A/N: Wow, this is insane! So many reviews! I'm just about ready to fall over from exhaustion due to excessive happy dancing. You think I'm kidding, I swear I'm not. (falls over panting)

(leaps to her feet)

But I'm okay! Also, forgive me for not replying to your reviews. I read them all and enjoyed them thoroughly. (happy dancing nonstop, I tell you). I've been busy the past few days, getting everything lined up at college and stuff. Books are SICKENINGLY expensive. (cringes)

Okay, okay, here we go to the chapter. ;)

Random Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won!; Whenever I'm on the golf course and someone says 'Four!' I yell, "FIVE!"; I listen to the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean every time I finish a story . . . still think I own HG?

Chapter 22

I brood silently as Peeta and I eat a small portion of the food that Haymitch sent. I'm mad at him, Haymitch, for using my feelings as leverage. My feelings for Peeta are just that. Mine. I really don't want everyone, like an entire nation, privy to them, and I don't want Haymitch's need for the Capitol's money. I don't like how the need for Capitol sponsors is influencing how I act around Peeta. A kiss equals a pot of broth. An almost-declaration of love gets a feast. I want my feelings for Peeta to be private. I want to move things along at my own pace, and I sure as hell don't want my feelings being used to get money out of sniveling, spoiled, far-too-happy Capitol citizens that think the world will come to an end if their hairdryer breaks.

What really makes my anger rise is the fact that I know it's useless. Because, truthfully, Peeta and I need our sponsors. They've helped keep us alive. I can't deny that. My and Peeta's relationship is what keeps them interested in us. Love spawned in a game of hate. Peeta and I have to keep their attention.

I focus my thoughts back on my food so my scowl won't show on my face. It's a meager portion of the feast that Haymitch sent since Peeta and I both agreed to take it slow. Both of us remember our first Capitol meal on the train and how we'd stuffed ourselves until we thought we would be sick. We can't afford to do that this time, especially since we're starving.

I savor each and every bite, trying to make it last, but my plate is clean way before I want it to be. I can't help but eye all the food in front of me, still hot and fresh and smelling so damn good. "I want more," I admit, making my statement sound like some confession of a sin.

"Me too," Peeta says before adding, "How about we wait an hour, and then if we keep it down, we'll get another serving."

"Deal," I agree immediately, though I frown. "It's going to be a long hour."

"Maybe not," Peeta says and I see a broad, happy grin on his face. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me . . . no competition . . . best thing that ever happened to you . . ."

I laugh. "I don't remember that last bit."

"Oh, right. That was what I was thinking," Peeta says, causing a light blush to stain my cheeks. "Now scoot over, I'm freezing," he says abruptly, breaking the tension and slipping into the sleeping bag beside me.

Peeta leans back against the wall of the cave, and I can't help but move toward his warmth. His arms automatically pull me closer so that I'm tucked right into his side, and I rest my head on his shoulder. The ridiculous thought occurs to me that I wish Peeta would never let go of me and that I could stay in his arms forever. It's completely ludicrous, but I can't deny the thought is there.

Love. I'm quickly discovering that love is incredibly strange. Strange in its effect on me. Peeta's effect on me. When I see him, I want to smile. When his eyes sparkle at me, I want to blush. When he kisses me, everything fades away. It's strange, so strange for someone to have such an effect on me.

Love is also powerful. The depth, the intensity of my feelings for Peeta—this is what scares me. I know that the more you care for someone, the more pain you open yourself up to. My father's death crippled me. And I know that if I lose Peeta, I'll lose a part of me, a part of me that I'll never get back. That power, that control that love wields is terrifying.

How can I let myself have that weakness? I mean, look at my mother. My father died and she died with him, figuratively of course. His death ripped her apart to the point that she'll never be right again. His death destroyed her, sending her into a sadness so deep that she couldn't find the will to act to save her starving children.

I want love to make me strong, like I think it did my father. I want my love to be a strength, an advantage. Love is just so . . . so consuming. I can feel it, lighting every fiber of my being. If I concentrate hard enough, I bet I could trick myself into thinking that I'm tingly all over. I don't know if I can handle it. It's all so new. And to know that Peeta could be so easily taken away from me is not helping whatsoever. Why did I have to fall in love during the Hunger Games?

The mere possibility of losing Peeta, just the idea itself, causes my heart to clench. If the thought of losing him is painful, what would his actual death be like? How would I cope? I already have experience in thinking that he is dead and gone. But now, somehow, I think that if I thought he was dead, I would feel even worse. Because this time, I would know exactly how much he meant to me.

For some reason, I feel myself being thrown into a memory. A memory of my father. I can see it so clearly. I was young, probably around eight years old, and my father and I were walking into town. We were going to trade for something, I think. I must not have paid attention to that detail. I remember passing by the apothecary shop, and my father stopping and pointing it out to me. He'd said, "See that, Katniss? That was where I fell in love with your mother. Prettiest girl I've ever seen, but I was scared to talk to her."

Of course, this news had shocked me to my core. I'd thought that my father was fearless. "Why?" I'd asked.

"Because she was from town and I wasn't," he explains. "It was a big risk to fall in love with me," he continued before squatting down so that he was eye-level with me. Almost as if he'd known that I would need advice one day, he'd told me in his softest, and yet most ardent voice, "Love, Katniss, true love, is always worth the risk."

Always worth the risk.

I'm certain that my father thought that love was worth the risk. I'm not questioning that. He was married to my mother for twelve years before he died, and I know that he didn't regret a single day. But what about my mother? Does she think that those twelve years of happiness outshine the sadness she now lives with? Does she think that love was worth the risk?

Do I?

I tell myself that I am my father's daughter. If life as proven anything to me, it is that I am not my mother. I'm a survivor. I can endure. I'm strong, like my father.

This knowledge, this fact sets something at ease within me. It feels like acceptance. I am in love with Peeta Mellark.

Speaking of, I look up at him and find that he's looking down at me. "What has you thinking so hard?" he asks.

I shrug. "Nothing."

"It was something. You got that little crease in between your eyes and you were frowning," Peeta tells me. "That's your 'I'm-thinking-really-hard-about-something' face."

Not really wanting to share my recent thoughts and introspection, but not wanting to outright lie to him either, I tell him, "I'll tell you later." Though I can't help but add with a small, playful smirk, "Maybe."

To keep him from wondering what I was really thinking about, I ask him something I've been wanting to know anyway, mainly because the idea that he's been in love with me since he was five still astounds me. "You've loved me since you were five, right?" I ask, needing him to confirm it, just on the off-chance that I'd heard him wrong the first time.

He looks at me oddly, trying to keep up with my abrupt subject change, but I'm relieved when he answers my question and lets the previous topic of conversation go. "Right."

"And since then you've never even noticed any other girl?" This doesn't seems possible to me.

Peeta grins. "No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression except you."

I roll my eyes. He must rehearse lines like those in the mirror. It's hard for me to believe that he can say stuff like that off the top of his head. I might tease him about it later.

"I'm sure that would thrill you parents, you liking a Seam girl," I say.

"Hardly," Peeta agrees with me before continuing on in a slightly defiant voice. "But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village."

"This is true," I admit, and for the first time since the Games began, I actually let myself imagine winning. Peeta and I actually going home. We would each get our own house in the Victor's Village. It's a special part of town that each district has, reserved for winners of the Hunger Games. A long time ago, when the Games first started, the Captiol built a dozen victor's houses in each district. Of course, some district's Victor's Villages have been expanded, like in the Career Districts, since they've had more than twelve victors.

However, in District 12, only one of the twelve houses in the Village is occupied. "Here's a disturbing thought," I say frowning. "Haymitch will be our only neighbor."

"Ah, that'll be nice," Peeta says with a grin as he tightens his arms around me. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales," he chuckles.

"But he hates me!" I laugh, despite myself, at the image of me becoming best buds with Haymitch.

"Only sometimes," Peeta says lightly. "When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you."

I scoff. "He's never sober!"

"That's right, who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire." Peeta pauses to kiss my temple. "On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely," he says in faux seriousness. "He hates you."

"But you're still his favorite," Peeta adds lightly.

"What? I thought you said he hated me?"

"He hates me more." Peeta sighs. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing."

The audience is no doubt eating this up. Everyone knows Haymitch. He's been around the Games for so long, and is notorious for liking white liquor just a little too much. And if anyone didn't know who he was, they do now because of the nosedive he took off the stage at the reaping. I kind of feel bad for Haymitch though, since he's District 12's only living victor, he has to mentor all by himself. All the other districts have two mentors. Haymitch is all on his own. I wonder how he's doing, how he's keeping up with sponsors and his drinking and trying to keep us alive.

"You ever wonder how he won his Games?" I ask Peeta suddenly. I'm surprised I haven't questioned it before.

Peeta frowns, considering, and I begin to think of an answer as well. Haymitch has a sturdy build, but he's not near as strong and powerful as Cato or Thresh. He's not particularly handsome, not enough to have sponsors rain down on him. And his attitude is so surly and sarcastic . . .

"He outsmarted the others." Peeta comes to the same conclusion I do.

I nod, dropping the conversation. Instead, I focus on something much more important. "Okay. It's been at least half an hour. I've waited long enough. Let's eat."

Peeta is too hungry to argue. While I'm fixing us two more small servings of the food, the anthem begins to play and Peeta gets up to look out the mouth of the cave, checking the sky.

"There won't be anything to see tonight," I say as I focus on the food. "Nothing's happened or we would've heard a cannon."

"Katniss."

"What?" I ask absentmindedly. "Do you want to split another roll, too?"

"Katniss."

"I'm going to split one," I say, ignoring him and his tone. It's too soft. I don't want to hear what he has to say. "But I'll save the cheese for tomorrow."

I look up when Peeta's hands grasp my shoulders. "Thresh is dead," he tells me quietly.

I don't believe it. "He can't be."

"They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it," Peeta says.

"Are you sure?" I'm in denial. "I mean, it's pouring buckets out there. I don't know how you can see anything," I say before pushing his hands off me and going to check the sky for myself. I freeze when I see Thresh's picture, distorted by the dark and the rain, but there. And then it's gone.

I'm surprised by the pain I feel by Thresh's death. Perhaps it's because of Rue and how he let me go. I fight to control my features, no doubt the cameras are probably on us. I doubt Foxface is doing anything too interesting, and Cato is probably tuckered out from his fight with Thresh. Of course the cameras are going to focus on Peeta and I.

I should be grateful. Thresh's death means one less tribute to kill, and I should be glad that I won't be faced with the necessity of killing him myself. But I'm not. I wanted Thresh to live. I want us all to live. I don't want anyone else to die. So much death . . .

"You alright?" Peeta asks softly, laying a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"It's just . . ." I try to find words. "If we didn't win, I wanted Thresh to. For Rue."

"I know. But it also means that we're one step closer to home." Peeta wraps an arm around me and guides me back in the cave. "Eat." He hands my plate to me. "It's still warm."

"It also means that Cato will be back hunting us," I say as I begin to eat.

"And he's got supplies again."

"He'll be wounded, I bet."

Peeta's brow furrows. "What makes you say that?"

"Because Thresh wouldn't have gone down without a fight. He's was so strong. And they were in his territory," I explain and Peeta is nodding, agreeing with me.

"Good," he says. "The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out."

I can't help the scoff that escapes me. I still haven't forgiven myself for not thinking to hide in the Cornucopia like she had. "She's probably harder to catch than Cato."

After we finish eating, Peeta and I retreat into the warmth of the sleeping bag. I bury my face into his neck, wanting to be closer to him. In response, he holds me tighter and I soak up the safety that his protective arms provide. The fact that Cato was able to kill someone as powerful as Thresh terrifies me. I have no doubt that Peeta and I can take care of Foxface, if we ever catch her. But Cato? Cato will be a direct confrontation. Peeta and I will have to be ready for him, otherwise I'm no use. I wouldn't last five seconds in hand to hand with Cato. I need the advantage of distance; I need to see him coming.

I feel Peeta's hand running down my back, and it's soothing. My eyes close and I sigh. "Go to sleep," Peeta orders softly. "I'll keep watch."

"Wake me up in a few hours," I tell him, lifting my head off his shoulder to meet his eyes, emphasizing the importance. "Do not let me sleep because you just 'can't bear to wake me' or some nonsense like that."

Peeta grins slightly. "No nonsense," he promises. "Now go to sleep."

I hold his gaze for a second longer and Peeta takes advantage, giving me a lingering kiss that warms me in a fascinating new way that I'm quickly growing addicted to. "Couldn't resist," he says with such a boyish grin that I can't help but smile.

"You're hopeless," I mutter, ignoring the grin that is still on his face, before resting my head on his shoulder once more and drifting off to sleep.

Aw. They're so cute.

Okay, okay, let me see, let me see . . . only four more chapters of this story left! I know, I know . . . so sad. BUT at least we know I've got My Last Breath edited and just waiting to be posted. Yeah, I'm on a roll. And MJ is going well. I wrote a very disturbing dream sequence and a heartbreaking Haymitch/Katniss moment. It's has me all excited and giggly.

Hmm . . . My Last Breath . . . which character should I choose? Hmm . . . Mrs. Everdeen, perhaps?

"You're more and more like your father every day. Always so sure."

Lots of love,

AC