Peeta's POV
A scream that's surely Delly's rings out—because Katniss doesn't give a flying fuck about me—and the adrenaline of the Games starts to pump back into me. A swipe for my face rolls me under the table. He's mad, stark raving mad.
Haymitch kicks over the mahogany, sending the lamp flying. Almost in slow motion, I watch as the Capitol crystal shatters into a million tiny crystalline shards, causing Justin's girl to shriek. I scramble backwards, onto my feet, pieces of glass embedding themselves into my hands. The first thing that I can grab is a poker from the fireplace and I brandish the defense in Haymitch's face—and to no avail. He lunges still for my side, slicing open my shirt and just grazing my skin. I don't want to hurt him – because I don't want to hurt Katniss—but my God. A swift kick to the groin subdues him considerably, but only for a moment.
"Please!" shouts a voice. This is one is different; it's Katniss'.
"Stop."
With trademark agility, Katniss thrusts herself between the two of us, Haymitch's pocket knife just barely missing her face. She looks fragile, as if she's about to cry, but Katniss never cries. Not in public, anyway. A thin, ethereal sheen of sweat coats her cheeks; her makeup is just short of running—maybe jogging or a light sprint, down prominent cheekbones and a furrowed brow.
I glance furtively at Haymitch. The fire still resides in his eyes, but has dimmed slightly since Katniss' intervention.
"Just stop," she insists again, her ragged voice betraying her, leaning into Haymitch. He receives her stiffly, and anyone who has known Haymitch for any amount of time can tell that he's not finished fighting yet. His eyes have never left my face.
I swallow, still cautious of his careful assessment. "Come on," Katniss murmurs and Haymitch appears to have given up. Gently, her thin, ghostly fingers curl firmly upon Haymitch's coat sleeve, digging into expensive, delightful fabric, and wrenches him away from the crime scene. She pushes him towards the door. I can't help but notice that her voice would be soothing if it wasn't tainted with the borderline hysteria that was kept at bay by a brave face and shoulders squared. Haymitch is half out of the door which is a welcome sight, a bit of progress on Katniss' behalf, when Katniss makes a fatal mistake: she pauses.
"I'm so sorry," she manages to choke out, a pathetic gurgle of enunciated noise between awkward stifled sobs. She was strong, but not as strong as she used to be. Quickly, before anyone can process what is occurring, a flick of the wrist sends a switchblade my way. Haymitch's aim is impeccable. I move aside, only nicked by the weapon, and not surprised when the knife wedges itself into the wall behind me, knocking down pretty glass figurines of kittens from the mantle and sending them to their death on the marble fireplace.
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE," screams Delly, her pleasant voice shrill as she dives to the ground to examine the damage inflicted at a madman's hands. At that, Haymitch stumbles out of the door and I calmly lock it behind him. In the silence of the house, one can clearly discern Haymitch tripping down the stairs and the sound of gravel crunching as they trot down the road. I close the curtains, and turn to face my guests.
A quick 360 – I breathe as if I have just run a mile— brings me the sight of Delly crying silently, maybe more for the ruined living room than for my wellbeing, I decide, as she strokes the ground with shaking hands. She doesn't look at me, but I want her to. I think of patting her on the shoulder, kneeling beside her, embracing her, kissing her atop the head, and smiling at her, to ameliorate the gloomy mood, to make things better, to write the happy ending, to kiss the pain and misery and aura of deception and despair that has permeated every nook and cranny of my being but decide against the notion. There was nothing to smile about.
I shrug and open a bottle of liquor. It's about time.