The platform at District Four's train station is a tight squeeze between me and Peeta, never mind Effie and Cinna directly behind. And then, there is the mayor.
District Four's mayor looks as if he's eaten some of his citizens.
The man's lips are thicker, even, than some of the women in the Capitol. His belly barely tucks into his too-tight suit. I look at some of the other citizens who are part of the welcoming committee, and the rest look normal-sized— healthier than in the Seam, perhaps, but nowhere near as overstuffed as the Mayor. He looks inflated, cheeks puffy, and sagging his lips lost in the fat of his cheeks and triple-chin. His breathing is labored, as if having to speak at the same time as standing is too much. Watery brown eyes make me think some of Haymitch, and I wonder if the mayor drinks himself into a stupor daily, too.
This man hadn't been mayor the last time we were here.
Is the other one dead?
"Mr. and Mrs. Mellark," his voice is slightly nasal, despite such a solid appearance. "We are honored to have you as guests in our District once again."
The mayor takes my hand to press a kiss to it, his touch clammy and limp. I quickly pull away when he lets go, glad to tuck my arm into Peeta's.
Two cars separate the District Four welcoming committee from Peeta and me, the ride from Four's train station to their central plaza seeming longer than it had during our Victory Tour. Effie comments on several new 'renovations' that she sees along the way. I notice it, too. A handful of boarded-up buildings, showing visible signs of fire. Some foundations for buildings bear rubble within, as if they have already been demolished.
"Guess Four's been celebrating," Peeta comments, dripping sarcasm.
Cinna clears his throat.
"Oh, I'm sure they simply couldn't wait to have you both here!" Effie exclaims. "But surely, the mayor could have taken us along a more pleasant road, I mean really. The view leaves something to be desired."
She has a point. The last time we had been in Four, the car drove along a path that hugged the coastline.
As the car bumps over uneven cobblestone, I make out a half-circle on one of the charred remnants. The tip of an arrow and half of a wing are still visible, the rest blackened.
A mockingjay.
Craning my neck, I look out the back window as the car continues on. Faces appear in the windows and doorways of derelict houses in our wake. Wide-eyed, soot-covered people in mussed clothing peek and stagger out in the direction of our motorcade.
I would guess there are no other roads that could be taken. Maybe the entire district looks like this, burnt and torn apart.
Peeta's blue eyes meet my own, a furrow in his brow before he shakes his head. He must see it, too.
We haven't quieted anything, not here.
The peacekeepers, following our cars on foot, shoo people back inside their homes.
A pop startles me, from inside the cab. Cinna has opened a bottle of a white, fizzy liquid, frothing over the cap onto the soft interior.
"Champagne," he clarifies. He holds out a some for me, before pouring Peeta and Effie some as well. When everyone has been served, Cinna raises his cup, giving me a small smile. "To Katniss and Peeta."
Effie repeats the words, Peeta putting the glass to the side after raising the toast. I follow suit, vaguely remembering the unpleasant taste, of all things, from our reception.
"Come, at least have a sip!" Effie insists.
We do, before putting our glasses to the side. Effie seems disappointed at our lack of enthusiasm, and corks the bottle, before finishing off her drink. We pass through a series of seeming alleys and cut-throughs, maze-like and narrow, before the car clears wider streets, ending into a large plaza at the center of town. This section, at least, appears the same as before.
Pens keep a crowd at the center of the court, brightly colored clothing fluttering in the breeze. As the door opens, a tang to the air gusting in reminds me of our last trip, scent of fish and salt carrying on the breezes. The water glitters from behind the crowd, the stage facing the horizon as ships dance along it. Out in the distance, boats sail offshore. Down to the south, beyond what the cameras film, we can see people on the docks, seeming to work as usual.
Peeta helps me from the car, and a camera flickers to life nearby. My smile in place, we wave to the crowd before following the mayor.
We are led to the same stage which had greeted us on our Victory Tour, the decoration more subdued, now. Off-white decorations line a third of the courtyard and pens. The crowd today is smaller than the last celebratory occasion. Helmeted Peacekeepers are posted on the rooftops of buildings which line the square. Large weapons, poised to take out anyone in the crowd who acts out.
They can't risk someone trying to assassinate us, again.
Peeta wraps an arm around my waist.
"Effie's given me some cards," he whispers in my ear. His hot breath tickles my ear and I send him a smile, gratitude and guilt mixing in the pit of my stomach until I have to look away from him.
Welcome.
The back of a strikingly tall young girl, with dirty-blonde hair, speaks with a heavy District Four twang. She is this year's Victor, the winner of the Third Quarter Quell. She is easily around the same height as Gale— if not taller. The girl turns, hazel-green eyes sparkling as she smiles brilliantly.
Tomie Moray.
She looks different when she isn't camouflaged with mud, or covered in blood.
She looks different when she isn't ending Mattie's life.
Tomie was still part of the Career Pack, same as Mattie and Sib, when the girl from One and boy from Two betrayed us. The five of them were on a mission to track down fresh water in the dome-like Arena, the clockwork sections of the forest proving to be one horror after another. They had gone counter-clockwise, all evading the jabberjays, except Tomie. She was caught in the forcefield, screaming on the ground, covering her ears. Mattie and Sib wanted to wait it out for her. The two were watching for a sign that the forcefield would drop. Distracted. Guard down. Sib never stood a chance. Two's sword went right through his heart. His canon went off immediately. The girl from one kept Mattie from running, then. Mattie, though, Mattie fought. The hatchet that hit her head didn't kill her on impact, nor did the other blows she received. District Two nearly quartered her.
The Careers left Tomie and Mattie both for dead, headed back to the Cornucopia where the others in the Pack were waiting. Tomie was shaken enough not to stand at first, stumbled to where she had seen the others go. Mattie was left whimpering, paralyzed in a pool of her own blood. Writhing. In pain. I yelled at Haymitch to help her. He couldn't— wouldn't. It won't do her any good, he said.
Five minutes, then fifteen. Haymitch and Peeta stopped me from going to the Concourse, stopped me from trying to send the dying girl something, anything.
Eighteen minutes had passed. Tomie was petting Mattie's hair. Her breaths were shallow. We thought of Rue. Peeta and I both wept. Tomie Moray slit the wounded girl's throat.
Peeta's hand slides up my back, gripping my shoulder. When our eyes meet, I can see he is haunted, too, by the girl speaking.
Tomie makes a motion toward stage right, and a little girl in a lovely white dress appears, smiling too brightly at Peeta and me. The girl holds up a wooden box, with the crest of the Capitol carved in it.
Applause.
"Thank you," I murmur, reaching and taking the box from her. Peeta takes the top from me, and we find a soft, woven parcel neatly folded inside.
The girl gives a gap-toothed smile. A pain of familiarity strikes me, as I recognize the awe and admiration.
"One day, I'll volunteer, just like you!"
A trickle of sweat beads down my back, a shudder that I struggle to contain. Slickness of the makeup pounded on perspiring flesh urges me to scratch at my face. Instead, I run my fingers along silken coils, an intricate pattern, alternating stars and a number '12.' A wedding net, the blonde girl explains to the audience. District Four tradition.
"Couples from our district weave the wedding net together, a sign of unity, much like the unity that our nation's Star-Crossed Lovers have come to remind us of. Thanks to the Capitol's generosity, we can all live in harmony."
There is more. I don't want to listen. Tomie's back is to us, but I can see blood appear and disappear on her hands, and a queasy feeling makes me gulp for air. I clutch the fabric tighter, soothing myself with its texture.
My cheeks are stretched to break.
He is watching us, I know. He is watching the both of us.
He probably instructed for Tomie to make this speech.
Relief fills me when she finally finishes. The speeches still carry on, the frog-like mayor's garbled speech heavily accented, and made even less distinct by the speakers.
Another cheer, before everyone turns to us.
Silent prompting.
Peeta steps up to the microphone, thanks the District for their warm reception. When he is done, more clapping, more forced smiles as he turns back to me, comes towards me.
One step closer, then two, then three, and I steel myself with the box between us.
Smile peels apart my lips, so teeth show, a hot hand pressing damp fabric against my lower back. I tilt my chin up as he leans down. I wrap the net around the back of his neck, before pressing my lips to his.
Silence.
A soft insistence cuts through me, lets a suppressed stirring bubble up inside. The way his hand trails up to the back of my neck, my skin pebbles so that I could shiver even in the heat. I can almost pretend it's just us, just me and my boy with the bread.
I pretend he smells of cinnamon, and flour, instead of perfumes and product.
That this is all we need to do.
Just one more kiss, just one more speech.
Only…
Our lips pull apart, a slight snap. I nearly lean back in a second time. Recovering myself, a hand slides down, to rest against his chest, just above where I know the bullet scars hide. My head against his cheek, I see down the side of his neck a small trail of perspiration.
The air is damp, and hot. A breeze is welcomed, only just as warm as stagnant air, it quickly dies down.
But I'm not letting go of him.
My brain churns out determination.
I won't, I won't.
Applause, applause.
Peeta's hand feels clammy, unnaturally so, and as we head down from the stage, he stumbles on the stairs. Reaching out, I try to help steady him. He pulls at the tie around his neck, his cheeks ruddy, sweat on his brow.
"Are you okay?" I ask, a tremor refusing to stay out of my voice.
Peeta gives a stiff nod, but I keep an arm around him, feel how hot he is even through his suit's jacket. As soon as we enter the car, I practically rip his blazer from him, sweat dying the fabric of his shirt underneath a dark blue.
I reach across to where an ice-box rests, and gather some ice in a cloth napkin. Holding it to the back of his neck, I keep a steadying hand on his shoulder, watching the apple in his throat bob slightly.
"I'm okay," he says softly.
He's okay. Peeta's fine.
It's not very convincing. I nod all the same.
He's fine, for now.
A drop of sweat peeks out along his temple I gently smooth it away with my thumb. I don't expect him to flinch, or quickly pull back. His eyes lock with mine, a shy smile as he looks away, rests his hand on my thigh. The grime I tried valiantly to wash away scuttles across me now, and I shift away so that his hand is off of me.
"Ehem!" Effie interjects, and we both jump. "Now, for the resort!"
A bounty has been laid out on a grand, outdoor patio. A bar with an impressive array of liquor, being silently served out by Avoxes, overlooks waves crashing against the shore. Placing myself between the edge of the patio and the long serving table, I can inspect the massive array of plates prepared for consumption. It seems to be foods with District Four fare.
No District Twelve bread for a Toasting.
The route taken by the automobile had slinked here, similarly to our arrival, until the narrow buildings were out of sight, opening up to shady trees, the Town obscured by a road through seeming wilderness. Grimy, motionless water lined the road, layers of greenish growth floating atop the reflective pools. Strange mutt-like creatures— Gators, I think— fled at the sound and motion of the car. As we looked back they had crawled their scaly, short legs back to sun themselves in the center of the road.
A shrill laugh from across the patio makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. A handful of Capitol citizens have been invited to the resort for the weekend, and something in me is hardly surprised to see it is one of these people caught in hysterics. Peeta has not been following me, as I thought, but must have been pulled aside by one of the Capitolite guests. Peeta smiles, but there is a trace of wariness in his eyes. The posh, cackling woman is engaging him in conversation. She had introduced herself earlier simply as Talia, apparently a Capitol 'reporter', though I can't say I recognize her from anything in particular.
Peeta meets my eyes, before Talia runs her long nails down Peeta's arm, causing him to visibly withdraw. Seeing him uncomfortable, I start to move forward, maneuvering between several Capitol guests.
I shouldn't have assumed he was behind me. I should have been certain he was at my side.
Cutting around the end of the table, I see Peeta has moved away from Talia, and is over speaking with Cinna. He's only a few paces from me. If I take two, long strides, I can reach him easily. Half-embarrassed at my instincts, seeing as he has taken care of himself, I look down at the platters nearest to me. An oversized fork lies above what I assume is a platter of clams, though only the teardrop-shaped shells, on which the slick, meaty innards are placed, give any indication of this.
Taking the fork, I attempt to scoop it out from the oil-drenched platter. The shell slips and slides, my frustration mounting until I finally pluck it, juices and all, from the tray.
"Katniss Everdeen," a familiar voice purrs. Hot air on my neck makes me spin around, dropping the shell with a splat into the platter.
Tanned skin, bedheaded bronze hair, and famous bright, seagreen eyes.
No shirt.
Finnick Odair. Of course. This is his home district. Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games. The youngest Victor in history, he won at fourteen and over the past ten years has become the Capitol's darling. Capitol fans couldn't do much, not until he was sixteen, but once he was, they couldn't get enough of him. He's rumored to have lovers strung across the Capitol. Men, women, old, young, he's had hundreds of indiscretions. He never takes the same lover twice. I can't argue he would be beautiful to most people— Madge will blush, whenever a picture or program with him in it comes on television. Once, two years ago, Finnick appeared shirtless and drenched in oil during a Special Announcement. My mother gasped and covered Prim's eyes.
His personality makes my skin crawl.
That, and Finnick Odair would be too easy to lose.
Peeta comes to mind, and I quickly search him out. Relief fills me, when I see he is laughing heartily with an short, elderly woman, as she points out at the horizon behind us.
Finnick clears his throat, and I glance back at him.
"Hello, Finnick," I manage.
We should have rightly met during the Quarter Quell. His being in the city for the duration of the Games had been almost as exciting for the Capitol as the games themselves. He had been present at the Tribute Parade, but after that, as far as I know, he never set foot in the Training Center, nor in the Concourse, to meet with sponsors. He probably was sleeping his way through the Quell.
The two more recent Victors from Four had mentored, Ron Stafford, who won the 67th Games, and Annie Cresta, who won four or so years ago. It made sense, since they were the ones who had chosen this year's tributes. Ron's Games I only remember because one of his final kills had been named Primus, nicknamed, 'Prim.' With his fair complexion, I cried for an hour to my father that he reminded me of our little Primrose.
Annie Cresta's games I only know of from reruns shown leading up to the Quell, and Peeta's explanations. Annie had apparently gone mad, after witnessing her partner get beheaded. She won because there was an earthquake, which triggered a flood, and she had out-swam everyone else. The Quell was, I think, the first time she had made a public appearance since her Tour.
Annie's tribute is this year's Victor. After our tributes were killed, Tomie had camouflaged herself in mud and leaves, and kept to facing the dangers of the Arena on her own. It wasn't until the end of the fifteenth day that her strategy became clear: the Careers had picked out most of the weaker tributes, and were now beginning to turn on one another. It didn't help that the Cornucopia, on some sort of island in the middle of a 'lake', spun around and ruined most of their Sponsor-provided food stores. Once the pool was down to the Final Five, Tomie made her move. She took out the strongest Career, the boy from Two, when he ventured in desperation into the forest, searching in vein for water. After he was gone, the rest were relatively easy pickings for the girl from Four.
Annie hadn't seemed entirely together in the Concourse. She seemed confused when Capitol citizens came up to congratulate her. In fact, while watching the finale, she was emotionless, a glazed-over expression in her eyes. Finnick was the one who spoke about Tomie during the Reruns. No one mentioned Annie's mysterious absence, except for Tomie's stating that she wished Annie could be on stage with her at one point. The only interaction we had with Annie or Ron was during Snow's gathering of the Victors, before the Quell. Annie hadn't said anything, hadn't even met my eyes when she shook our hands. She laughed at one point, out of the blue, though.
Snow had made a thinly-veiled threat to her tongue.
"Welcome to West Beach," Finnick quips, quirking a brow and grinning at me.
He eyes my selection, and quickly plucks the shell from my hand.
"Oysters, nice choice," he purrs. He runs his tongue across his upper lip, in what I suppose is meant to be alluring to Capitol women. I blanche at the action, though. The thought of finding any of this- the voice, the grin, the sweeping glances he is giving me- desirable is ridiculous. He leans in, whispering conspiratorially; "They're an aphrodisiac, you know."
My jaw clenches as I try to ignore my cheeks burning. Finnick brings the shell to his mouth, sucking the meat from the center before smacking his lips together.
"Mm," he moans, slowly chewing on the meat before swallowing heavily. "Do you think Peeta would like some?"
"I don't think so," I retort.
Finnick's grin becomes wolfish. "You don't need help getting a fire going, I'm sure."
I cringe at the implication. "Do you?"
"Oh, Katniss," the way he purrs my name, low and gravelly makes me feel my skin is crawling again. "Me? I'm all about following my instincts."
His hand just barely brushes my arm, and I pull away as quickly as I can. My skin begins to itch, and I barely keep myself from curling my arms across my stomach. Finnick pulls away, his posture straightening, and a flicker of a frown crosses his face before he slurps down a final oyster. He places the hollow shell upside-down on the edge of the buffet, tilting his head slightly towards the table. I look at the spot where his fingers are inconspicuously pointing, and freeze at what I see subtly depicted on the inside of the shell : a tiny, stamped bird. Not with the arrow and circle surrounding, but still unmistakably a mockingjay.
My eyes fly up to meet Finnick's, and that frown is replaced by an easy grin. He chucks the shell over the patio's bannister, before giving me a wink.
"Enjoy your swimming lessons."
hey everyone, long time no see. thank you thank you thank you for reading, and thank you to those of you who have stuck with this fic thus far! I hope you're enjoying the last weeks of summer before autumn creeps in. any comments/etc. are always appreciated xoxo