms are up, trying to pry him away. The muscles in Peeta's jaw flick, like those in a deer's hindquarters. But he remains calm, staring right at her. He doesn't answer Gale's question.

"The little girl, what was her name?"

Peeta still doesn't answer. His eyes never leave hers. They look almost desperate, pleading. As if trying to tell her something.

"What – was – her - name?" Gale roars, shaking Peeta hard at each word, like how a wild dog shakes its prey, to snap its spine.

"Her name," Peeta gasps between clenched teeth, "was Rue." For the first time, he looks away, closing his eyes, as if in defeat.

Little Rue, who had looked so very much like Prim.

"Rue," Gale echoes. "That's right, the one who was so very good at hiding." Katniss remembers the slight form twined high in slender branches. How the child's frame had withered with each passing day from lack of food. Thin wrists. The shock of hair, streaks of premature white, bobbling on a thin neck.

Rue had been the last to die. It had taken him an entire day to find her, up in the trees. I won't hurt you, he'd said, with his face like an angel. He paced below her for a few hours (trying to wait her out) until his patience ran thin. Then he threw rocks the size of his fist, dislodging her at last from her perch. She'd fallen to the ground, where he could finally reach, and that was that.

Katniss closes her eyes, remembering what came after.

The crack of a Peacekeeper's whip, that's what Rue's neck had sounded like. Katniss remembers turning away at that moment, shielding Prim, holding on to her so tight. She couldn't watch. But she'd heard it, the sickening wrench. The thud of a slight body crumbling to the earth. And she'd seen the aftermath, a close-up of Rue's eyes, forever staring.

"Now you've hurt my girl." Gale's voice is velvet soft, yet uneven, like he can't bear the thought. "But you will never hurt her again."

Gale's eyes are electric, boring into her own. She knows he's doing this because he's afraid for her, because he doesn't want to lose her. He'll kill another human being if it means keeping her alive.

"I'll do it," Gale says. He's planning it already, using his calculating mind, the one that has contrived the most lethal of traps. He knows how to kill. He'd broken a buck's neck once, when he'd forgotten his knife.

Her bow, which had lowered by degrees, strains back up, resolute. "So will I."

They stare at each other, reading every nuance in the other's face, almost a mirror image, they know each other so well.

"Don't you understand?" Gale says, almost pleading now. "He was dead a long time ago."

She sees death in Gale's eyes.

"Do it," Peeta gasps out like a final breath, eyes dead. One of his fingers moves, a mere twitch.

"Do it," Katniss says to Gale, "and I will never forgive you." Her voice is ice. Peeta's finger twitches again.

"I don't know who you are anymore," Gale rants. "I don't know what's he's done to you, what spell he has you under, like all of his Capitol fangirls. Has he drugged you, is that it? Some type of brainwashing? What did he promise you? Unlimited food? Never have to go hungry again?"

It hurts, these flaming darts that Gale's throwing at her heart. He knows, better than anyone, how to hurt her.

"Gale," she says a final warning. She's deadly serious. No games.

Gale's forearms tighten, prepared to deal that killing blow. Peeta closes his eyes.

She lets loose her arrow.