A/N: So I think this is my longest chapter to date and it is just the tip of the iceberg. I split it up into two parts, to put it all together would just be way too much. I read a fanfic where an author suggested music to go along with her chapters. I don't normally have a song that perfectly fits with what I am writing, but for the first part of this chapter I listed to Trouble by Ray LaMontagne a lot. So I guess that is what I would suggest.

Chapter 14

Real

Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways. - Sigmund Freud

I find myself sitting on the grass watching Lady nuzzling weeds with her nose a few feet away from me. She tucks her hind legs comfortably beneath her and wiggles her head contentedly, blinking long, straw lashes and licking her lips.

It took a lot for me to come back to my old house in the Seam. The night terrors instilled an irrational fear in me. I knew that I wouldn't find the walking corpse of my father here, but I couldn't help but feel like something...unfamiliar...lurked inside the wooden shack.

I woke up this morning pining for the solace of my woods; one of the many things taken away from me. My abandoned home still has the memories of the woods wrapped around every support beam. So despite my uneasiness about coming back to this place, I needed to.

Lady bleats and eyes me intriguingly, staring at the crumbled paper bag in my hand with overflowing curiousity. I chuckle at the way her head nudges at the air, silently encouraging me to wrap my fingers around the opening and give her a whiff of what's inside. "You haven't changed," I tell her in amusement. The bag noisily crinkles as I pull it open and retrieve half a loaf filled with oats.

"I don't know if you noticed, but there is a lot that's different now," I tell her.

Lady's eyes dance as she watches me tear a chunk from the grainy bread and toss it in her direction. She dips her head to scoop up the brown chunk with an eager tongue. I watch her teeth grind the bread and swish it around her furry auburn cheeks.

"I've changed," I apprehensively admit. Haymitch's statement floats to my memory.

The Games change you. Everything that you know gets flipped on its ass and you gotta' figure out how to turn it right-side-up again.

"That's my problem isn't it?" I contemplate. I came back to District 12 and tried to go on with life as if the Games never took place. I tried to get things back to how they were, but when I flipped everything right-side-up it didn't look the same anymore. Or maybe it did and it just didn't hold the same appeal. Regardless, I kept relying on the premise that 'if the Games didn't happen, this is what life would be like...'

"The Games did happen," I tell myself with finality. "They happened and they changed me and I can't dwell on what ifs anymore." Because 'what ifs' can't remove the past several months. And the past several months have stirred up a tornado of emotions and brought me closer to someone I'm not sure I would've gotten to know beforehand. "Life will never be how it was and I accept that," I breathe out. It feels good to say it aloud and I realize it's time that I unite the Katniss from the Games and the Katniss from the Seam into one person.

I take a deep, life-saving breath and quiet everything that is buzzing around in my skull; everything that everyone else has ever said to me and what I've told myself. I make it all go silent and just listen to the thumping of my heart. I focus on the rhythmic pounding, straining my ears to listen to it like it's speaking to me.

You could be happy with Gale is what it tells me and I believe it. I could be happy with Gale. I know how safe I feel in his embrace. I've shared many smiles with him and I know there would be many more to come. But that's not what you want it goes on. I feel my hands dig into the dry grass. You wouldn't be able to stop thinking about the baker both my heart and my brain say at once.

I gasp as the realization manifests in my chest and spreads throughout my whole body. I get it now. I understand.

"I accept that I deeply care about Peeta Mellark." A slight smile tugs at the right side of my lips. I can't believe how refreshing it is to speak those words, even if I am only saying them to a goat who cares more about what's in the brown bag in my lap than the troubles of my heart. It makes me laugh, it makes a bubbling chuckle lurch from my stomach to my throat and I throw my head back and just let it out.

Here I am expressing my deepest secrets to a goat.

The whole thing is ridiculous.

And as ridiculous as it is, sitting here talking to Lady is the most calm I've felt in weeks. I needed to say the words out loud to myself, without having to worry about what anyone might think of me, before I could say them to other people.

Unlike my mother, I can't keep the baker out of my head, no matter what I do. And I guess deep down I always knew that there was a real attraction between us, not just something we acted out for the cameras. It hit me in the center of my torso when I came down the stairs the other morning and saw him leaning against the wall. Watching him look off towards the kitchen with beautifully contemplative blue eyes was all I needed to make those voices I ignored beforehand violently slam into my chest.

And those voices wouldn't stop.

That same day I sat next to Madge on the wooden bench completely spaced-out while she coaxed the piano keys into a beautiful harmony. I couldn't stop the voices from harassing me. I can't even count how many times Madge had to nudge my shoulder to get me to press down on the ivory keys to add a deep thrum to the tune.

Then I'd go right back to thinking about the golden waves of the baker, his full peach mouth, the softness of his hands, the clean, sugary scent of his skin...just him.

And then I'd feel ashamed for daydreaming about the baker when I pledged my devotion to the hunter.

And then the shame I felt would paint red splotches all over my face; shame for being the Seam girl who wants to end up wrapped in the lean arms of the Merchant boy. The Merchant boy I didn't even choose for myself.

I volunteered for the Hunger Games to protect my sister, not to get myself involved in a relationship, but that's exactly what happened and the fact that these feelings are no longer forced are just astounding to me. I'm overwhelmed by them. I want to embrace them, but at the same time they're intrusive. I didn't ask for them, I wasn't given a choice about them. They just showed up.

And I can't stop the way my heart flutters at the thought of him reaching out to coil a finger around a wisp of my hair.

I stretch my feet out and lean back on my hands looking out towards the sky. "I don't know what I should do now?" I bite my tongue once the words leave my mouth and I realize the deceit in my statement. I know that I can't stay with Gale, even if I choose not to act on my feelings for Peeta, I wouldn't be able to love Gale the way that he wants. He deserves someone who is just as loyal as he is. I can't give him that because the youngest son of the Mellark patriarch will always penetrate the barriers I put up and pervade my thoughts.

I guess what I mean is that I don't know what to say. I don't know what to tell Gale and I don't know what to tell Peeta. I don't even know if I should tell Peeta anything at all.

I lie back on the grass and listen to the sounds of the workers hammering planks of wood to set up the stalls for the festival that will take place later today. Miner's call to each other in sing-song wails as they prop boards on their shoulders under the watchful eyes of the Peacekeepers. They are given a day off from digging up rocks in the dirt to hammer rusty nails into sheaths of wood for the day's festivities.

I'm surprised the festival is happening at all. Isn't the sole purpose of the raised Peacekeeper population to squash any bit of camaraderie or joy in District 12? I thought for sure Snow would find a way to remove the Spring festival. Or maybe the reason he kept it going is because it's a distraction. People are less inclined to think about a rebellion when they are tossing cloths filled with pebbles through a circle and munching on bakery goods.

When I saw Madge earlier this week she told me that her father had fought very hard for the celebration to go on as planned, but a lot of things would change. There wouldn't be as many stalls, and the price to play the games would rise. It would also end promptly at 9 instead of going on until the wee hours of the night, which always resulted in blurry-eyed lovers linking arms and strolling around the square with garlands of paper petals wound around their necks.

I don't care about the festival. I could think of a dozen reasons why I don't want to go, but I already said I would.

Lady nudges the toe of my boot and I sit up so I can rip off another piece of bread to give to her. As soon as it leaves my hand my attention shifts to the sound of crunching grass under hard-soled boots. I whip my head to the right and bite my tongue as Gale comes into view, balancing a hammer in his hands.

"How did you know I was here?" I blurt out surprised.

He shrugs his shoulders and sits down beside me without saying a word. "Prim told me you weren't at home and that there was a loaf of bread missing. I figured out the rest."

I remain silent, tossing another sizable piece of bread towards Lady. She doesn't crane her head towards it as eagerly as before. Instead she watches Gale with what I can only believe is suspicion on her face. I feel the same suspicion gnawing at my gut. Why would he be here instead of helping with set-up? And what is so important that he would risk a whipping from temperamental Thread to search for me?

"Aren't you risking a lot by being here now?"

He brushes a rough hand through his matted black hair. He has yet to look me in the eye and this only adds to my suspicion, making my stomach churn uncomfortably. "I'm taking a break. Tom's covering for me." He inhales a deep breath and finally brings his eyes to rest on my cheek. "I need to talk to you Katniss and you're gonna' sit here and listen."

"I'm getting really tired of people telling me what to do," I bite back.

He closes his eyes and his response reaches me in a tone ten times softer. "I need you to just listen to what I have to say. Okay?"

I huff, but I don't argue. "Fine."

"We've always been honest with each other," he begins, running a hand along the seam of his pants. As he says this my mouth goes severely dry. "That's what I valued the most about our friendship that we could just say what we wanted to say to one another without worrying. Somewhere along the line, that got lost and I want it back...so I'm gonna' stop pretending."

He looks at me with fierce silver eyes and a line of determination raking his brow. "I'm gonna' stop pretending that I don't see you hesitate when I go to take your hand, or recoil when I lean in to kiss you. Or that it doesn't hurt when you push me away."

His words hit me like a slap to the mouth. Even if I wanted to disobey his request and speak I wouldn't know the words to say. I'm aware that I am guilty of all these things and every time they occurred, intentionally or not, I felt the swift kick of guilt assaulting my abdomen. But to hear him actually say it makes me feel as low as the coal he is continually digging for.

"Instead of telling me what you're thinking you bury it and end up avoiding me along with whatever it is you are afraid of facing."

He gingerly reaches for my hand, but doesn't link our fingers. "I knew going into this that I wasn't going to have your heart right away. And I'm willing to wait. I am willing to fight for you, Katniss," his hand wraps around mine as he says this and I feel yet another soul crippling kick of guilt. "But I need to know if there is even anything left to fight for."

"What?" I barely manage to get out in a timid whisper.

Out of my peripherals I see his jaw go taut. "I know...that you care about him." His reaction is enough to let me know who he is referring to. The new-found stiffness in his face travels through his body towards the hand that covers mine. "I don't know how much, but I know that you care. I see it in your face," he speaks through pursed lips.

I open my mouth to interrupt, but he raises his hand to silence me. "Maybe you're just afraid to admit it to yourself, but it's there. I thought if I didn't bring it up it would eventually go away, but it's something you have to figure out."

"Oh boy," I breathe. Tell him now, my conscience urges. "Gale, what you said—"

"—I don't want you to tell me anything yet," he interrupts. "I told you now so you would have some time to think about it."

"Gale, please..."

"I can't stay. I already spent enough time trying to track you down."

He squeezes my hand one last time before he gets up. "I'll come pick you up for the festival around 4; you can tell me what you want to do then. If you still want this," he gestures between us, "then come with me."

"Gale!" I call to him as he walks off.

He looks at me over his shoulders and says, "I can make you happy, Katniss," in a whisper that floats along the light spring breeze and gets to me once he's already too far gone for me to reach out to him.

I watch him walk away from me with glazed eyes.

...

I walk back to the Victor's Village with feet that feel like iron ore slugging along the street. The weight of Gale's conversation presses on my shoulders. My mother's words come back to me 'I think the hardest part was walking away from someone who I knew deeply cared for me.' Hard is an understatement. When I tried to tell him about the boy with the bread earlier I was doing so impulsively, and didn't have time to think about anything else except the extreme guilt I felt. I don't know what would have spewed from my lips if Gale didn't stop me, but I know that there would be no shortage of apologies.

When I think about the impending conversation we will have at 4 I feel physically sick. How do I tell my best friend that he will never be any more to me than a truly beloved companion because I can't stop thinking about someone else? Could I live without him like my mother lives without Taith Mellark? The thought of not being able to talk to him is crippling. But this is the hole I dug for myself.

I swing open the door to the house and hear the sound of the phone ringing in the study. Without slipping off my jacket and boots, I walk towards the blaring brrnng.

The gruff voice on the other end begins talking before I even get to utter a proper greeting. "Don't bother coming over here," it says. "The boy is at the bakery pounding dough for that festival and I'd rather not pretend like I enjoy your company."

"Well...good morning to you too," I reply with an exaggerated roll of my eyes.

"I tell it how it is, sweetheart," I can feel the mischievous smirk in Haymitch's voice reaching through the phone to prod me in the shoulder.

"I guess I will see you later then," I answer unsure of where else to take this conversation.

"By later, I hope you mean a full 24-hours from now," he admonishes before hanging up the receiver without muttering a farewell.

I place the receiver back on the telephone base without paying attention to my hands and lean into the bare bookshelf behind me. "No training..." not at all what I wanted to hear. Though the meetings at my mentor's home have bordered on torture as of late, I would rather be there now using physical exertion as a distraction than here with the mass of Gale's words and the thought about seeing him later today suffocating me.

Just...great.

I emerge from the study feeling even heavier than before and head towards the kitchen though the last thing I want to do is eat.

Prim sits at the kitchen table sipping on a hot cup of what smells like chamomile tea when I walk in. She raises an eyebrow when she sees that I sit next to her. "No training today?"

I shake my head. Though I desperately wish there was.

"Well, I guess that makes sense, with the festival being today Peeta's probably busy. Did you know he convinced his dad to give away treats to everyone that shows up? They don't have to pay a thing!" She beams.

Of course Peeta did that is the first thing that crosses my mind and it's mixed with equal parts bitterness and endearment. I wonder how his mother took that news. If she feels inclined to whip an aggressive hand across his face when he burns bread, what would she do when she hears that he is giving away fresh treats by the dozen? I ball my fists when I think about her harming him. "Such a vile woman," I hiss under my breath.

Prim doesn't notice the way my teeth clench. "Just imagine the faces of all those kids from the Seam!?" She goes on excitedly. "Oh, I can't wait to see them." I don't think it's possible, but her smile grows wider and I almost feel like smiling myself. She looks over at me and inclines her head as she notices the pained expression on my face.

"You don't want to go, do you?" She inquires.

I shrug my shoulders. There's a lot more riding on whether I go to this stupid festival or not. I wish I could just fast forward through this entire day.

My sister perks up and pulls on my braid, "I know what will cheer you up." She scampers to the sink and hastily washes out her cup. Then rushes over to me and tugs on my arm. "Come on," she calls trying to pull me to my feet.

"Prim? What are you doing?" I almost want to laugh at her unexplained excitement. I let her lift me out of the chair and follow at her heels as she bolts to the stairs.

"We are going to pick out what you're going to wear."

I dig my heels in the ground causing Prim's small hand to slip out of mine. She turns to me bemused, raising an eyebrow to silently ask why I stopped. "Prim the festival isn't until six hours from now."

"And?" she presses.

"And," I mock her tone, "It doesn't take that long to get dressed."

A sly smile creeps over her face making her seem a lot older than she is. She's planning something. "Normally, it wouldn't. But we're getting dressed up today."

"What are you getting at," I narrow my eyes and look at her accusingly.

"As in, you're not going to the festival in your hunting boots and a pair of slacks."

"What am I going to the festival in, Prim?"

She grabs my arm again and yanks it, causing me to stumble and reach out towards her to steady myself. Once I regain my balance I look at her in annoyance which causes her grin to stretch even further. "That's what we are going upstairs to find out," she adds, turning and climbing up the stairs, forcing me to follow behind her.

At first I thought getting ready a full six hours before the actual festival started was ridiculous, but judging by the heap of discarded clothes that sit on top of my bed, I know that anything less than that wouldn't suffice. The last couple hours passed with me sitting on my quilts while Prim ransacked my closet trying to convince me that instead of wearing a sweater and jeans like I planned, I should put one of the dresses that Cinna famously crafted for me to good use.

Of course I was highly against the idea.

The dresses by Cinna are for one-time use, and only sit in my closet now because they are too beautiful to throw away (mostly because they encapsulate Cinna's artistry and passion). I would look like a fool showing up in a floor-length gown to a fair where people play games to collect paper flowers. It wouldn't make any sense.

Prim's rebuttal to that was that a lot of the Merchant kids wear their best attire to the Spring festival. Even the kids from the Seam search in their closets for the least rumpled item to throw on their bodies. She then proceeded to remind me of what dad would say: that spring time is a time for new beginnings. It is when the buds shake off the winter and emerge fresh, soaking in the world around them with high anticipation. I can't go to a festival that encompasses such pure, enriching ideals looking like a used handkerchief.

I can't say how many times I sighed in frustration, craning my forehead in my hands as my sister rifled through the many dresses, holding them up to her petite frame one-by-one and asking what I thought. After the second hour, I finally relented to her persistent quest to beautify me.

"Why can't I just wear one of mom's dresses," I whine. "Like the one I wore to the Reaping."

"Would you really want to wear that dress, Katniss?" she asks seriously.

I lean back on a pile of pillows and think about what that dress means. It is simple, modest and nowhere near as extravagant as some of the dresses tucked away in my closet. But that dress carries a story, a distressing one. It was the dress I wore to walk on the stage after volunteering for my sister. It was the dress that carried me away from my family. If the Spring festival is something promoting new beginnings, then that is the one dress that I should stay away from.

I lean against the maple headboard and let my eyes wander past where Prim stands with a burgundy garb in her arms to the closet. I notice a pale yellow dress over to the right of her. I remember wearing it in District 10. It is a simple gingham dress. The bodice scoops at the neck and the sleeves go down to my elbow with white satin trim. There are buttons that travel from the neckline to my waist, where the dress then fans out in pretty pleats towards my knees.

I remember Cinna saying that he immediately went to work on this dress after he saw what happened in District 11. He wanted me to feel comfortable, and explained that the pale yellow of the dress reminded him of happier things, like canaries and lazy afternoons with a book propped on his lap. When I slipped into the dress I tried to let his happy thoughts fill me and it worked to soothe my nerves.

I smile to myself before catching my sister's eye. "Prim, I will wear the yellow one behind you." She turns to find the article of clothing I'm talking about and takes it into her arms.

"Oh Katniss," she breathes in wonder. "It's perfect."

...

I sit on the stool as Prim fiddles with my slightly damp hair. After I took my shower she insisted that she style it. I couldn't say no to her willingness to help.

"You have such pretty waves," she praises as she runs a bristled brush through my hair. "Katniss, I wish my hair was as soft as yours."

"What are you talking about, little duck?" I smile up at her as she takes a small bundle of my hair from in front of my face and begins to twist it towards the back of my head. "Your hair is as soft as a cotton tail."

"It doesn't feel that way to me," she says reaching for another grouping of locks near the front of my face. "You really should wear your hair down more often. It's so beautiful."

I blush at my sister's compliment. Prim is always so giving with her praise and it never fails to cause the heat to rise to my cheeks. I feel her wind a hair elastic around the locks that she twisted and step back to admire her work. She walks around where I sit patiently on the stool and examines me from all angles, her smile broadening the closer she comes to the front of my face.

"Can I look now?" I playfully beg, pouting as her amused blue eyes rest on mine.

"Not yet," she smiles brushing her thumb over my eyebrow. "I just want you to remember that today is about new beginnings," she instructs me in a tone that catches me off-guard. Her statement sounds like something I should hear coming from my mother, not from a sibling four years younger.

"What do you mean Prim?"

"I mean that you can start things fresh today; start a relationship fresh."

"I think you are putting a little too much thought into this festival," I brush her off, rising from the chair to peer in the mirror by the bathroom.

I stare back at myself with wide grey eyes. I don't recognize this person in the mirror. There isn't a spot of makeup on my face except for a bit of beeswax that Prim used to lightly curve my eyelashes and lubricate my lips. Some of my hair twists back to form a braided crown, and my long chestnut tresses fall down my shoulders in thick waves. The colour of the dress illuminates the olive of my skin, and sweetly highlights the feathery dusting of peach freckles that span across my nose.

I look like an alternate version of myself that isn't plagued by nightmares, death threats and an impending Quarter Quell. I don't know how Prim managed to bring forth this carefree, lighthearted Katniss.

She comes to stand next to me, admiring my reflection. Her own hair is beautifully contained in an elaborate French braid that tickles the top of her back, and little wisps of her fringe dance across her forehead. She smiles at me with cerise-coloured lips.

"It's ok to care about him, Katniss," she whispers at my reflection.

I tear my eyes away from the mirror to stare at her. "Who are you talking about?"

"Peeta," she states and I flinch. "I saw the way you were looking at him the other day. You try to hide it."

I curse my facial features for betraying me so easily. I toy with the hem of my dress and bite down on my bottom lip. "There's nothing to hide, Prim." Not anymore, I say in my head.

"Of course there isn't," she squeezes my hand reassuringly and leaves me to stand in front of the mirror gaping at my reflection and her observation about my feelings for the baker's son.

Until now, Prim fussing over my appearance completely took my mind off of the impending events of today. But once I'm alone, they come spiraling back.

"How many people knew of my feelings before I did?" I wonder aloud. How could everyone see what I didn't even want to admit to myself...like I'm a window that they can peer through to see everything that's affecting me without me having to voice my opinion? I don't understand it. I've never been an open book. Then again I've never been a very good liar.

Perhaps that's why, my lies were only good enough to convince myself and not even that thoroughly. What they couldn't hear in my voice they saw in my face.

I'm suddenly gripped by a distant memory of me sitting at a table sipping on bitters and the words "No use hiding it now," slipping from my mentor's lips. My jaw drops as something in my head clicks. There was more behind Haymitch's statement than what I initially took stock in. More that I should have made him say. More that I need to know now.

I rush out of the bathroom and fly down the stairs with my feet bent on one destination. I bolt through the door separating the belligerent man from myself without hesitation and find him sunken in the couch and staring into a mug filled with a black tar-like substance. If he noticed me coming in, he doesn't show it.

"When I came to see you after I saw the broadcast for the Quarter Quell and you told me that there was 'no use hiding it now' what did you mean?" I blurt out.

"I don't think 24-hours have passed, sweetheart," he mutters.

I irritatingly tap my foot. "Just answer the question."

"What does it matter?" he mumbles. "I said it to you weeks ago, what difference will it make now?"

"Haymitch, please!" The pleading in my voice causes him to turn his head in my direction. It's the first time he's looked at me since I walked through the door. He takes in the way that my hair drops in silky waves against my shoulders and then at the playful, pale yellow dress, something so noticeably out of the ordinary for me to wear willingly. His face contorts and he shakes his head. "For fuck sakes..." he starts.

"It's not like that." I interrupt, understanding that he thinks something serious has happened between me and Gale.

"Then why are you wearing a dress," Haymitch retorts.

"I plan on going to the fair," I start. I leave him to fill in the blanks and assume that Gale is going to take me. "I just...wanted to speak with you first."

"That still doesn't explain why you're wearing a dress," he nags.

"It was Prim's idea, ok."

Haymitch groans, wiping his face clear of indifference and turning his full attention on me. "What I meant is that there is no use pretending like you don't actually care about the boy because time isn't on your side anymore."

I expel a frustrated breath and collapse into the armchair next to me. "Why didn't you say that!? Why are you always so cryptic?"

He huffs and turns his body towards me. "Ok, what is this about, Katniss?"

I chew on the bottom of my lip and avert my gaze from the inquisitive beady black eyes of my mentor. I feel the heat rising from the base of my neck to the center of my cheeks. My hands can't stay still, I want to rub them against the arms of the chair, but they feel so clammy that I know they will stick and squeak against the fabric. Take a deep breath Katniss, just blurt it out.

"I..." my voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I might..." I try to push out the rest of the sentence, but I just feel too bare.

"Do you think I'm weak?" I end up saying.

I'm still not looking at Haymitch so I can't tell what expression might cloud his features. I do hear his tongue click against the roof of his mouth before he answers. "You came here to ask me if I think you're weak? Geez sweetheart, this honestly couldn't wait?"

"Just...answer it."

Haymitch shakes his curly mop in disbelief, leaning further into the couch, "Weak...no. I do think you're scared, and you have a right."

"But..." I stutter, and my heart quickens as I realize what I am about to reveal. "But am I weak for wanting something more with him?" I force myself to look at Haymitch. He stares back at me a little confused.

"With coal boy? What does it matter what I think about that? You've already made your choice."

I subtly shake my head, just enough to infer that this conversation has nothing to do with Gale. Haymitch picks up on my gesture and raises his right eyebrow inquisitively. "Don't make me say his name," I whisper. I couldn't say anymore if he made me say his name aloud.

"Oh..." Haymitch's lips slowly rise into a smirk and he nods his head finally understanding what has me sitting on the cushioned sofa to the side of him in a yellow dress with a look of anxiety crossing my face. "The boy."

My face is instantly aflame, and I know a deep blush of scarlet now creeps over my nose. Haymitch's eyes sparkle with amusement. It makes me angry to see my confession bringing him such comedic relief. At the same time I feel a wave of relief tickle my scalp and travel down to my toes. It feels liberating to actually express it to someone, even if that someone is a bitter, mess of a man.

"Sweetheart, you are a card."

"Don't make fun of me," I scowl and I cross my arms stiffly across my chest to show my displeasure.

"Ha, I was wondering when you would finally admit it to yourself," he grins. "I'm not gonna' lie I thought it would take at least a couple more weeks."

"What made it so obvious?" Am I that easy to read?

"I wouldn't say it was obvious," he says with a derisive snort. "I started to think there might be more between you two at the end of your Games. You don't bang on a glass pane that hard for someone you don't l..." he stops when he sees me suck in my bottom lip and my eyes widen as I wait for him to say the word.

"For someone you don't care for," he corrects and I feel the passages in my lungs clear so I can breathe again.

"Of course with you being so stubborn and all it was just a fleeting idea really," Haymitch laughs. "I could see it sometimes when you two were together, but he was always reaching while you were always pushing."

I stare at my nail beds, already chewed and ruined from anxious, sleepless nights. "You could have said something," I say in a small and extremely vulnerable voice.

"Are you trying to say that if I told you to stop pretending like you didn't enjoy locking lips with the boy, you would've listened?" his voice is incredulous and it makes me feel even smaller.

I place my palms over my face to try to soothe the tension headache that starts to build at the center of my forehead. "Probably not if you said it like that."

"Or how about not at all. It wouldn't matter how I phrased it because you were too bull-headed to hear it. Unless you were ready to acknowledge it, it wasn't going to reach your ears."

"I get why," he softens his tone and I slide my hands down my face to look over at him. He watches me with genuine eyes. "You've seen a lot in your lifetime; had to take on a lot of responsibility. I doubt you ever thought you'd end up settling down with anyone, least of all a Merchant baker," he chuckles.

"You're not weak if you choose the boy and you need to stop seeing it that way," he says more seriously.

"But it's what the Capitol wants." I counter. "Wouldn't that just be giving into them?"

"Let me tell you something, Katniss. You're stronger with him than you are without. You know that. You two survived the Games because you had each other. The Capitol thinks you're only lovers; you're so much more than that. Choosing a life with him while deeply caring about someone else, that would be giving into what the Capitol wants. Choosing a life with him because you love him," I cringe as Haymitch says the word, though my heart begins to glow. "That's living."

"So what should I do?"

"You've been hiding your feelings from the boy long enough, I think he's the one you should have this conversation with instead of me. Woo, you're gonna' be up to your ears in sweets when you tell him the news, I'm gonna' have to roll you to the arena," he teases me.

"I'm not sure I am going to tell him," as this statement leaves my lips all the amusement disappears from Haymitch's face and he looks at me in shock.

"You're not serious."

"I just don't know if I should," I look past the scraggly man on the couch and start to count the lines between the beechwood slates to take my mind off of the discomfort I feel from Haymitch staring at me.

"Good grief, princess! Stop being such a prude. Do us both a favour and tell the kid. The sooner you spit it out the sooner I can stop being the go-to for relationship advice like a bearded Aphrodite."

"I can't," I moan into my hands. "What would I say?

"How about everything you just sat here and blabbed to me about!"

I open my mouth to explain that I still have to find something to tell Gale, and it just wouldn't be right to run from one person to another, but Haymitch raises a large hand to silence me.

"If what you are going to say has to deal with Hawthorne, I don't want to hear it. He's a big boy, not to mention he has years to get his shit together. You have months. Stop fighting yourself, Everdeen. You have a chance at happiness with someone who already knows you're a stubborn mule with a cruddy attitude and still wants to hold your bloody hand!"

"Not many people get that chance," he goes on. "Especially not Victors."

I bite the tips of my fingers as I mull over what Haymitch just said to me. Either I tell Peeta or I live out the rest of my days with this knowledge bottled up inside. I know that the latter option will make me the most miserable person in Panem. I don't want to hurt Gale, I so badly wish I could find peace in his arms, but I can't and I just need to let it go, I need to let him go. Gosh, I've made such a mess of things.

"So I should tell him," I whisper to my wide-eyed mentor.

"If you don't, I will," he threatens. "And I doubt it will sound as magical coming from my lips."

A/N: I think big things should come in groupings of 5. So Chapter 15 is the soul of this whole ordeal. But I did thoroughly enjoy writing the conversation between Katniss and Haymitch.