Katniss' POV

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am twenty one years old. My home is District 12. And I have nothing to wear to the dinner party.

For what seems like the millionth time in the past few weeks, I'm standing in front of my closet looking for the perfect dress, and despite all of the lovely little Capitol numbers that are staring me in down, I can't find anything that fits.

I close my eyes and sigh, shaking my head and relishing the way that my hair cascades thanks to the ingeniously crafted device that I believe is called a curling iron. After much deliberation and a whole-hearted sigh, I opt for a dark red dress. Snug vermillion taffeta clings at the bodice and flares at the waist. Am I the girl on fire, or am I something else? Something a bit more…

Sinister?

A brush of mascara and a dash of lipstick is sure to send a message, but seconds before I'm out of the door, I think of Haymitch. A message, sure, but I don't want to send the wrong one, to either of them. I opt for a black cardigan adorned with a bow, made of delicate scarlet ribbon and white lace to chasten the neckline and the snug fit of the dress, and with casual black heels. The mirror tells me that I look borderline presentable and to save the jewelry for another day; I don't want Delly to come after me.

Halfway towards the door, an arms curls around my waist, and I whirl around in the near dark, ready to kill, already half-knowing to whom the arm belongs.

"Take it easy, sweetheart," he says, holding his palms to the air. I narrow my eyes at him, trying not to notice the way he's looking at me. Even in the dim glow from the windows of the Mellark house, I can see the perfectly ironed pants and coat, the perfect and straight abyss of fine Capitol fabric that I can't place. A quick once over of his ever-excellent physique and his relatively clean cut appearance. From underneath his blazer peeks a shirt of checkered cream and a pretty, mellow, sunset color. You're overthinking this.

"You look nice, " he remarks. "Smell nice, too."

"You look presentable," I say, noting his self-satisfactory smirk. "And you smell… Sober."

"Ah, well," he says, putting his hands in his pockets. "Time to get drunk again."

I make a face.

"What?"

I shrug and sigh, reaching up merely to pat him on the cheek, but he moves away like I'm going to slap him. I withdraw, shaking my head and laughing. He knows me too well.

"Lord, Katniss, what's wrong with you tonight?" Haymitch asks, brow furrowed as he slides up his sleeve to check his watch. Surprisingly, we're early. Of course, it would be just like Delly to graciously let us in, but knowing these two, it would be best not to interrupt.

"Come here," I try again, after a moment of looking into the pink-black evening sky.

"No. Naw. Nuh-uh. Are you sure you're not drunk?"

"Just come here," I sing, extending my arms out to him. Haymitch eyes me suspiciously before relenting, moving in closer—warily and cautiously.

"Katniss, I swear," he warns, exhaling slowly as the gap closes between us. Damn he smells good.

"Just come here."

Gingerly, I place my hand on his cheek, always maintaining eye contact with him before dropping my hand back to my side, a bit of a loony smile on my face.

"What?"

"I don't like it when you shave," I offer a bit shyly, shrugging and turning back to the door.

Now it's his turn to make a face. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a bit of absolutely incredulous, caught off guard, and slightly bemused; however, before Haymitch can even concoct a proper reply, the door swings open and out waltzes Delly with Peeta on her arm.

They look nice.

Delly looks like a pretty, plump sunflower, dressed in a pastel yellow cotton dress accented by a pale brown sweater and carved wooden bangles. Peeta comes off understated in a slate grey suit and a black shirt. He looks about ready to go to his own funeral, as well. Dark saddles beneath his eyes betray his mechanical smile as he draws out every syllable.

"Haymitch, Katniss. You guys. Come here."

I shake Delly's hand, lingering in the doorway as Peeta embraces Haymitch, and, never turning my back to any of them—I make a 360 and slip into the parlor.

An hors d'oeurve pops into my mouth as I settle moodily into a corner. Justin, Delly's brother, makes himself known to me, and soon Roper from the bakery comes to talk to me and I humor them for a bit. Luckily, like clockwork, guests begin to file in and suddenly, I find it so much easier to disappear.

Still, I cannot shake this awful sinking feeling. The numbness and yet hunger in Peeta's eyes as he looked at me, burning holes into my being. Eerie, broken, dead. Somehow, he wasn't right. He wasn't bright, genuine, bubbly Peeta—and nobody could expect him to be as such, after the devastation—but something just wasn't right. I would have to thank Haymitch for keeping him preoccupied for so long…

This night was going to be a long one.