Chapter 5: Training, Day 1

Bright and early the next morning, my fellow Victors, my tributes and I are all riding down in the elevator to the ground floor of the Training Center. Jax and Paula will be starting their first day of training for the arena. Studying our crop - a 26-year-old young father and a 41-year-old, middle-aged... she-devil - I am uncertain how people their age will respond to the rigors thrust upon tributes before the arena... and the rigors once they're inside. The only consolation is that all the other mentors are dealing with tributes of advanced age, not trembling children, and that these mentors are surely just as befuddled as we are. Just how will a Games filled with adults go down? One way or another, in roughly 96 hours, we'll soon find out.

Haymitch, Peeta and I leave Jax and Paula by the elevators, directing them down the hall to the training gymnasium. Being new at this, Peeta and I are unsure what to say. Luckily, Haymitch fills in the gaping silence.

"Branch out," he instructs our charges. "Try to learn as many new things as possible. Meet people. Make some new friends and size people up as potential allies."

Peeta and I glance at each other. Last year, Haymitch had been annoyingly adamant that Peeta and I stick together like glue, but he had never mentioned trying to recruit other allies. I had always figured that our mentor shared my philosophy on allies, which dovetails nicely with my general aversion and mistrust of most people. Some might call that anti-social. I call it practical. If you let someone in, if you let yourself love them, you can only set yourself up for hurt. Observing Peeta, I feel my heart constrict and swell all at once in a way that leaves me lightheaded and giddy... but also terrified for the very reasons I just pondered.

I decide to add in one last crucial piece of advice. "Haymitch is serious when he says learn something new. Devote all your time to it. Do not, under any circumstances, show off your mastered skills to the other tributes. Leave that for your private sessions with the Gamemakers." I direct the last to Paula, who is pointedly refusing to look at me. I can practically feel Peeta's cringing at my back, but I press the point anyway. "Paula?" I growl warningly. "I mean it. No brandishing rolling pins or twirling knives till the Gamemakers have you alone. Got it?"

Paula says nothing, beyond a loud scoff before she strides down the hall. Smiling apologetically at me, Jax dithers after her.

Haymitch huffs out a breath. "Well, we dropped the kids off," he cracks, even though our pupils are the farthest thing from kids. "Come on, you two. We've gotta work the phones."

Working the phones and placing calls to sponsors in the penthouse suite is a damn sight nicer than doing it in a hole-in-the-wall out back of a stable. I find myself using my fake, Capitol, giggling schoolgirl voice when calling sponsors, as a way to temporarily banish my sullen personality. Maintaining this act is hard though, when trying to talk up my tribute with any degree of enthusiasm. How are you supposed to sell others on someone when you aren't even sold on that person yourself? Plenty of influencers are deeply fascinated by a parent of the Victor Peeta Mellark entering the arena herself, and while there are definitely offers of support, most want to wait to see if mother is like son and can make it into the final rounds of the arena. In between these tepid commitments of backing, almost every sponsor breathlessly asks the question: "Will Peeta and his mother be appearing for a joint interview?" The best I can manage in answer is that I will have to check with Ceasar Flickerman and get back to them. Hanging up the receiver, I doubt that the Capitol would even have time for an exclusive. Then again, it's the Capitol, and stranger things have happened to add some spice to this, the media and social event of the season. Even if they could find a slot in primetime, I have a feeling asking Peeta to go through a joint discussion with the mother who despises him would be like putting him through torture in a dungeon. And Caesar will already have his hands full with interviewing all 24 tributes anyway. I doubt it will happen... unless Snow finds a way to make it happen.

By the time the last of the cold calling is through, the sun is dropping fast behind the majestic Capitol skyline. The evening brings with it our tributes, and they return to the penthouse suite, fresh from their first day of training, looking as exhausted as Haymitch, Peeta and I feel. In fact, both our proteges appear solemn. The bouyancy Jax displayed at the Chariot Parade has been washed away completely, though productively replaced with a grim determination.

Over a light supper (at least by Capitol standards), our tributes report back to us everything that they learned in training, and the other tributes they met. These introductions were made more on Jax's initiative than on Paula's, but did result in the floating of possible alliances with both the 20-somethings from District 11, as well as the woman from 8 - Braid. Apparently, she's 33 years old and a single mother who just had her first baby a year ago, not long after Peeta and I came home.

Haymitch nods, apparently pleased enough by Jax's efforts. "Good hustle. Braid will almost surely be mentored by Cecelia - they're about the same age and since poor Cora..." his voice trails off. "Did you see what weapons she was using?"

"We chatted over by the spear throwing station," Jax reports. "Whether she was learning something new like us, or already proficient at it... I don't know."

"We'll place calls to Cecelia, Woof and Cotton. Oh, and also Chaff and Seeder for your District 11 friends."

Jax nods, biting his lip. "There's something else..." We three Victors tense, waiting for bad news, but Paula beats her district partner to it.

"He was also chatting up the Careers."

"Why the fuck would you do that?" Peeta gawps.

"Peeta Joseph, language!" Paula chides in a rare and unusual display of mothering.

Haymitch just snorts. "And you're one to talk. You got in with them last year."

"Barely," Peeta mutters almost sheepishly, shifting his prosthetic leg from under the table. His thigh brushes mine, and I shiver over how cool it feels against my skin. He turns back to Jax. "Who exactly did you speak to?"

"The young girl from 2. Her name's Domitia, and she's only slightly younger than I am - probably 24. She was quite nice, actually. But... I don't know how keen she is on being in the Career alliance. She seems almost afraid of them, especially Andronicus, who clearly has established himself as Leader."

It almost feels like espionage, what Jax is relaying back to us, but we all lean forward with intrigue.

Jax pauses, weighing his next words carefully. "I think if I went about it subtely, she might be open to breaking off from their alliance."

It takes quite a bit to leave Haymitch dumbfounded, outside of going on a drinking binge that can leave him staring stupidly at the wall. But that is how he appears now, and with only half a glass in him.

"A Career going rogue and turning on the rest of the Pack at the start?..." he muses, frowning. "I don't think it's ever been done."

"There's more," Jax continues breathlessly. "The Careers have been actively courting the old man from 5. The 60-something badass..."

"Fritz Sparkplug," I fill in, turning a little pale.

"Yes. So even if Domitia was willing to betray the Pack, they'd have a willing, able and bigger replacement."

Peeta and I look at each other. Haymitch leans back in his chair, stroking his blonde stubble. "Keep talking with her," he finally concludes. My jaw drops in protest - in my view, this is batshit insane - but my mentor silences me with a sharp look. "Better yet, flirt with her a little bit."

Jax now looks appaled. "But I'm married!"

"I don't care," Haymitch quips. "Chat her up, flirt. Get her to like you and trust you. Then, day after tomorrow round lunchtime... find a way to casually offer an alliance with you, Wicked Witch of the West..." (Paula opens her mouth to yell at him, but snaps it shut, cowering deliciously at Haymitch's smirk) "Braid, and District 11."

"A six-member alliance?" I worry my bottom lip, unsure. "That's a little large..."

"The Careers would only have four. If Domitia were to defect, we'd have the advantage in numbers," Peeta points out.

Haymitch bobs his head again. "So be it." He dismisses our tributes. "Get some rest. Great work today." Jax and Paula drag themselves to their rooms. "As for you too..." Haymitch turns to us. "Get dressed. There's some party wear in your closests that I think you'll be familiar with. We have to meet the other Victors at the Victors' Lounge."

Peeta and I obey. When I open my closet, I am quite touched when I find my old blue Reaping dress hanging prominently in the center of the armoire. I quickly put it on, carefully combing and weaving the brown tresses of my hair into the single braid running down my back. Emerging back into the main living area of the penthouse, I still at the sight of Peeta, looking quite dashing in a white dress shirt and pressed slacks. Effie and Haymitch are standing by the door, talking in low whispers. The old drunk is in a three-piece monkey suit, blonde toupee slicked back, and I have to wrestle a laugh back down into my chest. I can feel Peeta staring at me, the heat of his gaze warming my body. When Effie catches sight of me, her voice trails off into a shriek.

"Why, those awful clothes!" she yelps. I now feel my face burning for an entirely different reason. Haymitch quickly comes to my rescue.

"This party isn't fancy dress, Trinket..."

"Then what would you call what you're wearing?" Peeta cracks, smirking with cheek.

"Honestly, Haymitch, everyone else will be decked out..." Effie tries to protest.

Haymitch ignores him. "It's their party, Effie! They're the latest Victors; they can wear what they like!"

"And besides," Peeta cuts in. "I think she looks beautiful." His gaze is positively smoldering, and I find my embarassment at Effie's judgement melt away to bashfulness as I blush pink at the praise.

A chastened Effie levels no more opinions about my fashion tastes, and Haymitch waves Peeta and I to the elevators. "We'll be home late. Don't wait up," our mentor tells Effie, and I would normally interpret that as Haymitch's way of chastising our sometimes snooty escort, were it not for the... gentleness in his voice. Peeta must detect it, too, for as we're riding down in the elevator car, he leans towards me and murmurs, "Don't wait up? What was that all about?"

I smile weakly, breathing becoming suddenly labored with how close he is to me. "I don't know."

My district partner just shrugs. "Sorry about Effie being all condescending towards you."

"Forget it," I grin. "It's Effie." For her, lack of tact comes with the territory.

We exit the ground floor of the Training Center and emerge into the bustling Capitol street, Haymitch waving down a cab. Squeezing into the backseat, the drunk forks over a wad of sesterces. "The Victors' Lounge. And make it snappy - we're running late!" The cab jolts forward in a squeal of tires, and I clutch on Peeta's arm for support. Through the tinged panes of the cab, the Capitol is awash in color and sound, the hues glistening like a kaleidascope in front of my eyes.

After weaving through traffic and several hairpin turns (one of which threw me right into Peeta's lap), the cab brakes to a stop in front of a glitzy nightclub. The very air seems to sparkle as paparazzi start flashing the bulbs of their cameras with trigger-happy shutterfingers. The second Peeta opens the door, screams split the air. Sporting a dazzling smile, my lover waves to the crowd before gallantly holding out a hand to help me from the car. Haymitch half-tumbles to the curb, but catches himself, as he brings up the rear.

The media swarms the three of us instantly, only allowing a small path to the door of the Victors' Lounge.

"Katniss! Katniss! Over here!"

"Peeta, give her a smooch!"

I thankfully hear the request, so I am ready for when Peeta pulls me close and kisses me passionately on the mouth. I close my eyes and sink into it, trembling when I feel Peeta's tongue trace my bottom lip. Before I can do something bold like open my mouth to greet him, he draws away to cheers.

"Haymitch! Haymitch!" A reporter has pushed his way to the front of the crowd and stuck a microphone nearly up our mentor's nose. "Do you have anything to say about this Quell? Who do you feel will be your successor in winning such a special edition of the Games?"

As Peeta and I watch, Haymitch freezes, going pale, which he tries to counteract with a signature scowl. I've been around the man long enough to know: underneath the facade, he is petrified by the question. Clearly bothered by it. I should have forseen that being the Victor of the previous Quell would mean that Haymitch would be showered with extra attention - attention that he most certainly doesn't want.

Thankfully, Peeta steps into the breach and saves our teacher. "Haymitch is very excited to see which of these 24 tributes will join him and Cora Shutter in that unique pantheon of Quarter Quell Victors," my boyfriend states diplomatically. "Given District 12's history with the Games, he - and Katniss and I join him in expressing this - fully expect that either Jax Wildscape or my mother will be that Victor. Thank you." With a palm at the small of my back, he steers me expertly towards the entrance of the nightclub and we blink against the flickering light of the cameras.

"Peeta, how is your mother doing?! Is she training well? Do you think she'll win?!"

But Peeta remains tightlipped as Haymitch leads us into the safety of the Lounge. As soon as the doors close behind us, plunging us into dim lighting, the drunk turns to Peeta and nods gratefully.

"Thanks for rescuing me."

"No problem, Pops," Peeta affectionately pats Haymitch's shoulder. "We should have realized this year would be especially hard for you."

Haymitch just waves this off. "I'll be fine." He doesn't sound very convincing.

Suddenly, Finnick Odair's unnaturally beautiful face appears like a ghoul out of the half-darkness. "District 12! There you are! Now we can get this party started!" Looping an arm through my one free elbow, he dashingly escorts me further inside, leaving Peeta no choice but to follow behind so that we look like one, unbroken chain. Pushing back a flap of a curtain, we emerge into the lounge proper.

The floor dips down into a low circle, in which is sprinkled tables, booths and chairs. At the far end of this circle is a slightly-raised stage, with a grand piano playing lively music in one corner. A large black curtain backdrops this, at the far end of the room. Steering me to the left, Finnick and Peeta and I stay on the elevated section of floor, approaching a bar just to left immediately as one enters the space.

Finnick sidles up to the bar, bringing me with him. "Bartender, shot of vodka for this lovely lady!" The bartender obliges, and Finnick slides the shotglass down the length of the counter to me with an almost flirtatious smile. Brushed up next to me, I can detect Peeta frowning, peeved. My heart warms as I entertain the thought: is he jealous? Finnick Odair may be a card, and while I admit, the District 4 playboy is easy on the eyes, Peeta really shouldn't be concerned.

Finnick must notice Peeta's tight frown for he quickly orders another shotglass. "Here, Peeta, my man, try one of these!"

Peeta plucks the thimble and dangles it between his thumb and forefinger, frowning. "What is it?"

"Gobstopper juice! Gargle on it and you can spit in six different colors!"

"Spitting's a dirty habit," I blurt out almost involuntarily, sounding prissy even to my own ears.

"I know a worse one," Finnick's eyes twinkle.

I'm sure you do, I find myself thinking. "And what do you get out of others receiving the pleasure of your company, Finnick?"

He leans in close, his breath tickling my earlobe. "Secrets," he hisses, smiling like a wolf as he draws back to observe the uncomfortable flushing of my cheeks. "What about you, Girl on Fire?" he appraises me up and down. "Any secrets worth my time?"

I gape like a fish for just a second, before recovering enough to shrug the question off. "I'm an open book," I relay flatly. Behind me, I can almost feel Peeta smirk.

Finnick is about to say something else when -

"Finnick! Finnick!" An aging, bespectacled man muscles his way into our little group by the bar, looking somewhere between panicked and affronted. "Did Emrys but you up to this? I don't know the first thing about conducting music..."

"Relax, Beetee, it's just DJ-ing. You plug it in, run the playlist and you're gold!" Finnick waves him away. "Besides, Gates always used to DJ for these things, Panem rest his soul..."

As we can continue talking over the cacophany of other voices, foundationally bolstered by the light tinkling of piano keys, I learn that of history's 75 Victors, 16 of them are now deceased. Gates, the first Victor from District 3, was lost just a couple of years ago.

A young woman with olive skin and a broad man with bulging muscles now join us at the bar.

"Cecelia!" Haymitch greets the young woman with a warm hug, and I realize that this is Cecelia Rheys from District 8. We will no doubt be speaking to her about alliances in the coming days. "First of all, my deepest condolences on Cora's passing. I'm sure the last six months have been hard."

Peeta cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. Cecelia smiles sadly. "Thank you," she sniffs.

Leaning in close, I can just make out Haymitch whispering to her, "We'll be in touch with you soon about a potential alliance, with your girl."

Cecelia nodded. "Braid mentioned something about that. You have my number. Cotton will be point girl on fielding those requests."

"Great," Haymitch grins. "How are the little ones?"

"All three adorable little hellions, but beautiful, like their mother." The large man works a massage into Cecelia's shoulders with a paw of a hand, before dipping a kiss into her neck. Cecelia stiffens ever so slightly at this, but makes no move to shrug him off her. That is when I recognize the man: he is Brutus, a very popular Career Victor from District 2 who looks to be about Haymitch's age, maybe a little older. I wonder if he mentored Cato.

"How many children do you have?" I ask Cecelia politely.

"Three," her smile is tender. "Two girls and a boy." I note how Brutus puffs out his chest at the mention of them.

"Oh, are you together?" I point between the pair. I have never heard of two Victors being romantically involved (well, other than Peeta and myself, of course) and certainly not from different districts.

"Yes."

"No."

Brutus and Cecelia look at each other, startled by his affrimative and her denial. No effort is made, however, to correct the record one way or the other. The awkward pause is broken by Peeta.

"Mr. Barsetti, I was wondering..."

Haymitch subtlety elbows my partner hard in the arm and shoots him a look. The message is clear: Don't ask about alliances with Domitia. Not until Jax can get a better read. We don't want to tip off the other Careers. Peeta snaps his jaw shut. "Never mind," he directs to Brutus's befuddled expression.

"HEY, FUCKERS!" A loud voice suddenly bellows over a microphone, and all our heads snap to the slightly raised stage, where the black curtain has been pulled back to reveal a DJ turntable and mixer, Beetee shifting awkwardly behind the set-up. Too-large headphones frame his skull as he glances, face white, to the blonde demigod MC-ing beside him.

Haymitch groans. "Come off it, Phoebus..."

"Enough of this total lameness - who's ready to ROCK?!"

There's a bit of static and record scratching as Beetee uncertainly plunges right into the playlist. Bumping techno music plays so loudly, it reverberates through the floor. Victors scream and cheer as they rush into the sunken section of floor, the tables cleared away to accomodate for a wild mosh pit.

Brutus slings an arm around Cecelia and whispers something in her ear. She stares at him for a moment, dubious, before, with a huff, taking Brutus by the arm and dragging him into the dance floor. Pulling him close, Cecelia sultrily locks her hips with Brutus's torso and begins to sway her lower half against his. A pleased Brutus keeps Cecelia flush against him, salami fingers drumming along her plevis and hovering along the dipping curve of her waist and buttocks. From the way they move, the two Victors appear to be half-dancing, half-humping each other.

Peeta and I eye the display and the surrounding mosh pit warily, unsure what to do next. We've had dances at school, though I never attended, despite Gale asking me several times.

"Katniss! Peeta!" A young woman comes rushing up to us with a toothy smile. "Song Nuo, District 1. Why don't you come and dance?"

I glance at Peeta for help, but he just smiles. "Do you trust me?"

Gazing into his eyes, I gulp, my voice dry. "Yes," I whisper.

His grin broadens. "Then don't stop now." Taking my hand, he drags me into the mosh pit. Positioning me in front of him, his hands rest on my hips, and I turn my face to his. His blue orbs are dimmed with uncertainty. "Is this all right?"

Flushing, I nod. Next second, I feel Peeta's excitement bumping and grinding along the curve of my ass and he pulls me tight into him. The motion of our bodies and the people around us, coupled by the music, compels me to swivel my hips and butt back right into his erection and I feel Peeta's grip tighten along my pelvis.

All around us, Victors whoop and holler and the electric atmosphere soon has an almost drunken effect on me, until I am bumping and grinding into Peeta with wild abandon. Victors put their hands in the air and jump up and down as Beetee continues to spin the records with growing confidence. People shout the words to the song:

"Shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot, shot - everybody!"

Leaning back into Peeta's chest, I feel my eyes roll into the back of my head and I sexily sway up against my partner. He is pitching quite the tent into my ass now.

The temperature seems to have increased by several degrees, and before long, the crush of bodies compels me to get air. At the first break, I drag Peeta to the edge of the dance floor, as a Latin salsa numbers picks up.

Peeta looks exhilarated. "Don't stop now! Come on!"

I turn pink, stammering as it begins to dawn on me just how much caution I have thrown to the wind already. "Oh, no, I don't dance, I couldn't possibly..."

"I'll teach you!" And placing me at his side, Peeta demonstrates the cha-cha-cha steps, his grin beaming. Smiling weakly, I do my best to copy him.

Pretty soon, he and I are moving with a natural rhythm, in concert.

As we dance, gazing into each other's eyes, Peeta and I seem to speak with no words. We are having a conversation with our bodies, the silent sentences flirtatious and sexy. Pretty soon, I am dazzling Peeta with the most luminous smile I think I've ever had in a long time.

Peeta is twirling me, spinning me faster and faster, and I feel briefly weightless as Peeta sweeps me into a dip. Throwing my head back, I laugh joyously, before my partner hoists me back up into his arms.

His face is impossibly close, and I feel my eyelids grow heavy as I take him in. Before long, my grey orbs flutter shut as I briefly hold back, then at last surrender as Peeta and I sink into a long, passionate kiss. Mouths tumble open as tongues eagerly push through to dance just as exuberantly as our bodies were, and I yank Peeta closer still with a low groan.

And as my partner and I embrace and kiss, all the noise and sound seems to fall away...

The elevator doors have barely dinged open onto the penthouse floor before Peeta and I are stumbling through it, our faces glued together. Mouths fused as one in a wild kiss, tongues battling for dominance as they've had since we half-fell into the cab, Peeta is tearing down the bodice of my blue dress, his calloused mitts gallingly cupping the swell of my breasts. Staggering backwards through the living quarters and into the hallway, I fall back against my door, Peeta pressing me into the varnished wood as his lips pepper mine, then divebomb my skin, pausing to suckle the dip of my neck. I keen into him with a moan.

"Hmmmm... Peeta... Peeta, please..."

My fingernails are raking along his chest, my hands bunching up swaths of his white dress shirt in my fists. Though my skin trembles everywhere, I manage to work free one button, two, before I give up and wrench the rest of the shirt off his shoulders, tearing it to reveal his toned chest, which I greedily grab for.

I am overheated. My breasts are heaving for every gulp of air and smushing Peeta's face in my hands, I kiss him roughly again as he reaches around me and gropes for the doorknob. The wood gives behind me, and we stumble through, still making out like mad.

Peeta's talented hands now wander lower, dipping below my waist to brazenly caress the curve of my ass. I suck in a breath, nearly swallowing Peeta's plundering tongue down my throat, and shiver when Peeta's fingers tightly grip the supple flesh of my rear, first one cheek and then the other. Boldly, I respond by raising my leg to his waist, hitching it around his torso and gyrating against him.

"Fuck, Katniss..." Peeta hisses, furiously rocking back. I nearly leap into his arms, climbing him like a tree so that we sway and collapse onto the bed, me underneath him. Bunching up the hem of my blue dress around my hips, I sigh at Peeta's renewed kissing of my neck as I open my knees for him. I feel my panties being reverently removed and slid down my thighs, the fabric stretching taut as I splay myself wide for him.

Kissing my lips passionately, Peeta's eyes lock with mine, in his heated gaze a question. Wordlessly, I nod, and Peeta's fingers tremblingly reach for his belt. Quickly, I move to help him, eager in my desire to see him undressed. I see a flash of foreskin as he pops free, standing at attention and throbbing. My face shades crimson, but I hold Peeta's stare as he slowly, softly pushes into me.

There is a sharp pinch as something deep inside me breaks and I throw my head back into the pillows with a groan. Tears prick at my eyes and I feel my eyelashes flutter as Peeta's lips peck them away. Dipping his head, he kisses me once more, with tongue, and I melt into the kiss, looping my arms about his neck as this sweet boy begins to thrust into me. Beneath us, the bed creaks and sways, punctuated by the lowing noises I am making, along with Peeta's grunts.

"Uhhhh... Huhhh... Hmmmm... Mmmmm... Mmmmmmhmmmm... Urrrrr... Peeta... P-Peeta..." I keen into him, my warm and wet core snapping up to meet every drive of his hips, thrust for thrust. "Peeta, I'm... I'm gonna cum... Oh, FUCK! YES! PEETA!" My legs scrabble for purchase along the mattress, thighs quivering as I feel the cresting wave break within me, announcing my orgasm. I ride the high of my pleasure to altitude unimaginable, before floating down from the sensation like I am in the embrace of a parachute.

Watching me come undone seems to have had a profound impact on Peeta. "Fuck, Katniss! You're so tight and wet! Love you so much!" His slams into me begin to weaken. "Shit!" He finally ejaclates hard within my walls, his face flopping into the valley of my breasts with a groan, and he moves no more.

We hold each other like that for long moments, lying still. At last, Peeta kisses each pert nipple of my breasts and then begins peppering my face with his mouth.

"Are... are you worried?" I find myself asking. "About your mother?"

His lips pause where they have been sucking on my earlobe, and for a moment, I fear I have killed the mood.

"I don't want to talk about her right now," he finally says. A slight pause. "Though... I am worried. What she might do in the arena. How it could change her in there. Make her even worse." He sighs. "I feel terrible putting you in the position to mentor her."

"It wasn't your fault," I coo.

"I... Mom and I have a complicated relationship, but I... I don't want to abandon her to the Games. But if she wins..."

I rest a finger lightly on his lips. "Ssssh..." I croon. "You'll make the right decision. And we'll come through it together." Smiling into each other's eyes, we kiss deeply, our lips soon becoming bruised as we continue to fall asleep making out, and with Peeta still buried deep inside my core...