Victory Tour

Katniss

We've been put in a swanky condo that overlooks the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles several miles away. It's smoggy and hot, but the apartment is pristine and luxurious. Peeta, Cinna, and I arrive together, having shared a flight from D.C. While Peeta and Cinna put their luggage in their bedrooms, I run my fingers along the smooth white leather of the couch.

"So you're the archer," says a gruff voice. I look up from my spot on the couch to see a paunchy, middle-aged man. "The gold medalist, huh?" he continues.

"Yes," I say somewhat defensively. Something about his tone rubs me the wrong way. He sits down next to me, and I resist the urge to get up and walk away.

"I'm sorry about your sister," he says, his voice softening a bit. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a flask. He offers it to me with a raised eyebrow. I scowl and shake my head. He shrugs and takes a swig.

"So sweetheart," he says. "You'll be tagging along with us on this victory tour, huh?"

I roll my eyes, feeling prickly about being called 'sweetheart.' "Looks that way," I answer. "And don't call me sweetheart."

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he says, getting up and smirking at me. He takes another swig as he walks out onto the patio, sliding the glass door shut behind him. I doubt he's watching the sunset.

Peeta comes into the living room and notices my expression. He grins. "So you've met Haymitch," he says. "My coach."

"Guess so," I say, unsure how to feel about his coach. "How exactly did he help you win a gold medal?" I add sarcastically.

"Well, he didn't do it on his own," says Peeta. He sits down and nudges my knee with his. He still has the leg brace on. "I helped a little, too." He gives me a smirk, not unlike Haymitch, but then his smile disappears. He gives me a concerned look to see if it's too soon to be funny. I roll my eyes again. Honestly, it's a relief to have someone acting normally, when inside I feel like such a wasteland.

The front door's lock clicks, and Effie Trinket lets herself into the condo, wearing magenta trousers and a matching suit coat. It's her second colorful getup since I met her earlier today at the airport. I'm still in the same worn skinny jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers that I wore on the red-eye flight last night. Effie is some sort of network liaison who gets talk show guests where they need to be. She trots over to us, beaming, and then runs over the week's schedule for our time in Los Angeles in an upbeat, chirpy voice that grates on my nerves.

"It's been an exhausting day," Effie wraps up, "So be sure to get plenty of rest tonight because it's a big, big day tomorrow!"

She joins us for dinner that is brought in from some fancy restaurant. We sit at the dining table, and I see Peeta eyeing my plate. I don't have much of an appetite, but I give him a look and stick a forkful in my mouth and swallow. He nods approvingly and turns his attention to his own plate. Cinna rubs my shoulder affectionately and gets me to join in for dessert. The chocolate cake is delicious, but it sticks in my throat. Prim loved chocolate.

Peeta stays up to watch TV, but the rest of us say an early goodnight and head to the bedrooms. Effie wishes us goodnight and reminds us that she'll be back "bright and early!" before she leaves the condo for her own home. Cinna says he needs to check in with Madge and Rue, who are with the rest of the archery team in New York City doing a joint press tour. When I asked to join Peeta's tour, Cinna made it work out, although Madge and Rue will be doing interviews without me in New York. Cinna insisted on coming with me, though. Part of me thinks he's relieved that I won't be near the men's archery team. I won't have to see Gale. The networks seemed delighted to have me join the press tour with Peeta, probably thinking of it as a two-for-one gold medalist deal.

Peeta, Haymitch, and Cinna have wordlessly left me the master bedroom to myself. I tiredly shower and brush my teeth in the master bath, before putting on pajamas and crawling into the king-size bed. Despite the general success of this distraction from my grief, I can't manage to fend off the encroaching despair of facing a life without Prim. It is worst at night. Nightmares assail me, taunting me with Prim before pulling her away as she screams for me. I awake screaming, too, only to sob with loss. Peeta hears me weeping and manages to calm me down.

"Shhh, Katniss," he soothes. "You're not alone. I'm here."

Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I let him into my bed every night. Wrapped chastely in each other's arms, we fend off nightmares and loneliness.

During the daytime, Effie shuttles us off to a few tapings of talk shows, game shows, and news segments. We're styled and primped backstage, then pushed onstage to chat about the Games, our lives, and whatever else anybody wants to know. Fortunately, the topic of my sister is off-limits. Cinna made some deal with the networks to not discuss Prim or her recent passing, for which I am grateful. I couldn't possibly talk about her, and it is hard enough answering the TV host's questions. Whenever Peeta is onstage with me, I rely on him to communicate for me as much as possible. He's easygoing and eloquent, charming each TV host and the audience with winning simplicity. He even plays along with the Ellen Degeneres show's request for him to wear a wrestling singlet under his clothes, which he then dresses down to for a humorous wrestling match with somebody in a mascot bear costume. Thankfully, I'm only asked to shoot a few Nerf arrows through hoops, or, one time, 'hunt' for gold medal animals on Jimmy Kimmel Live. The week wraps up, and soon we'll be heading to New York City for some more appearances and photo shoots.

"Are you alright?" Peeta asks gently, coming into my room from the bathroom, having just washed off the makeup. He asks me this question several times a day. His hair is still stiff and styled, and he rubs his hands through it to loosen up the gel.

"Yeah," I say indifferently from where I sit against the headboard. I tug at the fake eyelashes glued to my eyelids.

The bed shifts. "Careful," says Peeta, gently pulling my hands away from my eyes. "Don't want you to rip out your eyelashes."

"Ugh," I say annoyed. "Nobody even has eyelashes this long. Well, except you," I add, rolling my eyes at Peeta. In the past week, I've become a little fixated on his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the moonlight slanting in from the bedroom window, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

He blinks now, surprised, and raises a hand to his eyelashes like he's never thought of them before. I laugh, and he smiles, pleased. Later, as we lie together in the massive bed, I can't even imagine laughing. Silent tears leak out of my eyes, and I choke out, "I miss her so much."

"I'm so sorry, Katniss," Peeta whispers, tightening his arms around me. I nod and feel myself start to fall asleep. Hopefully, no nightmares tonight.

No such luck. I wake with a scream, crying for Prim.

"Katniss!" Peeta exclaims, shaking my shoulders gently. "I'm here. I'm here."

"Prim," I sob.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss," says Peeta. A drop hits my shoulder, and I glance up at him. He's crying, too.

"Oh, Peeta," I sigh. For several minutes, we just cry together.

"I'm sorry," I hiccup. "I didn't mean to make you cry, too."

"I miss Prim, too," says Peeta.

"Do you remember," I pause, trying to gain my composure and cheer Peeta up, "Remember when we took Prim to that football game? She left her glasses in the car..."

"And couldn't see the football during the game," Peeta finishes. He chuckles.

"Yeah," I sigh and close my eyes to drift off to sleep again. I feel Peeta brush a soft kiss onto my forehead.

The next morning we are all packed off to New York City where we're put in another posh apartment in a Midtown high-rise. Effie stays in Los Angeles, but assures us that a car will pick us up for each publicity stunt, and that she "just knows that we will always be on time!" Haymitch seems to take Effie's absence as an excuse to become even more slovenly. He lolls about the apartment leaving a trail of trash and paraphernalia in his wake, which Peeta meticulously picks up and disposes of or puts away. I find their dynamic odd, but don't say anything. Neither does Cinna.

Later, though, as I crawl in bed and Peeta joins me, I start to ask, "So you and Haymitch…"

Peeta sighs, pulling up the covers. "Yeah, sorry about the way he's acting. He's just… he's been through some stuff. He also hates New York."

"Hmmmm," I murmur vaguely, already losing interest as I lie back to fall asleep. "You're just… so different, the two of you, I guess."

"You'd be surprised," Peeta answers, also vague. "We've been through similar experiences."

I'm quiet, turning over his words in my mind, wondering. Is he talking about his mother? Peeta's mother has been abusive and cruel, and while I used archery as a way to feel closer to my father, Peeta used wrestling as a means of escape, pouring hours of time into the gym and spending weekends away at wrestling tournaments. He leapt at the chance to go away to college with a full-ride wrestling scholarship. He never moved back home after college, finding an apartment for himself in D.C., in order to work at the bakery when he's not training. I chose to stay at my mom's house after I graduated, to be near Prim.

Peeta glances over at my face and sighs. "Yeah, it's partly her," he says, confirming my thoughts. "But Haymitch has been through worse. He was a tough wrestler, and he really injured a guy once. He's never quite gotten over it. He's rough around the edges, but all he wants is to coach his wrestlers to be more careful."

"He must really love you then," I say. "You're the most caring person I know."

Peeta seems strangely at a loss for words. Probably because his horrible mother gave him the opposite of loving attention. So I wrap my arms around him in a hug and shyly press a kiss to his cheek. He turns his head, surprised, and caresses my face. He hesitates a moment, then gently guides my lips to his and kisses me softly. A warmth blossoms within me, and it's such a heady feeling, so different from the painful void of my grief, that I press my lips firmly against his and deepen the kiss. I feel his arms tighten around me, and a sigh comes from his throat. I sigh in return, running my hands across his shoulders and his arms, stroking his biceps. Peeta begins to heatedly kiss my neck and shoulders, and the warmth transforms into a burning that spreads from my core into my fingers and toes. I groan and pull him closer, but Peeta resists.

"What are we doing, Katniss?" he stammers. When I don't respond, he sighs and looks away. I roll over, my back to him, my blood cooling, the grief returning stronger than ever.

We are ready on time in the morning for the black SUV that picks us up and delivers us to where we'll be part of a photo shoot for a fashion magazine. But we discover that we're the first models to arrive. We're supposed to pose with actual fashion models, but neither the fashion models nor the other Olympians have shown up yet. The stylists and makeup artists descend on us anyways. I'm surprised as they apply minimal makeup and simply straighten the braided waves of my hair so that it hangs straight and loose to my waist. Any excitement or relief I may have experienced from having little makeup and hair-styling vanish when I see the dress they have for me to wear. It's a ballgown with swaths of ruby red taffeta, but it's the bodice I find most upsetting as it's transparent. It's only made modest by scraps of burgundy velvet that barely cover the bodice and sleeves like vines or flames. My protestations practically cause a riot.

"It's Marchesa!" shrieks one of the stylists, aghast.

I'm finally forced into the gown, and I angrily arrange the fabric leaves to cover my exposed breasts then pull my hair over both of my shoulders to better hide my chest. I strangely begin to laugh, and I feel myself slipping into an eerie sense of unreality, as the idea of me being upset at my revealing couture gown is absurd when my sister suffered and died two weeks ago. My laughter unnerves the stylists who warily put heels on my feet and send me off.

I'm pressured into a photo shoot with Peeta by a bored photographer, still waiting for absent Olympians and fashion models. Peeta's mouth had comically fallen open when he saw me, making me nervously check whether my hair was sufficiently covering me. They've put Peeta in a crisp, navy tuxedo and left his wavy hair alone. We look appropriately patriotic together. The photographer puts us in various poses, but he's not pleased with the material we're giving him until he has Peeta in a chair with me sitting on his knee, my gown arranged to cascade around my feet. He sets Peeta's arm to wrap around my waist.

"Great!" says the photographer. The camera clicks rapidly. "Love it. Look at the camera, please. Yes. Love the surliness! You're a natural!"

"What?" I say indignantly and Peeta laughs.

"Brilliant! Perfect," says the photographer, clicking away. Then he stops with a wistful sigh. "It's too bad they'll never use these shots." He thanks us and heads off.

Olympians and models have finally started to arrive, and some are done with hair and makeup. They mill about in haute couture, waiting to be directed into a photo shoot. 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 and leans forward. I stumble back a couple steps, self-conscious about my dress.

"Hello," he says, as if we've known each other for years, when we've never met. I'm sure he has no idea who I am.

"A sugar cube?" I find myself saying. "Really?"

"Want one?" he says to both of us, offering his hand, which is piled high. "They make great snacks, especially when you don't want anything stuck in your teeth. I'm always hungry."

Finnick Odair is the world's most decorated Olympian swimmer and something of a living legend. He's an incredible athlete, but what no trainer could claim to have given him was his extraordinary beauty. He won several gold medals at his first Olympic Games in Sydney when he was only sixteen, and the world has been drooling over him ever since.

"No, thanks," I say to the sugar, as Peeta shakes his head, jaw tight. "Interesting outfit, though."

He's 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 suppose he's used to it from wearing speedos all the time.

"Yours too," he says to me, with a smirk. Peeta intervenes.

"They're calling for you," Peeta says stiffly and gestures to a group of photographers and stylists waving for Finnick to come over. Finnick tosses another sugar cube in his mouth and saunters off.

Peeta and I are split up soon after that for our own separate photo shoots, which thankfully go by quickly. I'm relieved to remove the dress and head back to the apartment.

We continue the next few days like we did in Los Angeles, making appearances at some talk shows, though I have more downtime than Peeta does, as the archery team already covered most of the late night shows the previous week. I wander around the city when Peeta is gone, trying not to think of Prim and thinking of nothing else. Since the kissing a few nights ago, it feels like the pain and emptiness have condensed into a visceral wound in my chest, barely contained in my cracked heart. It takes a lot of energy to keep myself together, and I'm vaguely concerned what I might descend to when the press tour is over. No Prim. No Mom. An empty house. The Olympics are over, Prim is gone, and there will be nothing to pour my energy into. No distractions. Only memories and loss. Peeta would lose it if he knew what I was thinking, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

We soon head to the capital, to finish the press tour with a live interview on the Caesar Flickerman show and a visit to the White House. Caesar Flickerman has hosted the most popular live talk show in the nation for years, and it's common for Olympians to be interviewed by him while in Washington, D.C. to attend the gathering of athletes at the White House after the Paralympics finish. It's one last, big chance to attract some sponsors, before meeting the president and going home. Peeta lives in D.C., so hotel arrangements weren't made for him. He seems strangely nervous to be back in his hometown, and asks if he can stay in the hotel with us. It seems hardly necessary to ask when we've been sharing a bedroom for a while now. Peeta, Haymitch, and I are surprised when we find Effie Trinket awaiting our arrival in the lobby, although Cinna seems to have expected her and even gives her a peck on the cheek.

"Can't miss out on all the fun!" she exclaims. Apparently, almost all the networks will be covering the Olympians' White House visit, and Effie came along with the rest of the newscasters. She tells us that she's gotten attached to us and wanted to make sure we were all ready to go before our "super special interview tonight!" She has a garment bag in her hand that she unzips theatrically. I catch a glimpse of red taffeta and immediately say, "I'm not wearing that."

"Oh, Katniss," Effie sighs dramatically. "You have to wear it. It's gorgeous! Besides, Cinna chose it for you and asked for me to pick it up and bring it. He said you would wear it."

"Cinna, you - what?" I fumble. I catch his eye, and he smiles warmly at me.

"He has excellent taste," says Effie appreciatively, gazing at the dress. "He told me how he has worked for sports fashion, but I had no idea his know-how extended beyond athletics."

"Well, I guess..." I stammer.

"It's the Caesar Flickerman show!" Effie gushes. "You absolutely have to wear it!"

A few hours later, I stand in one of the dressing rooms at the Caesar Flickerman show, looking at myself in the mirror. My hair is pulled back smoothly into a low bun at the base of my neck. The dress is a vivid red taffeta, sleeveless, that comes to my knees. Cinna also picked out high heeled black pumps with flashy gold heels. He hands me the heels, then smiles, saying, "Now, you're really the Girl on Fire."

I can see what he means. The taffeta shimmers and glows like flames. To add to the effect, Cinna gently brushes my eyelids with metallic gold eye shadow. "Now you're like me," he says gently. He closes his eyes to reveal the dusting of gold on his own eyelids. I smile.

"Thanks, Cinna," I stumble for words. "This feels, I feel..."

He grabs my hands in his. "You're so strong," he says. "You deserve everything the world has to offer."

"So did Prim," I say, my face falling.

"Yes, she did," he says sadly. He leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shiny gold brooch. He pins it to my dress. "The U.S. archery team all chipped in to get you this," he says. "They're all thinking of you."

"A mockingjay?" I ask, turning my head to see it.

"Exactly," says Cinna. "There are a lot of mockingjays in the woods by your home, right?"

"Well, yeah," I say touched at their sentiment. I wonder if Gale contributed, or if this was his idea. "But mockingjays are an invasive species," I continue. "They shouldn't exist in the woods around the James River, even though they thrive there. At least they don't seem to hurt the ecosystem."

"Well, in that case, it doesn't mean they shouldn't belong to where they've adapted," Cinna says gently. He gives me a hug, and I whisper my thanks.


Peeta

I watch Katniss' interview on a TV backstage as I await my turn in the spotlight. Katniss is stunning as always, but her silver eyes betray some of the sadness that she carries with her. The sheen of her dark hair catches the light, just as much as the shimmer of her red dress and the glinting gold pin on her shoulder. She does her best to focus on Caesar Flickerman and answer his questions, though I can sense the stress and sorrow she is trying to mask. To his credit, he's making it as easy as possible for her to respond.

A chair scrapes across the floor beside me, and I'm surprised to see Finnick Odair sit with me. He buries his face in his hands, and I'm not sure how to react. Odair was interviewed sometime before Katniss, and he had seemed his usual suave self.

"Are you alright?" I ask hesitantly.

"Nah," he says back. "She needs me, and I'm not there."

"Oh," I say, unsure of his meaning.

"She's amazing, really," Finnick rambles. "Just needs... comfort sometimes. The world can be really messed up, you know?" He glances at me, his face strained.

"Yeah," I say. Yeah, I do know.

"My wife," he sighs, and I notice the gold band on his left hand for the first time. "Annie's so tenderhearted, her mind isn't always..." he trails off, then reddens. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"That's okay," I say.

His jaw tightens. "I just love her - "

"Mr. Mellark?" interrupts a voice. "Curtain call."

"You better go," says Finnick when I pause.

"Take care," I say putting a hand on his shoulder briefly before heading for the stage. I'm rethinking what I thought I knew about Finnick. I hadn't envisioned him married or in love. My thoughts turn to the task at hand as I reach the stage, and the blinding lights focus on me.

"So, Peeta, what was it like when you won the gold medal?" says Caesar, starting off the interview.

"It was surreal, amazing," I reply, smiling.

We start to banter back and forth with me sharing a few amusing anecdotes about wrestling and the Olympics. We have the audience laughing, shouting out, pleased to have an Olympian from D.C. on the show. I play up the baker's son thing, and how the first thing I did when I got back to the bakery after the Games was bake bread. I leave out the part that the bread was for Katniss. It's at this moment that Caesar asks me if I have a girlfriend. I hesitate, before shaking my head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar.

I sigh. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her since I met her at the Olympics."

The crowd whoops, and Caesar says, "Another Olympian, then?"

"Yeah," I answer, my cheeks reddening.

"Is she here tonight?" Caesar presses, and I pause too long. "She must be!" says Caesar. "What sport does she do?"

"I - she - " I fumble. "Archery."

The crowd gasps, clearly putting two and two together.

"It isn't the lovely Katniss Everdeen, is it?" says Caesar, eyes wide in mock amazement.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Is it love?" asks Caesar, his hand on his heart for emphasis. The crowd goes silent, listening.

"Yes," I sigh. "I love her."

The news has already broadcast my declaration of love by the time we're back to the hotel, and my Twitter feed has blown up with questions and exclamations. Katniss is silent, and I'm afraid that she's angry. It's too late to take it back, but it seems to have paid off in terms of sponsors. Haymitch mutters that his phone's constant ringing is driving him nuts, and Cinna has disappeared somewhere to keep taking the incoming calls. Katniss lets me follow her into her hotel room, and, as the door shuts, I say, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she says quietly. "You told me before how you felt."

"You're not mad?" I ask, surprised.

"I would've been if I didn't know you so well," she snaps.

"I'm sorry, Katniss," I repeat.

"Let's just get ready for bed," she sighs.

We lie in bed, not touching, and I resist the urge to take her into my arms. My leg is aching, so I focus on that to distract me, like I've been doing for most of the tour. I haven't worn the leg brace for a week, but it is still sore. I hear Katniss sigh, and the bed shifts as she rolls over to face me.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," she says. She squeezes my arm in apology.

"Don't be," I say gently. "It's okay."

She nods vaguely, her fingers tracing patterns on my arm. I focus on the pain in my leg. She sighs again, then lifts my arm up so she can nestle close. She lays her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her.

"You really love me?" she whispers.

"Yes," I say.

She places a hand on my chest, and my breathing stutters for a moment before resuming normally. But then her hand slides up to my face and caresses my cheek. I swallow hard, unsure how to respond, and I glance over to her for some explanation, but her face is calm, her grey eyes trained on mine. She leans in to kiss me.

"Katniss," I say, breaking away after a few moments. "You - "

"Shhh," she hushes and kisses me again before I can say anything. I start to get lost in the kissing. Both of my arms wrap around her and grip her tightly. I feel her leg slide over mine, and the responding pain in my thigh brings me back to reality.

"Katniss, I'm not sure that - "

"I want to," she whispers, and my jaw drops. But then she blushes, pulling away, stammering, "But you don't want - I'm sorry - I shouldn't have - I'll just"

She starts to get out of bed, and I grab her hand and pull her back, flush against my chest, my heart hammering. "Of course I want to," I assure her breathlessly. "But - you really want to?" I ask confused. 'You're grieving. Isn't now not - "

"Yes, I do want you," she answers, her voice catching. "I need you."

I'm suddenly dizzy as a confusing maelstrom of emotions fight for dominance. I try to focus. "Katniss, I just - I didn't know things were like this between us... It's not too soon?" Strange words since we've known each other for four years, but we've toed the line as primarily friends... most of the time. This feels like an abrupt change in our dynamic.

"I trust you, Peeta," she says, and I wonder if this is what I need to hear. Is her trust enough when what I want is her love? "I trust you," she says again as she kisses me. An exhilarating fusion of love, joy, and desire overcome me, and I decide her trust is enough for now.


I awake in the morning with her arms around me, sound asleep, and my heart soars. But when Katniss wakes shortly after me, she won't meet my eyes. An intense awkwardness descends between the two of us as we get ready for the White House reception, and all my happiness from the night before evaporates.

We're at the White House south lawn bright and early as hundreds of Team USA Olympians and Paralympians gather. We're all garbed in matching t-shirts with an American flag emblazoned across it and varsity-style jackets, and it becomes a sea of athletes, milling about or taking a seat on the scaffold set behind the president's podium. Large tents scattered across the lawn promise a feast after the president's remarks.

Katniss and I stand next to each other observing the hubbub when I hear her give a gasp, and she slips her hand into mine. It's then that I see Gale. He's seen us, too, and he freezes for a moment, his grey eyes wide and pleading. My jaw tightens, and I glance at Katniss in time to see her shake her head at him. Gale sighs, looks away, and disappears into the crowd. Katniss is trembling, and I feel a surge of anger toward Gale, but I just squeeze Katniss' hand gently and suggest we find a seat. She nods mutely, then cheers up when we reunite with Madge and Rue to sit together.

I try to listen to the president's speech, but my mind keeps going back to Gale and what he did. How he hurt Katniss. Then my mind turns to last night and what it means for Katniss and I. How she said she needs me.

It's not until we're back at the hotel, that it occurs to me that I might not be able to be there for Katniss. Despite being surrounded by Olympians, I had temporarily forgotten what it means to be one of them. Haymitch's presence at the hotel reminds me that I'm already gearing up for four more years of training for the next Olympics. Wrestling is a rough sport. It ages you. Injures you. I probably only have one Olympics left in me. Haymitch has already drawn up workout schedules and booked time in Nebraska and Colorado for training. My heart thumps unevenly, as I wonder if I can be who she needs, and I recall Finnick's words from the night before.

"She needs me, and I'm not there."

Even now, as Katniss will head home to Richmond, I'm heading to the Midwest to do a few speaking engagements at colleges. My heart sinks. As I start to pack up my things, I'm startled from my thoughts by a sudden kiss from Katniss. I instinctively pull her into my arms to continue the kiss fervidly. She breaks away to pull off her t-shirt, and I freeze.

"Katniss..." I say hesitantly, breathlessly.

"Do you want to?" she asks me, her eyes pleading.

"Yes," I answer honestly, my heartbeat going into overdrive. "Do you?"

"Yes," she breathes, her lips crashing back against mine.


Katniss

The taxi drops me off at my mom's house. My house now, I suppose. The press tour is over, well for me at least. Peeta is on a plane to Des Moines now to give a few talks at Midwestern colleges. He seemed worried for us to part ways, saying that he'll see me again as soon as he can. I think of how we've become so intimate since last night, and I know I don't regret it. Other than Prim, Peeta means the most to me, and I wonder what the last twenty-four hours mean for us.

Someone has cleaned the house. Gracie Sae probably. There's a stack of letters on the kitchen counter, with one set aside from my mom, addressed from California. I sit in the recliner just off of the kitchen, clutching my mother's letter. The rest of the house looms empty and dark, and I feel myself giving in to the anguish that I've been staving off with the press tour. It's a relief, really, to not have to expend so much energy to hold myself together. Sorrow consumes me. The wound in my heart becomes a scorching pain as I weep, then a smoldering burn as I cry myself out. I fall asleep only to wake screaming and crying from nightmares of Prim's suffering.

Ms. Sae arrives in the morning and clucks her tongue at my bedraggled appearance. She makes me eggs and toast and sits there until I've eaten it all. After breakfast, she does the dishes and leaves, but she comes back at dinnertime to make me eat again. She continues to come twice a day to feed me. Other than that, I sit in the recliner and mourn. Sometimes my cellphone rings and rings and rings, but I don't pick up. I let it run out of battery, and I'm startled when it rings again the next day, discovering that Ms. Sae had plugged it in. I don't leave the house. I haven't even left the kitchen except to go to the small bathroom a few steps off of it. I'm still in the same clothes I left the capital in. What I do is sit in the recliner. Stare at the unopened letters piling up on the kitchen counter. Think about Prim and, sometimes, Peeta.

"Have you seen this?" Ms. Sae says one day, lifting a magazine from the pile of mail.

"No," I say, and she sets it on my lap. It's Peeta and me on the cover, and I'm sitting on his knee and wearing that ridiculous dress. I stare fiercely out from the page, while Peeta's face is turned towards mine, laughing at my expression. Guess they used those shots of us after all, probably booting Finnick Odair off the cover because of Peeta's televised confession. We look extraordinarily like fashion models, and I peer curiously at our figures as though they belong to some other couple. But that is definitely my scowl and Peeta's smile. I feel a strange twisting pain in the region of my heart, and I scowl in turn, pushing the magazine away.

"Fall's in the air," says Ms. Sae. "You ought to get out. Go hunting."

"I don't have a permit," I say to her.

"Check down the hall," she answers.

After she leaves, I consider a trip down the hall. Rule it out. But after several hours, I go anyway, walking in silent sock feet, so as not to disturb the ghosts in the quiet emptiness of the house. On the entryway table, I find a hunting permit. I'm holding it gingerly in my hands when there's a knock at the door.

"It's you," I say.

"Haymitch wouldn't let me leave until yesterday," Peeta says. "By the way, you should pick up the phone." He's frowning slightly, as he takes me in.

I make a halfhearted effort to push my tangled hair away from my face, and I feel defensive. "What are you doing here?"

"I said I'd come as soon as I could. I brought this, too. For her," he says. "I thought we could plant it by the house."

I look at the potted bush he holds out to me, and I see that it's an evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for. I nod, my throat tight.

We plant the primrose by the front door, sharing a spade, and Peeta's watering it when Gracie Sae shows up to cook dinner. She smiles when she sees Peeta. We eat dinner together, and I decide to finally take a shower and change my clothes. We sleep in my bed that night, fending off nightmares like we did on the press tour. In the morning, I tell him I'm going hunting, and he smiles.

I track a couple of deer in the wildlife refuge, but I don't manage to bring one down. I couldn't carry one back anyways, alone. But I fill my pockets and game bag with various edible plants and berries, and I enjoy explaining each plant's usefulness to Peeta when I return home. I hold out a handful of dandelions and smile at his surprised face when I tell him dandelions make a good salad.

I wonder if this is how we will be now. Peeta and I. Together. But I overhear him talk to Haymitch, postponing his scheduled trainings, and I know that we can't. Cinna calls and asks me to go to a tournament in California, and I tell him "maybe." And then there's Prim.

I hike to the meadow one day where I sit and think of her. My heart aches, and I weep for her loss, and our father's, too. I can sense that I'm not ready. Not ready to let Prim go. Not ready to embrace a life with Peeta. Someday, I will, though. I feel a sense of clarity when I later pick myself up and head home, my tears still streaming down my face.

My eyes are dry when I tell Peeta that I need time. Time alone. His face falls, but he nods in agreement. We sleep together one last time, kissing and sighing and caressing, our bodies moving in a tender rhythm. I don't know if it's a bad idea, but we can't help ourselves, gravitating towards one another like moths to a flame. It feels right, though, as we lie together later, wrapped in each other's arms.

I send him off the next morning with a kiss, because why not? His smile trembles, and he strokes my face. I know we're both wondering when we'll see each other again. After he's gone, I cry a little. Then I pick up my bow and arrows and head to the nearest archery range.


A/N: Thank you for reading! There'll be another chapter next week. I really appreciate all the follows and favorites! Thank you so much!