Authors Note: Hey guys, I apologize for the long wait between chapters! I've had a serious case of writer's block! I really struggled with this chapter, and I'm not completely satisfied with it, but I figured I've kept you waiting long enough!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games or The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. All mistakes are mine. Unbeta'ed. Please remember/keep in mind that this fic is rated M for a reason. It is mostly for mature topics/themes, and I will try to remember to put warnings at the beginning of any chapter that may be more graphic than that. However, my story will contain a much more "intimate" version of Katniss and Peeta. So, with all that being said, please be a responsible reader! Happy reading!
RECAP: In Chapter 10 of "Another Way Out", Madge comforts Gale when he (groggily) wakes up for a short time— a little embarrassed about the state of her face. Katniss remembers her and Peeta questioning the tube of paint Effie sent, only to learn it's a special kind of healing cream, to which Peeta uses on his hand. (But did he wait too long to get its full effects?) Katniss, Peeta, and Madge walk into town to see the Square transformed, and the Hob up in smoke. The food arrived spoiled on Parcel Day. In a flashback, Effie visits Tigris and gets a history lesson. She (Effie) finds a hidden tape and hopes it's useful. Madge goes to the mines for Gale. Katniss and Madge take a walk— through the woods and under the fence and meet some new people. The fence is on when they get back. The girls decide to jump over just as Peeta arrives. Katniss falls down and hurts her butt (and foot.) There are peacekeepers waiting for them back at Katniss's house. Upon Katniss and Peeta's arrival, the peacekeepers deliver their message. Mrs. E and Prim bandage Katniss up and dope her up on sleep syrup. Peeta carries a sleep syruped-drunken Katniss upstairs to bed— and stays with her, always.
Another Way Out
Chapter 11 - Surprise
[ Gale ]
"What was Thom doing here?" I mumble with my face still smothered in my pillow when I hear the door to my room opening.
"Oh, nothing you need to worry about," Ma chimes as she scurries about the room, but even with the disadvantage of not being able to see her, I can still sense the massive waves of tension, nearly seeping off her pores. I turn my head at an uncomfortable angle to face Ma and do a double take when it's Madge I see.
"Madge— what's going on?" I look at her with pleading eyes, begging her to be truthful with me.
"The mines will be up and running at dawn; all workers are to report first thing in the morning," Madge fidgets uneasily, avoiding Ma's eyes and then takes a seat next to me. I suck in a deep breath and hold it in anticipation of the pain I expect to overwhelm me from her sudden movement, but it never comes.
As I attempt— and fail to lift myself from the bed, Madge is there— like she always is, offering me her hand. It's hard to think that not so long ago I would have refused her help— anyone's help. With her assistance I manage to get myself into an upright position— for maybe the first time since the whipping. It feels strange yet refreshing to finally be in a vertical position. I sit for a few minutes with my feet planted firmly on the cold, hard floor while my body adjusts to the sudden change in equilibrium.
With Madge's hand still gripped in mine, I take a shot at standing up. Before I am completely up on my feet, my back begins prickling with a sudden, intensifying pain. I clench my teeth in hopes of alleviating some of the pressure and sit back down.
Ma rushes to my side, squatting down to meet my eyes. Her soft, kind, and gentle eyes that sparkle with concern. "You're not going Gale Hawthorne," her voice is terse and stern, filled with an air of authority. "You can barely make it to the door. We'll be fine."
I turn my head to see Madge giving me a look. It's not filled with pity, but maybe something like sympathy. And then I once again find myself comparing this "newer" version of myself with the older one, and I just know it's because of Madge. She just . . . makes me a better person.
I know Ma is only trying to make me feel better about being the worthless, good for nothing asshat I've become since my injury, but her words only fuel my rage. We will not be okay without my paycheck, and she knows it. We barely survive with what little I do bring home, and that's after working an eighty-hour workweek. And then my mind wanders to dough boy— erm, Peeta. I might be drugged— plastered out of my mind as of late, but even through the morphling induced slumbers, I still hear things. Though I wish I didn't. I still cannot believe that Peeta Mellark of all people has been cooking and supplying my neighbors— my people with daily rations of food. It's just another reason for me to hate myself for not liking the guy.
"How about this Gale," Madge interrupts my internal dissonance, "If you can make it around the house four times without taking a break, I—" Madge pauses, turning to Ma, who gives her nod of approval. "We won't stop you."
"Deal," I say, thinking of how easy this will be. In hindsight, I should have paid attention to the crooked way her lips curved up, which would have been my first clue to her deception.
I felt so accomplished after my first lap around our tiny house. It wasn't until I made it halfway around the second time when I collapsed to my knees. I should have seen it coming; the waves of heat peppering my face, the floating specs of light that were visible each time my eyes opened. Madge held a bucket and rubbed soothing circles between my shoulder blades while I blew chunks from the intensity of the pain. Talk about embarrassing. I have never felt less of a man than I did at that moment.
No matter how hard I pushed her away, no matter how many times I insisted I could take care of myself, Madge never wavered while helping me get cleaned up, much to my embarrassment. The memories are fuzzy at best, but somehow, between Madge and Ma, I wound up back in bed in a fresh pair of clothes. The last thing I remember was falling asleep with Madge curled up next to me, the scent of her strawberry shampoo inundating my dreams.
When I open my eyes, the sky is barely light. At first, I think I must have slept really long, hard, and deep, judging by how stiff I am. But then I do a double take at the morning sky and find myself confused. Forgetting about my injuries, I sit straight up in the bed, and most of my pain is gone. So, I get up, throw on a t-shirt, and decide to find out what day it is. When I turn the corner to the living room, not only do my lips curve up, but I'm almost certain my heart smiles when I see my sister curled up on the couch— cocooned in her favorite blanket she's had since birth. Her thumb is plugged in her mouth while her other hand busily twirls that one strand of her hair as she listens intently to Vick reading her a story. And then my heart smiles even bigger as I think of all the joy Madge has brought to my family with her box of books. Before Madge came, Posie had three children's books to her name. And now— we have a heaping pile. My siblings might be a pain in my neck, annoying little shit's they are, but the sight of them like this . . . it makes it all worth it.
"My porridge is too hot," said the papa bear." I pause at the threshold and listen to Vick deepen his voice to mimic the papa bear. "And my porridge is too cold," Vick squeaks in an unnaturally high-pitched voice. "And the baby bear said," there is a pregnant pause while I wait for the next line in the story— even though I already know what it is, having heard this story a dozen times— this month.
"And my powwidge is all gone! Boo, hoo-hoo-hoo!" Posie chirps, pretending to cry.
"Hey Rosie Posie, you feeling any better?" I ask her, sneaking up from behind and ruffling her hair. She looks up at me and her smile literally brightens the room.
"Gale!" She shrieks, "you're better!" she croons, opening her arms for me to hug her.
"Looks like you are too," I grin, leaning down to hug my sister, and surprised once more by the absence of my own pain.
I notice Rory perched in the recliner with his feet hanging over the arms, giving me weird looks. "What's your deal?" I ask him.
He lifts a brow, as if he is studying me. "You're in a . . . pleasant mood. I thought you— well, I figured you'd be pissed when you woke up," he says.
My eyes narrow with confusion. "Why would I be," I pause, cupping my hands over Posie's ears, "Pissed?" I ask in a whisper, recalling Madge's threatening glare when my vocabulary was "more colorful than what is appropriate around a five-year old girl."
"Oh . . . uh— never mind," he grins, jumping out of the recliner and bolting from the room. My eyes meet Vick's, and he just shrugs his shoulders, carrying on with Posie's story.
A few seconds later Ma enters the kitchen. "Oh— hi Gale, um . . . good morning. You're looking much better."
I notice her tension immediately, and the fact that she refuses to meet my eyes doesn't go unnoticed. "What's going on Ma?"
"I— it— she— we," Ma begins spastically, still averting my gaze. "It was the only way Gale— please understand we did it to protect you. Because we love you and you weren't ready . . . you weren't healed, and Madge— she is perfectly fine."
My heart accelerates, pauses, then resumes its intense pounding in my chest. "What do you mean Madge is perfectly fine, why wouldn't she be?" I ask, flooded with not only fear, but confusion.
"We knew you would be determined to get back to work, and— and you weren't ready, so . . . so Madge . . . she um, she got an idea. But Gale, please, don't be mad at her."
I feel as if I am sitting on pins and needles as I anticipate Ma's next words. "What did Madge do?" I ask, thinking it can't be that bad.
"She um . . . she— I mean we knew you couldn't go to work, so she um . . . well, Madge went in your place," Ma shrugs nonchalantly, mixing the ingredients in her bowl.
"She did WHAT?!" My voice rises at least ten decibels. Before I know it, the door slams behind me and then I am marching across the frozen lawn to Madge's house. I pound on her door, shouting her name.
"MADGE! MADGE, OPEN UP. IT'S GALE! MADGE, LET ME IN, I KNOW YOU'RE HERE!" I shout and bang, all the while, not feeling the effects of the snow against my bare feet.
A few seconds later the door opens, accompanied by a sleepy-looking, messy-haired, beautiful, blue-eyed Madge, wrapped in a giant plaid, fleece lined blanket.
"Gale? What are you doing here so early . . . and JESUS GALE!" She exclaims, suddenly wide awake when she notices the state of my undress. "Where is your coat?!" She yells, pulling me inside her house. "You are going to catch pneumonia, and— where are your shoes?"
"Are you fucking stupid Madge? Why the hell would you do that? Do you know how dangerous it is down there? What were you thinking? Oh, let me guess— YOU WEREN'T!" I explode, not even realizing that Madge has draped one of her blankets around my shoulders.
"Let's sit down Gale," Madge says, leading us to the couch. I don't object, finally feeling the effects of wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt and waltzing over here without any shoes. Or a jacket. And then . . . I wonder why Madge is shivering when she has on at least three layers of clothes, plus the blanket she's wrapped in.
"I know you're mad and I'm sorry. I just wanted to help you. You were in no condition to go down there . . . you needed to rest so your body could heal."
As my adrenaline fades, my body temperature returns to normal, and I go from squelching hot to freezing-ass cold in zero point three seconds. That's when I realize that something isn't right. It doesn't feel much warmer in Madge's house as it was outside. It shouldn't be this cold in here. Sure, neither of us have the fancy electric heat that Catnip has; we rely on dry wood burning in the fireplace to warm our homes. And I distinctly remember chopping wood a few weeks ago, and then dividing it between my home, and I know I gave some to Madge.
"Madge," I begin, pulling her into my blanket. "Why is it so damn cold in here? Did you run out of firewood? Why didn't you tell me, I could've gotten you more." Even doped up and trapped in the bed, all she had to of done was ask Ma.
Her body tenses next to me as she tugs nervously on the end of her ponytail. Then she twists around so fast on the couch to face me and begins talking. "It's really not that bad— once I get under the covers and fall asleep, I barely even notice it. Plus, it seems like such a waste when I'm the only one who sleeps here. I mean . . . I spend more time at your house than at mine, so it just makes more sense, you know? I just . . . I didn't want to waste it on just me."
Is she telling me that she goes to bed every night— freezing ass cold just so my family— so that me and my brothers, Posie and Ma— so that we can stay warm? I look deep into her eyes, the emotion inside me swelling, expanding, on the verge of combusting if I don't do something about it. So, I lean in . . .
Kpkpkpkpkpkp
[ Katniss ]
'Wow,' Peeta's bewilderment echoes in my head as he slams our copy of Lucy Gray's journal closed for the time being. I was much too hesitant to bring the journal home with us the night the Peacekeepers were here, in addition to not knowing where all the surveillance is in my house, so I sent it home with Madge. I have no clue how she did it so quickly, but not even two days later she brought it back, completely converted to the secret code language Haymitch taught us. I didn't even think to question how she learned it so fast . . . but then I remind myself there is much I do not know. Even though it's entirely in code, Peeta and I never pull it out unless we are completely alone. It's just too dangerous.
With our limited time we haven't gotten very far; we've only read the first few entries, detailing Lucy Gray's reaping, her horrendous train ride to the Capitol; where apparently, they once shoveled all the tributes— from each district into one tiny car on the train and herded them to the Capitol, like caged animals.
I am almost certain my face was twisted and all kinds of distorted when Peeta read the part about it taking almost three days to reach the Capitol. And in those three days, they were just . . . stuck in there. Without food, or a single drop of water.
Lucy Gray was a tribute in the 10th year of the Hunger Games, and in her journal she writes how the citizens of the Capitol were beginning to lose interest. To satisfy their short attention spans, the Capitol devised a trial run of something called "The Mentor Program," in which of course, Snow took part in. No matter how handsome and charming Lucy describes the young Coriolanus Snow, I still find myself despising his very existence. I think I always will.
Lucy explains how upon arrival to the Capitol, she was the only tribute whose mentor bothered to show up— greeting her with a pristine white rose. (For some reason this doesn't surprise me.) At first sight she was nothing more than amused by the young, soon-to-be evil dictator. I can't seem to help it when I find myself picking up on the similarities between us, but maybe I'm just looking for a reason to relate to her.
'Tell me about it,' I say. 'Who knew Snow was once young and charming . . . and he actually cared about another human being.'
'Yeah,' Peeta sighs, 'And that it was his semi-humane actions that resulted in his becoming a peacekeeper. I almost feel—'
'Don't you dare say it— think it . . . whatever,' I snap at him, and he winces from the ferocity of my mental tone. 'Besides, it didn't last long, otherwise she wouldn't have given us her journal.'
"A little darker here, and the edges a more jagged." As if on instinct, I say the words aloud when I hear a creak in the floorboard. It's probably just my mother coming out of the Clinic, but too much silence would seem suspicious. Over the past week, while carrying out my sentence of bedrest, my multi-tasking skills have drastically improved. It helps that Peeta and I have nothing but time to practice, perfecting the art of our silent communication. I've told him on more than one occasion that he doesn't have to stay here all the time, but he always refuses. He says any time spent with me is time well spent. I really hate to admit this, but if our roles were reversed, I'm not sure I could handle being trapped inside the same four walls with his entire family.
As much as I detest being confined to such small quarters, it's had its advantages. Peeta very quaintly pointed out that this past week has been, for the most part, the most normal week we have spent together since before our Games.
It's hard for me to see how he finds enjoyment in the monotony of our days. Every single morning, like clockwork, I rise with the sun, and Peeta is, without fail, always here to greet me. Which I suppose isn't a difficult task when he sleeps next to me. It's not that I'm complaining— because I love having Peeta here, but my mind is blown that my mother hasn't asked him to leave, or at the very least, passively hinted her disapproval of our sleeping arrangement by making him a bed on the sofa. She must know that I could just as easily serve my sentence over at Peeta's. Or maybe she just knows how respectful Peeta is.
Mom has been adamant that I stay off my feet, to allow my bones the time they need to properly mend, so each morning Peeta carries me downstairs after I spend twenty minutes in the bathroom preparing for the day. We usually join mom and Prim for breakfast, and sometimes— if we're early enough Haymitch will be here— just before he disappears over to his house for bed. We make small talk like a family, and it makes me long for the days my father would be waiting downstairs with breakfast at the ready.
After Haymitch leaves and mom heads up to the Clinic, it's usually time for Prim to go to school. At my insistence, Peeta walks her there every single day. I'm not sure when it happened, or even how it happened, but Rye, the little shit he is, has managed to wheedle himself into our lives. I find it ironic that his shift at the bakery ends with precisely enough time for him to clean and pack up, yet he somehow manages to pass the school in near perfect time with the ringing of the last bell. Over the last month I don't think there has been a single day in which Prim hasn't come home without Rye on her heels. The two seem to truly be friends, which doesn't surprise me in the least. Everyone loves Prim, and Rye is so funny, silly, goofy and friendly, it's not hard to see why they get along so well. Prim has even gone as far as calling Rye her second brother.
Peeta is usually gone for a good two to three hours after leaving with Prim in the mornings. After he sees my sister off, he and his father do their daily rounds of "anonymously" leaving food on the porches of a few select families in the Seam. However, I don't think they're quite as sneaky as they believe themselves to be because a few of my old neighbors have asked me to pass along their thanks to the Mellark men for their kindness and generosity.
Since I'm not allowed to put any weight-bearing pressure on my feet, I am pretty useless while Peeta is gone. With nothing to do but wait, I usually end up filling the empty minutes of my day without Peeta by taking a nap.
By mid-morning Peeta is usually back and that's the time we devote to my dad's plant book. Peeta does the drawings, of course, and I print a detailed summary beneath the picture. It's crucial the pictures are drawn in exact detail, so Peeta practices on blank sheets of paper until he gets it just right before transferring it to the plant book. The proud look on his face when I give my nod of approval causes butterflies in my stomach, and I can't help but think of how proud my dad would be that we are carrying on his tradition.
All the time Peeta spends drawing, sketching, and curving each line on the pages leaves me with nothing to do but look, watch, observe, and study his perfect, beautiful, chiseled features. I've noticed that his face takes on a special kind of look when he concentrates, and I become fixated on his eyelashes. They are so unbelievably long and blonde, that I do not understand how they don't get tangled when he blinks.
That's not all we do, but that's all anyone sees. As Peeta works diligently on his sketches, I have my own pen and paper that I pretend to scribble in while I share all the details about the people Madge and I came upon in the woods.
Peeta reads Lucy Gray's journal to me— in his head of course, since he can decipher the codes quicker than I. I really should take the time to memorize the codes, on the off chance that I'm in a situation where I may need it and Peeta's not around. But that's so unlikely, which is why I never get around to it.
'I don't get it,' Peeta begins, trying to mask his frustration by keeping his eyes focused on the paper beneath him. 'Snow loved this girl once, and she loved him back. So, why would she be willing to help us? And for that matter, how does she even know about us? Where is she and where has she been all these years?'
Gripping my pencil in my hand, I press the lead to the paper and pretend to scribble something down. 'The woman in the woods, the daughter of this "Lucy Gray" said her mother learning Snow's true motives was purely by accident. You see, Lucy won her Games because Snow cheated. Apparently, the mentor whose Tribute won that year would receive a prize. Lucy didn't know this yet, of course. She knew Snow would be in trouble for helping her win, but they just sent her on her way. She never expected to see Snow again.'
'Psh,' Peeta snarks, 'it's just like the Capitol . . . to take the credit.'
'I know Peeta, I know,' I reach for his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. 'The whole time Lucy was under the impression that Snow helped her because he loved her and didn't want her to die. And that's what he led her to believe from the moment they reunited in 12.'
'Okay, so how did she accidentally find out?' Peeta silently inquires, fully invested in the story.
"Geez, I'm getting there, hold your horses," I guffaw before silently pressing on. 'One night after one of her performances— did you know they used to have gatherings in the Hob? Like . . . half the district would come together; they would listen to live music— drinking and dancing and carrying on? Anyway, Snow had this friend from the Capitol who came to 12 shortly after he did, and it was actually the friend who gave it away. I can't remember his name,' I close my eyes, straining to remember but nothing comes.
"Nothing?" Peeta asks sympathetically. I shake my head in response.
'Anyway, that night, after a bit much too much to drink, the friend was just casually chatting away with Lucy. Then he said something like, "They were wrong . . . everyone in the Capitol thinks Snow cheated for the prize, but I know differently. He did it for love; because he loves you." This struck a chord. After that, Lucy noticed and picked up on things that she wouldn't have otherwise. The odd pieces of her puzzle finally made sense.'
"Did she tell you how they ended up escaping?" Peeta whispers after making sure no one is around.
'Vaguely. Something about the mayor's daughter getting killed and the mayor suspected Lucy because they didn't like each other, so he went after her. He was like . . . stalking her and crap, so Lucy knew she had to escape or he would eventually exact his revenge on her. She— the woman in the woods said it was all in here,' I point to the diary. 'Lucy just wanted to live and get out of 12. But she wanted to tell Snow goodbye; she thought they could part amicably. But he surprised her— when she told him she was leaving, he insisted on going with her . . . because he loved her.'
I pause for a moment to catch my mental breath and then press on. 'She formed a plan that would bring out his true motives. She hoped with everything she was that her instincts were wrong — because she really did, actually, truly care for him. One thing led to another, Snow turned on her, chased her through the woods with a gun, I think. But Lucy was well hidden, high up in a tree, watching him the whole time.' I can't help but smile at yet another similarity I share with this "Lucy" person. 'Then she dropped a snake on him and watched as he ran back to the base. She waited until nighttime and then met up with her family, which is when they fled.'
'But that still doesn't answer my question about where they went. And where they have been all this time?'
'She didn't say, she only said to read the journal.'
"Working on Dad's plant book again?" I jump, startled when my mother seemingly appears out of nowhere.
"Yes, we've actually gotten pretty far," Peeta gives my mother a charming smile; not missing a beat.
"Well, as much as I love all the progress you guys have made this week, I'm willing to bet you're more than ready to get out of here." My eyes snap up to meet my mom's gaze and my lips stretch from ear to ear.
"I'm released? Really?"
"Geez Katniss, you've been couped up with your mother and sister— not to mention your boyfriend," I cringe at my mother's term for Peeta. Sure, I guess technically he is my "boyfriend," but Peeta is so, so, so much more than just a boyfriend. The word 'boyfriend' just sounds so wrong. But what do you call the boy you survived the Hunger Games with? The boy you love more than anything in the world, the boy you would, no question, give up your life just to save his? Surely, there must be a word for it.
"You'd think you'd been confined to a prison cell, instead," mom quips, breaking my internal tirade. "I need to look at your foot, but my guess is that it's very nearly healed. Here," mom hands me a medicine cup filled with what I'm assuming to be the antibiotics Effie sent after Gale's whipping. I accept it and eagerly chase it down with a glass of water. Anything to speed up the process.
Peeta grabs mom a chair from the kitchen and places it in front of me. Mom thanks him as she takes a seat. Getting straight to business, she props my foot in her lap to examine it, turning it this way and that way, bending and twisting it to test out its range of motion. I squirm and hold my breath when it begins to tickle. After another moment of doing this, she gently lowers my foot to the ground and pats my knee. "All good," she says. "But I would recommend wearing your good boots when you go outside. There is still a decent amount of snow on the ground, which means there is most likely a layer of ice hiding beneath it. We wouldn't want you to fall again," she says with narrowed eyes, clearly still not believing my cover story.
I nod eagerly. "Yes, yes, I promise to be careful," I assure my mother. When she turns her head to meet Peeta's gaze, their silent communication, by way of a slight nod of their heads does not go unnoticed by me. I open my mouth to ask them about it when I get distracted by another thought. Peeta said he had a surprise for me once my sentence was served, and that day is finally here.
kpkpkpkpkpkp
[ Madge ]
Like the sweet, obedient friend I am, I stomp my way through the snow and across the lawn to Peeta's house at Katniss's insistence. Her foot isn't healing as quickly as Lilly would like, so Katniss is still on bedrest; hence my mission to retrieve this "ultra-important box." I enter Peeta's house, humming to myself as I climb the stairs. Before I reach the room that leads to the office, the door seems to open automatically, as if it was expecting me.
As I widen the door and take a step inside, I am instantly blinded by the brightness of the room— it seems someone has painted the entirety of the four walls a soft, pale shade of yellow, and for some reason it instantly reminds me of a nursery. I wonder if Katniss has seen this yet, I think to myself as I quickly scan the room. If the color of the room didn't scream "baby", then the beautiful, intricate, hand carved baby cradle next to the desk in the corner does. I wonder if Mr. Everdeen did this before he…
I step fully into the room, scanning the perimeter and hoping that I won't have to dig for this "box." All of a sudden, my eyes come to an abrupt halt when they land on the foreign object leaning against the desk— in plain sight. Pulling in a sharp intake of air, my shock emerges by way of a gasp and my heart begins puttering erratically in my chest. As if in a trance, my body is lured to the object like a moth to a flame.
"She didn't— she couldn't—" I sputter as I near the miniature piano-like object. It isn't a grand piano like the one at the mayor's house, but more like a muted version of it. It's a small, rectangular contraption, about three feet long, looking like only the keys of a piano, but I have no doubt that if I run my fingers along the long, white, rectangular bars that I would, no doubt be lulled into a state of transcendence.
Just like I do not doubt this contraption's capabilities, I have no doubt in my mind that this tiny version of a piano was meant for me . . . and there was most likely never a box to begin with. I grin from ear to ear as I recall Katniss's "colorful" description of her "box." The fact that she called it "ultra-important" should have been my first clue to her deception.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, wondering if I'm hallucinating. Slowly, I open my eyes, one at a time, in fear that this is nothing more than a dream. To my utter bewilderment, when I reopen my eyes, the magnificent . . . whatever it is, is still here.
Finally regaining my senses, I spin on my heels, zipping down the stairs two at a time, then I bolt out the front door, racing across the lawn until I am back at Katniss's house.
"KATNISS! KATNISS!" I scream as I enter the den to confront my friend. She is sitting on the couch with her foot propped up on a pillow, a sly, knowing, conspiratorial smirk plastered on her face.
In this moment, I feel nothing but pure, unmitigated joy. I know nothing other than utter bliss as I jump on the couch and attack her neck with my arms.
"OH-MUGODKATNISS— THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU SO MUCH. OH-MAGOSH THANK YOU KATNISS EVERDEEN! YOU ARE THE BEST, BEST, BEST FRIEND A GIRL COULDEVERHAVE!" My voice comes out in high-pitched wails, my words tumbling out so fast and strung together, with more excitement than my body can contain that I question if she can even understand me. "When did you— how did— what— why— huh?!"
"I guess that means you like it?" she manages to squeak out.
"Like it? What? No, I . . . I love it! What did you— how did you— and— and when?"
"If you'll get off me, I'll tell you," she reasons. A blush fills my face when I pull back to see the awkward position we are in.
When Katniss sent me to fetch this "box" of hers, I didn't even think to question why she would send me over there when Peeta could have easily done it. And especially since it is his house.
But none of that mattered when I opened the door to find the beautiful, shiny, black and white keyboard staring me in the face. I had to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming. It's true, I get to play during Kizzie's lessons, but she's gotten so good that I barely get to play anymore. Besides, it's not the same. Before— when my parents were alive, music was my life. Happy, sad, angry, grumpy, sleepy, or excited— I turned to my piano no matter the emotion I was feeling. It was once my best friend . . . my security blanket. It wasn't until it was it was no longer available that it dawned on me how I took it for granted; that it would always just be there. Sitting idly in the main room of my house, patiently waiting for me create my magic against its keys.
"Peeta and I saw it in the Capitol," Katniss explains, patting the spot next to her on the couch. "We were on our last stop of the Victory Tour; the Capitol." I hear the loathing venom in her tone for a split second before she continues. "Effie dragged us to this place called a pawn shop," my forehead wrinkles with confusion as I try to follow her story— which isn't the easiest task when I haven't a clue what a "pawn shop" is.
"Oh!" she pauses, reading my confusion. "A pawn shop is this kind of store where people take their perfectly good . . . uh . . . junk," she says using finger air quotes, "and either trade or sell it for other perfectly good, other junk. We were on a hunt for jewelry, and then—" Katniss turns to face me, her eyes wide as saucers, and pulls my hands into hers. "Oh Madge," she gushes, "when I saw it there . . . just . . . sitting in that shoppe; it just . . . looked so lonely; it was as if it was calling to me— begging me to take it home. And I just . . . I knew it was yours. So, I told Effie I wanted it . . . and then . . . I completely forgot about it until the other day when Effie called and asked me about it."
My eyes prickle with unshed emotion at her words. "Katniss— I— I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything Madge . . . it . . . it's what friends do." Why is now the time she figures this out . . . when I have nothing to give back? Poetic timing, I guess.
I shake my head. "I . . . I don't know how I will ever be able to repay you for this Katniss, but I promise I will find a way. I promise you Katniss Alexis Everdeen," she lifts an inquisitive brow at my misuse of her middle name as I make my solemn vow— my tears freely cascading down my cheeks, "if it is the last thing I do, I promise."
With a grin, Katniss just shakes her head.
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[ Effie ]
"Ahh, just a touch more," I mumble under my breath while inspecting my face through the mirror. Then I tap off the excess powder from the makeup pad before patting it over the concealer around my eye. My left eye to be exact. It lost its swelling after two days, thank goodness, and Capitol makeup does wonders to disguise fading bruises. What was once a deep, purplish black, tinged with lighter tones of purple and blue marks has been replaced with splotches of green and yellow.
As an escort to the two most renowned and sought-after tributes, I am always in the public eye, and I must be prepared to be photographed at any given moment. That is not the only reason; I simply cannot fathom the questions that would arise if everyone was privy to the vibrant rainbow hidden beneath my makeup. And I most certainly could not reveal the truth. What exactly would I say? 'Oh this, Mr. Flickerman? This is nothing of importance, only that my 'boyfriend' likes to get a bit handsy, especially when he does not get his way, which happens to be often. And well . . . to put it mildly, he simply cannot comprehend the word 'no'.' No, comments such as those would not be permitted.
"Perfect!" I babble to no one but myself and then place each item of make-up into their designated compartments of my make-up bag. Once everything is in their place and every place has their thing, I toss my makeup bag into my purse before giving my apartment a once over and then heading out the door. I have much to do today— many tasks to accomplish in preparation to my trip to 12.
Not willing to risk the possibility of sweating my make-up off, I take the trolley to the Remake Center so that I may once again ransack the Escort's Bay. I am not certain whether Katniss's mother is in need of any such supplies, but I am also certain that more can do no harm.
When I reach the Escort's Bay, I swipe Proctor's security badge, granting me access to enter while maintaining my anonymity. One night during another one of Proctor's drunken ramblings, he let it slip that he has his own private access card to the Escorts Bay, which is why he looks so dapper. (His words, not mine.) I had Plutarch replicate the card, then I returned the original to its home, and he was none the wiser.
Once I slip seamlessly into Escort's Bay, I get straight to work by rummaging through the drawers, cabinets and all the various compartments that are within reach. I help myself to only a fraction of the supplies as I did during my last visit here, because I do not want to arouse anyone's suspicions to so many supplies being depleted, with no reason for them to do so. It's probably an avox who replenishes the supplies, but I am not willing to take that risk on the off chance it is not. I empty a moderate amount of the two half full tubes of anti-infection ointment into the empty plastic bottles I brought with me before filling an empty whiskey jug with antibiotic elixir. I zip my bag up in preparation to leave when my eye flickers across the shiny packages of anti-pregnancy tablets. Seeing that there are dozens and dozens of the packages, I grab a handful and stuff them into my purse.
"I am officially a thief," I chastise myself, feeling slightly guilty that I do not feel guilty about my thievery. A few years ago, this type of behavior would have simply appalled me. Had I learned of a fellow escort doing what I just did— what I am doing, I would not have hesitated to report their actions. And now, my allegiance has been redirected. Deceiving my country— my president comes as easily as breathing.
Deciding that I've taken more than enough supplies, I make my way to the door. I reach for the handle on the door to pull it open when I am frozen in place from the distinct sound of light chatter coming from the other side of the door.
My heart quickens its pace as the adrenaline rushes through my veins. I cannot get caught, so I scan the room for a place to hide. I internally groan when I realize the only place spacious enough to conceal my presence is a small cabinet underneath the counter. Quickly, I maneuver myself into the small space and pull the door closed from the inside, feeling very thankful for the yoga lessons that have increased my flexibility.
I take slow, even breaths to steady my heavy breathing, surprised by the familiar voice that rings through my ears.
"I can't stand that woman, you know? I mean . . . it would be one thing if she actually cared for her tributes, but every time she has been on camera, she deflects from speaking about them. I mean . . . if those were my tributes—"
"Yes, yes, but they are not your tributes Ellora." I immediately recognize the annoying, nasally, high-pitched voice as Kadalini— one of the District 5 Escorts as she corrects Ellora, an Escort for District 7. And then I am screaming at them in my head that they are not tributes, but victors.
"Well, whatever. But you know what I mean, right? If those were my tributesgetting married in just a short time, I would be in front of the cameras at every spare chance I could get. Promoting them, but noooo, she lets those stylists hog all the credit," Ellora whines incessantly.
"But you must admit that 12's stylists are rather talented— well, for first year Stylists. With only one year under their belt, they have already made quite a name for themselves."
"I mean," Ellora continues her relentless whining, completely ignoring Kadalini's compliments about Cinna and Portia. "I totally get why she doesn't like the girl, but the boy is . . . well, I was forced to shake hands with him during their time in the Capitol and he was so sweet, and polite too; not too hard on the eyes either."
I do not even realize I have ground my teeth together and my fists are balled up at my sides. How dare she ogle my darling Peeta. And what does she mean "she gets why I don't like the girl?" I struggle with my internal commentary, eventually telling myself to breathe.
"Ellora! He is much too young for you and besides, he is rather smitten with that girl. Though, I do not understand why. She just seems so . . . frigid!"
How dare they speak of my children this way! Katniss is not cold, she is cautious. She is guarded and doesn't trust easily. And rightfully so! I vehemently think towards these two. It takes every ounce of strength I possess not to reveal myself to these two fools. No matter how badly I want to jump out and yell at these two, I bite my tongue and remain in place.
"Anyway Ellora, you don't even like your own tributes," Kadalini goes on.
"Well, I might . . . if any of them would ever win. I just don't see the point in getting to know them prior to the Games. I mean . . . seriously, what IS the point if they are just going to die?"
I hear Kadalini tsk tsking to her fellow escort as the bile rises from the back of my throat. But then I remind myself that I was once this way. I was once just as naïve and oblivious and illiterate to district life as they are.
"Anyway, where in Panem's sake is Cream #797? I swear, it's like no one replenishes the supplies in here!"
"I know what you mean!" Kadalini whines, "Just last week I came in here to obtain some fillaxium and the compartment it is usually held in was empty! I come back a week later and—"
"Still empty?" Ellora finishes for her. "But Kadalini, I think your lips are lush and beautiful just the way they are!"
"Oh, you're being too kind," Kadalini gushes, and it makes my stomach turn. I truly hope I do not expel the contents of my stomach in this tiny compartment I am currently stuck in. "I mean . . . what is the Capitol coming to? The Escort's Bay is meant to—"
For a moment I wonder if they are being facetious, or do they truly believe that the Escort's Bay is meant for the escorts. The Escort's Bay was created to aid in tribute wellness during their stay here, not to fill out lips and butts and tighten their skin. It's true purpose is to ensure the tributes are strong and able-bodied for the Games.
"I know, I know, but we must be going. I do not wish to get caught in here."
Me too, me too. I think silently, eager to stretch my legs.
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[ Peeta ]
I was over the moon— nearly bursting at the seams when Lilly gave Katniss the green light from her sentence of bedrest, which means that today is the day. Finally, after eleven and a half years, all my dreams are coming true. Tonight is the night Katniss and I will have our toasting— granted, she doesn't get freaked out and run away. Which, knowing Katniss, is highly likely.
I have meticulously mapped out the entire day, and as excited as I am to see this through, I am also a giant ball of nerves. I take a slow and deep, cleansing breath to steady my nerves as Katniss and I walk with our matching strides, to the meadow. I know she said this was something she wanted, but I still want it to be a surprise.
I try to focus on the feel of Katniss's hand in mine, the way her calloused fingers brush against my own fingers. I feel as if I am about to burst with excitement when Katniss interrupts my thoughts. "Do you think Prim knows anything?"
"I don't think she knows anything, but I'm pretty sure she's suspicious as to why she has an escort everywhere she goes," I say after a moment.
"Do you think we should tell her anything?"
I ponder Katniss's question for a moment before I speak. "I— I don't know the right answer Katniss. And trust me, I've spent hours upon hours, lost sleep trying to figure out the right thing to do. It's like . . . too much information could be dangerous, but on the other hand, the same could be said about not knowing enough. I'm sorry— that doesn't really help you, does it?"
"No, but that's okay. It's exactly in line with my train of thought; and I guess . . . that's kind of what I was looking for. So why are you dragging me out to the meadow on my first day of freedom?" Katniss asks, waggling her brows with a goofy grin on her face. I cock my head to the side for a moment, confused as to why she's making silly faces— and then it hits me. A few days ago, I let it slip that I had a surprise planned for her, so she probably thinks it's in the meadow. And she would be correct.
"It's a surprise," I tease her with a snicker, and her eyes light up with bewilderment.
By the time we reach the meadow, the sky begins to trickle with flurries of snow. I bring us to a stop, pulling Katniss into my embrace and press my lips to her forehead. Then I turn her around and use my thumb to tilt her chin up in the direction of her surprise. I observe her eyes flicking back and forth as the vast array of emotions cloud her features when her eyes land on what is in front of her. It's a beautiful thing to watch, and the tiny specs of snowflakes that nestle in her hair seems to make everything feel . . . perfect.
She stares dumbfounded for a moment, her mouth agape. Then her head snaps back to me; the biggest smile on her face and her eyes pooled with tears. "Peeta— what is—" she sputters, trying to find the right words. "Did you— is that a— a miniature house in a tree?" She questions with wide eyes before closing the distance between us and wrapping her arms around my neck.
"Maybe," I whisper into her ear, returning her embrace. "Come, there's more." I pull her along excitedly, eager to reveal what's in the inside.
The idea came to me several weeks ago when I just happened to pass the local carpentry store. From afar I could tell Mr. Elridge was struggling as he dragged something large and heavy away, so I jogged over to see if I could help. When I realized he was attempting to get rid of piles and piles of scraps of wood planks, I asked him if instead of tossing them in the trash, if I could purchase the wood from him. At first, he refused any payment, saying he was just going to throw them in the trash, and he wouldn't feel right taking my money. But I am Peeta Mellark and as Katniss has said on more than one occasion, I have a silver tongue.
To him, it was nothing more than scraps to be discarded, but to me, I saw a masterpiece. Over the span of several months, I transformed his "junk", his trash into something else entirely— something beautiful for the girl I love. That was a few months ago, shortly after Katniss and I returned home from the Tour. I would check in with Mr. Elridge each week, and more often than not, he would have at least a few more planks to spare, and though it has taken a lot of time and patience, I now have a sturdy floor surrounded by three complete walls, a roof, and another wall with an opening that passes as a door. I can't take all the credit though; I had the help of my brother Rye— and the use of my dad's tools.
"I just thought that . . . since it's not safe for you to go out there anymore . . . that this could be the next best thing," I tell her shyly, motioning in the direction of the woods. I know she finds sanctuary beyond the fence, and ever since the day she and Madge got stuck out there, the peacekeepers have made going back impossible. As per their promise, the fence has been electrified twenty-four-seven.
"It's perfect Peeta," Katniss gushes as she scans the perimeter of the tiny room.
"I know it's not a replacement for being out there, and it's not very big—" I start to tell her, but she cuts me off by pressing her lips to mine.
"You brought the woods to me . . . you built me a treehouse," she nearly squeals with delight.
We spend the rest of the morning in our little makeshift tree home, enjoying the breakfast I prepared for us and watching the miracle of another sun rise. After surviving the games with the love of your life, you learn to appreciate the little things in life. Like sunrises and sunsets. Like sharing meals with those you love. You treasure things you once took for granted.
For the first time in— well, actually, I can't remember the last time were truly alone. Katniss curls into my side as we get comfortable on the pallet of sheets and pillows, basking under the warmth of the sun— plus a blanket and just enjoy being together like this. With no cameras and no Haymitch. No Effie or prep teams chasing our tails and scolding us about schedules. No Mom and Prim constantly barging in to check on Katniss's foot. Or my hand. As much as I love and adore Katniss's family, it's nice to have a break from them. Finally, it's just the two of us, which is just the way I like it.
"I think it's time to get Prim," Katniss tells me when she sees the sun positioned above the bakery. It always amazes me how she can decipher what time it is with nothing but the position of the sun in the sky.
I frown and poke my lip out, exaggerating my disappointment. "No, not yet. Just one more minute," I whine, leaning in to kiss her.
She returns my kiss, seemingly distracted for a fraction of a moment. And then she pushes me back, "Come on Peeta, I don't want Prim walking home alone. Rye said he might have to work late today," Katniss says, squirming out of my arms. I can't help the smile that forms on my lips when Katniss mentions my brother. Over the last week, Katniss and Rye have gotten much closer— thanks to her confinement to her house, and for some reason, it warms my heart.
As much as I don't want to leave right now, I know she's right. Against all my efforts to delay the inevitable, we leave everything in the tree and climb down, deciding we'll most likely return once Prim is safely at home. I don't tell her that Rye doesn't really have to work late today, because that would reveal the biggest surprise. But even if we don't have the chance to return today, it's cold enough outside so that our remaining food will not spoil. Together, we walk to the school and wait for Prim just outside the gates of the school yard. I'm not sure how much Prim knows about what's going on, if anything, but Katniss and I are too afraid to let her walk anywhere in the district alone. Afraid of what Snow might do.
While we're waiting for Prim, I make a split-second decision. "Let's make a deal," I tell Katniss, turning to meet her eyes.
"Um okay, what's that?" she responds hesitantly, arching one of her brows.
"Tomorrow we can talk about anything you want. We can talk about the good, the bad, the ugly, and even the really, really bad, and even uglier. But . . . for today . . . can we just . . . I don't know, pretend that we're just a normal pair of kids. That we're ordinary teenagers, doing normal, simple, ordinary . . . things."
"Sure," Katniss agrees with a shrug of her shoulders, which takes me by surprise. I guess I was expecting her to put up more of a fight. "We're just an ordinary couple . . . with the ability to communicate to each other with our minds," Katniss whispers the last part, smiling cheekily at me.
"Okay, so maybe we're not completely ordinary, but you know what I mean."
'No talk about the Games, Snow, his followers, District 13, Lucy Gray's journal, the rebellion, and so on, and so on,' Katniss adds silently.
I tense at her response; hearing it aloud makes it seem like so much. Almost immediately, I force my body to relax and give her a smile. 'You catch on so quickly, see, I knew there was a reason to keep you around.'
'So, what does that leave us to talk about?' she quips silently.
"Who needs to need to talk," I mumble against her lips, pulling her closer and deepening our kiss— but longer this time. 'When we can do this,' I finish silently, running my tongue along her bottom lip.
"Ahghhem, I hope I'm not interrupting," Katniss and I nearly bolt apart as if we we'd been shocked when Prim approaches. "You know that I'm not a baby and all of you guys don't have to walk me home every single day," she finishes, elongating each word as she rolls her eyes. Then she snaps her head in Katniss's direction, realizing that she is out and about for the first time in over a week. "Oh mu-gosh! Katniss!" she shrieks, "You're upright, and outside!" She squeals, jumping up and down with excitement before clobbering Katniss with a hug.
Prim was clued in on my plan last night and she plays her role perfectly. After a moment of small talk, Prim spins around to face me, lighting up as if she just had the most brilliant idea. "Peeta, can we stop by the bakery?" She pleads with her puppy dog eyes as we begin strolling through town. Then she puts her hands together like she's in prayer, juts her bottom lip out and whines, "Pleeeaassee?" dragging out all the vowels in the word. "Rye said he was making frosted sugar cookies this morning and that he'd save me one."
I lock eyes with Katniss and give her a look that says, How could I refuse such a sad, pathetic, adorable face like Prims? She answers me by shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly. "Okay fine, I guess so," I feign exasperation as we turn the corner to the bakery.
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[ Madge ]
"That was absolutely beautiful Kismet, but I think that's enough for today," Mayor Kadinski enters the grand room with a smile of undulated pride from her daughter's musical progress. Kizzie's face falls, not wanting the lesson to be over just yet. I nod and spin around on the piano bench to get up when Mayor Kadinski places her hand on my shoulder.
"Madge, if you wouldn't mind coming with me, I would like to have a word with you," she says, which sends a rush of heat to flush up my cheeks.
"Um, okay, sure," I tell her with a pounding heart. Kizzie gives me a hug and runs off to do whatever it is she does in her free time. And then anxiously, I follow Mayor Kadinski into her office.
"If I may—" I begin hesitantly, "what exactly did you wish to speak to me about?" I ask her, choosing my words carefully. I scan my brain for anything I may have done to upset her but come up empty.
She doesn't say a word until the door clicks shut behind us in her office. She sits down on the couch that once belonged to my father, which surprises me. I half expected her to take the seat behind her desk; for this to feel like official business.
"First of all, Madge," she begins, patting the spot next to her. I try to steady my racing heart as I take the seat next to her. She closes her eyes as if she's thinking of what she wants to say and then takes my hand in hers. "I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to teach Kismet . . . the kids here have not exactly been ah—" she pauses, placing her finger at her temple, "accepting of her. Plus, I cannot imagine the range of emotions you must feel when you're here."
"Oh, well—" I begin, feeling confounded by where this conversation is going. "I— I'm sorry about that. It was the same for me when . . . when—" my words trail off, so I quickly continue to the next topic. "It's really not a problem, Kizzie is such a joy to teach, and she's just so . . . naturally gifted," I tell her. "But . . . I feel like you didn't bring me in here to thank me for that."
"Yes, and you'd be correct," she responds, her lips forming into a straight line. "To be completely honest Madge, I just wanted to check in with you and see how you're coping after the ah . . . incident."
"It's okay, you can call it what it was. Cray attacked me." As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize I never even thanked Raven for rescuing me. "I— I never got to thank your husband— had he not gotten there when he did— if he hadn't stopped Cray . . . then— then— I don't know. I'd probably be dead . . . or worse—" my words fall short as my imagination gets away from me. Some people might think death is the worst thing that could happen to a person, but when you're dead, you're just . . . gone. Death isn't the worst thing that can happen to you, it's the worst thing that happens to those you leave behind.
She nods and blushes, though I'm not sure why. "There are much worse things than being dead," she begins, as if reading my thoughts. "and I know from experience that having a man force himself on you qualifies as one of those things. I just—" she hesitates for a moment, as if she's trying to decide whether or not to tell me something. Madge, I too was once attacked, and it . . . traumatized me." Maybe I'm seeing things, but I think I just saw her shudder. "I— I don't think it ever leaves you . . . at least not permanently. I still occasionally have episodes."
Wait a minute— what? "Really?" I ask, thoroughly intrigued. "W-what helped you through it?" I wanted to ask what happened, but that's none of my business. And then I wonder if maybe she has some pointers on being able to sleep through the night— soundly.
"Well, Raven for one," her lips curve up at the mention of her husband's name. "It was . . . it was just before I discovered I was pregnant with Kismet. Raven and I had been trying for so long . . . and then the attack happened. And then, whaddya know . . . about six weeks later we learned we were finally expecting."
My brows furrow with confusion as I recall an article I read about women in the Capitol using surrogates to procreate. I guess it's just another thing to add to the running tally of peculiar things about the mayor and her husband.
And then— wait a minute— is she saying what I think she's saying? "Was it— th-the man— your attacker?" I ask, and then realize how this is none of my business. "Oh my god, I am so sorry! You don't—" I cover my face with my hands feeling so ashamed.
"No, it's okay Madge," she asserts, resting her hands on mine reassuringly. "We don't know. We didn't want to know. Well, Raven didn't want to know. He told me it didn't matter to him, that it was our child in my belly, and nothing in the world would ever change that."
"Wow," I gasp. And for the first time, I think I am really, truly, and whole-heartedly seeing Raven in a whole new light.
"But if I didn't have Raven, I think I would have fallen into something very deep and dark. When you are violated, whether it is physically or emotionally, it— it takes its toll on you. I don't mean to share this information with you to gain your trust, or for you to pity me. I just . . . I just want you to know that you can talk to me if you want or need to. That when I say I understand what you're going through, they are not just empty words, but that I honest to God understand the emotions you must be feeling. No one knows of this except for Raven and I— so I ask you to please be discreet."
"Of course, I would never say anything, I promise. A-and thank you. But I honestly don't remember much of what happened. I remember sneaking into—" my head snaps up, realizing that I am about to admit to my crime of breaking and entering to the mayor of our district.
"It's okay Madge, I know about the tunnels. It is . . . where we first met," she whispers so softly, I am certain no recording devices could possibly pick it up. "And, it is safe to speak in here. My father has reconfigured the wiring so that all surveillance is first directed to him."
"Your father?" I ask.
"Yes. As Head Gamemaker and all, he is able to do that."
"Who is—"
"Plutarch Heavensbee," she states firmly. My eyes widen with recognition, but I push it from my mind.
"Oh. Well, I remember going down there, I— I was looking through the boxes my dad left me, and then I . . . I didn't hear him. It was like . . . I had this chill like someone walked over my grave. And then I looked up, that's when I saw him. I was so focused on finding um— and then he just . . . snuck up on me. He told me he's always wanted me— I remember pleading for my life and then . . . nothing. Sometimes I have a hard time sleeping at night, it's like my subconscious remembers, but once I'm awake, it's all gone. But— but I still wake up restless."
"The brain is a very complex organ. It has ways of protecting us," she says. "I also know what Peeta is up to today," she whispers again, her lips curving up into a mischievous smile. And then instantly, the corners of my lips arch up to match hers.
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[ Katniss ]
"Seriously? You want to build a snowman?" I lift a brow at Peeta's statement, thinking that it's finally happened. He's gone mad. Cuckoo. "But it's so cold," I whine, hugging my arms to preserve my warmth when he nods his head.
"That's the point Katniss, you can't build a snowman when it's warm!" He says, lowering down to one knee and forming a snowball in his hand. Then he begins rolling it on the snow so that it gets bigger and bigger, until finally, it's up to his waist.
I just stand there shaking my head and smiling, watching with amusement as Peeta works diligently on the snowman's body. He looks so young, so sweet and innocent— like a child playing in the snow. Out of nowhere an idea forms in my head and I squat down, gathering a tight ball of snow— thankful I'm wearing the gloves Cinna gave me. I can barely even feel the cold thanks to the fur-lined gloves. I wait for the perfect moment to attack— biding my time and kneeling, pretending to tie my shoes. Peeta seems oblivious to my intentions as he places the snowman's head on top of the second ball of snow, which is when I go in for the kill.
"Oh, so that's how you want to play?" Peeta says, turning around and rubbing his head. Then he scoops up ball after ball of snow and begins chucking them it at me. I'm not sure how he did it without me noticing, but he has a heaping pile of snowballs hiding behind his snowman.
We must really look like idiots— two Victor's taking part in a snowball fight in the Meadow. But I couldn't care less. I have not had this much fun, laughed this hard in I don't know how long. Certainly not in the last year. I refuse to come out of my fort when Peeta crawls out of his massive, make-shift fort with his hands up.
"Okay, Okay. I surrender," he concedes. I poke my head out to see if this is just a tactic to get me to come out, which is when he sneaks up from behind me and wrestles me to the ground.
"Cheater! You are a liar and a cheater, Peeta Mellark," I accuse him and have him pinned in less than two seconds. I'm not sure how, but I end up straddled on his lap and binding his hands with my own. "I win. I'm the winner!" I grin from ear to ear, and then lean forward and kiss him full on the mouth.
"I beg to differ, Miss Everdeen," he says, his eyes sparkling. Suddenly, heat courses through my frozen body and it's like there is this electric surge charging between us. The charge has been there for a while now, but more like a light buzzing. This time it's different. It's electrifying.
I try to push the feeling aside, narrowing my eyes and ask him, "And how exactly do you figure that?"
"Well, you have me pinned . . . I am literally trapped underneath you. If this is what happens when I lose, I will happily lose— all the time," he grins cheekily.
I cannot help myself when I lean down and press my lips to his, but this time with a deeper intensity. It's like . . . I am insatiable and starving for his touch. I want— I need for us to be skin to skin.
Finally, we come up for air and Peeta is the first to speak. "Let's get home so we can warm up."
We make our way home and strip out of our crunchy, half-frozen clothes. Peeta wraps us in a blanket while we sit on the floor. Then he leans against the sofa, and I snuggle myself between his legs. When the feeling returns to my fingers, I take my hat off and run my fingers through my tangled hair. "Ugh, I'm gross, I think I'm going to go upstairs and jump in the shower," I tell him. He just nods and shifts uncomfortably, prompting me to wonder why he is suddenly acting so weird.
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[ Peeta ]
I wait patiently as I watch Katniss exit the room. My heart slams in my chest— faster and faster with each footstep that leads her upstairs. Then finally, I hear the tell-tale clicking of the door, which means— it's time. I jump up, ready to put my plan into action. I start by grabbing the spare set of clothes I hid underneath the sofa cushion and zipping to the downstairs bathroom. I slide on my flannel pajama bottoms and dark green long-sleeved shirt, knowing that these are Katniss's favorite. And then, with my heart still banging against my rib cage, I sprint into the kitchen. Katniss normally spends twenty to thirty minutes with her shower routine, so that's the maximum amount of time I have allotted myself to get everything done. I glance over to the oven to see that it is on, and the bread is very nearly ready to come out. I smile, thankful that my house always smells like freshly baked bread, or else Katniss would have been suspicious. As I'm sliding the oven mitt onto my hand, I say a silent thank you to my brother. Without his help, this bread would not be possible.
Please be okay with this Katniss, I whisper to myself, making sure to shield my thoughts from her.
I locate the papers Mayor Kadinski managed to acquire for me and set them on the table in the living room. Then I spread several blankets on the floor for us to lie on and prop the sofa pillows against the couch to lean against. After giving the living room a once over, I then find myself adding a few more blankets to the pile on the floor. I straighten, re-straighten, and then straighten the blankets one more time before realizing I forgot the bread. I zip back into the kitchen, shove my hands into an oven mitt and slide the bread onto a platter. I place the dome covering over the bread to keep it warm— and to hide it from Katniss until it's time. And then I nervously— and anxiously look around to see if there is anything else I forgot.
Deciding that everything is ready— or at least as ready as it can be, I grab a book and stretch out on the couch to wait for Katniss. After a few seconds of my heart pounding erratically in my chest, I decide I need to get up and move around.
My mind starts running at a million miles per second as I think of all the things that could go wrong. What if she laughs at me? What if this isn't something she still wants? What if she wants this at some point in her life, just not with me? I straighten the blankets for what feels like the millionth time, reposition the bread, and flip through the papers at least four times— very near to talking myself out of what I have planned when I hear the rattling of the door, followed by the creaky floorboard in the upstairs hallway. Quickly, I slip the papers under the tray of bread; out of sight and look up.
Our eyes meet and all my doubts evaporate into the air. Katniss glides down the wraparound staircase— emanating such light and beauty; rendering me speechless.
"Hi," she says, hunching her shoulders up— as if embarrassed.
My mouth hangs open and my heart skips a beat from the sight of her. There are just . . . no words to describe her beauty. "H-h-hi," I finally manage to sputter out. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs she pinches the sides of her dress, lifts her arms and spins around once.
"Do you like it?" she asks.
"Wow!" I gasp at the sight of her in the elegant fading embers of orange - dress. It must be one from Cinna's collection, because I have never seen this one before. It's more beautiful than I can put into words and hugs her in all the right places. But then— I find myself flooded with guilt and shame when I think about getting her out of the dress. It has these really skinny straps holding it up; for some reason, reminding me of a single spaghetti noodle.
"Do you like it?" she blushes as she walks over to me. I am still frozen in a state of shock. Since my voice doesn't seem to be working, I force my head to move up and down in a nod.
"Oh my— wow— you're just— wow— and so— beautiful. No, stunning and elegant and incredible, and just . . . perfect." And then I realize I am in nothing but pajamas when she is in this immaculate dress. "Should I go change?"
"Don't you dare," she affirms. "You're perfect."
And then I get an idea. "Hold on, I'll be right back," I tell her and sprint up the stairs to get the music box Effie sent. I flip it upside down to wind it up as I make my way back downstairs. Then I sit it on the table and open it up, activating its music chip. I give Katniss a smile and extend my hand to her.
"May I have this dance?" She blushes, nods and takes my hand. We don't actually dance, we're really just swaying back and forth to a song from before the Dark Days called, "Time of my Life." After a few seconds Katniss rests her head on my shoulder and my heart melts.
When the song is over, we take a seat on the blanket in front of the fire. "Are you hungry?" I ask her, going for the bread.
"What do you think?" She huffs, narrowing her eyes with her trademark scowl, which forces a chuckle to escape from my throat. It's a stupid question to ask anyone who is a resident of 12. Everyone is hungry, even those of us who are more fortunate than the others. I hand her the platter of cheese buns, but she's eyeing the other tray. "What's that?" She asks, pointing behind my back.
"Oh, it's nothing." I tell her and shift my body, to block her view.
"Oh my God, Peeta; is that—" The cheese buns are all but forgotten when she goes saucer eyed from the sight of the bread behind us. She crawls over me and removes the lid, picks the bread up, delicately turning it over and over in her hands. "Is this—"
I bashfully look away and nod my head, "It is," I admit. Her head snaps to the right as she surveys the room. And then it all hits her at once as realization dawns on her. For a moment, I'm afraid she's going to go running for the hills, but instead, she reaches for the bread knife and begins sawing at the loaf. She frees the slice of bread and impales it on a poker before placing it over the fire. While she rotates the poker to evenly toast the bread, she looks over to me, her silver eyes glistening with the flames and smiles.
"Do I ever tell you how much I love you? H-how important you are to me?" She asks as her eyes meet mine.
All my anxiety dissipates into her gray orbs as I extend my hand out, curling a strand of her hair around my finger. "It is implied every single day, in everything you do," I tell her softly.
She pulls the poker back and places it down next to the hearth, but not before removing the slightly toasted bread from its prongs. She juggles the bread from one hand to the other— again and again while she waits for it to cool.
My eyes remain cemented on her, my anxiety rising to a new level as I await her next actions.
"Peeta . . . you are . . . without a doubt, the most amazingly incredible person I know— have ever known. And . . . I never thought I wanted this, but you— you changed everything for me. You changed the way I see the world, and I . . . I can't imagine a life without you. And . . . even if for some, out of this world reason I could, I wouldn't want to."
Woah, wait a minute, what is she doing? Those are supposed to be my words.
'Katniss, what are you doing?' I ask her in our silent form of communication when my voice fails me.
'I think you know,' she smiles mischievously at me.
"Uh-uhn, no, that's my job, I had this all planned out."
"Oh, so that's what today was all about?" She exclaims with a bright smile on her face. I can't help but return the smile as I lean over and press my lips against hers. Using my weight, I push her onto her back and kiss her deeply— thoroughly running my tongue along her lips, sucking . . . pulling her bottom lip into my mouth until she shivers.
"I love you Katniss Everdeen," I mumble through our connected lips. "I love everything about you; I even love the things I hate about you." I crawl beside her and help her to a sitting position, our bodies continuing to absorb the heat from the flames as I stare longingly into her beautiful grey eyes.
"You ruined my plans, I'm not sure if I can forgive you for that," I quip, smiling and gazing into her perfect eyes.
"What if I . . ." She pauses, lifting the seam of my shirt up and tracing her fingers lightly across my stomach, "do this?" She finishes, sending goosebumps prickling against my skin and I squirm from side to side with her touch.
"Nothing's ruined," she promises. "All I said, was I wanted for it to be ours; that I didn't want the day I became yours, and you mine to be in front of a Capitol audience. As long as it's just us, then I don't care about the rest."
And she says she's not good with words.
I take her hands into mine, staring deeply into her eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath before saying, "Katniss, I was mesmerized by you since I was a five-year old, snaggle-toothed little boy. I can't even remember a time I didn't love you; and for so long, I never thought you would give me the time of day. I thought . . . for so many years I thought that just having your friendship would be enough, but after feeling what it's like for you to love me back . . . I can't imagine a life without you. I know you only said yes because of . . . well, because of everything, but I swear to you, I will be the best husband you could ever hope to have. I—"
"Peeta, I—" she interjects, but I stop her.
"Please Katniss, please let me finish," she nods, not pushing it any further. "I offer this toasted bread to you," I begin, pulling the bread from its prongs, "with the promise of being your best friend. I will listen when you need someone to talk to. When you just need to vent, my ears will be open; or if what you need is a sounding board, then that's what I'll be. Whatever you need, I will give it to you— if I can't or don't know how to give it to you, then I will move heaven and earth to make you happy. Somehow, someway, I will make sure you have everything your heart desires."
Katniss's eyes pool with unshed tears as I press on. "You will never have to be alone because I will be with you, always. Even when you don't think you want me around, I will be. When you're being stubborn and need someone to be honest with you—" Katniss grins from ear to ear at these words, knowing how much merit they already hold. "I'm your guy. I will be honest with you— I will tell you the truth and I promise not to withhold anything from you." My hand reaches up to wipe the cascading tear from Katniss's cheek.
"I will hold your hand when you're scared, and I will be right here, right next to you, scared with you. I will tell you that everything will be okay— because even if it's not, we will have each other, and that will make whatever we're going through bearable. You never have to be afraid to take a leap, because I will catch you before you fall. And . . . and if what you need is a push— well, I'd never push you over a cliff, but I'd be standing next to you, holding your hand as we jump together. Because I love you."
With a quivering chin, her tears freely fall from her eyes as she reaches for our toasted slice of bread and holds it up between us. It is the only thing separating our lips. And then I part my lips and allow her to feed me the bread, our bread. Our little slice of heaven that signifies our love. I sink my teeth into the perfectly toasted bread, as does she. Our teeth sink into our promise to the other and then we seal it with a kiss.
"I love you Peeta Mellark, my husband."
"And I, you; Katniss Everdeen; my wife."
"I think that would be Katniss Mellark now; get it right," she tries to scowl at me but fails, erupting in a giggle.
"You mean . . . are you saying that . . . you're okay changing your name?" I so badly wanted this but didn't want to press the issue. I know how independent Katniss is, not to mention that I didn't think she'd want to give away one of the few things from her dad. But I did— I wanted to give her my name— one of the few things I can actually give her.
"Of course, Peeta, that's what married people do," she teases.
"I like the sound of that, Mrs. Katniss Mellark— Oh, that reminds me!" I exclaim jubilantly, nearly bursting at the seams as I jump up to collect the papers the mayor had given me earlier this week.
"What's that?" Katniss questions curiously.
"It's um . . . they're the papers. To make it official."
"Seriously? When— How?"
"The mayor. But . . . we can't tell anyone; she'll be in a load of trouble if anyone finds out."
"My husband . . . conspiring with the mayor," Katniss beams, glowing with pride. I am incapable of concealing the cheesy, ear-splitting grin when she calls me her husband. "Though, I'm not sure how I'll be able to keep it from mom and Prim," she says, shifting uncomfortably.
"Oh, uh—" I blurt out.
"What?"
"Um, well . . . they uh—"
"Spit it out Mellark."
"They already know."
"Who already knows what?
"About us. The toasting. I had to have help today, so um . . . yeah. Mom and Prim knew about it, along with my dad and Rye. Rye and Prim came over after we left them to turn the oven on and put the bread in. And well, the mayor because she's the one who gave me the papers."
"So that's why Prim was being extra cute today!" Katniss exclaims. "Now it all makes sense."
As I watch her grip the pen in her hand and sign her name on all the dotted lines, I pinch myself to see if I am dreaming. I can't believe it; I am actually, really, truly, and officially married to Katniss Everdeen— Mellark.
"Wait! I have something for you," Katniss says and rushes up the stairs. I hear her run into my room and then hear a drawer slam before she is racing back downstairs.
"You already gave me a ring, but I um . . . I want you to have something from me," she says, her cheeks flushing as she reaches for my hand. Refusing to meet my eyes, she slips something onto my finger.
I pull my hand up to look at what she's put on my finger to see a ring adorned to the pointer finger of my right hand. Then she takes her ring off the chain of her necklace— the one I gave her in District 4, the night of my true proposal to her— the one that once belonged to her mother, given to me by her father and does the same.
It's a tradition in 12 that goes along with the toasting. Everyone knows that your wedding ring is typically worn on the fourth finger of your left hand, but in 12, it starts out on the pointer finger of your right hand. There was a tradition from before the dark days that said you start off like this because there is a vein . . . or maybe it's an artery that runs from your finger to your heart. And since marriage is the ultimate promise, by doing this you are connecting your hearts together. Once the ceremony is over, then you switch it to the fourth finger of your left hand.
Katniss leans over to kiss me, and we switch the ring to our proper fingers while our lips are still conjoined. For now. I will eventually have to find a clever place to keep mine until . . . until well, I don't know. But the Capitol cannot know we are already married.
After all the traditions are complete, I take our marriage papers to the office room upstairs and tuck them away in a safe place. Then, with a little extra pep in my step, I find my way back to the main room and scoop Katniss into my arms.
"Peeta! What are you doing?" She squeals like a giddy schoolgirl, encircling her arms around my neck. Carefully, I make my way up the stairs and into my room— our room. Who am I kidding? It's always been our room— no piece of paper or ceremony was needed to decide that for us.
"I am carrying my wife over the threshold. The toasting isn't complete until that's been done," I remind her with a kiss.
"Okay," she says, nuzzling her head against my chest. No thanks to my artificial leg, we make it up the steps successfully. I press my lips against hers as my foot passes the threshold. Now, all the standard traditions of 12 are complete, except for the final one. The one that really seals the deal. Consummation.
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A/N : Don't forget to drop me a line to let me know what you thought!
Line from Chapter 12 comes from Cinna : "Katniss, why is there a trail of clothes leading to— oh!"