The day we arrive in District 6 it's rainy and cold. Murky clouds hang in the air, obscuring any sunlight, but I'm in the fresh air so it's not all bad. My eyes scan the crowd, stuffed into the square with factories upon factories spread out in the distance. Based on their clothes, they aren't well off, but no one appears to be starving. Absent are the gaunt cheeks and haunted eyes that permeate the population of District 12. Instead, though, these people seem broken in a different kind of way. It almost reminds me of 11. The regimented way in which they marched in, the way they flinch when a Peacekeeper steps near... These people are not safe.
I can't believe it, but I've become numb to the families. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, but I take them in with indifference. It makes playing my role easier. The two tributes from this district died first in our Games. Neither made it more than a minute. I'm not sure if they were targeted, or it was just a convenient kill in a slaughter, but they were gone as quickly as a wet footprint evaporates off hot summer pavement. Here one moment, gone the next.
Peeta concludes his speech, and my eyes shift to his face. His jawline is chiseled and clenched. He looks like he's holding something back, and I follow his eyes into the crowd to see what he's seeing. Tiny. Small. A little boy, arms wrapped around his mother's leg, a deep lash in his face, wrapped pitifully with bandages. My indifference melts away, and rage boils under my skin, through my body. Peeta senses the shift, and wraps his hand in mine. He leans over to kiss my cheek, and brings his lips to my ear. "We're almost done. We can do this." I smile and giggle, pretending he's whispered sweet-nothings in my ear, not cautioned me against doing something that might get Gale killed.
Behind the closed doors of the Justice Building, I fume. Effie is a bit startled by my furious pacing. Peeta makes up some excuse, but it doesn't pacify her concern. I don't care. Haymitch gives Peeta a look, and when he breaks away from the group Peeta and I follow suit. Haymitch goes up a flight of stairs to an abandoned part of the Justice Building. Inside an old office is a small, private toilet. The three of us cram inside. The smell of alcohol on Haymitch's breath is near nauseating.
"What happened?" he asks, still in a whisper.
"Nothing happened," I say. "It's just exhausting, seeing people like this."
"People like what?" he presses.
"There was a little boy," Peeta discloses quietly. "He had a lash on his face. Like from a weapon of some sort. He was… 2? 3?" My stomach feels like it might revolt between the smell of white liquor and my imagination recreating what must have happened to that little boy.
"I just hate this," I grumble.
"Which part?" Haymitch deadpans.
"I can't help these people!"
"You could," he offers, "if you chose to." I can feel my face morph into confusion. What is he talking about? There are no choices here.
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
"You have a choice, Katniss. Do what Snow says or don't," he says.
"Even if I could, I have other priorities. I have Prim. I can't put these people ahead of her."
"There are a thousand Prims out there!" Haymitch feels his voice raise, and drops it again. "That little boy is someone's Prim. Rue was someone's Prim." He looks at me in exacerbation. "Look, I'll help you in whatever way you want. If you want to placate the districts on behalf of the Capitol, then we'll do it. If you want to fight back, then I'll help with that too. But you've got to let me know when you get your priorities straight, because straddling both sides of the line is just going to get people killed for nothing." Haymitch pushes his way out of the bathroom and leaves us alone.
My mind is reeling.
"Fight back?" Peeta whispers. I meet his bewilderment with my own.
"I can't. I can't do anything that would risk Prim. If it was just me… I don't care about me. But, she's too good. Too pure to be…" I swallow. I can't even say it out loud.
Peeta cups my face in his hands and strokes my cheek with his thumb. I realize we are alone. Like… really alone. No cameras. No listening devices. No one even knows where we are. For the first time in a long time, it's just us.
"You love her," Peeta says quietly.
"I do, Peeta. I know it's selfish, but she comes first for me. But she'll never be safe. Not really. The moment her name was pulled from that bowl, the moment I volunteered. She'll never be safe, no matter what I choose," I fumble over my words. They are fast and loose on my lips, until Peeta presses his to mine. We haven't kissed since that night in his bed. We've spent our nights tangled together, but our lips have been strangers. He's still, waiting for me to kiss him back. I slowly move my mouth, and he exhales into me.
Peeta breaks away, and our foreheads press together. "I think you know what you want to do."
"I know what I want to do. I just can't," I whisper.
"Katniss…" His eyes dart between mine, and I feel a knot tighten in my lower stomach. My breathing shallows, my body is taut, like I'm trying not to get caught. Like I'm trying not to break something. My skin tingles with over-stimulus, as though even the air brushing against me sets me alight. Peeta steps in closer. His hands are still on my cheeks, and he slides them back into my hair. His mouth moves to meet mine, and we collide. I'm pulling at his shirt and his hands slip under mine, running up the bare skin on my back. I trace my tongue across his bottom lip and he meets mine.
This is not friendly kissing. My body is trying to tell him something my brain can't accept, my mouth cannot say, my thoughts cannot formulate. But there is something between us. His mouth traces down my jawline to my neck, and a fire lights inside me.
"I want to do something," he whispers, and my eyes lock on his. My mouth goes dry and my stomach whirls. He bites his lip, and keeps his eyes on mine as he slides his hand up the inner part of my thigh. His hand slips under my skirt and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes stay with mine, and I can't drop his gaze. His mouth parts slightly and I want to kiss him, but I'm frozen in anticipation. Panic. Excitement. I don't know what he's doing, but I want this to happen. I nod softly to let him know it's okay. His fingertips graze the outside of my panties and then he slowly slides his hand inside. The breath escapes from my lungs and my hands dart to his hair. I've never done this. I've never done anything like this. The look on Peeta's face is a mix of wonder and elation. His eyes remain locked with mine as he curls a finger inside me, and I feel a tremor shoot through my body. My hands tug slightly at his hair as he begins slowly moving his finger back and forth.
I didn't know my body could feel like this. I've always retreated from affection. My body functions to make me aware of my surroundings – it's cold, it's hot, it's raining, that will burn you… I'm aware now. I'm very aware. I feel a whimper escape my throat, and Peeta smiles slightly before finally breaking eye contact. He slips his hand out of my panties and he presses his mouth to mine softly. I try to kiss back, but my whole body is trembling slightly.
"You okay?" he asks. I nod my head quickly. "Was that okay? That I did that?" I nod again.
"I just… I've never done anything like that before," I whisper.
"Me either," he smiles.
"I like being close to you," I confess, shifting my eyes to the sink. I know it's not a declaration of love. It's not exactly what he wants to hear. But it's honest. I like being with him like this. I like being with him.
"Me too," he says, and squeezes my hand. "We should get back."
"Yeah," I say, straightening my skirt. He bends down to adjust his leg and looks up at me. My fingers meet his lips, soft and supple. I begin to wipe my lipstick away from his mouth when his hand catches mine. The electricity between us sparks, and I try to breathe.
"Leave it. That way the Peacekeepers aren't suspicious about why we snuck off." He's right. I shift my skirt out of place again. Maybe some reporter will catch us. Maybe a scandalous photo of Peeta and me will plaster the televisions in Panem. Good. Couldn't hurt.
We finally rejoin our group. Effie is a in a tizzy over our tardiness when she glimpses our appearance.
"Children! This is not acceptable in distinguished society! What were you thinking?" she shrieks as she tries to clean up Peeta's face with a napkin.
Cinna straightens my skirt with a devious smirk. "Nice touch," he whispers.
The dinner is uneventful at best. I like routine, but there is almost nothing worth talking about. I try to ramp up the affection with Peeta, but after our excursion this afternoon I'm gun shy. I suppose boring is better than riotous, but I've done nothing here to convince Snow. When we board the train that night, I feel like a failure.
Instead of going to my compartment to change, my feet make their way to the garment car. I was hoping to find Cinna, but instead Portia is propped at a small table with a sewing machine running stiches through a pair of slacks.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," I stammer out, reaching back for the door.
"You wanna hide in here with me? I won't tell anyone," Portia offers, and I give her a small smile. "Cinna's the social one. I'd be fine locked in here all day."
I could like Portia.
"What are you working on?" I ask, sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet across from her.
"Oh, Peeta is impossible to keep up with. I swear he's grown an inch since the start of the Tour alone!" she says. She's right. Since the end of our Games he's filled out. Not that he looked like a boy, but his shoulders have broadened, his chest is more prominent. He's getting taller. He complains because his prosthetic leg isn't growing with him, and adjusting the height is tedious and difficult.
"Why did you volunteer for our District? Why did you want Twelve?" I ask, resting my chin on my knees.
"I suppose I've always admired Twelve," she ponders, and I can't help but let out a short laugh. "I mean it," Portia insists.
"Admired what? We never win. We are weak and underfed. And frankly, not much to look at," I mumble. It's true. Most of District 12's tributes come from the Seam. We take more tesserae. We are more vulnerable. We are feeble and weak. Peeta was an exception.
"I think you have spirit." Portia keeps her eyes on her work. "I wanted to help. I didn't like seeing kids overlooked because they were small. From a small seed grows a mighty tree." She lifts her face and her eyes meet mine. "Sometimes you know what you are meant to do. You have a purpose. An opportunity to help because of something only you possess, only you can do. I wanted to help people."
"You have," I offer. "You helped me and Peeta." She smiles, but gives me a knowing look. She means more than us. She wants to help Panem. She's in this for reasons that could get her killed.
I dismiss myself, and Portia's words run through my head. Sometimes you know what you are meant to do. Sometimes you know. When I sneak into Peeta's room, he's already asleep. I drop my dress on the floor, pull on one of his shirts, and climb in beside him. A few minute later I feel the train pull away from 6.