That afternoon, I have to knock six times on Peeta's door before he opens it.

"Katniss?"

"Uh, hi." I shove my hands in my pockets.

There's a moment of silence as we stare at each other.

"I didn't think you were coming this afternoon."

"Why would you think that?"

He frowns and looks above my head, out into the Village.

"I don't know. I supposed you'd be doing the presser that Madge mentioned."

I scowl. "We didn't exactly chat this morning, Peeta. And if we did, you'd know that I'd rather lie in a field of Haymitch's geese's shit than do 'press'."

A corner of Peeta's quirks softly, but there's still a tension to his body. A stiffness to him, like his muscles are set in stone, slowly grating against each other.

"Well in that case, come in." He says it quietly, with the barest hint of a chuckle.

Peeta's pile of evidence is stacked neatly on the table, with one folder opened to the side. I glance beyond the table, to the far wall at the back of the room. There's a jagged hole in it, plaster littering the ground below. I look back to Peeta. His right hand is tucked behind his back, but the top of his left knuckle is an ugly shade of purple.

He ignores my stare, walking past me into the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Sure. Mind if I use your bathroom?"

I start moving towards the back of the house.

"Uh …" Peeta calls. There's a clatter - like someone hastily putting something down - and sharp footfalls behind me.

"Wait!" He says, but I've already rounded the corner. I still when I see the door in front of me. Peeta reaches me, and when he too pauses, a silence consumes the house. I look back at him. His eyes are wide - this odd mix of shame and anger. He bites his lip. I look back at the door; it's leaning slightly, detached from the top hinge, with two gashes of splintered wood across its face.

I take a step forward, reaching for the handle.

"Katniss …" Peeta says, his voice strangled. It's a plea to stop, but I continue on.

The door swings open limply. Peeta emits a choking groan.

Glass is littered across the floor. Everywhere. It crunches underfoot. The shower screen is shattered. The porcelain of the toilet is webbed with spindling fissures. There's blood on the vanity. A dark pool of it. To the side, the wall is peppered with shallow indents, each ringed by the faint pink shadow of bloodied knuckles. I can only see my left ear in the mirror - half of my cheek, a glimpse of one eye, a crooked splice of my neck. The rest is scattered over the tiles; sharp, glinting barbs.

"Peeta," I breathe.

The slap of Peeta's shoes sounds again, and when I turn around he's no longer behind me.

"Hey," I say, picking my way over the damage and following him through the dining room, back towards the hall. He doesn't slow. "Hey! Talk to me."

He pulls open the front door sharply and looks back to me. My eyebrows scrunch in confusion.

"Leave," he says, and his voice is hard and flat and cold. I can see his right hand now; it's swaddled in bandages, poorly wrapped and stained red.

"Peeta …"

"Leave, Katniss. I don't want you here."

"Peeta," I start, moving toward him slowly.

"Leave!" He shouts. His breaths are ragged; near pants. He rakes his fingers over the sleeve of his shirt, then across his neck, his chest, his cheek, as though trying to scrub away some invisible dirt.

"How can you stand to be here? How can you look at me like that? Like nothing is wrong? I got through one report, Katniss. One. A detailing of rebel attacks that used the Mockingjay symbol. You know how many civilians died in a three month period? How many sons and daughters died fighting under my name? Seven thousand, Katniss. Seven thousand. And they're just the ones Thirteen knew about."

I haven't read that folder yet, but I know the reports he's talking about. Thirteen had a dedicated team tracking Rebellion efforts across Panem - including all activities linked to the Mockingjay name. I'd helped with some of them in - collating evidence when we'd foray out of the bunker to coordinate with other District factions. We'd come back and report on the giant Mockingjay spray-painted across the side of a torched Justice Building, or how a rebel encampment had scattered small speakers throughout another District, playing Peeta and Rue's four-note whistle on repeat.

Peeta had caused a stir at the end of his Games.

Him buddying up with Rue wasn't all that sensational. Alliances were an expected element of the Games. But it was obvious from his scores and interviews that Peeta could've aligned himself with the Career pack. Him pairing with the small District Eleven girl instead pulled attention and tugged at heartstrings. He didn't help the matter when he visited Eleven on his tour and gave half his winnings to her family.

Then there was the fact that Peeta didn't kill one person in his Games. Sure, he'd pointed the tracker jacker nest out to Rue - but she sawed it off the branch; she'd made it drop and kill the District One girl. In the final hours of the Games, Cato had died not because he was pushed over the edge, but because he tripped.

What really got tongues wagging though was those last minutes. When Peeta saw Rue drop, he didn't sit back, he didn't celebrate his victory. No, Peeta jumped down instantly, all but willing to sacrifice himself to save Rue. It was a show of love in an arena where there was only meant to be vitriol.

Throughout the Games, Peeta and Rue had used mockingjays to communicate, passing back and forth a melodic tune to let the other know they were safe. When he emerged from the Games, the symbol stuck. The Capitol had so much control - they were everywhere, they were everything. Mockingjays were a reminder amidst that ubiquity - that there was a part of nature that they couldn't tap into. That beauty could be borne from insidiousness. And so too was Peeta; a reminder that goodness can be carved into the most horrid of circumstances. I will be in your Games, but I will not play them. A slap in the face to Snow.

"I could've said no, Katniss. I knew something was happening on the Victory tour. I knew I was causing trouble. I didn't stop though. I just kept going. I did the fucking propos. I visited the Districts, I egged on the Capitol, only to jump back on a hovercraft to the safety of Thirteen, leaving all those who'd gathered under my name to fend for themselves. I killed them. I killed them all."

I prickle. Peeta contributed to the Rebellion and all its outcomes, but so did I. So did everyone involved. For some reason, an inky irritation rolls over me. The horrors of the war aren't Peeta's alone. I grasp his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. My voice is quick and low.

"The Rebellion was not yours, Peeta. It was Panem's. It belonged to the coal miners who worked triple shifts and died at forty from black lung. It belonged to the fishermen whose friends drowned after being made to work through storms. It belonged to the loggers, so bleary-eyed at the back end of their twelve hour shifts that their saws would slip, and they'd go home sans a finger or limb. It belonged to the families of those who'd been carted to the Capitol for the Games, only to return in wooden boxes. It belonged to the starving. To the destitute. The sick. To all those who were fucked over by the Capitol."

I swallow. "It belonged to you too, of course, but it wasn't yours alone. The war was our merit. Rebelling was our achievement. You were only a spark under the bomb that Panem had been building for seventy-five years. You did not detonate it; we did. We decided to give up what little we had. We decided to hope."

I drop my hands, softening slightly. "So if you killed them, so did I. So did Paylor. So did Panem."

Peeta closes his eyes again, and pain ripples over his face.

"But I still played a part, Katniss," he chokes.

My heart breaks. Because I know this pain. I grapple with it every day. A thought slithers through me, a way to help Peeta, and my hands creep toward my chest, as if to push away these feelings. Instead of listening to the voice that roars at me to crawl into myself, to let Peeta wrestle with his demons himself, I grab his hand.

"Come with me."

I expect him to resist, but instead he follows me, wordlessly, out of this door, out of the Village, through Town and into the Seam. At the start of my street I pause for a moment, wary - the last thing I need is a stand off between Peeta and Gale - but thankfully the porch is empty. We make our way inside.

"Sit down," I say.

I go into the bedroom and open the closet. It's largely empty - one of Prim's old dresses she saved when we left for Thirteen, a blouse of my mother's, and my hunting jacket. I fish it out, dipping my hand into one of the pockets and retrieving a crumpled list. The shaky penmanship is water damaged in parts, some of it illegible, but it doesn't matter - I know these names off by heart.

I go back to Peeta, placing on the table with a trembling hand.

"Read it," I say. My tone is flat, my face is hard. Inside my heart is falling into my stomach.

Peeta regards the paper warily, making no moves to touch it.

"What is it?"

I wring my hands and move into the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and looking out of the window. I don't want to be looking at Peeta's face when he realises what the list means.

"Towards the end of the Rebellion, when the Capitol was running low on Peacekeepers, Snow ran a lottery to try to entice Capitol citizens to sign up. There was a million dollar prize, to be drawn following the Rebellion's defeat. Other things, too - subsidised fees for the best schools, a year's worth of fuel, a house in the inner-city."

I think of the first name on the list.

"Otto Dean. He was twenty-two. Lived on the outer edges of the Capitol. Enlisted in the army a week before he was killed so his brother could go in the running for the scholarship."

"Katniss," Peeta murmurs from behind me, confused.

"Miranda Tawp," I continue. "She was forty-five. She had blue hair - a thick mane of it. Was plenty well off - was one of the Capitol's wealthiest, actually. But there was a certain fanfare around the million-dollar prize. She signed up so she could get her name in the paper. A bit of fame."

I keep on. My voice doesn't falter as I work my way down the list, yet my mind is loud; screaming viciously at me to stop, to force the faces floating to the front of my memories back into the dark.

"Levi Blake. Swami Hill. Belinda Trin. Mai Fulcliffe."

"I'm not following you, Katniss —"

"I don't just run to escape Prim, Peeta." I say softly. "She's not the only face I see at night."

A heavy silence falls over the kitchen. Peeta doesn't say anything, but I know he understands now. I keep looking out the window.

"That Miranda lady? She wasn't a good person. She bet on the Games year in, year out. She bought one of the Victors for a night once - a seventeen year old kid from Three, just five hours out of the Games. She had shares in one of the Capitol's fisheries in Four. Every month, she'd received a cheque and a report of production. Every month, she was told that people were working up to sixteen hour shifts, for five bucks an hour. She was told that to shorten break times there was a communal bucket for workers to shit in, and when there were rough seas it would often topple so that staff had to work ankle-deep in their own filth. She was told that there was a drowning at least once every ten days. And each month, do you know what she would write back? Increase production."

I swallow roughly.

"Gale and I came across her scouting the Capitol. She saw us first - aimed a pistol at Gale. I was to the side with my bow. She couldn't see me. I wouldn't have gotten her before she got Gale, but do you know what she did? She paused, looked him in the eye, and said, 'time to rot, fucking district scum'. And I let that arrow go without a second thought."

I turn back around.

"She was Capitol through and through. But she also had two kids. She liked to sing. She had a grandmother that she helped garden every Saturday. She was still human."

Peeta opens his mouth and closes it, like a fish out of water, gasping.

"In the Capitol during those final days, there was so much happening," I continue. "You were strung taut, always listening, watching, ready to attack or be attacked. The busyness was loud. Everything seemed to slow when the Capitol surrendered though. That empty slowness. And suddenly I couldn't get their faces out of my mind - the people I'd killed. The way their bodies had crumpled, The last sounds they made, the colour of their blood. I knew what they looked like, exactly. Each and every one.

So I went into the Capitol records. There were times when, at night, Gale would have to physically pick me up from the computer and carry me to bed. My fingers would cramp from the repetitive clicking of the mouse, and my eyes would hurt, in that dark room. Gale would bring me water, a sandwich, sit with me until I'd finished them. He didn't understand what was compelling me - why it was so important - but he understood that I needed to do it. So I flicked through the faces till I found them."

I take a shuddering breath.

"You played a part, Peeta, but I did too. A big fucking part. You can't blame yourself alone."

Peeta's eyes are glistening, but he nods a slow nod.

"Sometimes …" he whispers, trailing off as though his words are stuck in his throat. "Sometimes, I wish the Rebellion didn't happen."

You can't say words like that in this new Panem. They're sacrilegious. They're spit in the face of the children who died in the Games, of the men and women who slaved under the Capitol, of those who lined up to fight in the Rebellion. But still … they're words that run through my mind daily.

It's a constant push and pull, this pain of adoring a new world you helped build. Because while there's an unadulterated love for the slice of peace we've carved out - for watching families rebuild, patch together, grow - I can't help but mourn the old one. This new world wasn't free. We lost people we loved. We lost the people we used to be. Sometimes, I don't know how to reconcile that cost. I grasp Peeta's hand, and he squeezes mine.

Peeta doesn't stay long afterwards. Before he leaves, I ask him if he wants to come with me to the Winter Festival on Monday. He smiles, softly, and agrees.

Peeta coos in admiration when the Square comes into view.

Fairy lights are strung up between posts, covering the Square in a twinkling roof. Three rows use fat light bulbs instead, each with patterned paper cut-outs stuck to the glass, so that glowing snowflakes appear littered over the ground. There's a perimeter of marquees closing the area in - the smell of roasting meats and fresh pastries wafting from them. There's a petting zoo, horse rides, cheap games with gimmicky prizes. In the far corner is a small forest - dead trees and twigs spray painted white, small mirrors interspersed throughout, cellophane-wrapped lights shining muted blues and purples. Every few minutes, a burst of paper snowflakes shower done, and kids run madly underneath, trying to catch them.

"Where on earth did you get the money for that?" Peeta breathes, pointing at the arch.

"I made it."

"You made it?!" He shouts, and I can't help but chuckle at his amazement.

"Pulled in some dead branches from the woods and raided the factory's skip," I shrug.

I look around, a feeling of utter contentment washing over me. I despise attending these events, and the discussions I have to have as part of their organisation can be painful, but that doesn't mean I don't see their importance; the way they bring people together. The smiles they elicit. I know Prim should be one of those smiles. It grates at me, dully.

Peeta chirps to my side.

"How much were the marquees?" "Did you have to cut each of the snowflakes individually?" "Where'd you get the ideas for the lights?" "How many lights are there?" "How long will the lights be on for?"

"You're in a very inquisitive mood tonight," I grumble. I'm not really bothered by the questions, but more so Peeta's awed tone - as though what I've organised is something spectacular, worthy of significant praise.

"Oh!" He says, though his voice is high-pitched and wilts like that Trinkett lady who was our District escort for the Games. "How utterly rude of me!"

I elbow his side softly, smiling, and the grin he returns splits his face.

"I'll restrain myself," he chuckles. "Five more questions for the rest of the night - that'll be my cap."

We pass a string of vendors - Sae ladling steaming soup, Rooba to the side roasting skewers of some mystery meat atop a barbecue. Further down, the couple that owns the sweets shop are stationed in front of a pair of spinning metal drums, each waving their hands in slow, rhythmic circles. There's a gaggle of children surrounding them - half with the sugar spindles already plastered across their mouths. To the side, a pair of teenagers are huddled together, holding a stick of fairy floss as they feed chunks to the other, sharing tittering giggles and long glances.

An involuntary groan of disgust falls from my mouth, and Peeta laughs.

"Oh, come on. Don't pretend you've never been a lovestruck kid."

"You wouldn't have caught me dead at a thing like this if we used to have them," I say, waving my hand around at the festival in general.

"The date itself, I mean. Surely you've been a version of that girl - when Gale took you on dates."

I frown. "I've told you. I'm not with Gale."

"I know, I know. But you dated in the past, no? In the old Twelve? In Thirteen?"

I emit a strangled sound - half cough, half-gag.

"God, no."

Peeta scoffs. "You're telling me you and Gale have never been on a date?"

"Correct."

Peeta stares at me, dubious and questioning.

"Really? Never ever?"

I laugh. "Yes, Peeta. Never ever. That's three of your questions gone."

He nods, raising his hands in mock surrender, and that face-splitting grin blooms over his face again. He brings his hand to his mouth and rubs at it, as if to try to wipe it away.

"Well then," he says, lips still upturned. "Your turn, I guess. Question away Miss Everdeen."

"How many dates have you been on?" I parry.

His face clouds, and I immediately realise my mistake.

"What do you classify as a date?" He mutters darkly.

My stomach curdles. I know what happened to Victors - we all do. Bought, sold, paraded around like fine china, expensive gold; prizes to be won, commodities to be collected. Though his tone is black, Peeta doesn't direct his anger at me. Instead, we make our way to the forest, just as a rush of snowflakes rain from above. Several catch in the curls of Peeta's hair.

"I was lucky," he murmurs as we wind our way through the branches. "After I was first reaped, Haymitch sat me down and gave it to me straight. He said that I was in with a chance. I wasn't scrawny, and I had a few skills up my sleeve. He said the Games would be the very worst experience of my life - unless I won. He said, "Boy, they make you wade through shit in those Games. And then they make the winner eat it"."

He runs his finger along a spindly branch, tracing its divots and curves. "Before my interview with Flickerman, we set out a game plan. If I floated the idea that I had a girl waiting for me at home if I won - whether it was true or not - it could help me. I didn't think I could win the Games - not truly - but I hoped the play might get me some sympathy points with the sponsors; enough for Haymitch to send me some bread or something in my last moments."

When Peeta had his interview with Flickerman for the Quarter Quell, Caesar had once again leaned in conspiratorially and asked Peeta if, pray tell, the girl of his dreams had noticed him since he'd returned to Twelve a Victor. Peeta's eyes had drooped and his shoulders had deflated. At the time, I'd marvelled at his acting. Now, thinking back a year, to those words he muttered on my front porch… the bravest and the kindest .. I'm not as sure how much of it was a show.

"Ah, alas," Peeta had said with a soft, melancholic smile. "I've seen her around."

He'd turned to the crowd, eyes shining, almost goading. "And I told her."

Wild cheers had erupted from the Capitol audience. I remember watching in the Square, and how the speakers had squealed with the volume.

"But it seems," he'd continued, "that we're doomed to be star-crossed, Caesar. You can't make promises to a girl when you're being sent off to die."

We reach the edge of the forest - ahead is the road to the Village, dimly lit and quiet. We turn around, looking back at the Festival through the white branches.

"Haymitch said not to give a name. It would let people's imaginations run wild; let them entertain the idea that they could've been the girl I wanted to make it back for. More importantly - it wouldn't make anyone back in Twelve a Capitol target."

He pauses, and I can see him toying with how much to say. Because every word he does say catapults him back to that time - to those interviews, those preparations, and then every horrid thing after.

"If I presented myself as some love-lost boy, well," he shrugs. "Interest decreases. Not dramatically, but some. They still took me on dates. I still had to kiss their puffy lips. Still had to smell their dank sweat when they pressed their chests to mine. They still grabbed at my crotch, or pulled my hands to theirs. But I wasn't sold for sex."

He grins dryly. "Couldn't spoil me for that girl back home, hey?"

He looks over at me and his features are contorted oddly - like he's ready to see something in my expression that will wound him. It clears though when he takes me in - apparently he likes what he sees. There's no pity in my eyes when I look at him - just admiration. For his strength. For his tenacity. His persistence.

He reaches out and pokes my side as if to spike the balloon of tension that drifts around us. A jolt of sparks travels through me.

"Change of tack?"

I nod, hooking a finger round one of his and pulling him back into the Festival. Laughter and music swells around us. We pop in to say hello to Sae. Peeta nabs some sugar cookies from the Bakery's stall when his brother isn't looking. We grab a mug of warm cocoa and pass it between ourselves as we weave our way through the sideshow games. I stay until the band packs up and the last of the reveller's drift home. Despite my insistence otherwise, Peeta stays too - helping to stow tables and decorations for tomorrow.

It's near midnight by the time we leave.

"So, Delly's getting married," he says as we round the corner to my street.

"Oh, really? I guess that's exciting, yeah?"

Peeta chuckles. "Yes, Katniss. It's exciting."

He pauses, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He rolls his shoulders, and they creep up his neck before he lowers them slowly.

"Well, I'm invited —"

"Of course."

"And, well. I was wondering if - and no pressure, of course - but if you'd like to perhaps come? As in, come to the wedding. With me?"

"You want me to come?" I peer over at him, confused. "Me?" I question, and it tumbles from my lips as a near splutter.

"Forget it, sorry. I don't know what I was thinking, I'm sorry —"

Maybe it's the way he dips his head as if too embarrassed to meet my eye, or the blush that blooms over his cheeks. Maybe it's the two consecutive 'sorry's, or the 'forget it', or the way he quickly rubs his hands together in a fidgety manner. Whatever it is, something propels me to cut him off, the words again tumbling out without a second thought.

"No, no, I'd love to. It's just - have you seen me dance?"

Peeta and I pick our way through the evidence. We clean his bathroom together - replacing the mirror, fixing a new door. Sometimes when I call round there are more holes in the wall, and Peeta's knuckles will be bruised again. On those days we ignore the pile, and I'll ice his knuckles while talking about the more absurd moments of the most recent Town Hall. There are days where I just watch Peeta paint. There are others where he can't get out of bed, and I'll cart chicken soup and coffee to his bedside. I sleep on his couch downstairs on those nights. Once, I find him sobbing in the shower, fully clothed, digging his fists into eyes as his ribs spasm with heaving howls. I turn off the tap and jump in, sitting on the sopping tiles, cradling his body in my own. I get Haymitch to come round later to help change Peeta, and instead of ribbing me - 'worried you'll lose yourself if you see the boy's hot bod, sweetheart?' - he simply pats me on the shoulder, squeezing once. "I've got it from here, girl. Thank you."

Delly's wedding looms ahead like a bright light though it all - a promise of a night's reprieve, a reminder of the good things we're creating in our new Panem. Peeta picks me up from my house on the day. His eyes widen slightly when I open the door, and I can't help but laugh.

"Get a good look in while you can, Mellark, because I can guarantee you this will be the first and last time you see me in a dress," I grin.

"I've seen you in a dress before," he retorts. He holds his arm out to me, and I wrap my arm around it without thinking. The fabric of his suit is silken to touch. I've seen Peeta in a suit before, too, on television, but this one is simple and black with crisp lines that make the curls of his hair all the more apparent.

"Really?" I say, dubious. We start along the road, and the blues of his eyes seem to dance when peers down at me.

"You used to wear them to the reapings, no?"

I scrunch my face. "They don't count."

"Well, you used to have a red chequered one, in kindergarten. When you used to wear your hair in two braids instead of one."

I blanch, taken back momentarily by surprise.

"Yeah," I murmur. "I did."

The wedding isn't a small affair; half of the District is invited. It's exactly the kind of thing I try to avoid these days, but as I watch Delly walk down the aisle - a wide grin arcing from ear-to-ear, her soon-to-be husband standing in front with equally wide eyes - I can't help but feel a tendril of contentment curl through me.

The reception is held at the Justice Building, in the same large room used for Town Halls. It's a new thing - being able to use the space - and Delly makes the most of it. There's a band on the stage, round tables scattered around the back, ringed by long tables bearing an array of dishes. The front of the room is designated as a dance floor, and Peeta snakes his hand round my waist when everyone starts to converge on it, giving a gentle tug. His eyes are open though, a question in them, and it's perhaps that - the knowledge that he'd never force me to do something I didn't want - that makes me give him a begrudging smile and follow him.

My shoulders are tense and arms stiff. He holds me close but not tightly. I step on his toes thirteen times within the space of three minutes. He pretends not to notice.

Halfway through the night, the band pauses, and the singer leans into the microphone.

"I think we've had enough of the slow ones, eh?"

There's a loud whoop from the crowd - likely Delly - and the band launches into an up-tempo tune; thumping bass, a bouncing guitar, the singer swinging his hips in rhythmic bops. Someone releases a party popper - then another, and another - and small streams of coloured paper rise and fall over the dance floor.

I look over to Peeta, grinning, but he's frozen, stiff. The edge of his jaw is pulsing, as though he's furiously grinding his teeth, and the vein on his neck is seizing rapidly.

I grab his hand and, although rigid, he grasps my own and follows me outside. Softly, I pull him down the steps, away from the entrance and towards a low brick fence to the side. He sinks down, and slowly the hardness of his body melts until he's limp, noodle-like, slumped over his knees as though physically incapable of holding himself up. I crouch down, shuffling forward till I'm between his legs, and crawl my fingers along his cheeks, tilting his face so that his eyes meet mine.

"Hey, hey. It's okay."

His face contorts and twists, and his lip trembles, and his eyes look wet and full. A sharp, ragged breath blows across my face, a wretched half-sob.

"Hey, it's alright. You can cry, it's okay. It's just me, yeah? Just me and you. Me and you."

He closes his eyes and I bring my forehead to his so we're touching.

"In through your nose, and out, yeah?" I whisper. I breathe in and out exaggeratedly. "In … and out."

His eyes leak as he tries to match his breaths to mine. "Just sounded," he starts. His breath quickens, five quick hyperventilating pants. "Sounded like the gong," he spits, and a tremble racks his body.

I smooth my hands along his cheeks, down his neck, along his shoulders and arms before bringing them back to his face and starting again.

"Just me and you here, right? We're here in Twelve, we're here together. In and out. In and out. We're okay. We're going to be okay."

Slowly, his breathing steadies. His cheeks are shiny and sticky, but otherwise dry. I rub my hands along his arms once more before standing up.

"Want to call it early?" I say softly. I glance toward the door; shouts and whoops are dribbling out. "Or go back inside if you want —"

I don't get to finish my sentence, because Peeta rises abruptly and pulls me to his chest, hard and fast and firm. It takes me by surprise - the suddenness of it, and perhaps too how quickly I melt into him.

"Thank you," he whispers, so quietly I wonder if I'm imagining it.

I squeeze him. He squeezes me back.

Peeta walks me home. There's a storm forecast for tomorrow, one that will no doubt bring snow, but for now, in the final minutes before the day turns over to the next, District Twelve is calm. A cool wind whistles through the streets, and I absentmindedly grab at Peeta's hand. He looks over at me with a small smile.

I offer a timid grin in return before focusing on the pavement in front of me. I can tell myself all I want that I grabbed Peeta's hand because it's slightly chilly, but I know deep down that's not why. I reached for his hand simply because, and without thought - and that very fact scares me.

We still in front of my porch and Peeta pulls me to stand in front of him, reaching for my other palm. He holds our hands between us, playing with my fingers. There's a light on inside - Gale must have let himself in.

"Thank you for tonight, Katniss."

I bite at my lip, glancing down at our hands to avoid his gaze - so earnest it makes me squirm. Slowly I extricate my fingers from his.

"No, thank you for having me along. It was good fun —"

"No, I mean …"

I feel a pressure on my chin; Peeta's finger lifting my jaw slightly so he can meet my eye. He holds it there for a moment before moving his palm up to cup my cheek. It's soft and tender and light; so full of this airy, floaty feeling.

He swallows. "For coming, yes, but also for being there. Helping me. Thank you."

"You're welcome," I murmur.

A strong wind blows, and I shiver involuntarily. He drops his palm quickly, turning me towards the door.

"Get inside before you freeze," he smiles.

That light feeling is infecting me, pulsing through my insides and leaking out through a small grin I can't seem to contain. On some level I hate the feeling; it makes me feel like I'm not in control. But as it grows and bubbles and balloons I find myself enjoying it in an odd new corner of my being.

"How was the boy?"

Gale is sitting at the table, nursing a glass of what looks like my leftover liquor from Ripper.

"The boy has a name," I reply, hanging my coat in the closet. "Peeta's fine."

"Hmmph," Gale grumbles.

I frown, but don't say anything. This is how our friendship goes: we bicker, we make up, we bicker, make up, bicker, and so forth. Only it seems that the interludes of peace are growing shorter now.

"I hope you weren't waiting up for me," I say. I kick off my shoes and make my way to the kitchen, pouring a water. "I thought I mentioned I'd be out tonight."

Gale nods. "I knew you were going to Delly's tonight. I just thought you were going with Madge."

I laugh softly, leaning against the sink.

"I think the last thing Madge would want is to drag work along to one of her only nights off."

Gale doesn't grin though. He simply stares, morosely, at the last dregs of liquid in his glass.

I push off towards the bedroom, stretching to reach my zip. Seven years of friendship has taught me that Gale will only share something when he wants to, and sure enough, by the time I've changed and returned several minutes later, he pipes up.

"I mean, I didn't realise you were going with Peeta." He spits Peeta's name, like it's a curse, or acid on his tongue.

My eyebrows scrunch, confused. "And?"

He scowls, a low growl rumbling from the back of his throat. Stiffly, he sculls the rest of his drink.

"Looked like quite a moment you two had out there," he says darkly.

Any lingering feeling of lightness dissipates. I scoff. "He held my hand, Gale. Get the stick out of your arse."

He rises from the table and steps toward me.

"Don't bullshit me, Katniss. Sure, you were only holding hands, but you weren't crossing any roads. You weren't helping the other balance. I've got eyes, Katniss, I can see what's right in front of me."

A current of bewilderment and anger courses through me.

"And so what, Gale? I didn't realise that me merely touching somebody was taboo! Who are you to tell me who to socialise with?!"

Gale's irises are a grey storm. He clenches and unclenches his fists.

"Do you like him?"

I start. "What? Yes, of course I like him."

"No, I mean, do you like him romantically?"

The current thrashes through me; a wave of indignation, crushing into my chest, swimming into my limbs.

"What the fuck, Gale?"

He frowns and wrings his hands before suddenly jerking forward, lunging toward me and grasping my forearms.

His mouth connects with mine.

It's a desperate kiss, hot and wet and tasting of pine. I shove him away.

Gale's eyes dart erratically, searching mine. My lips are tingling and the back of my throat aches.

"What the fuck was that, Gale?"

It tumbles from my mouth unbidden, and I can see the way Gale's contort with an odd mixture of emotions; surprise at my reaction, shock and hurt.

"I —"

"Don't fucking kiss me to shut me up —"

"I'm sorry, Catnip —"

"Don't fucking kiss me against my will —

"I should've asked —"

"Don't fucking kiss me, period!"

I stop, and Gale does too. The kitchen is fat with tension and the sound of our heaving breaths. Gale's eyes are wide and confused; they flit from my face to the floor and then back.

"Don't kiss you, period?" He says, voice soft. He drags his hands up his sides and rubs them across his torso until his arms are twisted around his body tightly - one on his shoulder, the other wound around his waist, as though he's physically holding himself together.

"Don't kiss you, period? Like, don't kiss you ever?"

I don't say anything. Gale swallows, loudly, and his Adam's apple undulates with a painful slowness.

"I know that you were never interested in dating, Catnip. I know you only ever thought of marriage as something of convenience. I know children were never on the cards for you. They weren't for me either in the old Twelve. But now? Now we have our whole lives ahead of us, and they're full of hope and promise. And they're lives that we get to decide, Catnip!"

His voice cracks. "I thought we'd make those decisions together, you know? That we were making those decisions! The two of us, a pair."

My thoughts are stuck in the back of my throat. I scrunch my eyes tightly and revel in the momentary black that engulfs my vision, but when I open them Gale is still standing in front of me, his eyes imploring, pleading. I thought the same as Gale; that we would decide our lives together - the two of us, a pair. Just not the kind of pair that Gale apparently wants us to be.

"Gale," I choke, and it's soft and strangled and says everything I can't manage to get out. "I can't, um … I just —"

Gale's face crumples. He unwinds his arms and grips my hands, lifting them up between us and squeezing them, as if they hold all the answers to this mess. It doesn't escape me that this is exactly how Peeta held my hands half an hour earlier. I feel like I'm crumbling now, though. Like metal is tumbling from my innards in sharp chunks. With Gale, there's not even a meagre semblance of the way I felt earlier.

"No, no, don't tell me we don't have something Catnip. Don't lie to me," he rushes.

I close my eyes again and shake my head, back and forth, back and forth, and Gale squeezes my palms more. A heavy feeling is fermenting in my chest, and a low moan leaks from my lips.

"Hell, Katniss, I share a bed with you!"

How do you tell someone that what means something to them didn't mean a thing to you? I've never had my own bed - I always shared with Prim. Having Gale in my bed wasn't so much about having him there, but having a body there; a warmth and a presence.

I open my eyes and watch as Gale registers my thoughts. That me for, our bed was just a bed. A mattress. A place to sleep. Nothing more.

He pulls me closer to him, placing my hands on his heart before clasping my cheeks. His heartbeat is thundering. Racing.

"Could you love me?" He whispers.

"I do love you," I mumble. I try to drop my head - to look anywhere but his eyes - but he catches my chin with his finger and pulls my gaze back to his.

"No, no. You know what I'm asking. Could you grow to love me?"

I close my eyes, and for a moment, I see it. I see shared moments of tentative smiles, blushed cheeks, sly grins and fingers brushing each other gently. I see myself smiling at Gale when he comes home, pressing my lips against his and falling into bed. I see myself with Gale at a Courthouse, signing marriage papers. I see flames glinting in his eyes as we toast bread. I see us walking together through the woods with a toddler perched on his back.

I see it all and I want it, viscerally. Or, at least, I want to want it.

I blink a wet blink.

There are silent tears running down Gale's cheeks. I creep my hands up to his face - fingers trembling - and pull it down till our foreheads meet.

I release a shuddering breath, a heaving gasp, a garbled "sorry", and one lone sob rips from my chest as this heaviness rattles my being. Gale splinters in front of me - his mouth screws with agony, his brows spasm with pain. His eyes shatter.

Slowly I bring my lips to his, grazing them with the slightest of pressure.

It's not a kiss that tells him I could love him the way he wants me to. It doesn't say that we're the pair he thought us to be. It's not the kiss he wanted - a kiss to start a new togetherness.

It's a kiss that says I'm sorry. It's a kiss that mourns the closing of a chapter of unsullied friendship, in all of its naivety. It's a kiss that says I have loved you, that I love you, that I will always love you, but never in the way you need.

It's a kiss that says goodbye.