Alternate POV of ch 3 "The Plan"

Peeta

By the time my prep team finishes primping and putting the finishing touches on me for the celebration feast tonight in District 12, it's later than usual.

They all patted themselves on the backs at job well done, giggling and fawning over the illusion of suave sophistication they painted and styled over me.

Of course, my wishes and tastes never come into play in these situations. Everything from the color of my suit, to the amount of hair on my body, to the tan that comes from a bottle, on my skin is for the audience.

They expect to see a confident, attractive victor. Not the shell of a person who doesn't get enough sleep, has no real connection to the girl he's set to marry in two months, or the lonely and depressed amputee that battles PTSD on a regular basis.

Oh no, that wouldn't be sexy enough. As if either Katniss had any room left in terror filled minds to be concerned about how attractively we were perceived by the people around us. There may have been a time, especially on Katniss and I's first victory tour where I found myself preoccupied with ideas of sex and attraction. But I had been a 16 year old kid then, fresh off the Games, still holding out hope that the girl I loved and was obsessed with might possibly love me back. I had no idea how much of a toll this whole act would take from us. I had no idea that it could take just about everything, even blunt and snuff out the whispers of normal hormonal teenage desire.

By the end of that tour it was like we had hollowed ourselves out to give to all of Panem. We kept nothing for ourselves. Sacrificed it all to the stage, and the act, and the fucking horribly inconsequentioal bullshit of maintaining the peace and prosperity of a country, of a government that couldn't give two shits about its citizens.

And when on the train ride home, all I felt for the girl sleeping beside me was a double portion of sadness and regret, that's when I had first started planning my own private rebellion. I poured my fury, my anger, and yes even the energy from my misplaced sexual frustrations into finding a way out. For me, and for her, and for everyone we cared about.

Nothing else mattered. And finally, finally things were going to be set into motion. Tonight was the first step, telling Katniss the plan, and using the device we picked up in District Three, the technologically advanced district. We just had to get through the celebration feast. Luckily though we weren't the main attraction tonight. That would be Deen, in all his youthful brash confidence and rough edged appeal. They were already talking about him being the next heartbreaker victor. The girls were already clamoring over him. I had made Haymitch promise me that he was going to keep an eye on him though. Because that kid was a little too reckless for his own good.

Portia, my long time friend and stylist dusts off my shoulders with a lint brush, and pronounces me ready. I nod, looking at the manufactured image of myself in the mirror and just resolve to get tonight over with. The dancing, and the kissing, and the acting that is detestable to me now, but is also second nature will have to be soldiered through.

I walk across the hall and knock on the door quickly. It's almost show time, and Katniss is definitely ready by now, she's just waiting on me to come and escort her down like usual. So when I open the door and take a step in I'm not prepared for what greets me inside.

The girl I loved (and somewhere deep down buried under a million tons of unrequited feelings still do) looks mouthwateringly, heart stoppingly, absolutely gorgeous.

I think my brain short circuits for a whole minute.

I just stare at her, open mouthed like a gawking idiot.

But I can't help it. She is...hot, really hot in that dark blue ass hugging, breast cupping, showing every inch of her body off dress.

I was not prepared for this. In fact I thought I was past this. Or maybe I just hoped I was. But no, my eyes are sending signals to my brain that I like what I see very very much. And I realize I hadn't noticed that she's grown more curves in all the right places since the last time I looked.

When did this happen? How could I not have noticed her increasing loveliness, her allure? She was like a full grown woman now, in a very obvious sense. With hips and cleavage and oh, god, so much more cleavage than even just last summer. That necklace was not helping, not at all. Had I really been trying to tune it out that much that I had blinded myself to it?

Yes, probably. I had probably been desperately trying to ignore it. Because it hurt, it hurt in a brutal yet almost pleasurable way to look at her. Knowing that I would get to touch her and kiss her and hold her close but only for pretence's sake.

Her eyes catch mine in the mirror, and I blush because she's caught me staring in a very obvious way. But she doesn't look angry, or offended. She just blinks at me.

"Ready?" She asks, and I try to swallow around the excess moisture in my mouth (jeez I need to get it together).

"Not at all." Is my startlingly honest reply. She just glides over like mist moving over water and I meet her halfway and place her small hand over my elbow. A million tiny tingles of electricity shoot up from where she's touching me, and I don't know, I really don't know if I want to feel this way tonight.

But what canI do? She can't control her wardrobe any more than I can. A far off, more logical part of my brain is wondering at Cinna's sudden cliff dive off from her usual attractive but wholesome style. But then I think back to some of the outfits she's been wearing.

A strapless balck gown that she wore in District 5 that revealed far too much of her golden brown skin. A deep emerald skirt and top combination that had made it a little hard not to stare at her silhouette, especially from behind, in District 9. And increasingly more fitted and low cut tops.

Well, maybe I had been paying more attention than I even admitted to myself.

Shit.

This was going to complicate things. I couldn't afford a return to those pathetic, forlorn feelings that had left me weak in the knees and constantly seeking out cold showers in the mornings we woke up wrapped around each other. I had already climbed that hill and died on it once, I didn't think I could do it a second time. It had been so hard, so very excruciatingly difficult to bury those feelings. Now they were creeping up again.

All because of a midnight blue dress.

But when I glanced down at her as we descended the stairs I could see with an artist's trained eye that the dress wasn't really midnight blue. It had far too many purple and green and even grey reflective tones as her body moved and the light caught on her delicious curves. No, not midnight blue, something else.

A mockingjay. Mockingjay blue. And suddenly I wished I had a paintbrush in my hand. I wished I was back in my private painting room at home. Where I could puzzle out the colors and the shine and contour of the lines of her body in a place that was safe and removed from the immediate danger of it all. That was the only place I allowed myself space to trace her form with my fingers, to caress her skin in the way I yearned to. Only on paper, only with a paintbrush. Far removed from the actual girl herself.

Well, no she was a woman now. She had been for sometime. We had both turned 18 this year. And yet I in all the ways my friends talked about, sex and love and parties and adventures, I didn't feel anymore mature. But I did feel weary, and worn down after all this time. Like someone who'd aged not from overindulgence but from lack of opportunity. Any chance at a normal adolescence had been stolen from us the minute we left on the train to our Games.

And here we were, terrified children in adult bodies putting on a play to make the whole world believe something that wasn't true.

The thought made my head hurt.

But a low deep whistle cuts through my musings.

Deen Sparrow, our winning tribute, and new victor this year is looking up at us with a wolfish grin on his roguishly handsome face. And I know that whistle isn't really for the two of us. His eyes roam over Katniss's body like a moth flitting around an open flame. And I feel some of that old phantom jealousy rise up, unbidden, and unwelcome inside me.

"You two look great!" He says with a wide grin. "Sometimes I forget you're both only 2 years older!" He exclaims in a tone that is overly familiar and more than a little suggestive. It rubs me the wrong way. He's just a kid. Yeah sure, he's apart of our strange little circle of broken damaged team members, but he's also cocky, arrogant, and he's trying to stare down Katniss's dress like sex crazed adolecesent.

Which I guess maybe he is, but still.

"We're getting married soon, so I'd say that gives us more credit." I say, going for maturity but it ends up coming out defensive and more than a little possessive. Deen's eyes sparkle with a wicked gleam, and I know he knows he's getting under my skin. And damn, if I hadn't just watched him fight through one of the most grueling things a human being can survive, the Games, I'd be telling him to pop his eyes back in his head and turn the fuck around.

But since I almost watched him die, numerous times in his Games, and me and Katniss had to coach him and nurse him and all around wipe his sniveling little nose afterwards when the nightmares and PTSD set in. So with great effort I kept my mouth shut. And just gritted my teeth. He's been trying to ruffle everybody's feathers lately and I didn't want to rise to the bait.

Still, the air gets thick with tension as he refuses to turn around and just keeps ogling her and practically undressing her with his eyes. And then I think, screw it, I don't care how many times he's almost died in the past few months. I'm not gonna let him get away with this shit.

And I'm just about to say something rude and challenging, when Katniss, who seems to have finally noticed that she's being mentally strip searched by her 16 year old protege, gives him a light shove.

That's it. Just a little shove. And shoots him a glance that indicates he should turn away.

Where was this nonchalant, uncaring girl when I said I had a crush on her 2 years ago? I had gotten thrown into the wall and ended up with cut and bloody hands for a simple school yard crush confession. But Deen gets let off the hook? What the hell?

This just pisses me off. Deeply. But then I hear Deen's next comment that he makes practically under his breath and I go icy all over.

"You know if Cinna didn't want people staring at you, he shouldn't have put you in that dress." Deen says quietly with a touch of humor as he stares ahead, watching the doors again.

I can't refute what he's said. Neither can Katniss. And that's when I realize I'm being unreasonable. This is not by any of our designs. We are all puppets in this sick game.

"What is that?" Haymitch's flabbergasted slurred words ring out on the quiet staircase, and Katniss and I turn around to face him. And I know what he's talking about. The back of her dress is low, with little cut out panels revealing swaths of tantalizing skin. But he actually looks really uncomfortable and even a little green when she turns around and he sees the minefield of cleavage that the plunging neckline reveals.

He has the good grace to turn his head to the side and look away from the offending yet hypnotic curves. But then again, Katniss and I are young enough to be his children's age. If he had ever had children that is.

"It's the dress Cinna made for me, and I think it's really good." Is her challenging reply. As if Haymitch were insulting Cinna's talent or skill. Right now I actually think the man might be a little too talented, a little too good at his damn job because no one, and I mean no one will be able to deny how stunning she looks tonight.

"That," Haymitch says angrily with a frustrated twist of his usual drawl, "Is worse than showing up in your underwear girl. It'll attract all the wrong kinds of attention." Haymitch says in a concerned manner. My eyes find his grey ones. He is concerned, very concerned and I think I understand why. It's like a clock is ticking somewhere, counting down for us all, reminding us of the ultimatum Snow had given.

"I have no idea what he was thinking." I say, because Cinna I believe with the utmost certainty would not do this to Katniss on purpose. He wouldn't draw attention to her this way. So, there had to be a reason. Something must have forced his hand.

"He's thinking people need a distraction." She says quietly, almost to herself. And then she turns around and stares straight ahead like a prisoner waiting to hear her sentencing. I wince. This night just keeps getting better and better.

"Well," Haymitch says with a humorless snort, "he'll definitely get it then." And I know he's right. Pamen will be riveted tonight, just as I was when I walked into her dressing room.

Haymitch leans in to whisper in my ear sternly, "Boy, don't leave her side for a single minute." And I get it. How dangerous this is tonight. Snow is putting her on display, he probably commanded Cinna to dress her this way. It's a subtle little reminder that if we don't get with the program and start making precious little victor children there will always be other options, other takers, and one way or another the Capitol will get what it wants. I grip her hand tighter. I won't let that happen to her, not in a million years.

I vow to be spectacular tonight. I vow to pull out all the stops and make it very very clear to our dear President that we fully intend to follow his commands.

So when we eat dinner I play with her hair absentmindedly. And when we shake people's hands I let mine roam all over her. And during the tv interview I turn on the obsessive, hazy, lust filled charm up to the highest setting it will go and make it very clear with my eyes and my voice and my body language that I am enjoying every inch of this girl on my arm. And I know she's not used to it.

It's been so long since we've had any sort of real romantic or sexual tension in our relationship that it throws her off just about as much as it does me. But I can't afford to phone in my performance tonight. I can't afford to give off the impression that I don't intend to follow through with Snow's new orders.

So I let myself feel it, and feel her, and want her. And I know I'm playing a very dangerous game, but better to hurt myself, and frustrate myself and go home and take a couple hundred cold showers than to leave her defenseless.

And I'm so preoccupied with trying to keep track of it all that I don't notice it at first.

One minute we're dancing and I'm trying to focus enough on the conversation we're having about Deen finding his own girl to dance with, and also simultaneously trying to not notice how good she smells this close, or how tiny her waist feels in comparison with the flair of her hips, but Gale is looking over at me like he's ready to beat my face in. And I understand the sentiment completely.

But he's also dancing with a very attractive girl. Maybe not as attractive as Katniss, but still she's got serious potential. And she's talking about how she could care less about romance and attachments, and I can't help it. It slips out before I can catch it. I'm trying to keep track of too many things at once.

"That's a good thing actually, because I can see Gale from here. And he's not alone." As soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them. She stiffens in my arms. She has the wherewithal not to crane her neck though to look, but I know she wants to. There's this tension in her shoulders now that just won't go away.

"You were saying?" I tell her in a sad voice. Because, maybe we should both stop lying to ourselves after all this damn time. She likes him, and he likes her, and they should just be able to admit it despite me, the unwanted yet unavoidable third wheel.

It's a party." She replies, with a voice devoid of emotion. "And it doesn't matter to me who he dances with." She continues, but I have known her long enough to know that when she sounds cold and unfeeling like this it is because she is trying very hard not to feel something. I almost sigh out loud. Will we never be done with the confounding, unending, exasperating emotions between the three of us?

"He must be really jealous, to do something like that." I mutter, as I lightly kiss her hair. I don't even think she feels it, her eyes are glued to his rugged face and tall frame, and the girl he has pressed against him.

"What are you talking about?" She asks in a quiet frustrated voice. But I just decided to drop it. No good can come of waking that sleeping dog tonight. But well maybe...maybe some good can… if we can use the frustration and pent up emotions. Katniss isn't a star quality actres that's for sure, but she does work quite well off emotion. And the cameras are making the rounds again. I can see them in the distance. And I think, well, if we're gonna sell this we might as well sell it for all its worth.

"Oh, nothing." I tell her, as I let the back of my fingers graze down the soft, warm naked skin of her back. It feels forbidden. It feels divine. And I feel her tremble just a little under my touch.

This night is going to be torture.

"Don't look now, but they've turned the cameras back on. I guess they're trying to get b-roll of everyone dancing." I tell her before she can ask what the hell I'm doing, touching her without permission, in a very different way than we've touched in a long, long time.

"They're headed this way." I whisper as I look into her grey glittering eyes that are alight with surprise, alarm, and something else I can't quite name. I tuck a loose wave behind her ear and feel her inhale deeply.

Two cold showers. I'll probably need two by the time we're done tonight.

But then she's stretching up to put her arms around me, and I catch sight of her chest heaving as she does, and I think, there isn't a shower cold enough in this world to put out the fire this girl is starting in me.

And then she's kissing me, and fuck, its everything I've been wanting all night. Her soft warm lips pressed against mine. Her delicate but enticing shape fitted to me. And I can't help it. I practically pounce on her. I devour her lips, ravenously like a starving man. And I realize that maybe all those feelings that I'd been repressing have been building up this whole time. I can hardly keep my hands in respectable zones. I ache to pull her indecently close. I'm dying to trace the curves that have me so mesmerized tonight. My hands wander as far as the span of her ribs, and she's so startled she almost falls down. I am vaguely aware of this, and I just hold onto her tighter as we dance and sway to the now very distant music as it's being drowned out by the blood pulsing in my ears.

Finally, because the poor girl can't breathe anymore she breaks away from me, shocked and flushed and panting a little. And I pant as she rests her cheek against mine. I am half ashamed of myself, but also a little past trying to pretend that that wasn't good, so good. But I can feel it now, her anger and I know I deserve it. I will have to answer for this, when the cameras are gone. And as much as I dread that moment, I also can't seem to find any soul crushing regret lingering behind that dread.

I had snuck it on her, for sure. But her performance had been entirely believable as I was sure mine was too. The cameras had caught every minute of that kiss. Snow was sure to see it. He would be convinced. She would be safe. And I would be left to find my way out of this maze I had wandered into again. But well, I had known this would happen.

But I don't even have the luxury of continuing to dance with her and fantasize about that perfect kiss, because she's pulling my arm, hard, in the direction of the mayor's house. And we're going to probably have it out in a coat closet or a pantry somewhere.

I guess that's just the price you pay to keep the people you love safe.