A/N: Rating change from "T" to "M" for this chapter!
"Congratulations to the Victor of the 74th annual Hunger Games, Peeta Mellark, and his new wife, the lovely Katniss, on their very recent marriage. We here at the Capitol wish you both the best of luck in all of your future endeavors."
A shiver runs down my spine at President Snow's words and my stomach fills with dread.
"As stated in numerous newscasts over the last few days, a recap of the wedding will be aired tomorrow evening, at 6PM. I urge everyone to stay tuned afterward for a very special announcement regarding this year's upcoming Quarter Quell."
The camera pulls back, offering us a view of not only President Snow's face, but the ever-present white rose fixed to his lapel. Just seeing it on the television screen turns my stomach. There is no official sign off, no goodbye, just a slightly crooked smirk on the older man's mouth. It feels as if he's staring straight into my eyes and I shudder at the thought.
Once the screen fades to black and his image has been replaced by the Capitol symbol, Peeta and I turn to look at each other. The fear that I feel is reflected back to me in his eyes. By now, we're both sitting upright, our backs as straight as boards. Our hands are still intertwined, but it's obvious that the fire in both of our bellies has been extinguished.
Peeta stands, but as soon as I start to follow him, he motions for me to stay put. He leaves the room without a word, headed toward the kitchen and I watch him until he disappears from view. Once he's gone, I stare down at my hands, and try my best to calm my nerves. Peeta returns to find me twisting my wedding band nervously around my finger. He sinks down on the couch beside me and offers me a mug of hot chocolate. I smile as widely as I can muster and take it from his hand.
We sit in silence until our cups are drained and nothing remains of the fire but embers. Peeta leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and turns to face me again.
"Ready for bed?"
I nod and he stands, offering me his hand as he does so. We climb the stairs slowly, neither of us able to show much enthusiasm for anything at the moment. Once we're changed and in bed, we lay, shoulders touching and lips closed for at least an hour before Peeta finally speaks.
"He has pretty impeccable timing, doesn't he?"
There is a split second before my laugh, loud and sharp, cuts through the thick silence of the house. Peeta soon joins me, turning his face to place his forehead against mine. Our laughter dies down and we're left sharing breathing space, staring into each other's eyes. The fire from earlier is decidedly gone, but to my surprise, there is now a constant, low burn from simply being near him.
He hesitantly places a hand on my jaw. His eyes bore into mine as he slowly leans in. Our lips meld together and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. He doesn't press for anything more than this one endearment, and pulls me in to rest my head against his broad chest. I wrap my arm around his torso and turn my face upward to lightly place a kiss on his jawbone. He pulls me closer and it feels like hours pass before either of us fall asleep.
Seeing myself on television is something that I don't think I'll ever get used to. Watching Peeta, after doing so for the weeks he was away in the Games, is like an old hobby, however.
So as we watch the airing of our wedding, it's his face on the screen that I turn my focus to.
A fluttery feeling appears in my stomach as he takes my hand into his while we watch. My mother and Haymitch share a look that makes my cheeks burn as I notice it from the corner of my eye. When Prim giggles, I give her a look that would normally silence her, but I find that it does no good tonight. Peeta just runs his thumb over the outside of mine and I return my attention to the television.
We say 'I do' on the screen. We kiss. There are even a few minutes that cover the reception, followed by us leaving the Justice Building in what Effie refers to as a 'town car'. Everyone in the room watches the program's entirety, regardless of the fact that we were all there. We each know what happened.
We didn't tune in tonight for the recap of the wedding.
The Capitol seal appears on the screen and everyone freezes, as if we're afraid to even move.
For the second time in 24 hours, we are forced to endure the presence of President Snow in our house, via television screen. He's standing in the middle of a large stage that is similar, if not the same one that Peeta was interviewed on all those months ago. A small boy, clad in a solid white suit stands beside him, a wooden box clutched in his hands. He is probably one of the few, maybe the only, child to set foot on this stage without the fear of death hanging over his head.
I don't listen to his speech about the Dark Days. I've spent far too many years, standing in the hot summer sun, stomach torn apart by nerves, hearing a similar lecture from Mayor Undersee. It's always been bad enough having him explain it; President Snow's involvement somehow makes it sound even worse.
He goes on about the significance of the Quarter Quell. Something about how it would serve as a reminder of those that were killed by the districts' rebellion three quarters of a century ago. I lower my head, focusing on my hand clasped safely in Peeta's. It's not until Snow begins to go into detail about the 50th Quarter Quell that I stop trying to desperately block out his words.
I look to Haymitch, the winner of the event the man on the screen speaks about. He reaches for the flask in his jacket's inner pocket and lets out a shaky breath when he comes away empty handed. Prim smirks at him in a way that says she's sorry, but not at the same time. He offers her the best smile that he can and promptly stands; walking to the window, he avoids having to look at the man on the television since he is unable drink in order to ignore him.
"And now," I jerk my head back toward the screen. "we honor our third Quarter Quell."
He faces to the young boy, who in turn lifts the lid from the box in his hands. The camera allows us a glimpse inside and we see rows of small, yellowed with age, envelopes. The President removes one with a clear '75' written on the front. Everyone watches with interest as he pulls out the small card that will determine the fate of the next Games.
The similarities between the envelope in Snow's hands now and the one that was attached to the roses he sent us not very long ago are not lost on me. While our envelope had not been weathered with age, the size and shape were identical. Even the notecard inside had been indistinguishable from the one he holds between his fingers now. I feel Peeta's grip on my hand tighten and know that he's seeing the same connection.
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that families were separated, torn apart, and decimated by their choice to initiate violence, all siblings of the selected tributes that are within the official reaping age of 12 to 18 years old will also be sent into the arena."
The wave of nausea that hits me is overwhelming. Again, it feels as if the President's eyes are boring into my own. It's as if he's speaking to me, and only me. Something like this happening was always a possibility, of course. The subtle warnings while in the Capitol, the message on the card accompanying our flowers. Hell, the card alone was a message in itself.
Somehow, I have managed to underestimate the man.
I look to Peeta, who has no siblings left within reaping age. I look to Prim; sweet, innocent, beautiful Prim. Prim, who is just the right age, and just the right ammunition. There is no doubt in my mind that this Quarter Quell was not planned out years in advance, like all of the rest. No, this was planned out especially for me.
I know that I'll be in that arena. I know that I'll be fighting my hardest to make sure that my little sister is the last one standing; fighting to make sure that she comes home. One glance at Peeta tells me that he knows this. The pained look in his eyes tells me that he does not want it, that he's outraged even. But he understands that this is what I will do and there's no stopping me.
President Snow realizes this, too, of course. He knows the best way to eliminate the threat that he somehow sees in me. He knows that Primrose is an even bigger weakness for me than Peeta is.
I'm nothing but an insignificant, 17 year old girl from the poorest district in our nation. My father might have been a rebellion leader before he was killed. I might be married to our most recent Victor; one of the most well-loved there's ever been. These things might be true, but I still feel like that lost, little girl, trying to feed her family to get them through the winter.
This insignificant, 17 year old girl seems to scare and threaten the President of Panem, though, and I tell myself that has to stand for something.
Prim accepts her fate much easier than I thought she would.
We spend our days preparing ourselves the best that we can. Huddled around a small firepit that he's built in the backyard, Peeta shares with us anything that he thinks may help inside the arena.
I teach Prim to climb trees. While she lacks the upper body strength that I possess, she is much quicker. Once she gets the hang of it, she is able to perch herself on branches high above the ones that I come to rest on due to being so much lighter. Lessons on how to skin animals in order to feed herself don't go as well. Her kind hearted nature barely allows for her to swat flies, much less kill a furry, woodland creature. Her foraging skills will hopefully make up for this weakness.
Prim and my mother force me to study their book on healing plants and remedies. Part of me wants to kick myself for not paying closer attention when they'd worked on patients in our home over the years. The other part of me hopes desperately, and more than likely in vain, that I will not have to use any of this knowledge.
We do little other than train, conditioning our bodies for the all but guaranteed abuse we'll be put through in just a couple of months. I think we all realize that there's no way to condition our minds for it, though.
Haymitch is more helpful than I would have ever suspected. While he goes easy on Prim when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, he holds back very little while teaching me. I get my fair share of bruises, but he's always very careful to show me just where I made the mistake that lead to the them. He's also very cautious about just where on my body I'll be struck. We needn't have anyone suspicious about our activities.
It's two days before the Reaping. We're in the backyard, far enough back to go without being seen by any passersby. A simple training exercise, more hand-to-hand with Haymitch. I weave right when I should have gone left. I see the hit coming before I feel it, but by then it's too late. The sharp pain of my bottom lip splitting causes me to stagger backward, my hand going up to cover my mouth. When I bring it back down, it's covered in blood and I immediately know I won't be able to leave the house to go into town until it's fully healed.
Haymitch's shrug of indifference is expected.
Peeta's reaction is not.
It's late in the evening, after dinner even, around the time that we would usually call it quits and retire for the night. I assume this is what we'll do as I'm anxious to clean myself up in a hot bath, and then fall asleep between the sheets. So when Peeta pushes up his sleeves and steps toward his mentor, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, I'm not sure what to think.
"Alright, Haymitch. Let's demonstrate to Katniss how having her lip busted by you could've been prevented."
The older man snorts a little as he takes a step back. He holds his hands up in front of him, palms out.
"Don't worry, boy. Her face'll be back to pretty in no time."
He barely has time to bring his forearm up to block the punch that Peeta throws at his head.
Within seconds, they are engaged in a full blown scuffle. They are pretty evenly matched for the most part, but after a few minutes, their individual advantages are obvious. Haymitch is quicker, despite his age; his opponent's prosthetic leg being a major factor there. Peeta is much more muscular, making the impact of his hits more substantial.
I find myself glad that Prim has already gone inside for the night. I know that if she were to bear witness to what I am, she would beg and plead for them to stop. That's something that I can't do. While I don't want for either of the men in front of me to be hurt, I also sense their current need to let the anger out of their systems.
I've been selfish again, not thinking how Prim and I being sent into the arena will affect those closest to us. Peeta has been on that list of people for years, whereas Haymitch is a much more recent addition. You'd have to be blind not to see how much he adores my little sister, though. I would even dare to go as far as saying that he may have a slight attachment to me as well.
So here they are. A boy who made a promise to make his way back to me, only to find out that he's going to lose me whether he likes it, or not. And a man who has spent his entire life alone, now faced with the prospect of losing part of the patchwork family he's just recently formed.
They've both have been so focused on helping us; pouring all of their time and attention into preparing us. While they both lose themselves in the punches that they're throwing, I can clearly see the inner turmoil they've been experiencing boil to the surface.
The older man has Peeta by the neck of the thin t-shirt that he wears, his jacket laying forgotten on the grass a few feet away. No words are spoken between the two, their eyes and the intensity within them, say more than enough. When he wraps his arms around Haymitch's waist and pushes him to the ground, the sight of his back where his shirt is raised grabs my attention.
The way that his muscles shift and bulge with certain movements causes something to stir inside of me that, given the situation, I almost feel ashamed of. After a few moments of rolling around, neither gaining anything on the other, they finally come to a stop. Both out of breath; they lie on their backs, staring up at the darkening sky. I can't pull my eyes away from the movements of Peeta's chest as it rises and falls. Sweat has dampened his brow and his blond curls are plastered to his forehead.
A tiny bit of blood is trickling its way down from his nose, and he catches my eye as he wipes it away with the back of his hand. My mouth is slightly agape and I swallow hard as he moves to stand up. He gets close enough for me to see how his eyes have darkened and I suddenly feel as if I've just run a mile; my chest moving up and down at a faster pace as my breathing grows ragged.
I bring my hand up to wipe at the blood still smeared underneath his nose. His eyes flutter closed at the contact and my stomach tightens. He lightly grabs my wrist and he begins to swiftly pull me toward the house. As the back door swings closed, I swear that I can hear a loud, dry laugh coming from Haymitch.
As soon as we're inside, Peeta bends down and places a hand behind my knees, scooping me up into his arms. I inhale quickly, his movements taking my breath. The thick, heady smell of the sweat on the skin of his neck fills my nostrils and I'm surprised at how quickly I'm intoxicated by it.
By the time that the fog that's infiltrated my head has cleared, Peeta has climbed the stairs to the second level. He sets me on my feet as soon as we walk through the door to the bedroom. He takes my face into his hands and attacks my lips with a ferocity I've never felt from him before. There's a sting due to my split lip, but I barely notice it at all. I feel the cool, hard wood of the wall against my back as he presses me into, his lips never relenting. It takes me an undetermined amount of time before I realize that I'm returning the kiss with equal enthusiasm, equal need, equal urgency.
I feel his hands slip from my face, making their way down the sides of my neck. He pushes down slightly on my shoulders, causing my hands to drop from their spot, linked behind his neck. His hands continue their journey south, fingers easily forming restraints around my wrists. He places hot, open-mouthed kisses on the side of my neck that cause me to writhe underneath him in a way that would be embarrassing in any other situation. When he gently sucks on my collarbone, the shudder than runs through me is overwhelming. I'm vaguely aware that he's raised my arms above my head, his hands keeping them firmly against the wall.
"Peeta..." My voice comes out in a strangled whisper and he almost growls in response.
He lets go of one of my hands and helps to guide my leg up over his hip. This closeness reminds me of the night of our wedding; the fire in my stomach only magnified by the feel of him, hard and pressed against me. As he slides the collar of my shirt out of the way, placing more kisses and nipping gently at the flesh he uncovers, I experimentally grind my hips against his. I'm unsure of what I'm doing, but I am rewarded with not only a low moan from Peeta's lips, but an unexpected rush of warmth through the very pit of my belly.
He grips my thigh tightly, pressing me even closer against his body. Breathing becomes even more difficult, as if something heavy has been laid on my chest. When he releases the hand still above my head, he pulls my other leg up over his hip as well. I wrap both legs tightly around Peeta's waist and stiffen for a fraction of a second when I feel one of his hands cups itself against the curve of my backside. His lips return to mine though, and I melt back into his embrace instantly.
His strength shouldn't surprise me. Peeta has always been strong, but the way that he traverses the path to the bed, bad leg and all - backward, with me wrapped around him, never breaking our kiss, is nothing short of remarkable to me. He holds me tightly to his chest as he lets himself fall back onto the plush mattress. He rolls us over to where his body is positioned above mine. When he pulls his face back to look at me, the expression on his face, the intensity of it, should make me squirm. It doesn't though, instead giving me a courage that I wasn't even aware that I needed.
My fingers tug at the bottom of his shirt and within seconds, it's tossed somewhere over his shoulder. Despite the number of times I've seen Peeta shirtless, the wide expanse of his bare chest leaves me with an urgent desire to touch it. I bring my hand up in front of me, trailing my palm over the muscles of his chest and then down to his stomach, appreciating the definition of it. I bite my bottom lip and immediately hiss as I realize my mistake. Peeta leans down and places a soft kiss over my injury and his tenderness swiftly becomes my undoing.
Once again, my legs are wrapped around his hips and I pull his torso down so that it covers mine completely. It feels like I'm melting into his kiss. So when his lips finally leave mine, it leaves me feeling cold and empty. My legs fall from behind him, knees bent at his sides, keeping him from rolling away still. I keep my eyes closed, not quite ready to pull myself out of this moment, making the sudden feeling of his lips on the exposed skin of my stomach a shock. I gasp audibly and his fingers roll the fabric of my shirt up just a little farther. He places another kiss on my stomach, following the trail of fire that his fingers are leaving on my skin with each inch they travel upward.
When I feel him remove his lips from my ribcage, hands stilling on their journey, my lids flutter open to look at Peeta. His eyes are lowered to where his fingers currently rest, pushed slightly underneath the rolled up hem of my shirt, just below the curve of my breast. I can feel the slight tremor that's running through them as he looks up at me, as if asking permission. While the Peeta from just a few seconds ago, in charge and urgent, is nice, the one in front of me now, careful and unsure, endears him to me even more.
I lean forward and place my hands over his, quickly bringing their shaking to the stop. As I slowly bring his hands upward, his eyes darken once more and the fervor with which he acted before is back in an instant. He peels the shirt from my body and it joins his somewhere behind him. Within seconds, I find myself lying before him in nothing but an old pair of dirtied and torn pants and a simple, light blue bra. He seems to drink in my form with his eyes and reverently runs his fingers from my shoulders to my hips, brushing the sides of my chest and causing me to sigh.
I should feel uncomfortable. I should be squirming under his gaze, but I'm not. In this moment, everything feels right.
In a sudden moment of bravery, I prop myself up the best that I can, reaching behind my back to undo the clasp of my bra. He unconsciously pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as I slide the straps down my arms. This simple action only adds more fuel to the ever-growing fire that I feel. I throw the garment to the floor and bring him down quickly into another heated kiss. The way that his unclothed chest feels as it presses against mine is more pleasant than I could have ever thought.
His hands, currently cupping my cheeks, move to explore my newly uncovered flesh. I arch into his touch, so familiar yet incredibly foreign in this situation. After a moment, him touching me, though exhilarating, is simply not enough. Through the haze that's clouding my mind, I think to myself that surely I shouldn't be the only one to experience such treatment. Of course, when he moves to roll my nipple in between his thumb and index finger, my mind draws a complete blank. I find myself hissing and pulling his lower lip into my mouth. Gauging my reaction, he takes the other between his fingers and repeats the movement. I break the kiss and lean up to place my lips to his earlobe. His hips buck slightly as I suck on the soft piece of flesh there.
He lowers his head, kissing my neck, my collarbone, and the spot where my sternum dips in between my breasts. Again, I sense that he needs permission, which I give him the best way I know how. I arch my back into him again, our hips flush against each other. As he explores one breast with his mouth, placing soft kisses and gently nibbling at the skin, his hand gently caresses the other.
If it weren't for my skin, smoldering and feeling stretched thin against everything that I'm feeling inside, I'm sure I would fly apart; breaking into a million pieces.
Once I finally feel as if I have control over my limbs, I grip Peeta's side tightly. I move to rake my short nails down his back and he presses himself against me in reward. I'm surprised that my hand doesn't shake as I move it to the zipper of his pants.
"Katniss..."
His voice is rough and more of a whisper than anything else. He lays his head on the juncture between the two sides of my ribcage and I can feel his breath, hot against my stomach. Taking my free hand, I gently push it through his hair. I brush my fingers behind his ear and his exhale on my skin is shaky.
"Peeta..."
My reply comes out in a playful tone that I'm not sure I've ever used before. I can almost sense his smile before he lifts his head to look at me. The look in his eyes is more than I can stand as I continue my movements. He shifts upward and places a kiss on my shoulder as I push the pants over his hips. Curious, I allow the back of my hand to brush the bulge in his underwear. The strangled sound that comes from Peeta's mouth is something that I'm quite sure I'll never forget.
Before I can blink, my pants have followed suit; lying in the unceremonious pile of clothing we've discarded. Peeta wraps his hands around my waist and positions us both to where we're lying on our sides, facing one another. We continue to kiss as his hand snakes around to my back, lying just above the waistband of my underwear. He runs his palm along the curve of my bottom and dips his fingers underneath the elastic just beside my hipbone. The skin there is sensitive and while it doesn't tickle, the sensation is similar. I throw my leg over his thigh and relish in the feel of him pressed against my center.
"Katniss, I...," his eyes are hooded and he has a tiny bit of blood and dirt streaked across his face from earlier. I don't think that I've ever seen him more beautiful. I lean forward to kiss him softly before he continues. "I don't want to do anything that you... that you don't want to..."
I don't know where the courage comes from, but I slide a hand down between our bodies and cup him in my palm. The kisses that I trail from his collarbone to his ear are wet and sloppy. I hook my fingers into the sides of his underwear and start to remove them.
"I want this, Peeta."
He pulls me into a kiss, and then his hands mimic the actions of mine as he slides my panties down my legs. Once we're both naked, laying pressed against each other, he lightly bites my neck and I sigh.
"You are so beautiful," he whispers and then lets out a soft laugh. "God help anyone who dares to knock on that front door."
I smile and wrap my leg over his thigh once more. I want to tell him that if Effie, or anyone, even attempts to interrupt this moment, I'll make them sorry myself. The words get stuck in my throat when I look at him, though. He brushes a strand of hair from my eyes, gently placing it behind my ear. I swallow hard and place my hand over his heart, fingers splayed, as he positions himself at my center.
His eyes bore into mine as he poses a silent question. I lean my forehead against his and nod my assent.
The next few moments are filled with shifting body parts, fumbling on both of our behalves, and ridiculously shy smiles. Our inexperience shines clearly, but we don't let it deter us.
By now, the moon is shining in through the bedroom window. It gives everything in the room a silvery blue sheen, but the blush that covers my neck and chest is still perfectly visible.
Peeta leans his head down to place a kiss against the hot flesh of my neck and I gasp a little as he enters me. He ceases all movement, and looks up at me; asking quietly if I'm okay. I nod and it's the absolute truth when I do. The sensation, though strange and foreign, is not at all unwelcome. The pain that I'm expecting never comes; only a slight uncomfortableness that subsides quickly as I begin to feel myself stretch in order to accommodate him.
Something, I guess instinct, takes over the both of us. Soon, once I'm used to the way that our bodies are connected, our kisses become more frantic. Our touches are hurried, but more careful in a manner that speaks volumes about the way that we feel. He hovers over me now, placing erratic kisses to my temple, my cheeks, my eyelids. His arms are on each side of my head, their muscles taught.
The flame that's burning deep down inside of me is slowly building into what feels like a full-blown wildfire. When I begin to tighten around him, Peeta slips a hand down between our torsos, fingers seeking out the spot where we are connected. The pressure of his thumb sends me completely over the edge; eyes closed so tight that tears leak from their corners. While one hand grips the bedsheets, the other grabs at his back, slipping through the fine layer of sweat that covers his skin.
Less than a minute later, as I'm still coming down from the high that I never knew would feel the way that it felt, Peeta's breathing grows even more labored. I feel the muscles in his back tense and his thrusts become more desperate. He lets out a low moan, immediately biting his lip afterward. As he lowers himself down to where he rests on his elbows, his body sags against mine and I wrap my arms around his back. When he lifts his head to look at me, I tilt my chin up to indicate my want for his lips against mine.
We lay here for who knows how long; our bodies spent and wilted. We don't speak, instead sharing the afterglow of our actions in silence. Peeta takes my hand into his, playing with my fingers and tracing the lines of my palm. I pull his hand away from mine and place a kiss on the underside of his wrist, and he offers me a smile that fills my stomach with butterflies.
It's at that moment that we discover that my stomach is filled with butterflies, but little else. A loud growl cuts through the air, and Peeta raises his eyebrows as he glances down to my midsection. We both start to chuckle at the same time and he rolls away from, leaving me feeling instantly colder. He sits up, grabbing a pair of pajama pants that are lying on the floor near his side of the bed. He turns back to look at me, a smile on his face.
"Not that I want to leave this bed anytime soon, but it sounds like you could use something to eat. "
I roll over onto my side and place my feet on the cold floor below me. Peeta is already half-way to the door when I speak.
"Actually, if you'll just start a fire, I'll get the food. It's freezing in here."
He smiles and nods as he exits the room. After slipping on a robe from the hook over the bathroom door, I do the same. My legs feel like limp noodles and there is a dull ache between them as I take the stairs to the first floor. I briefly stop at the bottom to watch as Peeta begins to coax the fire in the hearth back to life. I smile a little to myself at the shallow scratch marks on his back before I move into the kitchen.
When I see the plate on the countertop near the stove, I know what I have to do.
I watch at the door to the living room until the flames in the fireplace are stable before I enter. Peeta's back is to me, still kneeling as best as he can with his bad leg in front of the blaze. I'm nervous, moreso than the night of our fancy, Capitol wedding. Even moreso than I was upstairs earlier this evening.
I'm thankful for my years in the woods, making my footsteps silent as I approach him. He doesn't turn as I sink to my knees beside him and slide the plate onto the floor in front of us. I watch his face closely as he looks down at the bread that I've provided.
His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't say a word as he lifts the loaf, tearing a large chunk off one side. He holds it out in front of him, my hand shaking slightly as I reach out to place my fingers beside his. Peeta leads our hands closer to the fire and while his gaze is fixed on the bread that we hold, my eyes are trained on his face. His concentration is unwavering and his eyes seem even bluer than usual.
The tips of my fingers grow warmer and Peeta pulls the bread back before it's too hot to bare. It comes back perfectly toasted. As he offers it to me, I take a bite from one end and the fact that this is the same type of bread that he saved my life with all those years ago is not lost on me. He takes the bread into his mouth and we both savor the moment. Once we've finished, he brings his hand up to cup my cheek and my mouth twitches upward into a smile that he instantly duplicates. His eyes shine brightly and, maybe it's just me, but he looks happier than I've ever seen him before.
I'm thinking of that moment, two nights ago. About how perfect it was. About how wonderful it felt to give Peeta that. About how much I wish that life was fair; that it could continue with the same bliss that moment entailed.
A shift from my right foot to my left as I watch the people fall in line around me. Prim is somewhere near the front, with the other 13 year olds. My mother waits on the sidelines, somewhere at the back of the crowd. Haymitch is up on the stage, along with Peeta who I can't bare to look at.
The doors of the Justic Building swing open. Out steps Effie in a powder blue suit that matching her wig perfectly. I watch as she teeters across the stage, and the clacking of her heels actually brings a crooked smirk to my face. She begins her speech, but my attention wavers.
The sun is beating down on top of my head and its blinding light gives me a good excuse to focus on my feet. My hands, clasped behind my back start to sweat and I move to wipe their palms on the skirt of my dress. An eerie silence fills the air, one that I've grown used to over the years. One that signifies the end of Effie's speech and distributes a tension throughout the crowd.
I look up just in time to see her hand dip down into the glass bowl filled with the names of all the girls in District 12. A brief look of pain crosses her face before the Capitol mask re-adheres itself to her features.
Try as she might, though, she's unable to keep her voice from breaking just a little when she says my name.
An audible gasp escapes from the crowd, but I've already taken a step forward before the first syllable even slips from her mouth.
Prim has stepped out into the aisle several yards in front of me. I grip her hand tightly as we mount the stage together. She does not cry. This fact alone almost causes me to do so. She shouldn't have to be put into a situation where she has to be this strong.
I feel Peeta's hand on the small of my back, its warmth searing through the silky fabric of my dress. I look to my right to see his other hand on Prim's shoulder before I turn to look at him. While I am stone-faced and mostly composed, his eyes are rimmed in red and he looks as if he'll fall apart at any moment. I lean back a little against his chest, but know of no way to really comfort him.
I've been so focused on Peeta that Effie's words have become only a faint buzz in the background. When I turn to face the crowd again, my heart drops into my stomach. The boy tribute is making his way toward the front of the assembly; the only one of his siblings within the required Reaping age. I hear a choked cry from Prim's mouth beside me. His older brother's outrage from the rear of the crowd is heard easily and I have to swallow back a sob myself.
Shoulders hunched and eyes glued to his feet, Rory Hawthorne joins us to stand on the cracked and weathered stage.
Author's Note: Hoooo Boy! If there was ever a chapter that I wanted feedback on, this would be it! I was really unsure of myself while writing this one, and would really, really love to know what everyone thought of it!
As always, thanks to everyone that has reviewed, favorited, and put this story on their alert list so far! You have no idea how much it all means to me. :)