A/N: Well, this is it, guys! Thank you so much for your support through this whole thing. I've loved hearing your feedback and your opinions by way of your reviews. I can't believe we've finally reached the end! To be honest, I've been delaying putting this up, because I just don't want it to end! Also, I struggled a lot with this last chapter—and particularly the big scene at the end. You know the one. I think I just really wanted to do it justice, but also kind of delve into Peeta's thoughts. And everything just felt kind of… I don't know, rushed, at the end of Hunger Games? That's why these last couple of chapters have been split up so weird… But anyway. I'm rambling now. Please, please let me know what you think of this last chapter, and of the whole book as a whole. I've loved getting to know you all!

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Chapter Twenty Nine: Revelations

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I'm woken a few hours later, dolled up, gelled and sprayed once again, and then helped into a creamy white suit worn over a silky red shirt. It's not what I would go for personally, but Portia knows best, I guess.

When I walk into the sitting room where the interview is to occur, I see the place transformed. The plush loveseat from the stage last night has been moved in, fringed by large vases of red and pink roses. Very romantic. Katniss is already there, talking to Caesar, resplendent in a long, gossamer white gown and pink shoes, her hair in loose curls down her back. Her lips are the exact same shade of pink as the roses, her cheeks just touched with blush. She looks feminine and youthful and very… Sweet.

I take her aside while Caesar is distracted by the director.

"I hardly get to see you," I tell her quietly, anxiously. "Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart."

I want to tell her about my locked door, about the anxiety that's been eating at my stomach like a small ulcer ever since I woke up, thinking there has to be more to this than the adults simply wanting us to get some sleep. Is it the fact that they don't want us congratulating each other over our cooperative win? Is it that they don't want us speaking of certain things exchanged between us in the arena while we're in the Capitol, where there might be spies or cameras in any given place? I've considered all of these things, and still can't come up with a good answer.

But as I say this, there's a flicker of something across her face, and I think, She knows something that I don't.

But all she says is, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately."

Responsible. An odd choice of words for Katniss in reference to Haymitch… I try to think of a way to reassure her. We're still on the same team, aren't we? If she's keeping something from me, maybe she feels like she can't divulge that information because she's worried we'll be overheard.

"Well," I say softly, squeezing her fingers in what I hope she takes as comfort, the way I hoped so many days ago, the day we were both called as tributes. "There's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time."

She gives me a quavering smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, but I can't ask her anymore covert questions, because we're being summoned now. We sit side by side on the plush loveseat, holding hands.

"Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want," Caesar says fondly. "It looked very sweet."

She does, and I tuck her into my side. Then, before I can blink, we're live, and Caesar's off.

"Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen—victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games! I am so pleased to be able to have this opportunity to sit down and speak privately with the two of you!"

Privately, I think. Like we're not live on the air right now, the whole of Panem watching every time we blink. "Thank you," I say. "It's nice to see you again, too, Caesar."

He grins. "So, Peeta—did you notice the décor?"

I glance over my shoulder, and then I have to laugh. "Oh—the roses! What, do I smell that bad still? I swear I've had at least two showers and a sponge bath since I left the arena."

Caesar chuckles bawdily. "Oh, Peeta, you slay me!" I try not to flinch at the ill-chosen words. "You did spend quite a bit of time in the mud, though. That couldn't have been a pleasant situation to behold, am I right, Katniss?"

She smiles tightly. "I got him cleaned up the best I could."

"You certainly did much better than I could have," he says. "Speaking of water, my dear, I can't even begin to tell you what a sigh of relief was heard across Panem when you finally located that stream!" He clutches his chest, as if the mere memory causes him chest pains.

"Yeah, I was pretty happy to find it, too."

"You were a very lucky girl," he tells her. "And quite the bit of foresight on your part, Peeta, for finding water, yourself, before you collapsed under the heaviest influence of the tracker jacker venom. Can you tell us how you managed that? I hear it throws you for quite a loop."

I don't particularly want to look back on the horrifying nightmares, so I just say, "I think it was more instinct than anything that led me to the stream."

"And good thing those caves were so close," he adds now. "With your wound, I think you two were lucky you got that far and were able to hide. What a riveting climb that was to watch!"

At the same time that Katniss says, "Peeta had a lot more strength in him than it looked" I say, "Katniss was doing most of the work."

Caesar laughs and clucks his tongue affectionately at us. "Look at you two, giving each other all the credit," he teases. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?"

Our days, I think—as if those private moments between Katniss and I do not belong to only the two of us. Perhaps they don't.

"From the moment I laid eyes on her," I say now, glancing down at Katniss. I find her face already turned up to mine, and we exchange a soft smile.

"But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with Peeta?"

I glance down at her, as eager as Caesar to find out the answer to this question.

"Oh, that's a hard one," she says, giving a small, embarrassed laugh. Her eyes are fixed on her hands, folded in her lap.

"Well, I know when it hit me," Caesar jumps in after a long moment. "The night when you shouted out his name from that tree."

Katniss glances up at him. "Yes, I guess that was it," she says thoughtfully. "I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed."

I ponder this, her standoffishness in the beginning, her fleeting smiles and the just as sudden frowns. The Don't lets pretend… Her anger over my declaration during the interview, her confusion during our conversation later that same night. Those long moments of puzzlement in the cave… And then all the moments in between and since: that first real kiss, There's no competition anywhere, her gut-wrenching fear in the hover plane…

"Why do you think that was?" he's asking her now.

"Maybe… because for the first time… there was a chance I could keep him."

My heart does a backflip, and I think my smile must just about split my face in two. I press my forehead to her temple and murmur, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

She turns so that our foreheads are pressed together, our eyes just inches apart. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt."

It just seems like the right thing to do to kiss her right then and there.

"And—my goodness!" Caesar says after a moment. "All the injuries you did come by! Peeta, you took quite a beating during the bloodbath with the damage to your face and that slice to your arm. And then, of course, the burns you sustained from that ingenious wall of fire, Katniss—that just looked excruciating!" He continues down the list—our stings, our lacerations, our ailments. "And those mutts on the final night!"

I feel my entire body go stiff, and have to work to keep my expression genial.

"I've never seen anything so powerful, so beastly. Such innovation! A thing of nightmares!"

Caesar is waiting for a reaction from us, but all I can do is nod grimly.

"Tell me Peeta, how is your new leg working out?" Caesar queries sympathetically.

Now it's Katniss's turn to go rigid against me, and I realize with a coinciding sense of castigation and frustration that there's no way she would know about this, because I never got the chance to tell her, not a single second of privacy.

"New leg?" she asks, and leans forward to tug the hem of my pant leg up, revealing the shiny mechanical contraption that has replaced my shin, ankle and foot. I feel my face burn with humiliation and shame as she does so—not specifically because she's putting my amputation on show for the whole of Panem to see, but because I'm so afraid of what her reaction alone will be—and even worse, that it will be forever ingrained on some interview tape for all future generations to watch over and over again. Oh, look at her disgust… That's when she fell out of love with him all over again…

"Oh, no," she says quietly in my ear.

"No one told you?" Caesar asks her gently.

Very carefully, she fixes the pant leg and sits up, shaking her head.

"I haven't had the chance," I explain. And it suddenly occurs to me that, not only have I not had the chance to tell Katniss of my amputation, but this may be the very first time my family and friends at home are learning about it as well. There is a sudden swell of anger and despair and humiliation that rises like a wave in my chest; I am suddenly so ready for this interview to be over.

"It's my fault," she murmurs, and although her voice is nearly inaudible, the level of self-loathing and guilt might as well be earthshattering. "Because I used that tourniquet."

"Yes," I snap, irked even further by her ludicrous, ill-placed onus. "It's your fault I'm alive."

"He's right," reinforces Caesar. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it."

Didn't I anyway? Hadn't they been required to restart my heart, twice? Now Katniss meets my eyes, hers sparkling with unshed tears, and then she buries her face against my chest. I wish I could do the same, hide from Caesar's questions and refuse to come out—but we're still live, and someone has to finish the interview. So I rub her back soothingly while Caesar asks some easier dealt with questions, for the both of us. It's only a couple minutes later that she re-emerges, but stays close. And then the questions ramp up again, the room growing thick and heavy with the smell of blood as Caesar brings up Cato, how it felt to listen to him die, to hear Claudius's final, unanticipated announcement. My stomach seems to fill with lead, the metallic tang thickening in my throat like bile, as Caesar goes on speaking. I see several faces beyond the cameras darken.

"Yes, that was… Quite a surprise," I say, very, very aware of the rigid atmosphere.

Then he turns back to the girl next to me. "Katniss, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask… The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind… hmm?"

She pauses for a long moment, and I catch sight of Haymitch beyond the furthest camera to the right, his bright Seam eyes focused sharply on her. I've never seen him look at her in that way, so desperately focused.

He knows, I realize. He knows, and she knows, but I don't know…

I find myself recalling that look she had in her eyes in the moment leading up to our victory, as she drew the berries from the pouch on her belt—that fierce, magnificent, inflexible expression… That infallible fire in her eyes… And those words, those words that had so clearly been meant for only me to hear—"Trust me." It's clear, whatever provocations she had for pulling those berries out, whether she intended to eat them in the end or not—the Capitol was not meant to be privy to the motivations behind them.

"I don't know," she finally whispers, "I just… couldn't bear the thought of… being without him…"

I see the moment when that desperate fear falls off Haymitch's face, and I feel my eyes narrow suspiciously in his direction. But he's not watching me; he's turned away, his shoulders slumped in relief.

"Peeta?" Caesar's saying. "Anything to add?"

"No. I think that goes for both of us."

.

"I suppose we'll see you in only a few months' time," Portia says as she squeezes me goodbye at the train station. We only have a few minutes to say our farewells before we board the train that will take us home, and my mind is racing with the pure enormity of it all.

There are tears in my stylist's eyes as she pulls out of the embrace, and I laugh a little. "It'll be no time at all," I assure her.

In a matter of months, we'll all be reunited to visit the districts for what's called the Victory Tour, where we'll be required to give a speech at each stop, be inundated with gifts, plaques and parties thrown in our honour. My words to Portia convey one thing, but truthfully, the event feels miles away from the immediacy of our homecoming. I'm too caught up with the thought of seeing my family and friends again, with the thought of Katniss being reunited with hers, and—maybe most importantly of all—what this will mean for the two of us. Very soon, the pressure of the media and cameras will be released from our shoulders and we will be left to define what it is between us. Now, more than ever, I'm eager to speak to her alone, to kiss her for real, with no one watching, for no one's agenda but our own. Not to have to speak for an audience or an interviewer but only for each other.

There isn't a chance for this until a little while after dinner, once we've all watched a replay of the interview. When the train makes a brief stop to refuel, I ask her if she'd like to go for a walk along the tracks. She agrees, quiet and introspective—most likely preoccupied by thoughts of home and her family, I think. Feeling sentimental and sanguine, I stoop to gather a bundle of wildflowers for her. It's only as I place them in her hands that I see the flicker of anxiety cross her features.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she answers, unconvincingly.

I give her a minute to gather her thoughts as we continue to pace along the tracks, wondering if she'll maintain the openness between us from while we were in the cave. But she doesn't say anything more, and I find myself trying to come up with the right words to convey how I feel about her, about how I want things to continue after we get home. At the same time, something apprehensive and premonitory is stirring up inside my gut. Why is she so worried? What has her so quiet and shuttered, all of a sudden? Shouldn't she be peaceful and optimistic, now that the Games are behind us?

Haymitch hops off the train and walks over to us, laying a hand on each of our shoulders. "Great job, you two," he says quietly. "Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay."

I watch, speechless, as he turns his back on us and heads back towards the train. Still, as he disappears, I struggle to understand the implication of his words. I look at Katniss, but she's still got her eyes fixed on the train.

"What's he mean?" I demand, my giddiness steadily fading, replaced by rapidly growing dread.

"I-it's the Capitol," she finally says. "They didn't like our stunt with the berries."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"It seemed too rebellious," she goes on. "So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse."

"Coaching you?" I think over her actions from the last forty-eight hours or so. Flying across the stage to me, unrelenting with her kisses until Haymitch separated us. Curling against me during the interviews, even the ebb and flow of her answers during our interview with Caesar—her reaction to my amputation? Was that all 'coached' by Haymitch? "But not me."

"He knew you were smart enough to get it right."

Smart enough to get it right… Or just stupid enough to miss all the red flags.

"I didn't know there was anything to get right." My voice sounds quiet and hollow, stunned. And then it hits me like a punch in the gut—if he's been coaching her through the past couple of days, who's to say he wasn't coaching her through her entire time in the arena? Telling her what to say, how to react? It was obvious the two of them worked out the sugar berry thing together… Who's to say they didn't work out all the rest? The kisses, the nursing me back to health, her declarations of affection? I was too weak at first to see it, too blinded by the impending shadow of death and then by her charm and her physical affection. But now… Now.

"So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess… back in the arena… that was just some strategy you two worked out."

"N-no!" she stammers, and her eyes are big and frantic. "I mean, I-I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?"

I'm drawing steady conclusions now—unable to see how unbelievably stupid I have been. "But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" I say slowly.

She bites her lip, not answering.

"Katniss?" Still, she doesn't answer, and I drop her hand as the full realization hits me. No longer a punch in the gut, now it's a sword to the leg, muttation teeth sinking into my ghost limb and twisting. It's like poison is eating its way through my veins, slow and agonizing. "It was all for the Games. How you acted."

"Not all of it," she protests.

Not all of it.

"Then how much?" I ask, foolishly clinging to the shred of hope her hesitation provides. Quickly, I change my mind. "No, forget that. I guess the real question is: what's going to be left when we get home?"

She hesitates, stares up at me with eyes so wide and silver and entirely, unexpectedly vulnerable in this moment, that I find myself still hopelessly, idiotically drawn to her.

"I don't know," she admits. "The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get…"

I wait for more, for a better explanation than that, because there has to be a better explanation than that, but she doesn't say anything else. After all that we've been through, that's all she has to say to me. There are a million things I want to say to her, a thousand things I want to ask. But they'll only confuse both of us further.

I try to sound emotionless as I say, "Well, let me know when you work it out."

I leave her alone on the tracks, ignoring Effie's questions as I climb back into the train, ignoring Haymitch's pitiable grey Seam eyes, and lock myself in my room. I stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to make sense of the torrid emotions in my chest—betrayal, anger, sadness, shock, pain. Surprisingly, no tears are forthcoming, and I wonder if that's because there's too much to sort through right now, clogging things up, or if it's some worrying by-product of my trauma from the Games. I used to cry a whole lot more before.

Hours later, in the dim light of pre-dawn, I'm woken by nightmares—Finch, her ghostly form chasing me through the woods, shrieking at me, demanding to know why I poisoned her; Coral, begging me to save her from the tracker jackers; Katniss, staring me down with her bow and arrow, unflinching as she fires off the arrow, aimed directly for my heart, the distant howls of the wolf mutts. I wake suddenly, paralyzed with fear for a long few moments, unable to move and drenched in sweat. It's terrifying, more horrifying than the nightmares. I can't move, I can't move!

I want to scream, shout out for someone to help me, but my vocal chords seem to be paralyzed, too. Even my terrified tears seem to freeze in the corners of my eyes. My breath sounds ragged and ugly in my ears as I stare at the train car ceiling, trying desperately to sit up, roll over, anything. Strange grunts slide between my locked teeth, not quite sobs, not quite screams.

I don't know how long it is before my blood seems to be able to flow again, and life comes back into my three remaining limbs. When it does, I curl onto my side and finally, finally, begin to sob.

.

When we pull into the station a few hours later, I've come to no conclusions about how I feel about Katniss's betrayal except that I know I need to abide by Haymitch's words. All my former good feelings about the man are gone. Why couldn't he have waited until the celebrations were over, until the cameras were gone, to drop this bomb?

But I still have a job to do, so I go to join Katniss as we pull into the station, give her a polite nod, and extend my hand toward her.

"One more time? For the audience?" Because that's all it ever was for, after all.

She gives a small nod and reaches out, her fingers entwining with mine—and I fight down the thump of my heart, knowing that this will never be, because it never was in the first place.

END OF BOOK ONE