I wake suddenly.
I am acutely aware that my thigh is thrown over Peeta's hip.
We are tangled together, struggling to fit on the narrow couch.
His nose is resting against my forehead. His lips touch my cheekbone. My chest is fitted directly against his.
The only reason I convince myself that I am not moving away is because I do not want to wake him.
It is a stupid excuse.
Except I am afraid. I know whatever I say to him when he wakes up it will likely not be what he wants to hear. The odds are that I will wound him in one way or another by opening my mouth, so I decide to be content in not saying anything at all.
Why ruin it? Why start the inevitable fight over who lives and dies? Why resist what feels so good and warm and wonderful when there's no harm in doing so?
Peeta's chest rises softly in sleep. His eyelashes, laying against his cheeks, are just as hypnotizing as I remember them to be. They might be as soft as silk, as soft as his lips…
If I lean in just an inch, my lips can touch the underside of his jaw.
Would it wake him?
His hot breath on my skin is all I feel.
All of these feelings are new, but they are a new, new. A not entirely unwelcome new.
"You make me feel weak," I whisper.
It takes a moment, but Peeta's eyes open.
"How?" he asks.
It takes a minute, but eventually, I have a response: "You make me have another person to worry about. When I was young… it was only my mother and Prim. Now I have you and Haymitch… and Gale…"
"Loving people is not a weakness, Katniss."
"Yeah, well," I say stubbornly, "I don't love you."
"I know," Peeta says, but there is amusement in his voice.
Is he mocking me?
"Why are you… laughing?" I ask.
"I'm not," Peeta says.
I scowl. "You're definitely amused about something."
He seems to think about it for a minute. He grins. I am blinded by his dimples.
"I don't believe you," Peeta says.
"Believe what?"
"That you don't love me."
This takes me a minute to swallow, and once I process it all, in plenty of shock, I am still stunned by his blatant choice of words.
"You don't think I know how I feel?" I demand.
"No," he says. "You just won't admit it, even to yourself."
"What makes you think that?" I ask tensely.
"You just listed me with a whole bunch of people you have always admitted to loving. I was right in the middle. Doesn't that count for something?"
There is so much hope in his voice that I am speechless.
Peeta is suggesting that I am in denial.
Why would I be? I have always been able to admit that I love Gale. There is no uncertainty on that fact. With Peeta, it is more confusing, and I get mixed up with how complicated our relationship gets, with the Capitol's involvement. There is so much pressure and manipulation when it comes to us.
There are things that remain unresolved and troubling.
How can I love him?
If I did, it would only be a threat on my life, or on any future child's life... and if I could have loved him this whole time, why hadn't I?
If I had just loved him when it mattered, when it meant something, when it could have saved our nation, why hadn't I?
Yet at the same time, how can I not love him?
All I want to do it kiss him. I dream of him, and of doing things that I used to think I would never want.
These emotions are supposed to be toward those you love, and those you would marry and have children with, because that's what comes as a result: children.
Wait, I think.
These are fruitless thoughts. It does not matter if I love him or not.
I owe him.
I am saving him.
What I need to be thinking about is how I am going to claw my way to that dying wish.
I sit up abruptly and stand.
Peeta does not try to stop me. I imagine he just sits there staring after me as I flee.
Twenty minutes later Effie is escorting me from the train and into my prep teams arms.
I have been through prep with Flavius, Venia, and Octavia numerous times, and it should have been a comfort, but I did not anticipate the emotional ordeal that awaited me.
At some point during the prep, each of them bursts into tears, and Octavia keeps up a running whimper throughout the morning. It turns out they really have become attached to me, and the idea of my returning to the arena has undone them. Combine that with the fact that by losing me they'll be losing their ticket to all kinds of big social events, particularly my wedding, and the whole thing becomes unbearable.
The idea of being strong for someone else has never entered their heads.
I find myself in the position of having to console them.
I am the person going in to be slaughtered, and yet, this is how it is.
It is interesting when I think of what Peeta said about the attendant on the train being unhappy about the victors having to fight again, and about people in the Capitol not liking it. I still think all of that will be forgotten once the gong sounds, but with my prep teams tears this is a revelation that those in the Capitol feel anything at all about us. They certainly don't have a problem watching children murdered every year. But maybe they know too much about the victors, especially the ones who've been celebrities for ages, to forget we're human beings. It's more like watching your own friends die. More like the Games are for those of us in the districts.
By the time Cinna shows up, I am irritable and exhausted from comforting the prep team, especially because their constant tears are reminding me of the ones undoubtedly being shed at home.
The moment Cinna walks in the door I snap, "I swear if you cry, I'll kill you here and now."
Cinna just smiles. "Had a damp morning?"
"You could wring me out," I reply.
Cinna puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me into lunch. "Don't worry. I always channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself."
"I can't go through that again," I warn him.
"I know. I'll talk to them," says Cinna.
Lunch makes me feel a bit better. It is pheasant with a selection of jewel-colored jellies, and tiny versions of real vegetables swimming in butter, beside a dish of potatoes mashed with parsley. For dessert we dip chunks of fruit in a pot of melted chocolate, and Cinna has to order a second pot because I start eating the stuff with a spoon.
"So, what are we wearing for the opening ceremonies?" I finally ask as I scrape the second pot clean. "Headlamps or fire?"
"Something along that line," he says.
When it's time to get in costume for the opening ceremonies, my prep team shows up, but Cinna sends them away, saying they've done such a spectacular job in the morning that there's nothing left to do. They go off to recover, thankfully leaving me in Cinna's hands.
He puts up my hair first, in the braided style my mother introduced him to, then proceeds with my makeup. Last year he used little so that the audience would recognize me when I landed in the arena, but now my face is almost obscured by the dramatic highlights and dark shadows: high arching eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, smoldering eyes, and deep purple lips.
The costume looks deceptively simple at first, just a fitted black jumpsuit that covers me from the neck down. He places a half crown like the one I received as victor on my head, but it's made of a heavy black metal, not gold. Then he adjusts the light in the room to mimic twilight and presses a button just inside the fabric on my wrist.
I look down, fascinated, as my ensemble slowly comes to life, first with a soft golden light but gradually transforming to the orange-red of burning coal. I look as if I have been coated in glowing embers—no, that I am a glowing ember straight from our fireplace. The colors rise and fall, shift and blend, in exactly the way the coals do.
"How did you do this?" I say in wonder.
"Portia and I spent a lot of hours watching fires," says Cinna. "Now look at yourself."
He turns me toward a mirror so that I can take in the entire effect.
I do not see a girl, or even a woman, but some unearthly being who looks like she might make her home in the volcano that destroyed so many in Haymitch's Quell. The black crown, which now appears red-hot, casts strange shadows on my dramatically made-up face.
Katniss, the girl on fire, has left behind her flickering flames and bejeweled gowns and soft candlelight frocks. She is as deadly as fire itself.
"I think… this is just what I needed to face the others," I say.
"Yes, I think your days of pink lipstick and ribbons are behind you," says Cinna. He touches the button on my wrist again, extinguishing my light. "Let's not run down your power pack. When you're on the chariot this time, no waving, no smiling. I just want you to look straight ahead, as if the entire audience is beneath your notice."
"Finally something I'll be good at," I say.
Cinna has a few more things to attend to, so I decide to head down to the ground floor of the Remake Center, which houses the huge gathering place for the tributes and their chariots before the opening ceremonies.
I am hoping to find Peeta and Haymitch, but they haven't arrived yet.
Unlike last year, when all the tributes were practically glued to their chariots, the scene is very social. The victors, both this year's tributes and their mentors, are standing around in small groups, talking. Of course, they all know one another, and I don't know anyone, and I'm not really the sort of person to go around introducing myself. So, I just stroke the neck of one of my horses and try not to be noticed.
It does not work.
The crunching hits my ear before I even know he's beside me, and when I turn my head, Finnick Odair's famous sea green eyes are only inches from mine. He pops a sugar cube in his mouth, with more crunching and sucking, then leans against my horse.
"Hello, Katniss," he says, as if we've known each other for years, when in fact we've never met.
I try to keep my scowl on the horse and not him.
"Hello, Finnick," I say, just as casually, although I'm feeling uncomfortable at his closeness, especially since he's got so much bare skin exposed.
"Want a sugar cube?" he says, offering his hand, which is piled high. "They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I... well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick."
Finnick Odair is something of a living legend in Panem. Since he won the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games when he was only fourteen, he's still one of the youngest victors. Being from District 4, he was a Career, so the odds were already in his favor, but what no trainer could claim to have given him was his extraordinary beauty. He is tall, athletic, with golden skin and bronze-colored hair paired with those incredible eyes. While other tributes that year were hard-pressed to get a handful of grain or some matches for a gift, Finnick never wanted for anything.
It took about a week for his competitors to realize that he was the one to kill, but it was too late. He was already a good fighter with the spears and knifes he had found at the Cornucopia, so when he received the silver parachute with a trident it was all over.
District 4's industry is fishing. He'd been on boats his whole life, and the trident came naturally. He wove nets to entangle his opponents and spear them. Within the matter of days he had the crown.
Now there are rumors about him being given to the biggest bidder of drooling Capitol citizens. I cannot argue that Finnick is not one of the most stunning, sensuous people on the planet. But I can honestly say he's never been attractive to me. Maybe he's too pretty, or maybe he's too easy to get, or maybe it's he's too easy to lose. Either way, the thought of sharing him with paying Capitol snobs was revolting.
"No, thanks," I say to the sugar. "I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime, though."
He is draped in a golden net that's strategically knotted at his groin so that he can't technically be called naked, but he's about as close as you can get. I'm sure his stylist thinks the more of Finnick the audience sees, the better.
"You're absolutely terrifying me in that get-up. What happened to the pretty little girl dresses?" he asks. He wets his lips just ever so slightly with his tongue. Probably this drives most people crazy, but for some reason all I can think about is old Cray, salivating over some poor, starving young woman.
"I outgrew them," I say simply.
Finnick takes the collar of my outfit and runs it between his fingers. "It's too bad about this Quell thing. You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted."
"I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need. What do you spend all yours on anyway, Finnick?"
"Oh, I haven't dealt in anything as common as money for years," says Finnick.
"Then how do they pay you for the pleasures of your company?" I ask.
"With secrets," he says softly. He tips his head, so his lips are almost in contact with mine. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have secrets worth my time?"
Do I?
My mouth immediately says, "No, I'm an open book. Everybody seems to know my secrets before I know them myself."
But I blush and the heat spreads through me, remembering my dreams of Peeta and the ever-growing hunger inside of me for more.
"Unfortunately, I think that's true," Finnick says, his eyes flickering off to the side. "Peeta is coming. Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you." He tosses another sugar cube in his mouth and saunters off.
Peeta's beside me, dressed in an outfit identical to mine.
"What did Finnick Odair want?" he asks.
I turn and put my lips close to Peeta's. My eyelids are hooded, in a poor imitation of Finnick. "He offered me sugar and wanted to know all my secrets," I say in my best seductive voice.
Peeta laughs. Good to see he is not mad at me for running away this morning. "Ugh. Not really."
"Really," I say. "I'll tell you more when my skin stops crawling."
"Do you think we'd have ended up like that if only one of us had won?" he asks, glancing around at the other victors. "Just another part of the freak show?"
I snort. I know he does not mean it literally, and he understands they are all at the disposal of their stylists, and the aftereffects of their first Hunger Games, but I love that he has the right words to keep the atmosphere light.
"Sure," I reply. "Especially you."
"Oh, and why especially me?" he says.
"Because you have a weakness for beautiful things, and I don't. They would lure you into their Capitol ways and you'd be lost for an eternity."
His face softens. "Having an eye for beauty isn't the same thing as a weakness," Peeta say, and I feel like we're back to this morning, but now it's weakness and beauty that we are talking about, instead of love.
Then he goes ahead and adds, "Except possibly when it comes to you."
The blush sears across my face. Before I can move, his lips brush mine.
I jolt, but I guess it is kind of my fault for never pulling back after imitating Finnick. Plus, I have been snatching kisses from him since the Quarter Quell announcement, and it is not fair to admonish him for it. Especially since I know all of the others and the cameras are peering in.
A woman's laughter breaks us apart.
Cecelia has a kind face and a tone of skin that runs deeper in her bare forearms and along her freckled shoulders, than in her face. Her outfit is some sort of brightly colored textile workings revealing a bit more skin than most woman around thirty would choose to expose. For a mother of three, she is surprisingly fit, though, and her strong, sweet voice is tinged in a constant good nature.
I cannot remember a thing about her Hunger Games, but I do wonder how someone who seems so maternal has won.
"No need to look so abash," Cecelia says to Peeta, who is flushing bright red. "She is your fiancé. Kiss her all you like. Never know how many chances you'll get after tonight." Her smile is cloy, laughing, then she turns to me. "I am sorry about your wedding. Those dresses were all very beautiful on you."
"I like this outfit much better," I say.
"Yes," Cecelia agrees, looking it over. "It suits you better. And you," she turns back to Peeta and straightens his collar where I had ruffled it. "You remind me of my oldest son. So handsome. That bright, charming smile."
Peeta laughs, completely at ease.
I shift uncertainly, watching her touch him. I wonder if I am prepared to shoot her with an arrow, when in a week's time she touches him and we are not wearing silly outfits, but we are attempting to fight to the death.
I do not get far in that thought before the music begins to play and Cecelia bids us both a goodbye.
"She's nice," Peeta says when she's out of earshot.
I shrug.
Along with the start of the music, I see the doors at the front of the train opening for the first chariot and hear the roar of the crowd beyond. We both feel the weight of the Opening Ceremony occurring to us again, instead of kisses and competitors, and Peeta holds out a hand to help me into the chariot.
"Shall we?" he asks.
I climb up.
"Hold still," I say, and I straighten his crown. Cecelia missed this. "Have you seen your suit turned on? We're going to be fabulous again."
"Absolutely. But Portia says we're to be very above it all. No waving or anything," he says.
"Where are they, anyway?"
"I don't know."
I eye the procession of chariots. "Maybe we better go ahead and switch ourselves on."
We do and as we begin to glow, I can see people pointing at us and chattering, and I know, once again, that I owe a big thank you to our stylists.
We're almost at the door. I crane my head around, but neither Portia nor Cinna, who were with us right up to the final second last year, are anywhere in sight.
"Are we supposed to hold hands this year?" I ask.
"I guess they've left it up to us," Peeta replies.
I look up into those blue eyes that no amount of dramatic makeup can make truly deadly and remember how, just a year ago, I was prepared to kill him. I was convinced he was trying to kill me.
Now everything is reversed. I am determined to keep him alive, knowing the cost will be my own life. But a part of me, the selfish me, is glad that it's Peeta, not Haymitch, standing beside me.
Our hands find each other without further discussion.
Of course we will go into this as one.