I blink.

The Prosecution?

I shake my head as if doing so will rid me of my bafflement - as if it'll rewind time, will suck those four words from the air. I squeeze my eyes shut, hard, and imagine Gale's lips slurping back that sentence. When I open my eyes though, time is still trundling on and Gale is peering at me with a buoyant expression - like he's proud of that sentence. He's excited.

My stomach curdles.

I step away, but my legs feel weak and shaky. I sink back into my chair.

"What do you mean?" I mumble, staring at my knees. I don't want to look back up, because as long as I'm staring at the fabric stretched over my legs, I can pretend that the pride and excitement I just saw in Gale's eyes were a figment of my imagination.

"I, Uh —. I mean. Um, I don't understand?"

Gale expels a huff, a whoosh of air that tells me more than words could: that he doesn't understand my confusion either. That he can't see anything wrong with this situation.

I glance up and feel my chest bubble. I push back from the table abruptly, and the chair makes a screaming sound as it grates against the floorboards. My feet carry me into the kitchen and I fumble around the cupboards, searching for a glass. The water rushes violently from the faucet as I turn the tap on - guzzling the glass and filling it again immediately after. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The glass makes a small clink when I place it on the countertop and look back to Gale.

"What do you mean, the Prosecution? You can't be on the Prosecution? They're saying that Peeta's guilty. They're against him. They're against my team!"

I shake my hand again, but time still doesn't change. It plods along, linear.

"Can't you be on the Defence?" I whisper. "Or can't you say no?"

Gale's eyebrows contort; his head tilts and he pulls back slightly.

"Say no? Catnip, I thought you'd be happy?"

Something in my gut snaps and my confusion dissolves into a smoulder - an ember of anger. My fingers tremble, and I grip the counter behind me. There's a grain of uncooked rice that I must have spilled when making dinner last night. It digs at my skin.

"Happy?" I scoff, my voice hard. "What in the holy hell would make you think that I'd be happy!? Are you obtuse? I'm on the Defence, Gale, the de-fucking-fence. Last time I checked, that meant I'd be opposing the Prosecution."

Gale looks at me softly and speaks slowly, like I'm an overwhelmed child. My gut roils.

"We can't say no this money, Catnip. Think of what it'll do for us, what it could do for the District."

I don't like the way Gale says 'us', like it's a layered word, a heavy one, something that means more than two measly letters. I don't like how he says it because it's no longer 'us' as friends, as hunting partners, as confidants who know the other better than themselves - but 'us' as a couple that need to plan about things like money and possibilities and futures. More than though, I don't like Gale's assumption that we as a pair would accept that money; that we could live comfortably and happy on a dime earned from making an innocent man's life harder. An errant thought prods at the back on my mind: I'm not all that better - my main incentive for involvement was to earn money too. I chew my lip; at least my money will be earned doing good.

"Gale, it'd be blood money," I say flatly.

His expression steels.

"Blood money?"

He huffs again, only this time it's not a sound of confusion but derision. "The kid's guilty, Catnip. He shot Coin, point blank. What's the Defence going to argue, huh? Insanity? We both know that boy's not insane. Tortured? Sure. But not insane. He knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled that trigger."

I stare at Gale, silent. I push my hand harder into the grain of rice and the edges prick at my skin, fiercely. It does nothing to quell the churning of my gut.

"Coin was a good leader," he continues. "A strong leader. That bullet didn't just kill her, it near killed our new Panem. Wearing a badge with a bird didn't give Peeta the right to decide our new government's fate, and he was dumb and reckless to not only think he had that right, but to risk our future because of it. Peeta being the Mockingjay doesn't make him worldly or wise. It means shit. He was just a boy, drunk on power, thinking he was better than the rest of us."

A loud quiet floods the room. Gale is breathing loud. He peers at me, waiting for me to nod my head or something, to give him a sigh and tell him he's right. I wonder what he sees in my eyes; if he can see the emotions swirling in them, or how hard they're gazing back at his face, scanning it questioningly, because the man who just gave me that spiel was not the Gale I thought I knew.

I swallow, and the saliva is congealed and sticky as it rolls down my throat.

Where is that Gale? Is he dead, or is he buried somewhere, squashed to the side temporarily by these opinions? Did the man sitting at my table emerge violently, cataclysmic and sudden, or was it a gentle transitioning of states?

When did it happen, and why am I only just noticing?

"I think you should leave."

Gale sighs. "Ah, come on Catnip —"

I push off the counter and make my way to the door, opening it. When I reach for the handle, I catch a glimpse of my palm; there's a dribble of blood streaking across my skin from the rice.

"Leave, please."

Gale's eyes flash momentarily, but he simply nods and pushes back from the table. He pauses next to me and slowly brings his hand to my chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. His fingers brush the side of my cheek, once.

"Talk later."

I press my lips together. My eyes feel like they're going to water. I give a small nod, mutely.

He pulls his hand away. He nods himself, slowly, and walks out the door.

I barely sleep at night. My sheets feel like prickly weeds on my skin, and my dreams are plagued by dark, wretched shapes, pools of blood, the whooshing of bombs flying through air, pained screams and agonised cries. I wake every hour, but it's not a reprieve; Gale's words loop in my head, my own form of personal torture.

I'm on the prosecution. I'm on the prosecutionI'montheprosecutionI'montheprosecution.

It's not quite four when I roll out of bed and stagger to the wardrobe in the corner, shrugging off my pyjamas and pulling my hunting gear on. It's a Wednesday: no meetings, no Peeta chats, no tasks. Madge even called up Johanna to help with the Bakery this morning in lieu of me. As always there's an itchiness that claws at me, like my skin knows how close I am to the woods and can't wait to get out there. This morning though, the itchiness comes with a gnawing at my gut - a sensation that pricks at the edges of my mind as I toe on my boots, as I chuck an apple and water in my bag, as a braid my hair.

I'm about to head out when I hear, ever so faintly, the whistle of an incoming train, and the gnawing is subsumed by a sense of my stomach bottoming out - my organs vacating my body and the cavernous space that remains being flooded with a sickly dread.

There's no reason for a passenger train to come this early to Twelve. But of course, today isn't a normal day. I think of Madge's note, her cursive loop announcing 'the Prosecution is being announced'. I think of Peeta, yesterday, his voice flat when he said Madge told him the team. The way his face twisted when I enquired who was on it. I think of the camera crew setting up in the Square yesterday - in direct eyesight of the Bakery - and the sheer number of cameras and lights and microphones they'd been pulling from their bags.

Another soft toot echoes through the District, and I wonder who is sitting on its seats, being carted into the District to join Gale on the Prosecution.

Before I can think through what I'm doing I drop my bag on the table and I pick up the phone, wrapping the cord once, twice around my forearm, and punch in a set of numbers that Madge gave me the other day. It only rings twice before someone on the other end picks up, and my chest squeezes.

"Hello?"

His voice isn't bleary despite it being four in the morning.

"Peeta. It's Katniss."

A surprised sound trickles through the line.

"Um, morning. Everything okay?"

"Fine, fine," I rush. The faster I spit this out, the less time I have to second guess myself. "Do you want to come to the woods with me today?"

The sentence spills out in a violent gush, words running into each other.

"Oh. Uh, I'd love to, but I've got work."

I nod my head and frown, even though he can't see me.

"Yeah, I know, I know. I mean do you want me to get Johanna or Beetee to man the counter today, and I can come in now to help with the morning prep so you can leave earlier, and then we can get out of Town, out of the District, and, you know, go to the woods?"

There's silence on the other side of the line for a moment, and I realise how shaky my breathing sounds. I take a deep, shuddering breath.

"Sure," Peeta says. "See you soon."

I've only knocked once when the Bakery door swings open. Peeta's eyes widen slightly at the sight of me - as though we hadn't just been on the phone to each a mere fifteen minutes ago, agreeing our plans for the day.

"Morning," I say, making my way past him inside. He watches me, silently, his stare an odd mix of befuddlement and delight. I fish an apron off the wall and loop it round my waist.

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head, blinking, and makes his way to the counter.

"Nothing, sorry." His hands dive into an open packet of flour, and in a swift motion he sprinkles the bench with a thin dusting. He reaches over to a metal bowl, pulling a lump of dough out and deftly halving it.

"I just didn't expect to see you today." The mixture makes a dull thud as one part lands on my side of the counter. "And I guess I didn't think you'd be wanting to come in again. To help."

I frown. "What would make you think that? Because I don't usually work Wednesdays?"

He shrugs, and from the corner of my eye I can see a slight blush bloom across his cheeks. "Well, yeah, there's that. And uh, you didn't seem all that enthused about helping yesterday."

"Should I have been bubblier?" I jibe. "Peeta, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm generally not one for a big chat."

He scoffs. "You managed a 'for fucks sake' alright."

I sigh heavily and close my eyes. My reaction to the raisin rolls didn't go unnoticed. I think back to Haymitch and his diatribe at the Town Hall: this 'talking' thing is new for Peeta too. These 'sessions' aren't with the old Peeta - the one untouched by the Games. They're not even with the boy that emerged from them. Those Peeta's were set alight - burned by the Games, the Capitol, Thirteen. By death and devastation. These 'sessions' are with the husk of a man that's left - one who questions every gesture of goodwill, who unpacks every glance and word, every action and lack thereof. One who has seen so much hurt that he doesn't know how to expect anything else. Our 'talking' is just as hard - if not harder - for Peeta as it is for me.

"That wasn't about you, or about helping out," I say, looking up at him. "It was, uh. It's hard to describe. I just hate Tuesdays."

A bubbly laugh punctuates the tension as Peeta's face cracks into a wide smile. It suits him. A warm feeling creeps through my insides, unbidden, knowing that I made that smile.

"You can't hate Tuesdays."

The warmness fades and I bristle slightly.

"I can hate Tuesdays, and I do."

Peeta laughs again. "Calm down, I'm not bossing you." His eyes are soft, his grin playful. "I just don't understand how you can consistently hate a day."

"Easy. The first thing I do is go to a Town Hall to hear people complain. I could spend that time hunting, or fishing, out in the fresh air and the woods, but instead I get to sit next to Haymitch and flounder through paperwork."

"Could you not go out beforehand?"

"I did, once. There wasn't enough time to wash after, so I turned up drenched in sweat and deer blood."

He stifles a smirk. "What else is oh-so-heinous about your Tuesdays?"

"After that I sit through a meeting with the District Leaders. And when I get home, when all I want to do is collapse into bed and never speak to anyone again, Gale is there and inevitably wanting to chat."

He nods along, exaggerated concern on his face, and although he's mocking me I can't help but grin.

"You know the worst thing? The Bakery switches out its Cheese Buns for Raisin Rolls on Tuesdays, and everyone fawns over them, lines snake out the door to clamber for their once-a-week treat, but really, they task like shit. Pure, utter shit. If I could have a cheese bun on a Tuesday maybe I could cope, but all I can get are fucking dried grape rolls!"

A cackle of a laugh rips from Peeta's belly - warm and full.

"And I had you on the rolls yesterday?"

I grin. "You had me on the rolls."

He shakes his head. "How about Wednesdays, then?"

I perk slightly. "Love them."

Johanna, surprisingly, arrives on time.

"Good mooooorning, bitches," she announces as she steps through the door. "Fear not, the culinary goddess has arrived."

Peeta smiles. "Morning, Jo."

She wanders over to the counter, her eyebrows raising appreciatively at the sight of the trays of fresh loaves we've slaved over for the better half of the last two hours. "Looks like you've been busy, huh? Where do you need me?"

"Out the front," Peeta says. "We just need to give the shopfront a quick clean before opening."

"Joy," Johanna mumbles sarcastically, but she swipes the sponge Peeta proffers with a genuine grin and disappears to the front. I pick up my own cloth and follow her.

The Square is busier now. A group of middle-aged men are crossing the outer boundary on their way to the Pharmaceuticals Factory. Parents lead young children to school, tugging them along past the sweet shop display. Older children - backpacks bulging with books - cycle past.

The seats that were being arranged yesterday are now fanned in front of a small podium and lectern. At its base, cameramen and reports mill around, holding microphones and notepads at their sides.

My eyes catch on a set of broad shoulders standing a head above everyone else. My mouth twists in an involuntary grimace, and I find myself stilling, transfixed momentarily by the sight of Gale. He's gesturing with great wide sweeps of his arm, and even from this distance, I can the grin that lights up his face. It's a side of Gale I know well - a confident, assured Gale - but I can't reconcile him with the version that was sitting in my kitchen last night. I can't compute how this smiling Gale could be the same one that mere hours ago told me he was on, and believed in, the Prosecution.

A sharp cackle sounds from behind me. I turn to see Jo, a wry smile on her face. "Alas, Brainless. Doesn't matter how hard you death-glare your boy, he's not dropping dead."

"I know," I humph, and return to wiping the counter - though with more gusto than truly needed. Peeta ventures over to the Bakery's doorway, flipping over the open sign. His movements are jerky and his face taut as he watches the scene across the square. A sudden hot feeling lurches in my stomach - an urge to somehow explain myself, to tell him I didn't know about Gale.

"I'm not all that happy with him at the moment," I mumble, focusing on the counter. The surface is spotless, but I keep scrubbing.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." I gesture at the gathering with a dismissive wave of my cloth. "I wasn't aware this was on the cards. Gale being on the whole Prosecution and all."

Peeta frowns. "He didn't tell you?

"Only last night," I mutter.

Peeta nods once, and retreats into the back again. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking, but the set of his shoulders looks ever so slightly looser - less tense - and I hope it's a calm brought on by the unspoken words in our brief exchange; that I'm in his corner, one hundred percent.

The fence still stands, but it's no longer electrified. Huge chunks and portions have been cut away - allowing anyone to venture into the woods - but the structure itself still stands. When we came back to Twelve, it was Gale's first order of business, to tear it down. I'd sat in every other government meetings disinterested or oblivious, but when he started talking scrap metal and contractors, I perked up. A few side-bar conversations with Paylor and a bevy of signatures from Town and Seam-folk later, it was decided the fence would stay. Not as a barrier, as it once was - but a reminder of who we once were, and how far we've come. Ribbons are tied to certain sections in vibrant streams of red and yellow. In Spring, children thread wildflowers through the wire. Locks, initialled with the names of lovers, have been attached to a portion not too far from the Town Square. Moving on doesn't necessarily mean obliterating artefacts of history - sometimes, it means transforming them.

The section I used to duck under remains as it used to be. An open gateway lies ten metres to the left, but I still prefer to crouch under the wire. Just like my Dad taught me. Peeta looks on in confusion as I do, glancing towards the gate, but nevertheless follows suit.

"One motion. Put one foot through the other side and then bend down, like going over a crest of a wave."

His manoeuvre lacks any semblance of grace and is more reminiscent of an arthritic man standing up, but Peeta manages to pass through unscathed.

"Alright, let's go."

I go to turn on my heel, but Peeta's hand shoots out, quickly grasping my own. He looks at me square in the eye and his fingers clench mine, once, hard. I look down at our entwined hands, and back to him, and give a small, quick nod. He lets me go and we start walking, silently, but I know what he just said. Thank you.

We walk slowly, weaving our way along a track I've hiked many a time before. Every few minutes, Peeta emits soft gasps and sighs of wonderment. In other circumstances - with other people - the noises would irk me, but with Peeta I find myself smiling at the fact he seems to find the woods as beautiful as I do. We stop for water several times, and I once ask him if he's hungry, but otherwise we trek in a contented silence. Several kilometres in, at a large boulder swathed in lichen, he halts.

"Do you mind if we pause a moment?" He asks, gaze focused on the flaking greens and oranges. He lifts his hand and, almost reverently, brushes the stone. I shrug off my bag and chuckle.

"Sure. Wait here a moment, I'm just going to the bathroom."

I forge on the track for a couple of metres before veering into a thicket of aspens and ferns. For a moment I lean against the bark, feeling it sinking into the land and sinking into me. A bird chirps. A soft wind pinches at the nape of my neck, cooling the slight sweat that has formed.

Usually at this time on a Wednesday I'm another twenty kilometres into the wood, perched on the ridge with my muscles aching and my skin prickling as it burns in the burgeoning heat of the day. Usually, it's only with this aching and prickling and burning that I can skin into a numbness that comes with feeling so much you no longer feel anything at all. But this morning, a mere hour into the woods, my muscles still strong and my body alive, I can feel that same peace. It's not elicited by a numbness this time, though, nor a submersion in emotion, but something else I can't put my finger on.

It plays at my thoughts as I make my way back, and it's only when I'm around the corner from the boulder my ears perk up. There's a slight breeze, the twittering of birds, a rustle of leaves. But no crunching. No shuffling. No 'oohs' or 'ahs'. No Peeta.

Instead, to the left of the boulder is a trampled bush, like someone has tried to crash tackle the shrubbery.

For fucks sake.

"Peeta?" I call, making my way round the plant. It's not hard to see where he went - there's a trail of snapped twigs and flattened grasses. How he survived not one but two Games is beyond me. A distant "over here" sounds from ahead, and after a few minutes I catch up to him.

"Sorry," he rushes, his eyes bright. "There was a butterfly, and I know I should've stayed where I was, but gosh Katniss I've never seen anything like it so close. It's wings were fanned and streaked in the orangest-orange —"

"A monarch," I mumble, but I'm only paying a slither of attention to Peeta. This is the most passionate I've ever seen Peeta - he's a completely different self. But still, I feel my cheek spasm slightly as I try to keep a frown at bay.

"— So I followed it, yeah? And at first I only planned to go a couple of metres, but before I knew it I'd gone deeper than I'd intended, and I figured, well, what's another few minutes? And then I stumbled into this. This. I mean, come on Katniss. How do I go living nineteen years of my life not knowing this place exists a mere hour from where I live. Have you been here before? This is another world. This is heaven. This is …"

Peeta trails off, noticing my grimace.

"Katniss?" He asks. There's a wrinkle of worry on his forehead. "Are you okay?"

I bite my lip. My stomach is roiling slightly, a churning of confusion and discomfort. Once, Gale when broached the subject of coming here with me, my face had flushed and a mix of anger and distress had wracked my chest. There's no agitation this time though, no flustered distress - and that only serves to whip the confusion into a further frenzy.

"Katniss?"

His voice is soft.

"Um." I wipe my hand across my face roughly. "Yeah, I've been here before."

To the right is where my dad taught me how to dig for Katniss tubers. On the far side is where he taught me how to fashion a fish trap from young twigs. On the grassy bank is where he taught me how to cartwheel, where we'd laughed after I face-planted the ground on my first attempt. Several metres beyond is the ramshackle hut - a remanent from before the Dark Days - where we'd stayed one night, caught in a violent storm that rolled over the valley with no warning. Dad had bundled me in his arms, and we'd counted the seconds between the rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning.

"I come here often," I say, giving Peeta a small sad smile. "It's kind of special to me. I haven't even brought Gale here."

"I'm so sorry. Do you want us to leave? Or do you want some time to yourself?"

If Gale were saying these words to me I'd baulk and tell him to stop coddling me. But when they tumble from Peeta's mouth, they're different. Maybe it's the way the sides of his eyes crinkle, or how his weight seems slightly pitched forward, like he's waiting to spring into action and do anything I ask of him.

There's a weird tightening in my chest, and my breath catches in the back of my throat momentarily. It's not a painful sensation, but an odd one.

"Katniss?"

I swallow roughly and blink several times. My hand migrates to my chest unbidden, and I find myself rubbing at my sternum firmly several times.

"Um, no it's fine. We can, uh - we can stay."

Peeta grins cautiously. "You sure?"

I nod, and he rubs his hands together before spreading them wide, as if gesturing to the infinite adventures the clearing hold.

"Well, you're the expert. Lead the way."

Peeta spends the next hour exploring the clearing with the wonder of a little kid while I lay sprawled under a large oak, twisting and knotting reeds for traps. By the middle of the day the woods are sticky with a humid heat - autumn's final offensive before it gives way to winter - and Peeta joins me under the shade, seeking some semblance of reprieve.

"Shit it's hot," he says. I let out a low murmur of agreement. A necklace of sweat rings the top of my shirt, and Peeta's hair is plastered to his forehead.

"That water looks so good," Peeta sighs.

"Jump in, then."

He laughs and rolls over, propping himself up on his elbow. The movement brings him closer to me by a few centimetres, and I despite myself I feel my cheeks flush slightly.

"My dear Katniss. Let me cast your mind back two years," he says with a sarcastic theatricality. "It's the Quarter Quell, and I've just risen into the arena, only to find myself surrounded by water. The count down starts, and do you know what I'm thinking? Do you?"

I shake my head, smiling.

"I'll tell you exactly what," he smirks, leaning closer again to me. "I'm thinking, fuck, I shouldn't have had that third serve of pork last night, because I'm feeling as heavy as a sack of flour, and there's no chance in hell I'm going to discover a magic ability to swim in the next minute with half a pig weighing me down."

I bark a sharp laugh, and Peeta's grin widens.

"So then the gong sounds, and everyone leaps off their podiums. But me? I'm frozen in place in a half squat position and a pained expression on my face. When we later got to Thirteen, Haymitch told me I looked like I had a case of severe constipation. The best part though? The best part is that when Finnick comes round to help me to shore, Mags swam beside us to encourage me. Mags, Katniss; the District Four geriatric. She had a heart of gold, but there is nothing more emasculating than the oldest person you have ever known making something you can't do look easy."

The grass tickles my shoulders as they shake with my giggles.

"After that being broadcast on national television, I can't say I'm all too excited about giving swimming another go," he chuckles, flopping back onto the grass.

He closes his eyes momentarily, and his features are soft, relaxed. I turn to look back up at the sky. It's a vivid blue. Some days talking with Peeta will be hard. There will be days where he snaps at me, and when I snap at him. They'll be times when he misreads my intentions and I misinterpret his. They'll be awkward silences, they'll be sessions cut short, they'll be grimaces and groans and gruffness. But there will be other days, like this one, where things will be easy. Fun, even. Where things are fluid, and we're open with each other, laughing and smiling and other times comfortably silent.

"Next time we're out here I'll teach you."

"You'll bring me back?" Peeta says. His eyes are wide and a stupid grin swallows his face. A warmth spreads through my chest, and I find myself smiling back.

"Yeah, of course. If you want."

He nods. "I'd like that."