A/N: This one's for you, Hallie! ;)

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Chapter Twenty Three: Birds in the Heavens

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"Should we try and ration it?"

"No, let's just finish it. The groosling's getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoiled food."

Behind us, the broth pot is filling with rainwater, while the plastic sheet deflects the worst of what snakes through the cleft in the rocks away from the bed. Between us sits what's left of our food: two pieces of groosling, some roots, and a small pile of dried apples and pears. Katniss studiously divides this between us, and we eat. I try to savor the food, but my body has other ideas; I feel like an animal, out of control, as my teeth mash the diminutive morsels with voracious vigor, my throat muscles convulsing before I've fully finished chewing. Saliva floods with eagerness to break down the meat and scant produce. It's gone in a matter of minutes.

As I take a sip of water, Katniss says, "Tomorrow's a hunting day."

"I'm afraid I won't be much help with that," I admit. "I've never hunted before."

"I'll kill and you cook," she reasons. "And you can always gather."

I think back to the identification tests I took during training, and grimace. "I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there."

She hums dreamily. "The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm… Here, chew these." She passes me a few mint leaves, popping a few of her own into her mouth. I do the same, crushing the fragrant herbs between my back teeth to release their flavor.

The familiar anthem of Panem begins to play, and we both scoot toward the entrance, careful to stay far back enough not to get wet. Our backs rest against opposite walls, knees bent toward our chests.

"Where did Thresh go?" Katniss asks when it's finished—no faces tonight. "I mean, what's on the far side of the circle?"

"A field. As far as you can see it's full of grasses as high as my shoulders. I don't know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colors. But there are no paths."

"I bet some of them are grain," she ventures. "I bet Thresh knows which ones, too. Did you go in there?"

"No. Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in that grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand. There could be anything in there…"

She gives me a funny look, and then quirks a dark eyebrow. "Maybe there is a bread bush in that field. Maybe that's why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games."

I ponder that, a shiver running up my spine. He was already a giant on day one. "Either that or he's got very generous sponsors. I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread."

This time both eyebrows go up as she grins cheekily and reaches for my hand. "Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," she teases.

I lace my fingers through hers, enjoying the feel of her skin warm just as much as I did it cool. "Yeah, about that… Don't try something like that again."

"Or what?" she challenges.

I make the mistake of meeting her eyes, and her coy smile and batting lashes knock me for a loop. "Or… or… Just give me a minute."

"What's the problem?" she queries, giggling.

"The problem is we're both still alive." No, that didn't come out right. Keep going, maybe you'll loop around. "Which—only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing." There you go.

Her smile fades, her brows pull together. "I did do the right thing."

The alternative images flicker like still frames through my mind—Katniss, dead by Clove's knives or Thresh's stone, lying so still in that wide field by the Cornucopia. The wide claw of the hovercraft descending to pluck her up. Me, coming to alone in this cave, still sick, still dying. And what for? Nothing.

"No!" I nearly shout, disturbed by the imagined, nightmarish pictures. "Just don't, Katniss! Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors. All right?"

She looks alarmed for a second, and then ducks her head to watch our hands. "Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta," she says quietly. "Did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who… who worries about… what it would be like if…"

Once again, I'm thrown for a loop. Except that this time, it's not just her charm or her smile or her silvery eyes that has my heart pounding and my stomach doing backflips. It's the actual possibility of the muddled words she's speaking. Could they be true, the words she's trying to say? I am breathless with anticipation, wanting desperately for her to finish that sentence.

"If what, Katniss?" I duck my head, trying to coax her to meet my eyes, but she refuses, keeping hers fixed stubbornly on the rain outside. I watch her profile shift from puzzlement to shyness to anxiety, and then finally she turns to look at me, her grey eyes wide and vulnerable. I realize with a jolt that she hasn't locked me out, not yet.

"That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," she nearly whispers.

I don't understand the eddying pool of emotion in her eyes. She says this, but I can clearly see the bashful longing there, liquefying the usual titanium of her eyes into something akin to a quiet pond. My heartbeat quickens as I'm reminded of my own evasion earlier, so similarly spoken—using Haymitch as the scapegoat. All of my misgivings burn away in this hard-yet-soft flame of her silver-grey eyes—an inferno and a candle glow in one—and I can't help but find her body language, her signals, an irrefutable answer in and of themselves.

"Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," I whisper, and I kiss her.

Kiss her for real, this time. Noticing how instantly different this is, when I'm fully conscious and able to feel the full shape of her lips on mine—not icy, but instead quite warm, and a little dry. I feel the blood flare into my own lips as my arms wrap around her, pulling her against my chest. Her slim body, though starved from several days without adequate food, is still a woman's body, and I can feel her shape through her t-shirt under her open jacket. Her hands slide up my chest and over my shoulders, making me shiver. She lets out a sort of sigh, her lips parting a little against mine, and in response, my mind goes blank at the taste of her breath. For a single second, we're breathing the same air, and then her tongue brushes my bottom lip. Fire flares through my entire body in response to her moist advance, stirring other responses—private, intimate responses that I don't particularly want the Capitol or even her bearing witness to in this moment. But she's only pressing closer, both her lips closing lusciously over my bottom one, and I want to groan at that delicious sensation, return it with fervor and more. Instead I lean away, pulling in a clean, rain-dampened breath through my nose, and I open my eyes.

I notice two things simultaneously: one, that her bandage is stained crimson again, and no wonder with the way her heart was pounding against mine, and two, that her eyes are still closed, her slightly moistened lips waiting for my return. I can't help my charmed smile, but only kiss her on the nose.

"I think your wound is bleeding again," I tell her. "Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway."

Do I imagine the look of disappointment on her face as she turns away to check her socks?

"You should put your jacket back on," she says as she slides her feet into them, now dry. "It'll be cold tonight."

I do, zipping it.

"I'll take first watch," she volunteers, fishing a pair of night vision glasses out of her pack. "I doubt anyone will come looking for us in this storm, but still…" She squints into the rain.

Better safe than sorry, I think. And then I notice that she's begun to set up shop near the entrance of the cave again, even as I climb into the sleeping bag.

"What are you doing?"

She gives me a confused look. "Taking first watch," she reiterates.

But I can see how hard she's shivering, and despite the line that I know has been crossed tonight, I'm shaking my head. Warmth is far more important than some petty awkwardness between us because of a kiss that went a little too far. I unzip my jacket and start to take it off.

"Then you take my jacket; if you insist on sitting over there, you'll need the extra layer."

"Are you crazy?" she huffs. "You need—"

I'm holding the jacket out to her, and already I can feel the damp coldness slicing right to my bones. "Then get over here," I say. "There's no point in arguing; we can both see the logic. You can keep watch just as easily from the sleeping bag, and we'll both be warm that way."

She sighs. "Fine. Put your jacket back on before you get another fever."

I do, and she crawls into the bag with me. Our combined body heat fills the space quickly, and already I can feel her tremors begin to slow. I gently push her head down onto my arm and settle the other over top of her, pulling her tight against me, comforted by her proximity, the simple heat of her body next to mine. Within a matter of seconds, I've drifted off.

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It feels as if I've just barely gone under when she's shaking me awake again, apologizing for being unable to keep her eyes open.

"No problem," I tell her, because it really isn't.

"Tomorrow, when it's dry, I'll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace," she mumbles before her eyes fall shut.

But I can't imagine finding any sort of peace perched eighty feet high in a tree like she can. Anyway, I'm saved from having to figure that out, because the next day is no drier than the last. By the time morning rolls around and what can pass as the sunrise occurs, Katniss is awake and both of our stomachs are growling. We drink water and try to ignore it, but by the time midday comes around, I've decided to go find something to eat, rain or no rain.

"It would be pointless, Peeta," Katniss says, "You wouldn't be able to see three feet in front of your face—and you'll just get soaked anyway."

"Yeah, you're right," I say, sighing. My stomach gives another painful pinch of complaint.

"This can't last forever," she says. "The audience will be getting bored soon. I'm going to take a nap."

She curls up against me, her head on my arm and her hip pressed against my right leg. Again, I stroke her hair, coming rapidly loose from its ties, away from her forehead until she falls asleep.

We switch off like this for much of the afternoon, and I find myself hoping the others are doing something more entertaining than we are, because it's only a matter of time before they pull us all together again—whether it's by way of flood or otherwise.

It's evening by the time we find something real to talk about, sitting close to the mouth of the cave so we can watch the rain, but far enough back to stay dry, the same way we did last night—backs against opposite walls, facing each other.

Finally she says, casually, "Peeta? You said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever… When did forever start?"

Haven't I waited long enough? Haven't there been enough near misses? So I plunge ahead, adopting her casual tone automatically. "Oh, let's see… I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair… it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up."

"Your father?" This seems to throw her. "Why?"

I wonder how this will make him feel, my sharing this story, or if it will cause an argument between him and my mother—but I continue anyway. Now that I've started, I can't stop. "He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.'"

Her face flushes in both surprise and embarrassment. "What?! You're making that up!"

"No, true story. And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen.'"

Her face goes completely blank for a moment. And then, slowly, a look of wonderment lights up her eyes. "That's true," she murmurs. "They do. I mean, they did."

"So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air," I recall, laughing a little at the memory—her small hand, her bright eyes. It was a rhetorical expression, of course. Every one of us knew the valley song. All our parents used to sing it to us as babies, toddlers, maybe still sang us to sleep on the gentle tides of its lyrics. "She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear," I say, lifting my head to look into her eyes, "every bird outside the windows fell silent."

For a moment, I'm lost in the memory of it. Katniss, standing there on that stool, her sweet voice filling the room…

Down in the valley… The valley so low

Late in the evening, hear the train blow

Those first lines had left the impression of a brick bashed over one's head, though no pain accompanied the sensation. I remember sitting there on the carpet, dizzy and bewildered, staring up at the tiny, dark-haired girl with the angel's voice, thinking she must have cast some sort of spell over me with her song. Of course I'd heard the valley song before. It was a popular lullaby, sung all over our district, but never before had I heard it like this.

"Oh, please." She flushes pink.

"No, it happened," I promise. "And right when your song ended, I knew—just like your mother—I was a goner…"

I hold her eyes, just for an instant, remembering those final, sweetest of lyrics.

Roses are red, violets are blue

Birds in the heavens know I love you…

"Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you."

"Without success," she teases.

"Without success," I agree, chuckling. "So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck."

I watch the emotions play across her face: first that look of wonderment, and then the slower dawning of bashful bewilderment. Finally she says, slowly, "You have a… remarkable memory."

"I remember everything about you," I say, and lean forward to tuck an escaped tendril of dark hair behind her ear, not wanting to miss a single shift of emotion in those limpid silver eyes. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention."

Those eyes, wide and vulnerable, are fixed unerringly on mine. "I am now," she whispers.

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure she can hear it, hope rising steadily within me like quick bread. I want to wrap my arms around her, sweep her to me and kiss her like there's no tomorrow—because, really, there might not be, and it seems like under these most impossible of circumstances, every dream I've ever had since I was five-years-old is actually coming true. So I don't know why I say it, but the words are already past my lips: "Well, I don't have much competition here."

But unbelievably, she doesn't take the out—and I feel like the luckiest guy in the whole of Panem as she gulps once and breathes, "You don't have much competition anywhere."

She closes the distance between us this time, laying her lips on mine—and whatever inferno I thought I felt before was nothing compared to this. That was a spark compared to the blaze that has ignited every nerve ending in my body now, and my soul is screaming with celebration, my heart ringing one continuous note; I've completely forgotten about Cato and Thresh and the Games, about all possible threat—and then there's a sudden, jarring thump, right outside the cave.