Our private sessions are today.
We each get fifteen minutes with the Gamemakers to amaze them with our skills, but I do not know what any of us might have to show them. There's a lot of kidding about it at lunch. What we might do. Sing, dance, strip, tell jokes. Mags, who I can understand a little better now, decides she's just going to take a nap. I do not know what I'm going to do. Shoot some arrows, I guess. Haymitch said to surprise them if we could, but I'm fresh out of ideas.
As the girl from 12, I'm scheduled to go last. The dining room gets quieter and quieter as the tributes file out to go perform. It's easier to keep up the irreverent, invincible manner we've all adopted when there are more of us. As people disappear through the door, all I can think is that they have a matter of days to live.
Peeta and I are finally left alone.
He reaches across the table to take my hands. "Decided what to do for the Gamemakers yet?"
I shake my head. "I can't really use them for target practice this year, with the force field up and all. Maybe make some fishhooks. What about you?"
"Not a clue. I keep wishing I could bake a cake or something," he says.
"Do some more camouflage," I suggest.
"If the morphlings have left me anything to work with," he says wryly. "They've been glued to that station since training started."
We sit in silence awhile and then I blurt out the thing that's on both our minds. "How are we going to kill these people, Peeta?"
"I don't know." He leans his forehead down to rest against our intertwined hands.
"I don't want them as allies. Why did Haymitch want us to get to know them?" I say. "It'll make it so much harder than last time. Except for Rue maybe. But I guess I never really could've killed her, anyway. She was just too much like Prim."
Peeta looks up at me, his brow creased in thought. "Her death was the most despicable, wasn't it?"
"None of them were very pretty," I say, thinking of Glimmer's and Cato's ends.
They call Peeta, so I wait by myself. Fifteen minutes pass. Then half an hour. The delay gives me time to think about not only just how we really are going to kill these people, but also about last night. Nothing much did happen, aside kissing, but for me it felt like a milestone. Peeta might not blink twice about it, even though I am sure he enjoys the make-out sessions almost as much as me, but it is that pull for more that troubles me.
He never pressures me for more, of course, but I can read it in his face, and I can feel the pull for more inside of myself. I just have not been able to actually do it. What if I embarrass myself? What if it only furthers his pain once I am gone? What if it makes it harder to keep him alive?
These are the questions that plague me once I am called in.
I smell the sharp odor of cleaner and notice that one of the mats has been dragged to the center of the room. The mood is very different from last year's. They whisper among themselves, looking somewhat annoyed.
What did Peeta do? Something to upset them?
I feel a pang of worry. That isn't good. I don't want Peeta singling himself out as a target. That's part of my job. But how did he upset them? Because I'd love to do just that and more. To break through the smug veneer of those who use their brains to find amusing ways to kill us. To make them realize that while we're vulnerable to the Capitol's cruelties, they are as well.
I try to catch Plutarch Heavensbee's eye, but he seems to be intentionally ignoring me, as he has the entire training period. I remember how he sought me out for a dance and eagerly showed me the mockingjay secreted on his watch. His friendly manner has no place here. How could it when I am a mere tribute and he is the Head Gamemaker? So powerful, so removed, so safe…
Suddenly I know just what I'm going to do. I find a dummy and tie a noose. I carefully finger paint the words on its body, concealing them from view.
Then I step away to watch the reaction on the Gamemakers' faces as they read the name on the dummy's chest: Seneca Crane.
The effect on the Gamemakers is immediate and satisfying. Several let out small shrieks. Others lose their grips on their wineglasses, which shatter musically against the ground. Two seem to be considering fainting. The look of shock is unanimous.
Now I have Plutarch Heavensbee's attention.
He stares steadily at me as the juice from the peach he crushed in his hand runs through his fingers. Eventually, he clears his throat and says, "You may go now, Miss Everdeen."
I surprised them, I think. It was rash and dangerous and no doubt I will pay for it ten times over. But for the moment, I feel something close to elation and I let myself savor it.
I want to find Haymitch immediately and tell him about my session, but no one's around.
I guess they're getting ready for dinner and I decide to go take a shower myself, since my hands are stained from the juice.
As I stand in the water, I begin to wonder about the wisdom of my latest trick.
The question that should now always be my guide is "Will this help Peeta stay alive?"
Indirectly, this might not. What happens in training is highly secretive, so there's no point in taking action against me when no one will know what my transgression was.
In fact, last year I was rewarded for my brashness.
This is a different sort of crime, though. If the Gamemakers are angry with me and decide to punish me in the arena, Peeta could get caught up in the attack as well. Maybe it was too impulsive.
As we all gather for dinner, I notice Peeta's hands are faintly stained with a variety of colors, even though his hair is still damp from bathing. That means he must have done some form of camouflage after all. He catches my stare though, and he grins wickedly over his peas, so much so that I have to turn away, and that only leads to my eyes landing on the suspicious looking Cinna.
Once the soup is served, Haymitch gets right to the issue on everyone's mind. "All right, so how did your private sessions go?"
I exchange a look with Peeta. I am not that eager to put what I did into words. In the calm of the dining room, it seems very extreme.
"You first," I say to him. "It must have been really special. I had to wait for forty minutes to go in."
Peeta seems to be struck with the same reluctance I'm experiencing.
"Well, I—I did the camouflage thing, like you suggested, Katniss." He hesitates. "Not exactly camouflage. I mean, I used the dyes."
"To do what?" asks Portia.
I think of how ruffled the Gamemakers were when I entered the gym for my session. The smell of cleaners. The mat pulled over that spot in the center of the gym. Was it to conceal something they were unable to wash away?
"You painted something, didn't you? A picture."
"Did you see it?" Peeta asks.
"No. But they'd made a real point of covering it up," I say.
"Well, that would be standard. They can't let one tribute know what another did," says Effie, unconcerned. "What did you paint, Peeta?" She looks a little misty. "Was it a picture of Katniss?"
"Why would he paint a picture of me, Effie?" I ask, somehow annoyed.
"To show he's going to do everything he can to defend you. That's what everyone in the Capitol's expecting, anyway. Didn't he volunteer to go in with you?" Effie says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Actually, I painted a picture of Rue," Peeta says. "How she looked after Katniss had covered her in flowers."
There's a long pause at the table while everyone absorbs this.
"And what exactly were you trying to accomplish?" Haymitch asks in a very measured voice.
"I'm not sure. I just wanted to hold them accountable, if only for a moment," says Peeta. "For killing that little girl."
"This is dreadful." Effie sounds like she's about to cry. "That sort of thinking…it's forbidden, Peeta. Absolutely. You'll only bring down more trouble on yourself and Katniss."
"I have to agree with Effie on this one," says Haymitch.
Portia and Cinna remain silent, but their faces are very serious. Of course, they're right. But even though it worries me, I think what he did was amazing.
"I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it," I say. This has the desired effect. After a moment of disbelief, all the disapproval in the room hits me like a ton of bricks.
"You…hung…Seneca Crane?" says Cinna.
"Yes. I was showing off my new knot-tying skills, and he somehow ended up at the end of the noose," I say.
"Oh, Katniss," says Effie in a hushed voice. "How do you even know about that?"
"Is it a secret? President Snow didn't act like it was. In fact, he seemed eager for me to know," I say. Effie leaves the table with her napkin pressed to her face. "Now I've upset Effie. I should have lied and said I shot some arrows."
"You'd have thought we planned it," says Peeta, giving me just the hint of a smile.
"Didn't you?" asks Portia. Her fingers press her eyelids closed as if she's warding off a very bright light.
"No," I say, looking at Peeta with a new sense of appreciation. In my chest, I could feel the knot pulling ever tighter. "Neither of us even knew what we were going to do before we went in."
"And, Haymitch?" says Peeta. "We decided we don't want any other allies in the arena."
"Good. Then I won't be responsible for you killing off any of my friends with your stupidity," he says.
"That's just what we were thinking," I tell him.
We finish the meal in silence, but when we rise to go into the sitting room, Cinna puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze.
"Come on and let's go get those training scores," he says.
We gather around the television set and a red-eyed Effie rejoins us. The tributes' faces come up, district by district, and their scores flash under their pictures. One through twelve. Predictably high scores for Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enorbaria, and Finnick. Low to medium for the rest.
"Have they ever given a zero?" I ask.
"No, but there's a first time for everything," Cinna answers.
It turns out he's right. Because when Peeta and I each pull a twelve, we make Hunger Games history. No one feels like celebrating, though.
"Why did they do that?" I ask.
"So that the others will have no choice but to target you," says Haymitch flatly. "Go to bed. I can't stand to look at either one of you."
Peeta walks me down to my room in silence, but before he can say goodnight, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head against his chest.
His hands slide up my back and his cheek leans against my hair.
"I'm sorry if I made things worse," I say.
"No worse than I did. Why did you do it, anyway?" he says.
"I don't know. To show them that I'm more than just a piece in their Games?" I say.
He laughs a little, no doubt remembering our night on the roof. Peeta had said something of the sort then, but I had not understood what he meant. Now I do.
"Me, too," he tells me. "And I'm not saying I'm not going to try. To get you home, I mean. But if I'm perfectly honest about it…"
"If you're perfectly honest about it, you think President Snow has probably given them direct orders to make sure we die in the arena anyway," I say.
"It's crossed my mind," says Peeta.
It has crossed my mind, too. Repeatedly.
I'll never leave that arena alive, but I am still holding on to the hope that Peeta will.
"But even if that happens, everyone will know we've gone out fighting, right?" Peeta asks.
"Everyone will," I say.
For the first time, I manage to distance myself from the personal tragedy that has consumed me since they announced the Quell. I remember the old man they shot in District 11, and Bonnie and Twill, and the rumored uprisings. Yes, everyone in the districts will be watching me to see how I handle this death sentence. They will be looking for some sign that their battles have not been in vain. If I can make it clear that I am still defying the Capitol right up to the end, then the Capitol may have killed me… but they will not kill my spirit.
What better way to give hope to the rebels?
The beauty of this idea is that my decision to keep Peeta alive at the expense of my own life is in of itself an act of defiance. A refusal to play the Hunger Games by the Capitol's rules. My private agenda dovetails completely with my public one. If I really could save Peeta… in terms of a revolution, this would be ideal, because I will be more valuable dead. They can turn me into some kind of martyr for the cause and paint my face on banners, and it will do more to rally people than anything I could do if I was living. Peeta would be more valuable alive, and tragic, because he will be able to turn his pain into words that will transform people.
Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I quickly smile and ask, "So what should we do with our last few days?"
"I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies.
"Come on, then," I say, pulling him into my room.
We are both too exhausted to do much, but tonight both of us do manage to strip down to underclothes. I have seen him like this before, of course, in the Games, but when I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, I marvel at the feel of his skin against mine.
When I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows.
"No nightmares," he says.
"No nightmares," I confirm. "You?"
"None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he says.
We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us, but then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled.
"Really?" says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves."
"It's too bad we can't go somewhere," I say wistfully.
"Who says we can't?" he asks.
The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof—one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it.
No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta's lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he's practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still.
"What?" I ask.
"I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says.
Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I'll never have, I just let the word slip out. "Okay."
I can hear the smile in his voice. "Then you'll allow it?"
"I'll allow it," I say.
His fingers go back to my hair and I doze off, but he rouses me to see the sunset. It's a spectacular yellow and orange blaze behind the skyline of the Capitol.
"I didn't think you'd want to miss it," he says.
"Thanks," I say. I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.
Just before the whole sun sinks below the tall buildings of the Capitol, I turn my head to look at Peeta. He has never looked so different to me than right then, bathed in the light of the twilight. My hand reaches his before he can even notice my intent, and when I move to him, there is no hesitation to return my kiss.
We do not join the others for dinner, and no one summons us.
"I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable," says Peeta. "Everybody crying. Or Haymitch…" He doesn't need to go on.
We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.
Tonight neither of us are exhausted.
My face feels warm from a day outside. Inside of me, my reluctance at living life is forgotten. Death is certain. All I want to do is not care and to relish in the newfound bond between Peeta and I.
The problem is that Peeta seems content to just lay here with me in his arms, even when I use kissing him breathless as a hint.
A realization seems to strike him when my lips trail down his neck and one of my hands slides along the hem of his boxers.
He pulls my face to his to kiss me deeply. He shifts onto his elbow, pulling me into him. I am lost in the feel of his tongue.
Then I feel something hard against my thigh.
Peeta's hands are tangled in my hair. Each kiss he gives me is precise, lasting, deep. The few I get in are rasher, shorter, unpracticed. I trace the lines of the muscles in his biceps. I grip his shoulders. I do not know how to communicate my need for more, to somehow be closer and more intimate with him.
He rolls on top of me. The weight of him forces the air from my lungs as a bellow might, but still it comes out as the lightest of sighs.
Peeta fingers the strap of my bra. I want nothing more than for him to rip it off, all shyness forgotten, but he is tantalizingly slow in his motions.
He kisses down my throat. He litters my collarbone with them. He presses his lips into the hammering pulse point on my neck. Peeta pauses only once to admire the light dust of freckles on my shoulders.
His hands run along the curves of my hips. He lowers himself to place a kiss against my ribcage.
I shudder at the feel of his eyelashes.
His hands move to my back, and I am arching up into him, and into the kisses he leaves along my torso and my stomach.
My breath is ragged by the time Peeta reaches the waistband of my underwear.
The feel of his breath against my center almost drives me mad.
My hands travel down to grip him by his curls. I am already arched as far as I can go, so he is the one who lowers his face to nuzzle against me.
The ache in my lower abdomen pulses urgently. I am wet for him, and I never knew it would be – could be – like this.
Peeta tongues the junction of my thigh and groin. I wonder if he can smell me, if he likes it, if he wants to taste me.
I pull on his curls. I feel his smile.
"So impatient," he whispers.
I cannot say why, but I laugh.
"We may only have a few days left," Peeta says, kissing his way back up my abdomen, "but I want to take my time."
I cannot say I really understand what he means, but I have no time to argue before he is back to kissing my mouth.
I wrap my legs around his unsuspecting waist, flipping us over. I straddle him, Peeta's shocked face underneath me. My smile could probably cut glass.
"My turn," I say, and I cannot wait to taste new parts of him.
I plant a kiss to his shoulder and start downward. I mean to do it like he did, but I have trouble slowing down. My kisses are faster, but deeper. I leave plenty of hickies on his chest.
Our first true detour is when I reach his boxers. My hand rests against the metal of his artificial leg. I sit back on my knees.
"Katniss?"
I do not answer immediately, because I stare at his lost leg, wondering, marveling. I feel guilty, even if this is a guilt that is not meant for me to bear. I feel empathy, remembering my fear of lost hearing.
Finally, I say, "Thank you," and I place a kiss to the cold unfeeling metal just where his thigh once was.
I move quickly back up to his face, smothering it with kisses, and still he gets a chance to speak.
"For what?"
"For everything," I say. "For never changing. For caring. For being a good person."
That is all I have the patience to talk about. No more of our breath is wasted on conversation.
Both of our hands travel over the other, learning things, finding scars, loving.
At some point, Peeta flips us again.
Soon after both of us are no longer wearing any clothes at all.
He traces the edge of breasts reverently. His tongue runs across my nipples.
I hold the heat of his erection in my hand. He shows me how to grip it and stroke it. I do the same when his fingers tentatively explore the wetness between my legs.
We hold each other's hands, guiding each other's fingers, whispering encouragements into each other's ears.
Then Peeta, not me, is the impatient one, and I am the one who wants to dig my heels in.
I realize I am afraid to take it to full on sex.
Peeta fails to notice my reluctance. He moves back down my body to tentatively place a kiss against my center
I arch into him. My heart is pounding, and I am lightheaded.
He licks me. It is hesitant at first, and then it is eager, hungry and I cannot help the moans escaping me.
I grip his curls and am both lost in the pleasure, and also in my fear.
I realize now why I have always avoided romantic relations, because, I knew, eventually, inevitably, I would lose control. If I had gone into a relationship like this, eventually it would become sexual, and I would lose control. My desire would overcome my willpower.
All those people I have judged in the past, for having kids when they knew the Hunger Games existed, I understand now, and I feel panic.
So when Peeta draws away from my center, a whispered question inside his eyes, I shake my head.
I cannot go on. I am not ready. This cannot happen.
I have lost that sense of freedom and the comfort my eventual death gave me.
I am scared.
I roll away. I curl up around myself on the edge of the bed and Peeta gives only one soft touch of my arm before retreating.
"I am sorry," he says.
"No," I say, "I'm sorry. I just can't. I didn't mean..."
Tease you? Lead you on? Confuse you?
"No, it's okay. Really, Katniss." He shifts, like he means to touch me again, only in a reassuring way, but he re-thinks it and says, "This is more than I could have ever wanted."
Peeta gets up, pulling on his pants.
I turn back around. "Don't go," I say. "You shouldn't have to leave... I... we can still be together. You said you wanted to spend the rest of your time with me."
I still need you, I almost say, but stop myself.
He smiles.
"I just want to get in my nightly shower," he tells me. "Do you mind if I use yours?"
"No, go ahead."
As he showers, I take the time to cool off and put on not just my underclothes, but pajamas as well.
Once Peeta returns, in his own cozy outfit, we quickly fall asleep in each other's arms.