Um... Hi? Don't hurt me! *Ducks*

Sorry I dropped off, there are a bunch of reasons, but honestly, if I'd really tried I could have gotten this out a week ago. Just lost motivation for a second (Or 3 weeks). I'm going to try and get it back steady. Don't worry, I'm not planning on abandoning this baby.

However, the first week I missed was because of a shit ton of work. It seems like my teachers have decided that we've adjusted to the new year and COVID so it all converged in one week. I spend the entire weekend on one art piece. 12 HOURS. Ughhhhhh. And then a test the next day. And a test the day after that. Safe to say, my teachers aren't going to hold back anymore. So this may happen more often (missing updates), but... 3 weeks? That's just me, not my workload. Sooooo yeah. Sorry. It's just that the whole time in the Captiol is not my favorite to write. Anyway, on with this bit.

PEETA

My feet drag as I walk down the hallway. Haymitch is lounging on one of the couches. He snorts as I walk in. "So, tell me. How long have you been in love with the girl?"

I slump on the chair opposite of him, choosing to stay silent.

"C'mon kid, it's cute. You looked like a lovesick puppy. Too bad she's planning on putting you down." He throws his head back, laughing at his own joke.

My voice is sullen. "What do you want?"

His face changes in an instant, from cynical amusement to deadly serious. "You can't let this get in the way of your survival–it's a weakness. Distance yourself."

What does he know? "I'm not planning on surviving."

There's a moment of silence before he bursts out laughing. You gonna be her knight in shining armor?" He mocks. "You think she'll give her savior a kiss?"

My fists bunch the fabric of my pants. "I'm serious."

"Sure you are, Kid." A condescending smile spreads across his face.

"I am."

"For now, maybe. When there's a knife in your face, you'll understand. You'll realize you want to live."

The sneer makes my face heat up, makes me clench my pants harder. "Live? Like what? I don't see a point in living after the Games."

"Pathetic." He scoffs, "No sense of self-preservation."

I lean forward, no longer trying to conceal my anger. "What life would I live, hmm?" My voice starts to shake. "I couldn't live with myself. Would I go mad like Annie? Would I stay high on Morphling?" My voice turns nasty, "Would I end up a pathetic drunk like you?" I gesture to the lank hair, bloodshot eyes.

His eyes narrow, turning cold. "Didn't you want my help? Not a good way to go about it."

"Help for Katniss." But shit, is he mad? "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. You cope in your way. I just think the best outcome would be for her to win."

He nods slowly. Maybe an acceptance of my apology. It's weird, he seemed truly bothered by the drunk comment. He's infamous for it. Everyone jokes about it. I would have thought he'd be numb to them.

Haymitch takes a deep breath, meeting my eyes. "We'll talk about this in the morning. Think it over."

He stands up, moving to the hall. I can hear his mutter, "What a waste." I don't bother to correct him.

I'm left alone. With the only light coming from the beacons, the garish colors are muted. It's a bit more normal. I close my eyes, trying to imagine I'm back at home–with Rye goofing around, my father laughing quietly. But the armchair is too soft, the air too artificial. Nothing like the combination of yeast and sugar that linger in the bakery's air. I open my eyes, the room warped in my vision.

"Peeta?"

I whip around, tears falling with the movement. It's Portia. I let out a shaky breath. "Yes?"

"You want some air? We can go up to the roof."

I consider it. I should sleep… but there's no way I'll rest with everything on my mind. Maybe it'll help. I nod, standing up.

"Grab a jacket."

There's a coat draped over the couch's arm, a tan and brown plaid. It looks like something Cinna would wear. I put it on, following Portia to a door tucked in the corner. When it opens, I'm immediately cold, even with the extra layer. It's dark and dusty, but doesn't smell as bad as I'd have thought. Portia answers my silent question, "It's for the servants. Avoxes. They're supposed to be seen as little as possible. This is how they get up the floors.

Considering this is the tallest building in the Capitol, I can't imagine walking up here multiple times a day. But no one's here now.

Portia starts up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When the door opens, I breathe in deeply, relishing the open air. It's not the same as District 12: crisp air slightly tainted by the smell of coal. Still, it's better than inside. I open my eyes to see Portia smiling at me. "Sorry," I shift awkwardly, "I just haven't been outside in…"

"It's fine Peeta." She leads me to the garden. "It's just nice to see how much you appreciate things like fresh air."

A joke about the abundance of fresh air in a few days is on the tip of my tongue, but she always seems unhappy at the mention of the Games. Even light-hearted jokes. But I appreciate it; it's better than the Effie, who has a sickening amount of enthusiasm. Portia's reactions warm me.

We walk in silence, winding through the garden. When the path leads out of the greenery, she takes me to the railing.

An involuntary gasp leaves my lips, swallowed by the wind. I'd looked out of the window when we'd first gotten to the apartment, but it's nothing compared to this view. The Capitol is truly alive now. From the roof, people are ants, swirling in the streets–dancing, cheering–undeterred by the night's darkness. The city is lit in colorful lights, giving dramatic shadows and eerie reflections. It's the picture of unrestrained revelry, marred by the fact they're celebrating my fate.

The city is entirely different in the night; the vibrance contrasts with black shadows. Still, I wish I could paint it. I wish I could live to paint it.

"I don't want to die."

Portia turns to me, but I keep staring out, avoiding her eyes. "Then why are you planning on it?"

"Two things," I say, looking over the Capitol, "I couldn't live with myself if I won. It's like my mother said, I've always been too soft." Portia makes a noise of protest. "No, it's true. It's not a bad thing, it means I'm human, caring. But those aren't qualities suited to the Hunger Games."

I face her, bracing for an expression of pity. But it's not there. Instead, that sad smile with soft eyes greets me.

"And the other?"

"Maybe… if Katniss hadn't been reaped, I might've fought. For myself. For the ruin of a life I'd have come back to. But she can make so much more of that life. She's so much stronger than me, has so much more to fight for." I feel my throat start to close. "She's a survivor. She'll make more out of Victory than I ever could. I couldn't–" My voice catches. "I couldn't live with myself, knowing I made it out, while she didn't."

"I don't mean this like Haymitch," she says, shifting closer to me, "but are you sure? You're willing to accept death like this?"

The softly spoken words have no hint of Haymitch's callous condescension. I brace my arms on the railing, considering my answer. "I'm sure right now. I mean, who knows, maybe I'll change my mind in the Arena. But right now, I'm certain. I couldn't live with the weight."

I swallow, trying to down the lump that's formed in my throat, while colorful beacons stretch and blur. Portia's arm winds around me, forcing me to turn and face her. I blink. The tear falls.

And I'm in her arms, clinging to her slim frame. She's barely up to my shoulder, struggling to wrap her arms around me, but still holding me. Holding me together.

The full weight hits me–what's happening.

I'll never wake to the smell of yeast again, never hear Nick lecture Rye again never sketch the sunset never see my father smile–

I'm shaking as I sink to the floor, Portia sitting behind me. I curl in a ball, hiding my face in my knees as she strokes my hair, murmuring nothing of comfort. I try to speak, my voice choked, "I'm sorry–" A garbled noise rises in my throat, cutting me off.

She leans into me. "Don't. Just be here. I've got you."

A loud sob breaks through as she pulls me back to her chest, holding me as if her arms alone will keep me from breaking.

We sit there for a long time. Long enough for the chill of the concrete to seep into my bones, despite Portia's warmth. My head is bowed, pressing my eyes into my knees; the backlog of tears is giving me a headache, clamping down and squeezing my skull. So I straighten, letting the tears flow freely down my cheeks. The violent, wracking sobs have died off, replaced by the silent but steady tears. Portia runs her fingers up and down my back. It's calming.

As we sit there, my breath evens out. Becomes easier. The flood of emotions has drained, leaving me tired. Exhausted.

I shift, struggling to get up with stiff muscles. Portia stands with me, trying to meet my eyes. I avoid them, looking out over the city. It's becoming a theme.

"I'm sorry… I'm not usually like this." My words are spoken to the skyline.

"It's okay," she lightly grips my wrist, "you're not usually in the Hunger Games." She tugs me to the door, sliding her hand down until I'm holding it like a little boy. A kid who's six feet tall.

The walk back is silent except for our footsteps, echoing around the stairwell. The moment the apartment door opens, heat floods through me and I let out a sigh, draping Cinna's coat back on the chair.

Even though I might feel embarrassed by the show of weakness, there was no judgment. Portia's heading down the hallway when I speak, "Thank you."

She looks back and smiles. "Of course."

KATNISS

"Okay," Haymitch claps his hands together, "Game Plan. What can you do?"

I look up from my plate, glancing at Peeta. He jerks his head, so I speak. "I can shoot. Bow and arrows."

He frowns. "Not the knife?"

"Nah, that was mostly luck. I'm best with the bow."

"How good?"

I stare impassively. "Good enough. We don't starve."

Peeta snorts, "Don't be modest." He speaks to Haymitch, ignoring me. "She's great. We buy her squirrels. Clean shot through the eye, every time."

I bite my cheek, choosing to stay silent. I don't know why it bothers me. Haymitch should know. But the pride in his voice makes me uncomfortable.

"And you?"

Peeta makes a noncommittal noise. "I guess I'm strong."

A laugh burst out of me, undeterred by the looks they throw at me. "You guess?" I turn to Haymitch. "He can throw a hundred-pound bag of flour over his head. Easy. He came in second wrestling in our school."

Peeta doesn't respond, looking at me strangely. "What?" I say defensively. "It's true." His face doesn't change. I shift in my seat, stabbing a strawberry on my plate.

I start at Haymitch's loud voice, "Well." He gives Peeta a smirk. "Both of you should hide your strengths. Peeta, no weights. Katniss, no bow. If you say the knife was luck… maybe improve on knife throwing later. You have the base. But for now, stick to survival skills. And both of you stay together the whole time."

Effie's shrill, grating voice annoys me, so I let Peeta talk with her on the way down. He's always been good at that. Being the nice one.

We're about to walk through the training doors when I remember last night. "Hey." I pull him back, trying to figure out my approach. I'll just ask him straight out. Upfront is my style anyway. "What did Haymitch want last night?"

His hand shoots to the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. "Uh… he told me he'd get a letter to my family if I wrote one. Could do the same for you."

I snort. This is not the slick, silver-tongued liar I know. "That's pathetic. Just tell me. And if you don't want to, fine. Just because we're in an alliance doesn't mean we trust each other." Though I thought he would. Peeta's just like that.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. The stylists made it a bit shorter. And his hand is making it stick up. I drag my eyes away. "Just don't take this the wrong way, okay?"

"Not a great way to start."

"He asked if I was sure if I could trust you. Because you're…" He drifts off, gesturing to me. "You're… you know."

"A bitch?"

"No!" He yelps, and I almost laugh. "It's just that… he thought you would be able to work behind my back, and he said that I was, I don't know. Too naive or something. Too nice."

Well, hadn't I just thought that? And does he think I wouldn't work behind him? "Oh. That's it?"

He looks up, surprised. "You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? This is the Hunger Games. He's trying to help both of us, I guess. And he's right, Peeta. You are too nice for this."

"Oh…" He smiles. "Ok."

"But I'm having words with Haymitch. He's messing up all my plans to backstab you."

He lights up, laughing at me. "That's a joke."

"Oh, shut up." But there's no bite to my tone. I open the doors, both of us striding into the training center.

Thank you to I Am Your Tribute, Dancer0109, Fire1, owlthewriter, and a guest for reviewing.

I'm going to do my best to keep up with this story. I apologize in advance, because I'm definitely going to miss one again. But I'll try.