The world was on fire and

No one could save me

But you

The deep, red marks burn into the surface of Peeta's skin from his shoulders to his tailbone. He twists in the bathroom mirror to examine the damage. Blood tickles from spots where the wound is deeper. He grimaces, pulling air in through his teeth. He reaches a hand behind his back to catch the thin trail of blood.

"Let me," Finnick says, entering the bathroom and taking the cloth from Peeta's hand. He dabs at the wounds to clean them and applies the healing ointment. "I wouldn't put a shirt on until you have to that way the ointment has a chance to work. Otherwise, you'll just end up with blood on your clothes. The prep team will be here in a few hours, that should be enough time."

He steps away, following Peeta through the apartment and into the kitchen. There's an assortment of breakfast foods on the table that Finnick must have taken the liberty of ordering. Peeta grabs a plate and piles on a pastry, bacon, and eggs. He's not hungry, but he knows he needs to eat something. He's been out all night and he has an interview with Caesar Flickerman later this afternoon. All the victors do. They are filming a special looking back on the history of the Hunger Games. This year is the Quarter Quell and the Capitol is in a frenzy with excitement. He sits, making sure not to let his back touch the chair. Finnick quirks an eyebrow, looking at Peeta pointedly over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I'll give you two guesses, but you'll only need one," Peeta says between bites of his pastry. It's dry and not as buttery as the ones he makes, but he hasn't felt like baking in so long.

Finnick smirks.

"Prudence Badrani," they say in unison.

Finnick scoffs, shaking his head. "I should've known as soon as I saw your back. She always likes to leave a mark. I think she has her nails sharpened just for that purpose. And with a name like Prudence." He rolls his eyes.

Peeta chuckles a little as he swallows his food. He looks at his friend. Watches the way Finnick's eyes scan the paper in front of him and the way the corner of his mouth pulls down when he reads something he doesn't like. Peeta wonders what will happen to Finnick once he's gone. He hopes that he's not his only friend. He knows that Finnick gets along well with the other victors that also work for Snow, although he doesn't seem particularly close to any of them.

He must have other people and a life in Four that Peeta knows nothing about. Finnick doesn't talk about home. He told Peeta once that he likes to keep it completely separate from the Capitol, that it's the only way he can live with what he has to do. "Maybe you'll get a chance to visit sometime," Finnick said one night while they were drinking. "I'll take you out on my boat." Peeta wondered what it would be like to be on a boat, to be surrounded by that much water, to watch the sun melt into the horizon, the colors bleeding out to the furthest reaches of the water's edge.

He's thought it through. This will be the last interview he'll give, his last chance to make the Games mean something. There will be a price to pay of course, and he hopes that his family will understand. He smiles at Portia as she smooths the shoulders of his suit jacket and fusses with his hair. He hopes his defiance won't be taken out on her. She's been kind to him, listened to him, wiped his tears away as he sobbed. She doesn't deserve retribution for his recklessness.

She pats his arm tenderly, slipping a small white envelope in his hand, and hurries off from the backstage area to her seat in the crowd. He opens the envelope, glancing quickly at the contents before stuffing it in his pocket. Haymitch ambles up beside him looking incredibly handsome in his dark gray suit and like a whole other person from the vomit-covered, drunken mess that Peeta and Finnick pulled off of the bathroom floor earlier that afternoon. Haymitch's fingers fidget, loosening the tie around his neck. He's set to go on stage after Peeta. This special will mainly focus on him; the victor of the last Quarter Quell.

The two men stand side-by-side quietly listening to Caesar interview Enobaria, the victor of the 62nd Hunger Games. As the interview wraps up, Haymitch grabs Peeta by the wrist.

"They might own your body, but they don't own your heart or your mind," Haymitch whispers. "You're still you. Deep down. You're still the boy who snuck cookies to Seam kids when his mother wasn't looking. You're still the boy who apologized to Cato. You're still the boy who held Rue as she died. Remember that. Make sure they remember it too."

Peeta gapes at him, but Haymitch quickly moves away and stagehands grab Peeta by the shoulders shuffling him into a seat on the stage in between commercial breaks. Peeta's mind reels. He blinks. Remembers where he is. Flashes a brilliant smile to the crowd and shakes Caesar's hand. The stage lights flare to life.

"Peeta Mellark," Caesar begins in his dramatic, affected Capitol accent, "our newest victor and mentor - " he pauses, waiting for the audience applause to die down, "- tell us, how has life as a victor been for you? How excited are you about the Quarter Quell? It's so exciting! I'm so excited!"

The audience erupts in cheers, filling the auditorium with noise. Caesar flashes a wide, animated grin, eyebrows raised high as he plays to the crowd. His hair, teased high on his head and dyed a bright purple, gleams in the spotlights reminding Peeta of the envelope in his pocket. Another meeting with Amethyst Acrum. He had dreamt of her the night before. He's never done that before. He always dreams of Rue, or the Games, or Cato's vacant, dead eyes, or of the meadow in Twelve where he once followed a hungry Seam girl with two cookies in his hands – one for her little sister – and he saved her life. He'd had thought he was in love with the girl but had never told her. He had heard her sing once. Her voice was so beautiful even the birds stopped to listen.

His fingers dig into the arms of the chair. The lights feel too bright. His heart beats too fast. He can feel the blood pumping through his veins, can hear it thundering in his ears. He focuses his attention back on Caesar. "Life as a victor has been…a lot different than I thought it would be."

"Of course, my boy, of course. No one can prepare you for all of the wealth, the fame, and the privilege. It is such an honor!"

Peeta reminds himself to breathe, to smile, to relax his muscles, to unclench his fists. "That's true, Caesar. All of the privilege has taken a while to get used to and I know the Capitol is very eager to see what this year's Games will entail."

"Not just the Capitol, Peeta. The whole of Panem! We are on the edge of our seats waiting to hear President Snow read what is on the card." He turns to the audience again. "What new twist do you think we'll have in store for us?" The crowd roars. "What about you, Peeta? What new twist do you think the card will give us?"

He inhales deeply. This is his moment. He lowers his voice, shaking his head, and looks out at the audience with wide, concerned eyes. "I'm not sure it matters. The card could say any number of things, but the result will be the same, won't it?"

Caesar leans closer. A look of warning in his eyes, daring Peeta to back off. "What result?"

"The Games will end with only one winner and with the slaughter of at least twenty-three other innocent children, if not more."

Murmurs drift through the audience. The crowd shifts, uneasy in their seats. Caesar looks at him with stern eyes that hide a bit of betrayal. Peeta and he have always had such a good rapport. Caesar thought this interview would be easy. "Now, now, Peeta. Why so morose? This is an exhilarating time and you are a beloved victor."

"Beloved for being a murderer. I ended people's lives, Caesar. I held their hands while they died. Rue was only twelve years old. She hadn't even begun to live! My hands are coated in blood that I'll never be able to wash away. That's the privilege I live with. The privilege everyone in the Capitol lives with. Their blood is on your hands too."

Caesar quickly looks at the camera. People scramble backstage. The anger and guilt roll through the audience like a wave, their grumbling noises growing in volume. Caesar plasters on a white-toothed grin and speaks directly to the camera letting the at-home audience know that Haymitch Abernathy will be joining the stage after the commercial break. The lights go down. The audience noise reaches a fever pitch. Rough hands grasp Peeta by the shoulders, yanking him off stage.

He regrets it almost instantly. The dread of what will happen, who it will happen to, and when sets in as soon as he is pulled from the stage. He spends the car ride back to his apartment fighting the urge to vomit. He knows Snow won't kill him outright or immediately. He'll kill him slowly. He'll make sure Peeta suffers. Peeta thinks of his family, silently apologizing. He vomits anyway, running to the toilet as soon as he steps through his front door.

He paces the apartment unable to sit still. He waits, dragging his fingers through his hair. He turns on the television, but there is no mention of what he said. He paces some more. He's afraid to leave the apartment, to do anything at all until he knows exactly how much damage he's done. When Haymitch walks through the door, Peeta sprints from the bedroom, his hair wrecked from his fingers and standing on end.

"Well, that was something," Haymitch says, casually, walking to the kitchen and pulling a bottle of liquor from the cabinet above the sink.

"Haymitch, I'm – " he starts to apologize but stops. Haymitch eyes him curiously over the rim of his bottle, eyebrow raised, waiting. Peeta meant to say what he said, and he isn't sorry that he said it. It needed to be said. It needed to be heard. That doesn't make the reality of saying it and the aftermath that is sure to follow any easier to bear. He shakes his head, starts again. "What happened after I left?"

Something briefly sparks in Haymitch's eyes and he smirks as he tips the bottle to his lips. "The crowd was in a frenzy. You had them all worked up because how dare you call them murderers." He rolls his eyes and sets the bottle on the countertop. "Caesar was able to get control. I went on and answered the questions, appeased the masses. There is a delay in the broadcast to some of the farther districts, so they were able to edit your segment before it aired. But some districts saw it. And everyone in the Capitol did."

Peeta exhales shakily, grabbing the bottle and taking a long drink. Haymitch snatches it from his hands. "Get your own. You know where to find it," he says holding the bottle close to his chest. "Besides, don't you have a client in about an hour?"

Peeta looks at the clock and groans. The last thing he wants to do is meet with a client, especially Amethyst Acrum with all of her nervousness and the strange way she makes him feel. "How do you know about my client?"

"It doesn't matter how I know. When you stepped up on that Reaping stage, it became my job to keep you alive. And that means not pissing the president for a second time today."

Peeta slumps against the counter resigned. "I don't think it matters if I do. It's bad this time. I've killed them all. Haven't I, Haymitch?"

Haymitch sighs, tapping the bottle still trapped against his chest. "I don't know, kid. You stirred up a shitstorm. That's for sure." His voice is stern, but his eyes sparkle with something akin to pride.

She's standing when he enters the room this time, dressed much more casually than the last time he saw her, much more casually than he would typically see a Capitolite in this situation: fitted black pants tucked into boots that lace to her mid-calf and a dark green sleeveless silk top that flows over her hips and gently ripples like water when she moves. The waves of her short purple hair brush her jawline. Her eyes skate over him, a determination set into the violet irises.

She's decided. Tonight won't be about conversation. She's ready to use him. And he's ready to be done with it. Let her take her piece of him, use him and throw him away. Then, he won't have to think about her again.

"Do you play chess?" she asks, skipping any greetings or forced pleasantries.

He stands by the door, blinking. Unable to move. Confused. That was not what he expected her to say. Not at all. "Chess?" His voice cracks betraying his false bravado.

She looks at her feet, a blush coloring her cheeks. "I play with my sister sometimes. I'm not very good. She always beats me, but I – I thought maybe we could play a match."

She steps to the side showing him a chessboard set up on a table under a window that doesn't open. He had tried to open the window once thinking if he jumped from this height and landed just right, it might be a quick death. But he discovered it was sealed shut, only an illusion of freedom. The room was nothing more than a well-appointed jail cell.

"I used to play…with my family. I haven't in a while," he says, walking further into the room, his eyes flit to the bed as he passes. The dandelion chair sits empty in the corner. She gives him a half-smile and takes a seat at one end of the board.

"Well, then I just might have a chance at winning," she says lightly, taking a deep breath.

He can tell that she's nervous. She continues to pull at the hem of her top and wipe the palms of her hands against her thighs. He's nervous too, he realizes, his heart thumping heavily in his chest as he takes the seat across from her. He hasn't been nervous, truly nervous, in one of these rooms in a long time. He's doesn't understand this strange girl and her looks of pity or questions about his life as a victor, or asking him to sit and play a game with her. He doesn't understand the pull he feels when she's around, the way his body wants to gravitate toward her. He doesn't understand why sitting at this table with her reminds him of the nights he spent playing chess with his brothers on the prep table in front of the ovens in his family's bakery kitchen, why the intense sensation of home surrounds him in her presence.

They play in silence for several minutes. The air thick around them. The room too warm. She squirms in the chair across from him, stealing glances at him when she thinks he isn't looking. She really isn't very good at the game. He will have her beat in six moves. He wonders if he should let her win.

"Why did you do it?" she asks softly, breaking the silence. He looks up at her questioningly. "I watched your interview today. Why did you say what you said?"

He studies her face looking for any hint of scorn or vitriol. She stares back at him with inquisitive eyes. Her face is open, honest. Still, he considers lying for her benefit and the benefit of anyone that would overhear their conversation. But it isn't like the entire city doesn't know what he said. It isn't like Snow doesn't know.

"All I could think about were the others that went into the arena with me that never made it back out. And not just the ones that went in with me, but all of them. Every single child that has stepped into an arena in the last seventy-four years. I wanted to make them understand. To make you understand. I know it's exciting and it's entertaining and it's all you've ever known, but it's our lives. And the Games destroys them all. Even the winners."

She sits back in her chair, abandoning the chessboard. She eyes him carefully. He can practically see her mind working, the way she is weighing her words. "You'll be punished," she says, matter-of-fact.

He nods, his eyes focused on hers. There's no self-pity in his reply, only a resigned acceptance of his fate.

"Do you think this is a punishment?" she asks.

He looks around the room, gesturing to everything that surrounds them, to the simple fact that they are in the room together at all. "Isn't it?"

She holds his stare, her mouth opening and closing like she wants to say something more. Then, she looks away, looks to the chair in the corner before focusing her attention back on the chessboard. "Who taught you to play?"

He hesitates because he doesn't want to talk about him, doesn't want to think about him, or the fact that he might already be dead at this very minute. "My brother," he says clearing his throat and concentrating on her hand as it hovers over the board, contemplating her move.

Don't cry.

She picks her piece. Makes her move. "Which one?"

He raises his eyes to hers, surprised. How does she know he has more than one brother?

"I – I saw you have two brothers when they interviewed your family last year, when you made it to the final eight in the Games." She skims her fingers over the edge of the chessboard before bringing her hand up to her shoulder, seeming to try to grasp at something that is no longer there. She hides the movement by pretending to pick lint from her blouse.

"My middle brother, Rye. He and I are close in age and we were competitive. He liked to try and beat me."

"Did he?"

"No," Peeta smirks. He almost chuckles. Almost.

She smiles. It's an easy smile. A pretty smile. Her eyes have a far-off look like she can picture him with his brother. Like she can see the rivalry. She bites her bottom lip, grinning a bit wider. A warmth spreads through him. He looks away, moves his piece on the board.

"How old is your sister," he asks. If she wants to get personal, so can he.

"Thirteen. And she thinks she knows everything." She rolls her eyes with a huff, but he can see the obvious adoration on her face. She loves her sister.

"Now, you sound like Rye. He always complained about dealing with his little brother. But I was smarter than him…even at thirteen." He smiles. A real smile. It feels foreign on his lips and in his cheeks.

She laughs. The sound rich and marvelously sweet with a melodic quality. It hits him like an electric shock, like hearing a long-forgotten song. His heart lurches in his chest, trips over itself, tumbling. The laugh makes him think of home and of mockingjays that will stop to listen, and of Rue. He wonders if Amy likes to sing. Would her voice quiet the birds as well?

This is dangerous. This feeling. He doesn't want to feel. He's gotten so used to being numb to all of it. But as she laughs, he finds himself laughing too. A forgotten laugh. A real laugh.

She moves her piece, grinning at him with a triumphant gleam in her eye. She thinks she has him beat. And she does, if he lets her. Her hand slides from the board and as it falls to the table, her fingers brush against his. It's quick and innocent and unintentional, but the grin dies on her lips. She hesitates, her fingers twitching slightly like they want to do more, like they want to slide up his hand and grasp it fully.

The frightening thing is that he wants her to. He wants to know what it would feel like to hold her hand in his. He almost forgets that she's paid for him. That she's a Capitolite. That she will eventually tire of him once he's of no use to her. When he pictures walking hand in hand with her and what that would feel like, he almost forgets all of it. She swallows, pulling her hand away and fisting it tightly in her lap. His skin tingles in the spots that she touched.

She wins the match. He's too distracted. His head feels light, his skin feels hot and his heart pounds unsteady beneath his ribs. He feels high. If he didn't know right, he could say he feels giddy…happy even. All from the light touch of her fingers against his. This is dangerous, indeed. He glances at the clock. He needs to get out of this room. He needs to get away from her.

She looks at him thoughtfully and she doesn't try to hide the concern in her eyes this time. She lets it hang between them. She wants him to know that what he saw the first night they met was true. He exhales a shaky breath and stands from the table. He can't explain it, the desire that swells inside of him when he looks at her. He can't explain why he feels like the person he used to be around her. He can't explain why she makes him think of songs and meadows and birds sitting quietly in the trees. He yearns for home so suddenly that it makes his stomach hurt and he thinks that maybe he can only find it with her. If she were to ask him now, right now, to have sex with her, to do what she has paid for him to do, he would do it. He would want to do it. He would enjoy it. And, when she threw him aside it would break him fully, cleave him in two. He wouldn't need the sleeping pills or whatever fate awaits him with Snow. She would finish him off.

"Time's up," she says, her voice light and guarded, her eyes still on him.

He nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak. Whatever words he says will sound as pained and confused and frightened as he feels. She'll hear it. And whoever is listening will hear it. He moves towards the door, looking back over his shoulder at her. Her hands still tightly fisted, her bottom lip snagged between her teeth, her eyes so bright that they almost burn. He closes the door quickly, rushing to the elevator. He gulps in mouthfuls of air. His lungs burn like he hasn't taken a full breath in ages. He doesn't know what he's doing, but as he pushes the lighted buttons and rides the elevator down, he hopes he'll see her again. He hopes he'll get another chance to see her smile, to make her laugh. Maybe he'll hold her hand this time. Maybe she'll want more from him and he'll let her take whatever she wants. In four days he'll be back in Twelve and in one way or another his life will end. But until then, he hopes he'll see her again.

A/N: For the purposes of this story, I've moved the reading of the Quarter Quell card up to just a week before the Reaping. I apologize if that was confusing to anyone!

The quote at the beginning is from the song Wicked Game by Chris Isaak, but there is an amazing version by Ursine Vulpine & Annaca that has basically been living in my head while writing these scenes between Peeta and Katniss.

Thank you so very much again for reading!

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