"Peeta?" Katniss asked, turning to look at him. He thought at first glance that she was wearing red gloves, but realised with a shock that made his stomach heave that it was blood.
Her hands had blood all over them.
Peeta sucked in a thin, tight breath. He could now see that Katniss' hands were stained dark red and purple, a visceral sort of colour. The blood had drenched right into her palms and smeared right up as far as her wrists.
He had known walking in that she had killed Clove, and he had tried to prepare himself for it. He stupidly hadn't expected to see the blood on her hands though.
It would have been easier, somehow, if it was cleaner. He knew Katniss thought of this act in clinical terms, something that just had needed to be done, but she was wrong.
This bloody scene was just another murder.
"Peeta?" she asked again, sounding concerned, then she darted forward and moved to steady him. Peeta hadn't even realised that he was swaying. He jerked back reflexively as her brutally red hands bore down him.
"Don't-" he warned.
Don't touch me with those, he thought, but did not say out loud.
A choked sound cut into the silence that followed, a sob that was so out-of-place he startled. He imagined Clove sitting up in the bed, her movements stiff with death. Her blood would still be bubbling on her lips and she would look straight at him with eyes full of blame-
But Clove was dead, and she was going to stay that way. It was Katniss who was sobbing, who was shaking. He stared at her, detached from her trauma.
"Please, Peeta, I'm not- I'm not a monster-" she managed blurt out between sobs. Sudden tears sliced down her cheeks as she stared at him, waiting for him to react. He did not move to comfort her.
Peeta had never considered killing Katniss, or anyone for that matter. Wasn't he a good little boy, with his little rules and morals? Admittedly, the odd impulse had come over him now and again, wafting through his mind like a cold draft, but Peeta had never acted on them. He had pushed down the impulses and killed the ideas instead of the people.
But now for the first time since the Games began, he thought that he saw with true clarity. He could kill Katniss right now, with the same ease that Cato, Clove, and even Katniss herself had killed with. They had embraced their opportunities to murder with open arms, like this was just a dance and they knew all the moves already.
He felt that the song had changed, finally, to suit him. It had thrown Katniss into his arms, like that night at the beginning of the Games where they had danced under fairy lights. They had won Best couple that night, and it had been so easy to love her then.
Peeta could do it. Wouldn't it be scandalous? Wouldn't the audience love it? He would be the ultimate dark horse, the timid boy who finally broke free from his useless morals to win the Games for himself.
It would be so easy. Katniss trusted him implicitly. It wasn't the kind of trust built on mutual respect - as if Katniss had any respect- but instead the kind you have for a dog. He knew he was just a dumb animal in her eyes, one that she thought would always be loyal, that would never move to any order but her own.
He was sick of loyalty and sick of morality. Wouldn't it be a relief to kill her? Didn't she deserve it for what she had done?
Wasn't it time that the dog bit back?
"Peeta- it's over- " she breathed, her voice all cut up like shredded paper.
"We won. Peeta, we won- we get to go home."
He noticed the 'we' and realised that she did not plan on killing him, though it would mean be extra points for her precious sister. So Katniss' driving force, her appetite for points, had finally been sated.
He had nearly forgotten that they got all of Cato and Clove's points now, points that were won through blood, not talent.
Katniss was shivering, and muscle memory made him pull her into his arms, to comfort her. She rested her head on his chest, like they were still Best Couple, the two that everyone was rooting for.
He kissed the top of her hair gently. "It's over," he agreed. "It's alright, it's all over, we're okay."
They stood like that for a long time, yet it took Peeta even longer before he made up his mind not to kill her.
No, he decided, he would take her home to her sister. He would tell the tale of romance and not of revenge. The audience would prefer the story of the star-crossed lovers.
The tale of a boy who killed the girl he supposedly loved minutes before the Games ended would not go down well, even he realised that. He didn't want to go down that road.
Yes, Rue had died, and that was awful, and Clove was dead too, just inches away from them, but killing Katniss would not bring either of them back to life. It would only mean more bloodshed, and would leave another family at home grieving.
He wouldn't do it.
Peeta had baker's hands, not a murderer's, and he sickened to think of them bloodied like Katniss' hands were now. He stroked her hair gently as she cried into his chest, and thought of unzipped dresses and hair undone from tight plaits.
That was a story worth telling, surely.
He spoke for the first time in what felt like hours.
"You know, I love you Katniss."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were still brimming with tears, and they shone with emotion.
"I love you too."
Katniss was the girl on fire, and Peeta felt a little less cold as he held her in his arms.
The End.