A/N: Oh, reviews! Glorious reviews! Again, You. Guys. Are. Epic. EPIC.

Seriously you guys, I'm doing a really embarrassing happy dance. It's quite said, a lot of disturbing flailing that I desperately hope people see as endearing...okay, moving on...

THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR ALL REVIEWS, FAVORITES, AND ALERTS! AH! THIS AWESOME!

Okay. I'm good now. Had to get that out of my system. Now, on to the chapter! Woo hoo! Opening ceremonies!

And, on a more serious note, I get a little more in depth with my version of Peeta's background, which consists of his mother's abuse. We really get to see some of that hidden darkness in him that makes me giggle in excitement (mainly when I think of my ideas for him in Mockingjay).

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. They're just my puppet pals for a while, I swear!

Chapter 3

When I wake up the next morning, I feel the missed hours of sleep in my bones. Stiffly, I maneuver out of bed and pull on the outfit that I'd worn last night on the train—the green shirt and black pants. I make sure that my mockingjay pin is still fixed to the shirt. I want my piece of home and the reminder of my father close to me at all times. It's quickly becoming much more than a simple token to me.

I enter the dining car and find that I'm the last one to arrive. Effie is passing me, heading to the table, a cup of what has to be black coffee in her hands. Coffee is a rarity in District 12, but whenever we have some my mother drinks it like she'll never drink it again. I don't see how. I can't stand the stuff. Too bitter.

Haymitch is sitting at the table across from Peeta, thinning a glass of red liquid with a bottle from his pocket. I have no doubt that he's diluting the inoffensive red liquid with alcohol. Can't he go five minutes without drinking? It couldn't be earlier than eight o' clock in the morning at the latest. This was ridiculous and yet the very reason why District 12 never won the Games. Some years, we would actually have a tribute that stood a better chance. However, because Haymitch is responsible for getting our tributes sponsors, the rich people who back the tributes, our tributes still wind up dying. Why? Because sponsors expect to deal with someone classier than Haymitch—preferably someone who's sober.

It's due to these thoughts that I take my seat next to Peeta with a scowl on my face. He raises his eyebrows in question, but I ignore him. I remember my realization from last night. I have to dissolve whatever kind of weird, funky friendship that I have with Peeta now, before the Games begin. It's simply easier that way, for everyone.

Eventually, the smells of the food laid out for breakfast breaks through my ire at Haymitch's uselessness, and the food quickly becomes my number one priority. I survey the table, and am shocked by how much food is available. Fruit. Rolls. Waffles. Muffins. My plate is already piled high with eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes. A tall, narrow glass of orange juice sits in front of me. At least, I'm fairly certain it's orange juice. I'd only ever had an orange once before, and it was given to me as a treat from my father on New Years.

I wonder what it must be like for those in the Capitol, to never have to worry about having enough food. Starvation must be a foreign concept.

I begin to eat, shoveling the food into my mouth, though I am more cognizant of the richness of the food this time around and force myself to hold back and not overindulge like I did last night. The last thing I need is another queasy stomach. By the time I'm finished, Haymitch and Peeta are still eating. Haymitch is in the process of spreading jam on a piece of toast, and Peeta is dipping bits of his roll into a brown, creamy liquid.

I look to my plate and see that a cup of the very same stuff is sitting right beside me. Peeta seems to notice my curiosity and explains to me. "They call it hot chocolate," he says. "It's good."

I take his word for it, and take a sip—which quickly evolves into another and another until I drain the cup. It is in this moment that I come to one conclusion. Hot chocolate is heavenly.

Peeta, as if reading my thoughts, grins. I almost grin back at him, but I stop myself. It is against my new edict.

He frowns, and I find myself fighting against mirroring the action. What is it with me wanting to mirror his facial expressions this morning? It's damn annoying.

In order to distract myself from Peeta and the confusion that perpetually surrounds him and clouds my mind, I look to Haymitch. I'm determined to get his help because I'm determined to try to keep my promise to Prim.

"So," I begin. "You're supposed to give us advice."

"Yeah, here's some advice." He's already beginning to slur his words a little, and I know he'll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol. "Stay alive," he says as if it's obvious and then bursts out laughing.

I exchange a look with Peeta, and his expression is consistent with the disgust I feel. Peeta's eyes harden as he looks back at Haymitch and my mind briefly flashes back to the day he fought with Maverick Dawes.

"That's very funny," Peeta says. Suddenly, in a move so quick that it takes me by surprise, Peeta lashes out and knocks Haymitch's glass of liquor out of his hand. The glass shatters and the blood-red liquid begins to seep into the carpet. "Only not to us."

Haymitch seems to contemplate this before he moves to backhand Peeta. To my amazement, Peeta doesn't flinch and catches Haymitch's wrist in his hand, only inches from his cheek. He and Haymitch hold a staring contest for a long moment, each of them glowering at each other, before Peeta shoves Haymitch's hand away.

It is only in this instant that I realize I had gripped my knife tightly, ready to come to Peeta's aid.

Haymitch is quiet for another moment before he huffs indifferently and reaches out toward his bottle of spirits that's sitting on the table. My own anger gets away from me and I stab the knife into the table, barely missing his fingers.

This prompts Haymitch's eyebrows to rise. "Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

He looks to Peeta. "Quick reflexes," he says.

Peeta's eyes are still narrowed, his expression stony. It unsettles me. This isn't the Peeta Mellark that I know. "I know when someone's going to hit me."

Haymitch gives Peeta a look, as if asking for him to elaborate, but Peeta remains poignantly silent. It's clear that the subject is closed.

Giving up, Haymitch looks to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife other than a table?"

I realize that this is my chance to prove to Haymitch that I can be a threat in these Games. The bow and arrow is my weapon, but I've thrown a few knives in my day, too. Sometimes it's safer when I've only wounded a kill to stick a knife in it before I approach it. I get a solid grip on the knife before giving it a flick and letting it fly. Ideally, I'd been hoping for a good stick. However, when the knife embeds itself firmly in between two panels across the room, it makes me look a whole hell of a lot better than I really am.

But I'm not about to voice that thought.

Haymitch's eyes narrow. "Stand up," he commands.

Peeta and I rise from the table and move to stand in the middle of the car. Haymitch circles us, prodding us every now and then, much to my annoyance. I hate the feeling of vulnerability that is slowly creeping into my blood. Haymitch's gaze is as sharp as a hawk and I feel like I'm the little, oblivious mouse scurrying along the ground. I feel like a piece of meat, and I resist the urge to shift closer to Peeta.

Wait, what?

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless," he finally pronounces. Oh, great. Brilliant, even. "Seem fit. And once your stylists get a hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

It's always been a given that the most attractive tributes get more sponsors.

"Alright," Haymitch says. "I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you." He gives Peeta and me a hard stare. "But you have to do exactly as I say."

Peeta glances down at me, as if to want my agreement before he gives his. I give him a very slight nod and Peeta's gaze returns to Haymitch. "Fine," he agrees for both of us.

I open my mouth to ask for advice about the Cornucopia, but Haymitch cuts me off. "Not here," he says, anticipating my words, which I don't like at all. "Later when we're settled." He looks between me and Peeta, his gaze lingers on Peeta the longest, but it flicks back to me at the last second. I don't know what he's trying to see. "And we'll need to have a little talk about what's going on between you two and how we're going to play it."

I frown and am confused by his words. There's nothing going on between Peeta and me. I thought we cleared that up last night. And what about 'how we're going to play it'? Play what?

I look up at Peeta to find that his lips have pursed into a thin line. He doesn't look happy at all.

"Now, we'll be at the Capitol in a little less than an hour," Haymitch says. "They'll take you to the Remake Center and hand you off to your stylists and prep teams. No matter what they do, don't resist. You won't like it, you'll probably hate it, but no matter what, don't resist."

"But—" I begin.

"No buts." Haymitch glares at us in turn, emphasizing the point. "Don't resist."

I give him a stiff nod and Haymitch turns to leave, presumably to resume his drinking in the bleakness of his own compartment. This leaves Peeta and me standing awkwardly in the middle of the dining car, and I immediately retreat to the couch. There is no point in going back to my compartment. According to Haymitch we are almost there.

I feel the couch sink beside me and know that Peeta has joined me. I curl my legs beneath myself, and lean an elbow on the arm of the couch, resting my head in my hand as I stare sightlessly at the wall. I can't help but glance at Peeta out of the corner of my eye. His arms are folded across his broad chest, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. However, it's his hard gaze that could metaphorically burn a hole into the coffee table in front of him that draws me up short. Peeta looks broody—an emotion I would have never associated with him.

"What's with you?" I ask bluntly.

Peeta glances up at me briefly before returning his gaze to the coffee table.

I huff in annoyance. I don't like this Peeta. This version annoys me more than his usual, amiable self. For as long as I've known Peeta, he has always been one of the kindest people I've ever come across. Very few have his innate goodness. I can count on one hand the times when I've ever seen him be anything other than his personable, kind, cheerful self.

The adventure at the breakfast table pops into my mind. I had never seen Peeta move so fast. I had no idea his reflexes were that quick. My sharp eyes hadn't been able to perceive that Haymitch was about to hit him, but Peeta had practically seen it coming. How?

"How'd you know Haymitch was going to hit you?"

This time, Peeta doesn't merely glance at me. He looks right at me for a long moment before looking back at the coffee table. "I know when someone's going to hit me," he says quietly. The same thing he told Haymitch. "You can see it. Their shoulders tense. A twitch. You can see the decision in their eyes."

It hits me all of a sudden that he's talking from personal experience. That cold night in the rain floods back to me, and I see his mother hit him. He'd known it was coming. I could tell. If he'd known it was coming, then that meant that it had happened before. All this time, it had never occurred to me that his mother had continued to abuse him. I began to wonder what it took to get her to lash out. Burned bread was a given. And I could only guess that there were endless things that could go wrong at a bakery.

A wave of anger swells within my chest as I realize how Peeta has silently suffered throughout the years. School days when he'd come to school with a bruise or a cut that he'd pass off as a fight with his brothers or a wrestling match run through my mind. I wonder how many of those stories had been lies, covering for what had really happened. Somehow, I knew that there were far more lies than truths. This realization angers me in a way that I can't accurately describe because I can't understand it myself.

I did know one thing, though. "Your mom's a bitch," I say flatly.

Peeta's silence momentarily causes me to think that I put my foot in my mouth, a habit that I admit to inadvertently flaunt sometimes. However, I see the corners of Peeta's lips begin to turn up before a mirthless chuckle escapes him.

"Yeah, she is," he agrees.

"What about your brothers?" I silently curse myself when he looks away from me. I shouldn't be pursuing the subject, but I am curious.

"It's no secret that after two boys, she was hoping for a girl." He looks up at me. "I may be able to frost cookies and cakes, but that's about as close to a girl as she got."

I frown at his statement. He hadn't answered my question directly, but I got the hint that his brothers had it much easier than he did. "I don't like you," I tell him, surprising myself. "Not like this. You're supposed to be the happy one."

This causes a genuine chuckle to escape him, and Peeta looks up at me in amusement. "I can't have layers?" he asks. "It's a lot to ask of a guy to be cheerful all the time."

"But you are happy, right?" I ask. This is important to me, for reasons that I don't understand. I look at him, wondering if any of the confusion I feel is showing on my face.

Peeta's face softens slightly, and I see the usual light in his blue eyes begin to dance like normal. "Yeah, I'm alright," he says. He pauses to glance pointedly around the train car. "Of course, I've been better," he says, referring to the Games.

We sit in silence for a while until a voice comes on the intercom and informs us that we'll be arriving in the Capitol in ten minutes. Nerves begin to tangle in my stomach and my eyes meet Peeta's. I see the same anxiousness mirrored in his gaze.

However, one thing is nagging at me from our previous conversation. "Peeta," I say, before stopping in shock. It's only the second time I've ever used his first name. I decide it must be because of the flashback last night, and continue on, though I see that Peeta is just as surprised as I am—and a little pleased.

I swallow. "You're really talented," I say. "With frosting the cakes, I mean." It was the truth. I'd never seen any cake look more lifelike than Peeta's.

"Thanks," he says, and I look down at my hands, feeling embarrassed by my admission. "Now if only the arena were a giant cake and I could frost everyone to death."

The unexpected scenario prompts a bewildered laugh to escape my lips.

"If only," I agree.

Out of nowhere, the train is suddenly plunged into darkness, and I realize that we're passing through the tunnels to get to the Capitol. We learn in school that the Capitol is located in a place that was once called the Rockies. The entire city is enclosed by the imposing mountains, providing a huge tactical advantage for them. During the Dark Days, it was nearly impossible to scale the mountains unnoticed. The Capitol's air forces used the rebels for target practice.

I can't help but shoot to my feet, as if to fight off the unexpected, suffocating blackness. The tons of rock enclosing me scares me, reminding me too much of my father's death. Peeta rises from the couch as well, and it's almost as if he's debating whether to edge closer to me, as if he could provide some comfort.

Luckily, he appears to decide against it.

The darkness goes on and on and at the very moment when I doubt whether I can stand it any longer, the train is flooded with bright light. Peeta and I can't help it. Our feet carry us to the window and we gaze upon the glory of the Capitol.

I've seen the Capitol on the television every year when they broadcast the Games, but to see it up close and personal is something else entirely. Bright, crystalline structures tower above the ground, reflecting rainbows of light. It's truly magnificent. Shiny cars move down the paved streets. There are tons of people milling about aimlessly, oddly dressed with crazy-colored hair and even crazier-colored eyes. All the colors are too harsh though. Some too bright. Some too deep. Some just plain painful to the eye.

As we pass through, the Capitol citizens realize that it's a tribute train and they immediately start waving and calling to us, much to my disgust. It's like they're waving us to our deaths. After all, we're only here for their entertainment, and of course, as punishment for the Dark Days that happened seventy four years ago.

So, naturally, I am completely astonished when Peeta begins to smile and wave right back at them. He sees me glaring at him like he's a traitor and as if to prove my accusation he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side.

"Smile and wave," he says out of the corner of his mouth. "One of them might be rich."

I knew that Peeta was smart, but I didn't know that he could think on his feet as fast as he apparently does. This is dangerous. Peeta is proving to be very dangerous. I think back to the incident at breakfast. I think about his intelligence. And I think of how he's now waving and smiling—playing to the people. Peeta is working to win these Games.

However, I realize that he has a point and force myself to smile and pretend that the Capitol citizens aren't simply excited that two more tributes arrived in town, merely to get thrown into a formidable arena to fight to the death. I smile and hope that some of the people like me better than Peeta.

Effie joins us and she ushers us to the doors, fusing over our hair and appearance quickly. The moment the doors open, it's almost like she presents us to the crowd for an instant before Peacekeepers are suddenly at our sides and escorting us to a car. Reporters and cameras are everywhere, and I'm sure that the flashes from the cameras are going to blind me. There's so many people that even the Peacekeepers are getting jostled trying to keep everyone back and the entire situation has me on edge and adrenaline racing through my system.

Without thinking, I grab Peeta's hand and clutch it tightly. This only causes the reporters and the people to go berserk. I realize that all the yelling I'm hearing makes a sort of sense if I listen closely enough. They're shouting questions at us, the reporters at least. I hear my name a lot. Peeta's too.

Finally, we make it to the car and when the door is shut, Peeta and I simultaneously sink back into the seats and sigh in relief. Once the car starts moving I realize that Peeta's large, warm hand still encloses my own and I unceremoniously yank it back from him. He looks at me, obviously hurt by my actions, and I silently berate myself for being so blunt and socially inept.

"Sorry," I mumble, my lips moving without my permission, but I can't take the words back. I've always hated apologies.

Peeta offers me a small smile, and I know I'm forgiven. "I wish you'd just trust me," he says quietly, so that the driver and Effie up front can't hear.

My eyes meet his sharply. "We're going into the Games, Mellark," I say, my tone just as soft but clipped. "Trust is useless."

"Maybe." His eyes tell me he thinks different. His words prove it. "Maybe not."

I scowl, and glare at the headrest in front of me for the rest of the drive. We pull into an underground lot and Effie escorts us to the elevator where we go up to the fourth floor. She blabs about how we'll be beautified and made to look like we should. She just can't wait to see us when we're all done.

Once we walk in, we're swarmed. Strange people, people who must be our prep teams, surround us and begin pulling us in opposite directions. Three of them begin to lead me down the hall, while the other three remain with Peeta. I can vaguely hear them talking to me, gasping in horror at my eyebrows and my abhorrent lack of make-up. Then, they start to babble about what all they are going to do to me and my face drains of color.

I look back at Peeta, and I'm sure that my fear shows on my face because he immediately looks concerned, and offers me a small, reassuring smile.

It doesn't help.

Hours later, when I have had every hair ripped from my body except for my eyebrows and my head, my prep team greases me down with this special kind of oil. It stings at first, but then cools my skin that feels as if it's on fire. My hands finally unclench from the edges of the table, and I try to gain back some circulation. I try not to glare in Venia's direction. She's the one directly responsible for my current, practically hairless state.

My prep team is comprised of Venia, Flavius, and Octavia. Venia has aqua hair and gold tattoos over her eyebrows. She apologized profusely for her actions as she ripped the hair from my legs, arms, underarms, and torso. "Sorry!" she'd say. "But you're just so hairy!"

Octavia was a plump woman whose body was dyed a light pea green. She had been responsible for buffing and evening out my nails to symmetrical perfection, while Flavius with his orange ringlets and purple lipstick, which he seemed to constantly reapply, appeared to be the head of the group, constantly pointing out what still needed to be done and working around Venia and Octavia.

Finally, they deem me worthy enough, and leave to call in Cinna, my stylist.

I stand in the empty room and breathe a sigh of relief. My new skin that was not only plucked like a turkey, but washed down so thoroughly that I had to be not only ridded of dirt, but a few layers of skin as well, is still slightly sore and feels odd against the cool air of the room. I glance at the table on which I had silently suffered my torture, just as Haymitch had ordered, and debate putting on the thin robe that laid there. I had been allowed to wear it on and off throughout the hours long process. After a few moments of thought, I decided to just leave it there.

So I stood there stark naked in the lonely, cold room, waiting to be judged by yet another Capitol wannabe.

Imagine my surprise when Cinna walked into the room looking practically normal. His skin was dark, and his hair appeared to be its natural shade of brown, cut close to his head. Practical. His clothes were plain—black button down shirt and black pants—simple. The only thing that stood out, hinting at his Capitol origins, was the metallic-gold eyeliner, meticulously applied. I couldn't deny that it did look good on him though, serving its function and bringing out the gold flecks in his green eyes.

Cinna was definitely not what I was expecting.

"Hello," I say cautiously.

"Just give me a minute, alright?" he asks.

I stand still, resisting the urge to cover my chest as Cinna circles me appraisingly. When he's done, he hands me the robe, and I put it back on as quickly as I can without being completely obvious about it.

"Who did you hair?" Cinna looks at me curiously. "At the reaping, I couldn't help but notice. It was almost perfectly symmetrical to your face. Whoever did it had talented fingers."

His words cause a little burst of pride to shoot through me. "My mother."

Cinna smiles and nods slightly. "I see."

"You're new," I say. I haven't seen him around before. Some of the other stylists have been here for as long as I can remember, and I'm sure I would have noticed Cinna—young and the only normal looking one of the bunch. "I haven't seen you around."

"This is my first Games," he admits, confirming my suspicions.

"So they gave you District 12."

"I asked for District 12," he corrects but says no more on the subject. Instead, he gestures to a small sofa along the wall in the corner of the room. "How about some lunch?"

I take a seat, and feel myself sink down a few inches, the plush material leaving me feeling as though it will swallow me whole. Cinna takes a seat on the small couch facing me and presses a button on a side table. The action causes the floor to open up and a table laden with food rises from its depths.

I can't help but admire and detest the food at the same time. All the food, covering the entire table in heaps smells heavenly and looks just as good. There's chicken sitting on a bed of white rice, a creamy sauce poured over it, along with various vegetables. A large basket of rolls acts as a center piece on the table. Surrounding it are what appear to be little snacks. Fruit and cookies. Dessert appears to be a honey-colored pudding. It's all wonderful and without a doubt one of the best meals I will ever eat.

And I hate it. All of this food, so easily available to the people here. They don't know what it's like to starve, to slowly die in one of the worst ways possible. They don't know what it's like to simply want. The Capitol wants for nothing. They're so spoiled. So disgusting. They wouldn't last a day in the real world, away from the fantasy of the Capitol.

"How despicable we must seem to you," Cinna suddenly speaks, as if he'd heard my thoughts. They must have shown on my face.

"No matter," he continues after a beat of silence. "My partner, Portia, is your fellow tribute's stylist, Peeta. Our thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," he tells me. "And as you know they must reflect your district."

Oh, don't I know that. All the tributes dress up in something that reflects their district for opening ceremonies, which consists of a parade through the city. Each group of tributes gets their own respective horse-drawn chariots. The parade ends at the front gates of the President's mansion.

District 12 mines coal, and therefore almost every year without fail we have our tributes dressed in some skimpy or baggy coal miner's get-up with headlamps. Or, occasionally, they've ended up naked covered in black dust, supposedly coal dust.

"Anyway, Portia and I were thinking of going a little different route this year," Cinna says.

Oh, great, I think. I'll be naked.

"No coal miner's outfit?" I ask.

"I think that the coal mining aspect of District 12 has been overdone, and Portia agrees with me. Our job is to make you and Peeta unforgettable, and to do that we need a new look." Cinna looks at me, an excited smile beginning to brighten his face. "We're going to focus more on the coal itself."

I frown, not comprehending.

A smile lights Cinna's face. "How do you feel about fire, Katniss?"

I accept my conclusion that underneath his cool, calm exterior, Cinna is manically insane.

A black unitard covers me from my feet to my neck. Leather boots that lace up to my knees complete the seemingly bland look. However, a cape of red, orange, and yellow hangs down my back. My hair, done in its signature single braid, is adorned with a headdress.

Cinna wants to light the cape and headdress on fire.

I will either go down in history as wearing the ultimate costume for opening ceremonies, or be the first tribute to die before even entering the arena.

I'm sure that would accomplish Cinna's goal of making me memorable either way.

"It's not real fire," he assures me, though it does nothing to appease my nerves. "I want the Capitol to recognize you when you're in the arena," he says dreamily. "Katniss, the girl who was on fire."

Yeah, I think. Katniss, the girl who was on fire and was burned to a crisp.

However daunting my earlier revelations were about Peeta, I can't help the relief that floods through me when I see him walking towards me. I can't tell that his prep team has done much to him. His long, curly blonde hair has been trimmed some, but it still hangs over his forehead. His skin seems to have a glow about it, but other than that he just looks like Peeta. It makes sense. Peeta is handsome with or without the prep team or stylist.

He gives me a smile. Portia and his prep team immediately flock to Cinna and my own prep team and together they gush excitedly about how lovely Peeta and I look. Cinna, however, remains calm, wearily accepting their praise.

Soon we're taken to the lowest ground level of the Remake Center, which is where all the chariots are waiting to carry us through the Capitol. Cinna leads us to our chariot. The horses pulling the chariot are appropriately coal black, and are so well trained that they don't need anyone to guide them.

Peeta and I step onto the chariot while Portia and Cinna arrange our body positions and make sure that our capes are where they want them to be. I glance up at Peeta and see that he looks just as nervous as I do, especially when we overhear Cinna saying something about getting ready to light us up.

"What do you think?" I ask quietly. "About the fire?"

"I'll pull your cape off, if you pull off mine," he says through gritted teeth.

"Deal," I promise and he gives me a small smile in return. "I know that Haymitch said to do whatever they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

Peeta glances around. "Where is he anyway? Isn't he supposed to be here?"

I smirk. "I don't think it would be advisable for him to be around an open flame."

A burst of laughter echoes from both of us. We're both so nervous; it's causing us to act ridiculous. After all, in mere minutes, we're going to be turned in to human torches. Life's great.

All too soon, the chariots begin to move and our silly laughter is stifled and replaced with dread. District 1 goes by, their tributes gorgeously dressed in tasteful togas studded with jewels. District 1 makes the luxury items for the Capitol. Jewelry. Diamonds. The works. They're always favorites.

District 2 is next and pretty soon we're at the entrance of the tunnel. I can see the crowd even if they can't see me yet. More so is the fact that I can hear them. They're screaming up a storm, and I can barely hear my own thoughts.

Cinna appears with a lighted torch and I stiffen. He lights my cape on fire and I squeeze my eyes shut, ready to feel the fiery flames of death—only the pain I'm expecting never comes. Instead, I get a slight tingling feeling. I hesitantly open my eyes to see that Peeta his grinning at me. He's on fire too, and he looks dazzling. That's when I realize that I must look dazzling as well.

He's looking into my eyes in that way he has sometimes. I feel a flurry of feeling in my stomach that's not nervous nerves, but nerves of a different kind. I can't define them. I feel a heat on my cheeks, and realize that I'm blushing again. Damn it. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm sixteen years old, and I do not blush.

And yet I can't seem to draw my gaze from his.

Our chariot begins to move and Cinna's voice causes us to look away from each other. Cinna is yelling at us, I can tell, but I can't hear him over the roar of the crowd. He's making a gesture, and I look up at Peeta.

"What do you think he wants?"

Peeta looks down at me. "I think he wants us to hold hands."

I'm hesitant at this idea, but Peeta seizes my hand in his anyway. I don't bother to yank it back because we're out of the tunnel now, and the people are going crazy for us. Immediately, all eyes are on us and they're shouting our names. Chants of 'Katniss' echo around me. I glance at Peeta, taking my cue from him. He's much better at winning over a crowd than I am. He's smiling and waving like he was on the train, and I mimic him.

The heady feeling of the excitement in the air begins to get to me and my smiles become more genuine. I'm waving at the people with a confidence I've never felt. I feel like I've got the people of the Capitol eating out of my hand. And I do.

Because I'm the girl on fire.

Pretty soon, I'm blowing kisses at the crowd and they're stumbling over themselves to claim them. Everyone wants my kisses. Someone throws me a rose and I manage to catch it. I make a big show of smelling the flower, and then give a bright smile and a gleeful wave at the direction from which it came.

I glance up at Peeta, and we both share a big smile. Suddenly, he lifts our joined hands in the air and the crowd, unbelievably, overflows in a chaotic state of glee. They're screaming our names and a chant of '12' has begun to reverberate through the air.

When we finally come to a stop at the City Circle in front of President Snow's mansion, I realize that I must be cutting off the circulation in Peeta's hand. It was my lifeline, my rock the entire ride, and I try to loosen my grasp, but he stubbornly refuses and grips my hand tighter.

"Please," he says. "Don't let go. I might fall out of this thing."

I try not to frown because I know that with the splash we made, I'm probably on camera this very second. So I merely smile and nod. "Okay."

The President appears then, stepping out onto a balcony. He's a short, slim man with wispy white hair—seemingly insignificant and nonthreatening—but he's always managed to give me the creeps.

He launches into the speech that he gives every year, but I don't pay much attention. It's usual practice to focus on the tribute's faces during the speech and I can't help but notice that Peeta and I get more than our share of face time. More than the others. Cinna truly did a brilliant job. The darker it gets, the harder it is to ignore the flickering flames that surround us.

Eventually, the chariots begin to move once more, making a round of the City Circle again before disappearing into the bottom of the Training Center where we tributes will reside until the Games begin.

As I suspected, when we finally step off our chariot and Portia extinguishes our flames with spray from a canister, I see that the other tributes and stylists are glaring at us. Good. They know that District 12 won't be forgotten and set aside this year. I'm still feeling pretty good until I catch sight of District 2.

Their male tribute, the big blonde one that gave me the creeps when we watched the reapings, is glaring at me with a ferocity that few possess. Unconsciously, my hand tightens around Peeta's and I take a small, involuntary step toward him. This, of course, does not go unnoticed by Peeta, and he immediately looks to see what has caused my alarm. He tenses when he sees District 2's gaze. However, what surprises me is the glare that Peeta sends right back at District 2. Peeta almost looks . . . frightening. His blue eyes are ice, his expression hard as stone. He and District 2 continue to glare at each other for another second before District 2 suddenly grins.

Peeta's hand tightens around mine. "Let's go," he says softly and tugs on my hand, moving to follow Cinna and Portia.

After we're out of sight, he glances down at me. "I can't feel my hand."

"Oh, sorry." I immediately let go and feel the blood rush into my hand. "Me either," I mutter.

Peeta tries to smile a little, but I can tell that he's worrying about the boy from 2. "Don't worry about him," I say quietly.

"He's has you in his sights," Peeta replies, still worried.

A feeling of dread threatens to swallow me as I think of having the boy from District 2 out to get me personally, but I refuse to let it get to me. Instead, I try to make light of the situation. "After that look you gave him?" I question. "I doubt it. Where did you learn to glare like that anyway?"

Peeta shrugs and looks at me, a soft light entering his eye. "Got to have the right motivation, I guess."

Before I can ponder these words, Peeta stops and then he sends me a smile that's so sweet and shy that it causes me to feel that fluttery feeling in my stomach, again. "You should wear flames more often," he compliments me. "They look good on you."

An automatic smile stretches across my face, and in response he smiles bigger and gives me a playful nudge with his shoulder. I shove him back, and he makes a show of stumbling a little, chuckling all the while.

It's not until we reach the elevator to take us to our suite do I realize that my plan to dissolve my friendship with Peeta has so far been an epic fail.

Ah, Katniss, Katniss, of course your plan has been an epic fail! It's Peeta. Come on, you've got to see how loveable he is, right? Why must you be so emotionally confused?

Don't worry. I plan to help you with that.

And now that I've actually typed out a conversation with a ficitional character, I think it would be healthy for me to talk to real people. So, you guys like the chapter? This chapter shows Peeta as dark as he's going to get in this story. Don't get me started on Mockingjay, because oh, the glorious plans I have for Peeta. Glorious! I'm going to delve, delve into his hijacking. I can't stop giggling just thinking about it . . .

Okay, moving on. So yeah, that was my Peeta being very sexy, if I do say so myself. I mean, what's sexier than a guy, who you know is a total sweetheart, glaring menacingly at someone who wants to kill you? I mean, doesn't that make you feel all fuzzy inside? Or is that just me?

I'll see you guys Saturday! :D

Review? Pretty please with a strawberry on top cause I'm weird like that?

Lots of love,

AC