Peeta's POV

Wind rustles her hair ever so slightly, fluffing chocolate and copper curls that look black at night. The scenery is unimpressive against the sight of Katniss, all dolled up—the same, thick, ugly undergrowth over the same shriveled grass that, as of recent, is decorated with charred remains and unidentifiable carbon mounds of debris. We're standing so close that I can catch the familiar scent of lavender soap on her skin and I want to touch her. One last time, because this might be the last time that I have the opportunity. No.

Cautiously, in the same manner one might use so as not to spook an animal, I reach out to caress her cheek—

– but her hand flies up to deflect the action.

"No," she says firmly, her steel eyes cold and unforgiving, but retaining that unmistakable look of hurt and confusion reserved for only a select few. She was always too proud for her own good, yet more fragile than anyone would ever expect.

"You have a girlfriend," she reminds me.

And so it comes down to this.

If only she knew.

If only I could express to her the depth of my deception, the façade of affection, the horrendously fabricated effrontery of a love courtesy of Delly. True, Katniss was a bit cold and a bit heartless, but in a way, I still needed her. I was co-dependent. I craved her in a way that was not good for my sanity. Maybe I could changer her, trim away her infected parts, turn the cancerous, frostbitten black into buttery, shimmery, summery yellow. Maybe I could fix her – I had to fix her—because I wasn't too sure if I could stand to exploit such an innocent and simple infatuation anymore.

"You're right," I manage, and I begin the slow trek to my grave. This was the end.

Just like that, my last chance (for awhile anyway) had been snuffed out, without so much as a hesitation, a wince or a blink of the eye. Perhaps it was for the best. Haymitch was particular testy and it was certain from the first gulp just how much he had begun to hate me. We had all laughed it off as off-color humor courtesy of a drunk, but every bitter invective was filled with a possessive edge. He may have considered me to be good, but he had always loved Katniss. Just how far he would go to protect her was apparent.

Still, Haymitch had (drunkenly) played the age card, leaving Katniss open to interpret things. Of course, we all knew that there was something there between them that wasn't altogether good, holy or chaste. I had always known that deep down they both enjoyed each other's company, but I was beginning to question just to what extent.

The halls were cold and dark, an elegiac mirror, a visual dirge, and desperately some part of me hoped that Katniss could show a little kindness and lean in a little closer, put a smile on that face or inject into this funeral procession a little warmth of which I knew she was fully capable.

The next moment is a blur.

First light and then pain. My eyes are fixed on Delly and then I see the party from the ground—

And into view comes Haymitch with a knife.