If there was anything that could rival Striker's interest in my training, it was movies. Anything but romance always captivated the kid. Whenever I had a day off from training and a little bit of money scraped together, I'd ask him what he wanted to do. His answer was always the same. There was always something playing that he desperately wanted to see, usually some type of action movie, although if my parents asked, we'd always gone to see a harmless cartoon. I remember the last one I took him to see, a few weeks before I volunteered and everything turned upside down.
It was President Snow's birthday and, in accordance with such a "magnificent" occasion, school was canceled. Even Odin, bastard that he was, gave us a half-day. I remember how excited I was. I'd managed to convince one of the more arrogant newbies to put a little money on a spear-throwing contest. Five bullseyes later, I had more than enough for two tickets. I practically bounced up the creaky wooden steps of our small house, which looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint. Then again, I think it always looked like that. I probably noticed it more the closer I got to the Hunger Games.
"I'm home," I said as I stepped inside, my nose wrinkling at the musty smell that seemed as much a part of our house as the walls. The lights were on in the hallway and I could hear somebody moving around the kitchen.
"Hey, sweetheart," my mother said as she peeked out of our cramped kitchen, wearing the patched grey cleaning uniform that I always hated seeing her in, "I'm glad you're home. The Randolph's need me to come clean today, something about visitors from the Capitol, and I need you to look after your brother."
"Happy to do it," I said casually, trying to keep from scowling at the thought of my mother scrubbing shit-stains off the Randolph family's toilets while they lounged around, getting drunk while awaiting their guests. I had to tell myself that at least it would make it easier to get Striker out of the house.
"Thank you," my mother said, edging past me in the narrow hallway, "Dad should be home around seven. I'll see you guys later."
I stood by the window a moment after she left, making sure she wasn't coming back because she forgot something. The last thing I needed was her catching me talking to Striker about seeing something violent. My mother was always sensitive about that stuff, always doing her best to distract Striker during the Hunger Games, without a whole lot of success. To him, I think that was the ultimate action movie.
When I passed the kitchen and rounded the corner, Striker was sitting at the base of our ratty brown couch in the living room, crutches beside him and green eyes glued to the screen of our old television, watching Caesar Flickerman interview Seneca Crane, who smiled a serpentine smile and politely refused to divulge any concreate information about the arena to the eccentric host, despite his dramatic pleas.
"How's it going, little brother?" I asked, grinning as Striker spins around to see me, the excitement clear on his face.
"Marvel, you gotta see this! Caesar just asked Seneca if the arena might have werewolves this year and he said, 'You never know'! Can you believe that!" Striker said, spitting the words out so rapidly I almost didn't catch the separations between them all.
"That'd definitely be something," I said, trying to mask my discomfort. Unfortunately, I could believe werewolves being in the Hunger Games. Gamemakers had done far crazier shit before and, given where I'd be going in a few weeks, I wasn't too eager to think about all the things they could fill the arena with.
"Like it's anything you couldn't handle," Striker scoffed, still looking at me like I was a goddamn superhero after all these years, one so immensely powerful that nothing could ever stand up it. Hell, he believed it so whole-heartedly that he almost made me believe it, too.
"Look, do you want sit here talking about werewolves or do you want to go have some fun?" I asked, glad to be getting off the Hunger Games for a moment. Striker's eyes instantly brightened.
"What kind of fun?" asked my brother, making no effort to keep the excitement out of his voice, which secretly made me happy. The day he starts fronting and trying to look cool will be a sad one, evidence of how much things change.
"Oh, nothing spectacular," I said nonchalantly, "I just noticed that Starship: Eris is still playing down at the theater…and I just so happen to have come into a little money today."
For a kid on crutches, Striker could move spectacularly fast when he wanted to. Hell, I've seen kids at the Academy get up slower than he did whenever I suggested going to a movie. He practically blew past me on his way to the door. I just chuckled before heading back to the room we shared.
"Hey! I thought we were going to the movie!" Striker said, brow furrowing and his small features scrunching up in confusion as I kept moving.
"I gotta get out of my training clothes first, bud," I answered, shaking my head at the exaggerated huff my little brother let out as I maneuver my way through our crappy house and back to our bedroom.
Like every other part of our house, our bedroom was small. Our small twin beds, pushed up against opposite walls, took up most of the space. A tiny, and I do mean tiny, wooden bookshelf that barely reached up to my waist and a cramped dresser took up the remaining floor-space, leaving just enough room to awkwardly shimmy your way through the bedroom. I got out of my training clothes as quickly as possible, pulling on fresh garments completely separate from my training, completely separate from the Hunger Games. The transition into the simple t-shirt and jeans feels like a metamorphosis.
I stepped out and found Striker had already vacated the living room. I couldn't help but chuckle a bit as I located him by the door, fidgeting excitedly as he waited for me. I tried to get the door for him, but my little brother was determined, nudging it open himself and hobbling down the steps on his crutches, his frail legs not much of an obstacle in the face of childish excitement. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a bit contagious.
Striker continued to ramble as we walked, talking about all the things that interested him from a weird bug he saw in our bathroom to his friend drawing President Snow in a dress, which would've been even funnier if it wasn't technically a crime. I mostly just listened. It was nice to hear someone talk about things not related to spears or body counts. The weather was perfect as we walked, cool and with a breeze that made everything crisp and brought out a pinkish color on my brother's cheeks. The sky was cloudless and sunshine freely covered District One like a blanket, preventing the day from becoming uncomfortably cold.
There was a line when we finally reached the movie theater, not surprising given that a lot of people had the holiday off. I notice a few of the fifteen-year-olds from the Academy near the front of the line. One of them notices me and nudges the others. I instantly look over at the movie posters, pretending that I haven't seen them.
"Marvel," Striker said, tugging on my wrist as he balances on his crutches.
"Hmm?" I turn down to look at my sibling, who is unfortunately looking at the Academy kids.
"I think those guys are looking at you," Striker said, pointing with his small hand at what I've already seen.
"Comes with being a celebrity, little brother," I said casually, trying to laugh it off. I really, really did not want to talk about the Games or the Academy any more. It's my fucking day off.
"Are they from the Academy?" Striker asked excitedly, green gaze flickering between me and the other trainees, who have now reached the front of the line.
I just shrugged. "Maybe. I don't really know," I lied, "They could just be from my fan club."
My last attempt at humor worked, getting a good laugh from Striker as the other trainees got their tickets. Mercifully, they bought tickets for Justice, some war movie about one of the final battles between the Capitol and the last surviving rebels. Fortunately, Starship: Eris is a matinee and the tickets are cheap enough that I can even get Striker an overpriced candy bar once inside the theater, which he finishes before the previews are even half over.
The movie was okay, although it entertained the hell out of Striker with its alien gore and cool special effects. It told the story of the same crew from the last Starship movie, a group of ridiculously good-looking "peacekeepers" sent by the Capitol to explore other planets. The stories are more or less the same, with the crew landing on the new planet (this one was called Eris) and discovering a new alien species that inevitably decides it wants to kill them and come to Earth to destroy the Capitol. Then there's a fight, the side-characters that were introduced during this installment usually die and the rest of the crew emerges victorious before heading off into the unknown to explore another new planet.
My mind started wandering during the formulaic love scene between the Captain and the Science Officer, who seem to break up every other movie before showing some interest in one of the new side characters. Then their disposable love interests die and they realize they need each other and blah blah blah. Anyway, during that scene, I found myself just looking around the dark theater, thinking about how much time I'd spent there over the years and how this might be the last time…at least for a while. The idea that I wouldn't be sitting in those hole-ridden upholstery seats or taking in the pleasant smell of popcorn or even getting gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe for the millionth time was sad, much sadder than I expected.
Afterwards, as we were walking home, Striker managed to put a smile back on my face by babbling excitedly about how much he enjoyed the movie. It was later in the afternoon and there was a good amount of people on the street, most of them heading home to watch the mandatory coverage of our president's birthday celebration. We walked in the shadows of District One's sleek, modern buildings, monuments to our home district's opulence, edging our way back towards the rougher part of the District, back to that run-down shack we had to call a house.
"Marvel, look!" Striker said excitedly, stealing my attention from my brooding.
I turned to see my brother pointing, as best he could, at an enormous poster occupying ground-level store window. It was an enormous white one with a red border. The golden seal of the Capitol occupied the upper half and immaculate blood-red script took up the lower half, reading Prepare to Celebrate the 74th Annual Hunger Games!
"Can you believe it's only a few weeks away?" Striker asked excitedly.
"Yeah, that's…something," I said, feeling some of that sadness I'd felt in the theater coming back. I knew what I had to do and I knew why I had to do it, but that didn't make it any easier. That didn't make anything easier.
Striker picked up on the lack of excitement in my voice and looked at me closer, green gaze analyzing me like some bizarre scientific specimen. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern clear in his voice. Guilt flared up instantly. My kid brother was already on crutches. He didn't need me dragging him down with my bullshit.
"I'm fine," I lied, "Hey, do you want to go to the park?" I was desperate for something else to distract me for a while.
Striker's eyes instantly widened in excitement and I could see him yearning to say yes, but something restrained him. "Think Mom will mind?" he asked.
"I doubt it and, even if she is, you can tell her it was all my idea," I say with a grin that my brother quickly reflects.
The journey to the park was quick. Once there, I hoisted Striker up on my shoulders, just like old times. As he laughed and enjoyed the moment, I forgot all about that poster and the Games. Instead, I thought about all the days gone by, all the time I'd spent there with Striker, playing with him whenever I could since his crutches made it hard to make friends. Somehow, the knowledge of my impending separation, from him, from my parents, from District One, made those happy memories sad. They almost seemed like something that happened to someone else instead of me.
Eventually, we both got worn out, me in particular since I was doing all the carrying. We flopped down onto the cool grass and sprawled out, watching as the sun began to set. I knew we'd have to get home soon. As always, there just wasn't enough time.
"Striker?" I asked, folding my hands over my gangly legs as I watched the approach of nightfall.
"Yeah?" Striker looked up from where he'd been fiddling with the grass, his face caught by the soft shadows of the evening.
"No matter what happens, you know you're my buddy, right?" I asked, feeling a bit awkward for asking but also feeling like I had to.
Striker looked a bit quizzical for a moment, but still managed to smile. "I know," he said gently.
I nodded, feeling a surprising amount of relief wash over me. I laid out on back and looked up at the sky, where the moon was already rising like an enormous white pearl. "And if Mom asks what movie we saw, what do you say?" I asked, feeling a smile returning to my face.
"Earl the Squirrel," he answered, immediately reciting the name of whatever children's movie was playing at theaters, one our mother wouldn't object to. I could hear his smile in his voice.
"Good boy," I said.
When my eyes open, I'm completely alone. My brother and District One are gone. So is the arena. I'm lying in a bed in what looks like a sterile white hospital room, hooked up to all kinds of weird, beeping machines. There's no windows, no chairs and no people. Just flawless white walls and a door. I slowly sit up, but I feel weird, almost like I'm drunk. I throw the white sheets aside. Fortunately, somebody had the foresight to at least put me in a white hospital gown and preserve whatever's left of my modesty.
I swing my legs over the side but they feel heavy, like they're made of lead. As soon as I try to stand, they crumble beneath me. I collapse onto the cold tile floor as the machines go haywire behind me. I wasn't able to keep my head from smacking onto the floor when I fell and now everything's a bit hazy. It looks like a squad of brightly-colored nurses are pouring into the room.
I don't feel their hands lifting me back onto the bed, but I do notice how I'm suddenly on my back, looking up into the blinding white lights on the ceiling. I dimly feel a prick on my arm and have just enough time to look over and see a nurse removing a syringe before everything goes black.
I don't know how long I'm out, but when I wake up, I'm no longer alone. The room's the same, sterile white walls and sheets with a cold tile floor and beeping machines. The only difference is Cashmere occupying a chair by the door and looking at me with what can only be interpreted as satisfaction.
"The champion awakens," Cashmere says, watching as I slowly sit up, "How're you feeling?"
"Like shit," I manage, feeling my body ache with every movement.
"That's probably because they cut-off your morphling yesterday," she says with a laugh.
"Yesterday? How long have I been here?" I ask.
Cashmere clicks her tongue as she thinks. "It's been about five days since the Games ended."
Five days? Goddamn. I didn't think I'd be out that long. Then it starts to hit me that the Games are over…and I'm still here. I survived. I made it. I did what I promised everyone I would.
"It's over," I say, sighing as I allow my head to fall back onto my pillow. Even after five days of sleep, I'm exhausted.
"Not quite," Cashmere says, prompting me to look up again, "You've still got to do the Recap Show and your final interview. Once the other victors are ready-
"They both survived?" I interject. Katniss looked alright but Peeta? Last time I saw him he looked ready for a body-bag.
Cashmere chuckles. "I know. I was surprised too. You and the wuss from Twelve both almost bled out."
Three victors. That is…unprecedented. I almost can't believe how right I was. The Capitol has to have a victor and when those berries came out, they must've decided to cut their losses. But who made that decision? Was it Snow? Crane? As always when it comes to the Capitol, there's more questions than answers.
"Where's Gloss?" I ask, noticing my other mentor's absence. I would've thought he'd be here popping champagne with District One finally finishing ahead of District Two.
Cashmere hesitates before answering. "He…doesn't want to come."
"What?" I ask.
"He said he wasn't coming and I wouldn't hold your breath for any other visits from my idiot brother," she says.
"But why?"
Cashmere just laughs. "Why do you think? You showed mercy in the Games. You called competitors friends. You chose the outer districts over your own alliance. That kinda stuff doesn't exactly endear you to the career crowd."
"What? Was I supposed to rip everyone's throat open with my teeth like Enobaria?" I ask, exasperated. I swear no amount of brutality will ever satisfy these people.
"No, but you can't deny the way you won was…unusual," Cashmere says.
I flop back down on my bed. "So, Gloss hates me. What're you doing here? You weren't even my mentor."
"The arena's hard on you. It's hard on everyone. Gloss may have forgotten that after ten years but I haven't," Cashmere says, her usually strong gaze softening, "Everyone who makes it out deserves a little kindness."
I sit for a moment, surprised but also sad. I deserve kindness? I think back on the people I killed personally and the people I got killed and I'm not sure I really deserve to be here. And yet here Cashmere is, trying to help me. It really is a kind gesture, one that should move me, but I just don't feel it. I feel nothing, like I've been shot full of morphling.
"Thank you," I manage to say, not wanting to be rude.
Cashmere gets up and comes over. I can feel her standing there, but I don't look up. Then she does something I never expected from one of my district's most celebrated warriors. She pulls me into a hug.
I'm shocked at first and, despite my best efforts, unwanted thoughts return. Memories of the Games come back like awful snapshots. They were always there while I was competing, but I guess the need to survive was enough to suppress them. Now, without the threat of death hanging over me, I see them all and feel the enormity of my actions. I see myself steamrolling poor starving kids at the Cornucopia with my fellow Careers. I see myself finish Ava off. I see Brooke getting stung to death by the tracker jackers. I see myself sit back and let the boy from Ten and the girl from Five get torn apart. I see Rue with a spear in her gut. I see myself stabbing Peeta over and over. I see myself holding a knife to Katniss' throat.
I'm alive but I don't feel that way. I feel destroyed, like a once-proud palace reduced to ruin, crumbling to dust and swept away by the wind forever. Everything I've done won't go away. The Games won't stay in the arena. They'll follow me home. I'll see them on television. I'll hear everyone talk about them. I'll have to carry that burden for the rest of my life, however long that is. This all hits me as Cashmere hugs me. My arms hang limply at my side as this awful realization dawns on me. I know what I should be feeling. I should be devastated. I should be sobbing like a child, but I'm not. Instead, I just feel numb.
"It's okay, kid. We've all been through it," she says quietly.
I'm vaguely aware that it's good not to be alone in this. That'll probably be comforting someday. But not today.
The next day, they release me from the hospital. I held onto some irrational hope that they'd just let me go home without having to jump through any more hoops. No such luck. They send me back to the Tribute Center to rest as I wait for the Recap Show and the interviews.
The place is somehow even less welcoming than before. Probably because it's mostly empty. The rooms that once buzzed with guards, escorts, mentors and most importantly tributes now sit vacant. And they'll stay that way until next year when a fresh crop of unprepared tributes is dragged in here.
Cashmere and Prue are the only ones who stay with me. Gloss has made it quite obvious that the has no desire to see me again and will probably only show up when it's absolutely necessary. Prue, however, was ecstatic to see me, unable to stop gushing about how noble I was and how much my victory meant to my district after our string of close-finishes behind District Two. I know Prue meant well, but being praised for my performance in the Games made me uncomfortable. It's not her fault. There's no way she could ever understand. Only Cashmere and the other victors could ever do that. I was never more grateful than when she got the excited district escort to leave by reminding her of another extravagant party she just absolutely had to attend.
I return to my room and sleep fitfully. Thankfully, Cashmere lets me be. Once again, I think it's because she understands. She gets how it feels to survive the games. Sometimes you really need someone to give you a hug and other times you want to be alone so desperately you'd hide in a washing machine just to get some solitude.
It's almost nightfall when my eyes open again. My body still hurts and is sorely missing the morphling…oh god, how I miss the morphling. But it's doing a little better. I pull on an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, still amazed at how the Capitol somehow healed every single one of my scars…the physical ones, at least. Before leaving, I check myself in the mirror and see a stranger staring back at me. The scars may be gone, but so is that person I saw the last time I looked in this mirror. This stranger has paler, sickly-looking skin. Green eyes that once sparked with activity now look dull and lifeless, sunken and sporting dark bags underneath. And this stranger doesn't smile, either. His mouth is straighter than a ruler, never curling up or down. I only sigh and head out.
Cashmere is sitting on the couch, watching as Caesar and Claudius jabber about how exciting the Games were. Sensing my presence, she promptly changes the channel to some mindless Capitol sitcom, mercifully not related to the Games.
"How you doing?" she asks, blue gaze marked with concern.
"Not great…but a little better," I say, noticing how much my voice has changed. It never used to be this soft or this somber. It used to have some life to it.
Cashmere nods in appreciation. "It'll get easier once you get out of this place. Everything in this fucking city reminds me of the Games," she says with a sigh. I almost ask about what happened to her and what's going to happen to me. She won when I was about eight. I remember her winning, but little about how her Games actually went and what she's been through the past few years. But something in her expression deters me, like it's better not to know.
"I'm…going to the roof," I say simply.
She just nods again. "Be careful," she says finally. I'm not quite sure what to be careful about, but she wouldn't say that for no reason.
I head out of my room and call the elevator. When it finally comes and I step inside, I find myself pausing, staring at each floor number. So many floors, each one containing tributes only a few weeks ago, all sit vacant now. I find myself lingering on the four and the eleven. I can't resist. I press them just to see them light up before finally pressing the button for the roof. I don't mind the stops. I have plenty of time.
I'm glad when I finally reach the roof. I step outside and into the last rays of sunshine. I can see it setting, off in the distance. The sunset should seem gorgeous, vibrant shades of orange, yellow and pink streaking across the clouds, mixing like watercolors. But I just don't see it that way anymore.
I can't help but think it's fake, like everything else in the Capitol. The sunsets, the people, the Games…all bullshit. As I sit down near the edge, I can hear the sounds of all of them partying their asses off from the street below and I have a sudden desire to throw rocks at them. If only the force-field didn't prevent that. I'm not sure I can think of a group of people more deserving of some suffering.
I hear footsteps behind me and stiffen. Only one other person would be coming up to the roof right now. I turn to see Katniss standing behind me, looking much paler and thinner than the warrior I spent nights up here with only a few weeks ago.
"Mind if I sit?" she asks.
I just shrug and face forward again. The sun is right in our faces and the sounds of the Capitol's partying still carries up from the streets. This may be the spot we met, but we aren't the same people. Those two are long gone and we can never be them again. After everything that's happened, I just can't make casual conversation right now and pretend everything's alright when we both know it's not, like there aren't all these awful memories following us like our shadows. It's just too damn hard.
"How's Peeta?" I ask, finally addressing what's been nagging me since I left the hospital.
"Alive. As far as I know, he hasn't left the hospital yet," Katniss answers quietly, some type of sad regret spilling across her features.
I steel myself, ready for Katniss to tear into me. Peeta, her beloved district partner, is still in the hospital thanks to me. With the injuries I gave him, especially those stab wounds in his gut, I'm not surprised he hasn't left the hospital yet.
"I'm sorry about that…for stabbing him, I mean," I say., finally realizing that she isn't itching for fight at this point. God knows I'm not.
Katniss just sighs. "It's not really me you need to apologize to."
We sit in silence for a moment, not really knowing what to say. I know I don't. Somehow, everything that crosses my mind feels inadequate after everything that's happened, like nothing can bridge the gap that's formed.
"Why didn't you kill me?" Katniss finally asks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her turn toward me.
I don't look at her, keeping my eyes on the sunset. Why didn't I kill her? Is it because I couldn't let them win? After all the people I'd killed and gotten killed could I just not let them get me to do it to a friend? Or is it something more? Did I crack because of what I felt for Katniss? And do I still feel that way or has the Games numbed that, too?
"Well?" Katniss presses.
I finally turn to look at her, meeting that familiar silver gaze. A gaze that's now fixed firmly on me, as if the answer was written on my forehead.
"Why didn't you kill me?" I counter, "Peeta was already on his way out. Cato was dead. You could've won and saved Peeta if you'd just cut my throat. It's not like anyone would've blamed you for doing it."
Like me, Katniss doesn't answer immediately, instead looking out across the city.
"I don't know," she finally says, "I guess after everything, I just couldn't. You didn't deserve that."
I snort at that, drawing a glare from Katniss. I didn't deserve that? Like hell I didn't.
"I deserved that fate a lot more than you. You only killed in self-defense," I say, looking at my hands in my lap, "I killed kids at the Bloodbath. I was a Career."
Katniss shakes her head. "You did the right thing. You helped take them down. You're not one of them."
I just shrug. "That doesn't erase the things I've done. It doesn't make up for the people I killed or the people I got killed. You and Peeta deserved to go home a lot more than I did. I'm just another District One brat that threw away a decent life and a loving family to murder his way through the Hunger Games."
Instead of responding, Katniss surprises me. She scoots over the puts her arm around me, bringing all the old feelings back to the surface. For a moment, the Games and everything that's happened fades away and I'm just here. I feel surprisingly warm and, without thinking, put my arm around her. No matter how numb I may be, I can't deny this feels right.
"You're not being fair to yourself. What you did wasn't easy, volunteering for your family and then turning your back on the Careers to work with a bunch of untrained kids from the outer districts," Katniss says, gaze softening, "Not many people would have the courage to do that and to stick with it all the way to the end. You're not evil. You deserve to live just as much as I do."
"Did we live, though?" I ask, unable to look at Katniss any longer, "I don't know about you, but I haven't felt right since I got out of the arena. I don't feel the same. I don't look at things the same. It's like…it's like I really did die in there."
Katniss is silent for a moment and I go back to looking at the sunset, wishing it made me feel something.
"I think we all died a little bit in there," she finally says.
I immediately turn back to look at her. Her gaze is sad, but somehow still strong. I can't help but be amazed at her strength. Above all else, Katniss is a survivor. If anyone can tell me how to pick up the pieces and carry on, it's her.
"So, what do we do?" I ask.
Katniss looks up into my eyes as she answers. "I don't think we can focus on what we've lost. We have to focus on what we still have. That's the only way we can keep moving forward."
I can't help but notice how we're still holding each other as she says that. I think she notices it too, because when our eyes meet, she smiles. I find myself leaning in again, drawn by that same magnetic force that I was in the arena. When our lips meet, I feel it. I feel what I felt for her before everything happened. That sense of peace that only she's ever brought me comes back and, in that moment, it feels like I've come back to life.
"Goddamn it!" a gruff voice shouts.
Katniss and I jump apart and look towards the door, where a very angry Haymitch Abernathy stands.
"Inside. NOW!" he barks.
Haymitch didn't hesitate to grab us both the second we were within reach. I thought he was just being protective of his tribute, but he ended up manhandling me too. He dragged us both down to his floor and shoved us into the District Twelve quarters.
"Haymitch, what the fuck?" Katniss hisses.
Haymitch slams the door behind him. "Sit down!" he barks, "Both of you need to shut up and listen right now!"
I think Katniss would like to argue, but something about the desperation in Haymitch's voice indicates that this is important. We both take a seat on one of the couches while Haymitch takes a seat across from us, running his hands over his unshaven face.
"Okay…what I just saw up there can never, ever happen again," he finally says.
What? Is he really that protective? Does he still think I'm some bloodthirsty monster who can't wait to rip his tribute's head off? I know alcoholics aren't the best a processing things, but come on.
"Haymitch, that's not your decision," Katniss says.
"You're right. It's Snow's," he retorts.
"What?" I ask. What the fuck does President Snow have to do with this?
Haymitch sighs deeply. "The President is not happy with how the Games ended and he's especially unhappy with you two."
"Us? Why us?" Katniss asks, looking between Haymitch and I.
"You both defied the Games. You refused to kill each other…and what you two represent together is very, very dangerous," Haymitch continues, looking more serious (and sober) than I have ever seen him.
I arch an eyebrow at the grizzled old mentor. "And what exactly do we represent?" I ask.
"Collaboration," Haymitch answers simply, "Think about it. A Career from District One and an underdog from District Twelve working together, finding common ground and getting closer and closer. It's unheard of. If the districts see something like that, they may realize they're not as different as Snow wants them to think they are. And if they unify…who knows what could happen."
"Haymitch…that's all hypothetical," Katniss says.
"No, it's fucking not. You two have no idea what happened while you were in the arena. When your friend died…Rue," Haymitch says, watching both of us cringe at the memory, "There was a riot in Eleven and incidents in both your districts."
Unbelievable. A riot in District Eleven? And incidents in District Twelve and District One? Could it be true that my home district doesn't love the Capitol as much as it seems to? God knows they wouldn't be supporting me for my good looks and charm.
"What does this mean? Haymitch, is…" I lower my voice and lean closer to whisper, "Is it revolution?"
Haymitch looks nervous, like the word itself is dangerous. "Possibly. There's a lot still up in the air, which is why Snow is doing damage control."
Damage control?
"What exactly does that mean?" Katniss asks.
"It means you're in love with Peeta," Haymitch answers frankly.
Peeta? That was all an act. She even admitted she didn't love him.
"But…I'm not. Haymitch, I-
"No. You do. You love Peeta and those berries were just the actions of someone desperately, insanely in love," Haymitch finishes, dark gaze leveling us both.
"That makes no sense. If she was so desperate to save Peeta, she would've just killed me," I say, not liking the idea of Katniss in love with Peeta at all.
"I know it makes no sense!" Haymitch snaps, "I know it's bullshit, but at this point, pleading insanity is all we've got. What's the alternative? Get up on national television and say that you two were defying the Capitol because they're a bunch of evil, sadistic pricks who force teenagers to kill each other for entertainment?"
"Haymitch, there's gotta be something we-
"Goddamn it! Do you two like having your families alive?" Haymitch barks, cutting off whatever Katniss was going to say.
That remark shuts us both up, its awful implications hanging above us like a storm cloud. Images of Striker, my mother and father lying dead flash across my mind. It almost feels like I've been stabbed again.
"Would they really do that?" I ask, barely finding my voice.
"They've done it before, son," Haymitch says, usually gruff voice laced with sadness.
"So, what do we do?" Katniss asks quietly.
"You keep playing their game. That's what you do," Haymitch says, "Katniss, you have to love Peeta and, above all else, what's going on between you two has to stop."
We're both silent for a moment, drawing in on ourselves. Haymitch sees this and sighs again.
"I'm sorry. I know it's tough, but this is bigger than both of you. If two don't stay away from each other, there will be consequences," he says, standing and turning towards me, "You need to go."
I look towards Katniss and meet a sadder gaze than I saw back on the roof, one that knows there's no escape. I think mine's the same way. Haymitch shows me out and when the door closes behind me, reality sets in. I can't be with Katniss, no matter how much I want to…not if we want to protect those we care about. I also realize that the games are far from over.
A/N: Sorry for the delay, but I really wasn't sure how I wanted to end this story. I've resolved it now and there's still one more chapter coming.