Peeta walks me to my room as the train pulls away from District 5. I feel sick. All day I've felt sick, like my bones ache, like my entire core is filled with rot. It's not illness though – it's regret. Grief. Other unnamable emotions that are too complicated to define and too intense to ignore. I want out of this dress. I want out of this Tour. I just want some time alone to think about the red-headed girl from District 5 that we lost in the Arena. The clever girl who should have lived beyond fifteen.
We pause in front of my door.
"You okay?" he asks, leaning against the wall. I'm about to respond when I catch his eyes. The blue is more dull than usual. There's a sadness settled there. I'm not the only one this district messed up. Peeta still feels responsible for Foxface's death.
"I'll be okay," I answer. It's not really a lie. It's not entirely a lie. "You?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Peeta says, clearing his throat and standing up straight, but the cloudiness never leaves his gaze. "I'll see you tomorrow then? Portia said we had one final fitting before Four."
"Yeah, Cinna wants me in the dressing car by nine," I answer. We stand awkwardly until Peeta steps forward and hugs me. I'm not quite sure what to do at first, but he's so warm and the feel of him against me makes the ache just a little less potent. I sink into his chest. His hand travels up and strokes the hair on the back of my head. It lasts longer than it should, yet not long enough. When he finally steps away from me I mirror the action and straighten the collar on my dress.
"Good night, Katniss," Peeta says softly, before turning around and walking back down the hall toward his room.
Inside my compartment, I strip off the party gown and leave it in a careless pile on the floor. I shower until every bit of hair gel and paint and mascara has been purged from my skin. I feel the hurt seeping out of my pores. It leaves its print on the walls, on the mirror, like the steam from the hot water, but more permanent.
I don't even bother with the drying mat. I tie my hair up in wet knot and find a pair of pajamas in the drawer. I have enough pajamas that I could wear a new pair every day of this Tour and never need laundry. At home we sleep in old tee shirts and clothes that don't fit us anymore. Things that are soft from years of wear, not some high-end thread that costs a month's food ration.
I don't even bother trying to sleep. I know that's not a possibility.
Instead I meander down the hall, following the same path I do on each of these nightly rituals. My mind wanders just l like my feet. I see Foxface's family. They looked like they belonged together. Her father had fiery orange-red hair and a beard. He was a big man, but he looked like he was broken and pretending not to be. He held his head high with his jaw was set hard. It made him look stern, but I know how that look feels to wear. He'd clenched together tight so he wouldn't shake, so his jaw doesn't betray the sorrow he was beating back inside him. There was nothing he could do to protect his daughter. There's nothing he can do now to stop the grief. Wrapped in his arms was a petite blonde wife who never stopped crying the whole ceremony and a tiny girl, maybe five, with the same soft red hair Foxface had.
I'm never sleeping tonight.
I eventually make my way to the last car. It's a different place at night. The wilderness is black outside the windows. Occasionally I'll see the fleeting silhouette of a tree against the midnight blue sky, but mostly it's just black on black on black. But I know something it out there. I know we're moving. I can feel it.
That's what I want to do. I want to move. I want to take an unexpected turn in this cyclical torture Snow has us reliving. I want to give Foxface's dad a reason to clench his jaw that doesn't have to do with grief, but defiance. I've been counting the days to District 4.
I hear an uneven movement in the hall. I don't turn around until he's in the doorway.
"Hey," Peeta says softly. He's wearing a white tee shirt and a pair of pajama pants drawn with a string.
"Hey," I answer back, staring into the night.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, and I let out a scoffing kind of laugh.
"Sorry," I mutter.
Peeta doesn't say anything, he just stares out into the night like I am. I turn and look at him. There's something in the way he looks that feels like I'm staring in a mirror.
Regret. He's feeling exactly what I am.
"I just wish we could do more," he says quietly, but I know what he is saying. This game we are playing – placating the districts, calming the storm – he doesn't like it either. He wants to fight back. He feels exactly like I do – trapped.
I want him back. I need him back. I need my friend. Whatever we are to each other, I need it back.
I reach over and weave my fingers in his, tugging him toward me. He sits on the bench beside me. We don't talk. Peeta and I have spent hours talking before, wasted entire nights on superficial words. In this moment, when we have so much to say to one another, we can't talk. We just ride through the night, wishing for things to be different.
"You could sleep if you want," Peeta offers. I look at him, concern etched on his brow. He knows I haven't been sleeping. He's not stupid. I'm clumsy and pale and my eyes have this sunken in look which is no longer able to be hidden by layers of makeup. Yesterday Octavia wanted to inject some liquid from a needle in my skin until Cinna forbade her. But Peeta hasn't been sleeping either. Maybe he hides it better than me, but I know he doesn't sleep when his false leg drags.
"Okay," I respond, dropping my head into his lap. It's only a few minutes before I'm out. Between the days of lost sleep, the peaceful rocking of the train, and the warmth of Peeta's legs, it's not much of a fight. I think I'm out for maybe an hour, but it feels like only moments slip by before I wake gasping for air. I'm like a fish trapped in one of Gale's nets – sucking air uselessly, unable to breathe.
"Hey, you're okay," Peeta says, and the images of Foxface – emaciated and pale with lips stained in blue-black juice – slip away. Peeta's fingers scratch my scalp gently as he whispers quiet assurances.
I sit up, frustrated. Peeta's right here and still a million miles away. This is almost worse than not having him at all.
"I'm going to go to my room," I say, standing up from the bench.
"Katniss–"
"Night," I throw over my shoulder before marching down the hall.
The next morning the train stops for fuel and we empty out onto the tracks. The guards have stopped caring. We always come back. They are just as stir crazy as we are. I'm listening to Haymitch give instructions for District 4. It's our first parade. It's our first career district.
"The speech will be a little different, but just stick to the cards and you'll be fine," he says, handing Peeta and me Effie's revised oration. I stare at the words. More pacification. More appeasing Snow.
"Or?" I ask. Haymitch takes me in.
"Or what?" he retorts.
"What happens if that's not what I say?" I ask.
Haymitch spits on the ground and studies my face. "You want the bad version or the worse version?" he asks, stealing a glance at Peeta and looking back at me.
"Both, I guess," I answer.
"Bad version is Snow kills your little sis. Probably your mom. Definitely me. Makes an example of the Hawthorne boy."
"And the worse version?" I ask, trying to keep my face straight. I can feel Peeta holding his breath next to me.
"District 12 suffers the same fate as District 13," Haymitch answers back. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to sort this out in my head.
"Okay," I say, dejected. I turn to go.
"Katniss?"
I pause, turning back to my mentor.
"The people don't need overt. They don't need you to give them some big speech. They just… they need you," Haymitch says under his breath.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"You'll figure it out," he answers, then crosses in front of Peeta and me and heads back to the train. We stare at each other.
"We'll figure it out," Peeta says, grabbing my hand. I don't know why, but I believe him.
We have our final fittings. We eat dinner. We go our separate ways.
It's nearly two in the morning when there's a knock at my door. I get up from bed and pad over to my door. I open it and find Peeta in the hallway.
"Hi," I say, but I've hardly said that before he's stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, tight. My arms automatically go up and I squeeze him as hard as I can. His arms go slack as he tries to step back from me, but I just hold him tighter. I feel his body laughing lightly against mine.
"I'm staying," Peeta whispers, as if even a few spoken words might wake the rest of the train. I finally let go and look up at him. "Tomorrow's a big day and neither of us have slept in weeks."
Oh. It's… It's practical. He's here because we need to be on our game tomorrow. It makes sense, but I let the hope drain from my veins.
It's as if he can read my mind because Peeta tilts his head a little and meets my eyes. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Nothing about us has ever been practical and neither is this. He leans down and gently brushes his lips against mine. "I want to stay if you'll let me," he breathes. I nod.
He closes the door silently and follows me across the room. It's almost black in the room with the light from the hall penetrating only a thin line under the door.
"Your window's open," Peeta says, feeling the sweep of cold air move across the room. In the way that warm air is heavy, cold air is light. It fills a room with an airy stillness to it.
"I just… got used to it," I say. And it makes me miss you less, but those words stay in my throat. Peeta lifts the heavy quilt and we both crawl under. He finds my hand under the blanket and weaves my fingers in his.
I forgot how good sleep feels.
The next morning, I fidget while Cinna adjusts the long train flowing behind our chariot. I almost feel like we are in the tribute parade against, except this time as Careers. After he makes the final touches, Cinna steps up onto the back of the cart. I twist my body to meet his eyes. Peeta grabs my hand to help me balance, which is difficult enough with the uneven weight distribution of the train and the structure of the dress itself.
"The train comes off after the parade. You'll be able to move again," Cinna winks.
"The cameras love a good transition," Portia adds from the ground.
"You got this. Chin up. Smile, but not that fake one you've been wearing around. Show them you care," Cinna says.
I think back to our arrival just hours before. We got off the train just after dawn. District 4 is unlike anything I've ever seen before. There is sand and rock and plants I'm unfamiliar with. The early mornings in District 12 are completely silent, but it's never quiet here. The ocean waves come and go and talk to you like some constant you didn't know you needed. Even the air smells like sea salt and leaves your skin feeling sheened in ocean. Peeta and I were given an unofficial tour while our garments and other items were moved to the Justice Building. Down by the water, under the crash of the waves, we could finally talk.
"It's breaking you, isn't it?" Peeta asks. I try not to react. I don't want to pique the attention of our guards. "Seeing the families? The people in the districts? It's different than what they show on TV."
The Victory Tour coverage is groomed for mass appeal. I've always known that. The footage in District 12 doesn't show us quietly starving in our homes or dying noisily from black lung. It shows a modest crowd obedient to authority. Occasionally a tour of the mines where we scrounge together enough safety equipment to outfit one or two workers.
I suspected the same would be true of other districts, but the amount of sheer poverty is devastating. It's the children that wreck me, though. That haunt me at night. Little kids afraid of their name being drawn, fearful of a horrific and untimely death, only to find a slower and equally cruel one at home. Gaunt faces and hallowing eyes. Meanwhile the gluttonous live in luxury in the Capitol, reaping district children for entertainment and parading their deaths to reinforce their subjection. The odds are never in our favor.
Peeta and I have seen the real thing now - weeping families, desperate people, a quiet yearning for change, an undertow that maybe we are ready to fight for it.
"It's breaking me," he says softly, his words swallowed by the sea.
"I don't know how to fight back and keep Prim safe," I answer. Peeta thinks for a moment.
"We have to fight back without Snow realizing it," he says.
District 4 is a start to something. We're just not sure what. But it's the first time I've entered a district and something felt right in my heart.
When the chariot pulls us away, crowds of people line the streets. This is a career district, one where the Games are supposed to be celebrated. But the people's idol cheers fall to a beautiful lull as they lay eyes on us.
Peeta's suit is a crisp blue, fitted and shimmering, but the real cause for wonder is my train. It flows behind me, the wind catching the fabric and moving it in mesmerizing ways. Cinna has layered blues and teals and greens. He cut the fabric so it moves like the ocean does. Each piece is edged with an iridescent white satin that curls and retreats until it looks like waves cresting.
The crowd is nearly silent. As a Career district, they are known to fervently honor the glory of the reigning victor, regardless of their district of origin. But there's never been a victor from one district honoring the people of another. The people of District 4 have never seen an outright display of respect and solidarity between two districts the Capitol has worked so carefully to divide and pit against each other. It starts quietly and grows like a wave rushing the shore. By the time we reach the podium, the cheers are deafening. Over in the corner of my eye I can see Effie giving an interview to a camera. I assume Caesar is on the other side. She's doing her part – being flighty and talking about the fashion of it all. Making it out to be nothing more than an opportunity to play with the contrasts of silk and taffeta and nothing to do with a bridge between two peoples.
We give the speech on the cards, but no one could hear our words over the roar of the crowd. When we retreat inside for the banquet, I can't seem to wipe the smile of my face.
"That's what I'm talking about, sweetheart," Haymitch says under his breath as he pretends to hug me. Cinna and Portia are supposed to work my transition, but the reporters have them pinned in a corner with cameras and microphones so numerous I can barely make out their feet. My prep team jumps into action and I feel as though I barely weigh anything once the hefty train is removed.
We do interviews. We accept the district token – a statue of the Cornucopia from our Games shaped from sea glass. Peeta takes it from my hands before I smash it into the ground. By the time the banquet rolls around I'm starving, but when the food arrives I hardly know what to do with any of it. I've eaten fish, yes, and occasionally snails, but all the food here has shells and other seemingly impenetrable armors. Effie comes and steals Peeta for a moment with an important someone or other. I take the tiny fork next to my plate and attempt to stab open some multi-legged sea creature.
"Woah there," I hear from behind me and a man sits in Peeta's seat. He reaches over and starts to take the fork from my hand but I'm immediately on edge. I know an act when I see one. I know a threat. The man senses my muscles tightening and I immediately feel him counter. He forces my wrist to the table but I toss the fork to my other hand and move it toward his throat. I expect some sort of aggression from him, but when I meet his sea green eyes he's smiling brightly. Our faces are barely an inch apart.
"Fiesty," he practically purrs, and I drop the fork and move away from him in my seat. "Oh come on, girl on fire. I was trying to help," he pouts. He takes a knife from my litany of foreign silverware and slides it along the underbelly of the shelled creature. "Look, just take the blade and run it along here until you feel a slight release, and then snap!" It cracks open in his hands and he sets it on my plate. "Here, a peace offering," he smiles, his teeth straight and pearly white against his sun-kissed skin. I scowl before I place him. He's a victor. Finnick Odair. Beloved by the Capitol. I'm sure he has Snow's ear. If I'm going to play up the love story, now's the time.
"You're in Peeta's seat," I say curtly. Finnick slides in closer.
"Am I? I didn't see ole peg leg around," he counters. I can't decide if I should slap him or laugh or flirt or cry. What would a lovesick schoolgirl do? I have no idea. I've never been any good at his. When Finnick sweeps his hand in my hair and presses his cheek to mine, I lean strongly toward hitting him when I hear his voice in my ear, firm and serious with every bit of playful charm evaporated.
"Laugh like I said something funny," he instructs. I'm so surprised I just do as he suggests. "Good. Now look around the room for Peeta. Make it really obvious." As I scan the room for Peeta, his tone grows more serious. "We were really impressed with what you did today, Katniss. We need to meet to discuss next steps. After this, you need to go out into the mezzanine, take the tiled hallway to your left until you reach the flight of marble stairs. Follow those all the way up and you'll find a long hallway with a railing along the right wall. Go three doors down on the right, knock with four quick raps, and wait. Got it?"
"What?" I spit out.
"Got it?" he repeats. I nod. "I'm going to nip your neck now. You need to shove me to the floor. Make a scene about it. You want people to see you are dedicated to Peeta. I'm sure people are watching us by now, right?"
I look around the room and indeed, there are eyes on me everywhere.
"Peeta will follow you out. Wait for him on the stairs. The two of you need to go alone. No one else. Make sure no one is following you. Ready?"
"Why are you –" Before I can finish my sentence I feel his lips suckle my neck and his teeth lightly bite my skin. I shoot to my feet and shove him violently to the ground. Finnick grabs the table cloth on the way down, making a scene out of taking down an entire plate of crab's legs that clatter loudly when the metal platter hits the floor.
"Don't you ever touch me again!" I spit at him. In a last minute moment of improvisation, I grab my wine glass from the table and throw the drink in his face. The purplish red stains his white shirt and he looks up at me in shock, smiling quickly before burying it.
I turn on my heel and storm out of the room. I hear my shoes loudly clicking on the tile floor. I pause on the first step and Peeta comes flying out the door into the mezzanine.
"Katniss?" he calls out. He sees me and I wave him over. He goes to talk but I put my hand to his lips and shake my head. He nods knowingly. His eyes drop to my neck and I suspect Finnick left a mark by the way Peeta's eyes bulge from his head.
"Are you OK?" he mouths.
"Follow me," I whisper, and we head up the stairs.