By the time we're called to dinner, Peeta and I have pulled all the albums off the shelves and meticulously gone through them, reminiscing on times when the worst thing to happen to you was a bad case of the cooties. We laugh, remembering how Delly would claim that Peeta was her brother for the longest time and how I would always extend the 'ee' sound in his name as long as possible when calling him.
We scramble to the table, like we're still little. As we clamber into the room, my father looks up, brows raised. "You both have certainly changed since I came home." I settle into my chair and begin eating, suddenly famished.
"We were looking through the photo albums in the other room," Peeta answers for me. He, unlike myself, wasn't stuffing himself with food. "Back when we were kids." My dad smiles. He was the photographer for most of the pictures in the book, and I know he remembers those days vividly.
"You two were really close when you were little. Not that you aren't now, but you two were always together whenever you had the chance." My father pauses to take a bite. "Your mothers both joked that someday you might get married." I almost spray water all over the table, but slap my hand over my mouth. I start coughing, and Peeta quickly starts clapping my back. He's flushed, a bright reddish-pink.
My father shrugs, as if to say well, it's true. I regain my composure and continue eating. After my father's remark, the room is silent, awkward. I don't blame my father, he doesn't know Peeta's dirty little secret. I shouldn't call it that, should I?
We finish the meal in silence and just as I take my final drink of water, I hear the anthem play in the next room. The parade. I slam my glass on the table and scramble over to the television. Peeta follows suit, albeit in a more calm fashion.
I close the albums we left on the couch and pile them on the coffee table. We sit down just as the cameras cut to the tributes entering the pavilion on their chariots. District One certainly dazzles, considering that they're painted silver and adorned with rhinestones. Most of the costumes are carbon copies of previous games. I'm worried that Katniss would be wearing a dinky, skimpy coalminer's outfit or, even worse, nothing. It happened one year. All that covered the poor tributes was what was supposed to be coal dust.
All my fears are dissolved when I see a bright light coming out to the circle. Peeta and I are both captivated by the flames engulfing her. The light plays up her features, making her as beautiful as the flames themselves. Peeta slips his hand into mine. I look over at him, and he's engrossed at her visage. The other tributes can't stop looking at her either, while Samwell looks like he's being swallowed whole.
President Snow begins his orthodox spiel about the symbolism of the Hunger Games. How the sacrifice of our children proves our loyalty to Panem. I inwardly scoff. Snow has no idea what it's like to lose something. The Capitol has never had to give up their children as blood offerings for the sake of the country. If they did, Snow would've had a rebellion on his hands decades ago.
After the closing remarks by the commentators, I shut off the television and slump back, ruminating. Peeta's let go of my hand by now.
"How do you think she did?" Peeta asks.
I think. I go through the tributes, and their costumes. They were nothing compared to Katniss and Samwell. Even the other tributes couldn't tear themselves away, nor could the cameramen. She wasn't beautiful, or even pretty. She was as radiant as the sun.
A/N: I'm so sorry, I would've updated sooner, but I couldn't log on for the last couple of weeks. The Games will be starting in the next chapter or so!