"There is no greater threat to the critics and cynics and fearmongers than those of us who are willing to fall because we have learned how to rise"

~Brené Brown, Rising Strong

When I go back to my own floor I find Derek waiting for me. He isn't as upset as before, but I can tell he's still mad. He gives me ice and orders me to hold it to my face, which I do. As much as it hurts, there's no lasting burn on my hand from the coffee, just an angry red mark that will likely fade within two weeks or so. Derek shakes his head and mutters under his breath, though I only catch the word "stupid" as he tends to my face.

I crawl into bed for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Finnick shows up just before dinner, food in hand which, as much as I hate to admit it, I'm grateful for. We only keep the Games on long enough to watch his female tribute earn herself a vicious stab wound to the leg; but she's still alive. From then on we keep the TV turned off. Derek shows up in my doorway just as the sun begins to dip in the sky. He looks between Finnick and I, clearly uncomfortable with his presence.

"What? Did you finally find the courage to come lecture me?" I spit.

"An avox brought this for you" he sighs, holding up a small, white paper, his eyes exhausted but steady.

"I don't wan-"

"Just take it."

I swallow heavily, staring at Derek with fire. Keeping my face relaxed, I rise to my feet and pull the paper from his hand. I don't even bother to open it. I rip it once, then again, and another time before throwing it to the floor at his feet. "They're gone. And I'm done."

I push the door closed in his face.

There's goosebumps over my arms but I don't reach for the blankets wrapped around my waist. Clouds rolled in sometime early in the morning, making everything darker and so much easier to think about. And yet, all that comes to mind is Snow's letter, in shreds on my bedroom floor. He has nothing against me. Nothing worse than what he's already taken.

My fingers reach towards my throat, where the small charms rest against the nape of my neck. I've lost everything thanks to him.

"What?" a soft, tired voice asks beside me. Hands, gentle and revolting touch the skin of my shoulder. "You haven't blinked."

I move my eyes slowly towards the stranger beside me. "Nothing."

He shifts, letting go of my shoulder to sit up in the enormous bed. He doesn't say anything, just looks down at me with eyes that look deceptively concerned.

I feel myself sit up before I'm fully aware I'm doing it. My hair falls into my face as I pull my knees towards my chest. "It doesn't matter to you" I mumble, looking back towards the peaceful morning outside the grand windows.

"It might" he says with the inflection of a parent talking to a child.

"It doesn't." I close my eyes for a brief moment and I swear I can almost see their faces in my eyelids. "Nothing matters to you people."

He laughs, "you think?"

"Yes." He shrugs in response, turning his face away from me.

Gritting my teeth, I sit up, swinging my legs out of the bed. The movement is enough to catch the man's attention once again. He watches me get to my feet and I have to force myself not to try to cover myself. He sits up, cocking an eyebrow when I grab my dress.

"Going somewhere?" he asks.

I pause, considering him briefly. "I thought we were done here" I growl condescendingly, rolling my eyes.

He pauses but gives a small nod, lying back down. Holding back the urge to scream, I dress quickly, yearning to get as far away as possible.

As usual, a car is waiting for me to take me back to the training center. My eyes are hot with exhaustion and I nearly doze on the drive. But as soon as I get back, I'm jolted awake and burst from the car. On the ride up the elevator, I lean against the wall, arms crossed in front of me. I need a shower; I can't help but think.

Stepping off the elevator, I immediately hesitate. Three men sit lounged on the couches, the room reeking of liquor. Derek I know, Haymitch I recognize, but the third one I have to stare at for some time before I can place him. Porter I think his name is, an old Victor from 5. I've never seen him with Derek, or Haymitch, but based on the drunk smile on his face, he clearly fits right in.

"The princess returns" Haymitch screeches, making me roll my eyes. I flash him an obscene gesture, moving just close enough to snatch one of the small pastries off the plate in the center of the table. My hand is still red and tender from the burn.

"What are you louts doing here?" I grumble, rolling the pastry in my hand, decidedly not hungry.

"Nothing left upstairs" Derek groans, hoisting up the bottle of liquor in his hand like I couldn't see it before. The comment sets both Haymitch and Porter into fits of laughter.

I make a face, glancing down the dark hallway to my bedroom. "Of course not."

Haymitch lets out a loud burst of laughter, making me look at him. He looks straight back at me, his cheeks flushed pink. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We can share." He holds out his hand to me, offering it, but I just stare at it, like it might bite me.

When I shake my head, Haymitch drops his hand with a huff. Derek leans forward, having to grip the edge of the chair to stay steady. "Come on, Johanna" he stutters, "sit down. What harm will it do?"

I tighten my jaw, pressing my thumb against the pad of my hand. Once more, I look down the dark hall. I can almost see the shapes waiting for me, ready to attack me the moment my eyes close. But I'm tired. I shouldn't. I shake my head once, taking a step away but a hand snakes out grabbing my arm just below the elbow.

I jerk around, adrenalin spiking in my veins, but, of all people, it's Porter, the newcomer. I glare at him, feeling his fingers tight around me. "Come on" he says with an oddly friendly smile. He must be about the same age as Derek, but he looks younger than my mentor, and there's something in his eyes that, even when highly drunk, is friendly. "I haven't had the honor of meeting the famous Johanna Mason."

Despite the exhaustion gnawing at me, I already know I'm going to give in. Pursing my lips, I search for an excuse, but I can't find one. Sighing, I rip my arm from his, shooting him a glare, but I don't move away. "What is it they say?" I ask, "if you can't beat them, join them?"

All three of them let out sounds of victory and I sink into the only unoccupied couch, accepting the glass Derek offers me. We don't talk much, mostly because the others don't take long to pass the point of any coherent conversation.

Only when my eyelids droop and I'm comfortably warm and have forgotten the feeling of needing to peel my skin of my bones, do I get to my feet. I'm not even half as drunk as the others, but I sway dangerously with the sudden movement.

Haymitch has his head leaned back against the couch, his eyes closed. The only one who shows any life is Derek, who's eyes twitch open. He doesn't say a word as I totter away, stumbling into my bed. Even with my head swimming I wonder what it was that drove him to Haymitch tonight. What kind of pain was he feeling? I know I had little choice, but I wish I had been here.