Afterwards, it becomes both liberatingly easy and indefinitely hard to continue our TV romance.
It's easier because I no longer cringe away from Peeta's hands, not even a little – so used to his embraces, the kisses we share even when we know no one is looking, his lips and arms and eyes have become such welcome friends to me that I almost begin to crave them when he is not around. It's easier because when I am kissing Peeta, or holding Peeta's hand, or laughing with Peeta, my first thought is no longer in the direction of President Snow and his Capitol advisors but is instead directed to the place in my chest where the warm adrenaline-buzz kick starts at every embrace.
It's harder because I know, even in the happiest of times, that it will not be enough.
In every district it is the same – the general cries of welcome and appreciation. The speeches, the dinners, the dancing, the plaques that Peeta and I have vowed to have melted down and re-made into one big plaque that will read "PLEASE, NO MORE PLAQUES".
The barely veiled anger – no, rage – beneath the cheerful smiles.
As we parade from district to district I begin to lose all hope. President Snow must be watching. And while I am almost certain that he could not help but start to doubt his judgements of mine and Peeta's previously sticky, camera love affair, he must have noticed that in every district we encounter there is some resistance to be seen. In District One, Marvel's father cries out his name during my speech and is dragged away from the square, still screaming profanities, presumably to his death. One of the cameramen has a pebble thrown at him from an unidentified member of the crowd in six. I know, by the time that we reach the Capitol for our final interview with Caesar, that any attempts at mollifying this seething, swarming crowd will be worthless, washed away by the strength of their hatred. So I might as well give up. But then what will Snow do? He will take away my life in the form of those that I love most.
The thought of losing Peeta, now, fills me with such unimaginable despair that I am almost shocked.
So I throw myself wholly into whatever relationship it is that Peeta and I have managed to construct from the ashes of our alliance in the Games. We have abandoned any pretence of sleeping in separate rooms, much to Effie's constant disapproval. The Capitol attendants have started bringing my usual evening hot milk with honey to Peeta's room. Haymitch, as he snidely points out over his liquid breakfast, has got into the habit of taking soundproof headphones to bed.
In the meantime I have got into the habit of holding Peeta's hand, sneaking kisses wherever we can and, of course, avoiding Cinna's company whenever possible.
I miss him. I never thought I would but I do – I miss his advice, his conversation. But I don't miss the looks that tell me that he knows. Cinna knows that this – whatever it is, this thing with Peeta – is… well. I don't know.
"A holiday romance?" Flavius suggests, frowning into his sadistic toolkit of beautiful tortures as they pluck, paint and spray me within an inch of my life to prepare for the Capitol interview with Caesar on the last night.
Now it is my turn to frown. "A what?" When I explain that the concept of a holiday is completely alien to me, they shriek like I've admitted I eat babies in my spare time. It is quickly explained to me that a holiday romance is a "fling" – whatever that means – between two people who have no intentions of keeping up the premise of love once the holiday is over and will potentially never see each other again. I screw up my nose as I contemplate this. These Capitol ideas never cease to take me by surprise. Peeta and I will see each other again. There's no denying it, when he lives right around the corner from me. Although I managed to convince my family and friends that our play-acting in the arena was not an indication of our deep, secret love for one another, this time I'm not so sure that I will be able to. We've gone too far, now. Our play romance has become an adult relationship for all to see – on the surface, at least. Gale knows me inside out. Every tear, every facial expression, every twitch, he knows it. But even he might be fooled by this… fooled because I was. A silly little girl who tricked herself into believing that she could simply relax into her… her holiday romance, and not think about the consequences.
But what happens when we get home?
Does it end?
A deep pang of unease and regret surprises me as I consider simply going back to ignoring Peeta once we get home.
An even deeper shiver of guilt runs through me as I wonder what Peeta would think of such a thought. It's real for him, I know – there has never been any doubt of that. Not for me, of course.
But if that's the case, why do I want to cry at the thought of going home and sleeping alone, in my own bed?
Usually I count the seconds until I am allowed to spring from my salon chair but this time it feels like an entire hour of primping, adjusting and styling has gone by before I can even blink. Cinna is in the room, shooing my prep team away so that he can show me my dress in private. "I want it to be a surprise," he insists, ushering them out of the room despite their protests – they haven't seen it yet. Cinna waits until he has shut the door before he sighs and turns to face me. The look on his face is so full of sympathy and understanding that I want to cry. I do not do this – Octavia would cry, too, if she saw my carefully smudged eyeliner had run. Instead, I walk across the room and tentatively fall into Cinna's open arms. He strokes my hair in a way not a hundred miles from the way that Peeta does late at night when neither of us can sleep. I manage somehow to keep the tears from falling but a tell-tale sob escapes my throat.
"Shh," Cinna is whispering. "It'll be alright." A sob becomes a laugh: we both know these are empty promises. Cinna laughs, too. "Okay, well no, it won't. What were you thinking, Katniss? How could you do this to the poor boy?"
I want to pull away, but Cinna's arms hold me fast: I struggle for a moment but then give up the premise of resistance. He is right, and we both know it. I am the guilty one here. "I don't know," I whisper in return.
Silence smothers the half-formed sentences in my head, stops the lies from pouring out. Cinna is right. He is always right. How could I have done this to Peeta? After the last time, when he and I were torn apart by my pretence of love, hadn't I sworn that I would never hurt him again?
And here I am, sleeping in his bed every night. Letting him love me. Letting myself enjoy it.
"I think I know," Cinna murmurs. I twist my head to frown up at him and catch his sad smile. "But I can't tell you why, I'm afraid. You'll just have to figure this one out for yourself." This makes me frown even more. Cinna chuckles at me and traces the frown lines on my forehead. "Don't frown. You'll get wrinkles. And then I have no chance of stopping them from Altering you," he threatens, and I immediately adopt the blankest face possible. "Much better."
As Cinna helps me into my dress – a beautiful red halter neck patterned with tiny star-like rubies – we keep up a meaningless stream of chatter, but I cannot concentrate. I should, I know, be thinking about home, and President Snow, but all I can think about is Peeta. What will he say when he realises that… not that it was all a lie, but that I have deceived him into thinking I care more for him than I do for the second time? And that I even enjoyed doing it?
"It's time."
For a moment, I can't remember why I'm there, standing with Cinna as we stare at my reflection in the full length mirror with – for some reason – bulbs around the edge of the glass. Cinna is watching me with a strange expression on his face. I quickly arrange a smile on mine – a smile which he sadly reflects. And then I am being whisked away to air the details of my private life on national television.
-x-
"So, you two, it's been six months now. Tell us what we all want to know…" Caesar winks at the audience. Despite his helpfulness I suddenly feel a surge of loathing towards the blue-haired, silver-tongue puppet who sits before us. He is nothing but a front man for their charade of lies and manipulation. Peeta feels me tense beside him and gives my hand a quick squeeze. I force myself to take a deep breath and squeeze him back. "…how's it going?"
I blush, and bury my face in Peeta's jacket, sending the audience into titters of childlike laughter. God, how I hate them. Peeta laughs and gently pushes my chin up so that I am facing him. When he kisses me gently on the lips, it is as if the audience is going to simultaneously explode into a colourful sea of adoring, romanticising tears. I smile up at him and turn to answer Caesar. "It's going well, thank you."
"Still the man of your dreams?" Caesar prompts. His eyes tell me my dismissive response was not enough. I panic and cannot speak.
"I…" I turn to Peeta, who, surprisingly, has not yet come to my rescue. He is staring down at me with a strange expression on his face – a mixture of confusion, nerves and suppressed exhilaration, I think. I frown at him. "Peeta?"
Every camera is trained in on us, capturing my confusion, Peeta's bewildering silence. "Is everything alright, Peeta?" Caesar asks with a voice full of genuine concern – not for us, I am certain, but for his job. We are both relieved when this snaps Peeta out of his reverie.
I am less relieved when he shakes his head.
"No…" he says slowly, as if stuck with some complex problem that it is taking all of his effort to solve. "No, Caesar, I'm afraid everything isn't alright."
The audience is shifting, uncomfortable. I glance over to Haymitch but he is frowning, too. "What's wrong, Peeta?" I try to say, but all that comes out is his name in a petrified squeak. He can't do this. He can't reject me, like this, on national television. I want to laugh it off, to tell Caesar he's just joking, but I am petrified into stillness. What is he doing? Doesn't he get it? That anything he says next could mean the death of all of us – Peeta and I, my family, his family? Haymitch? …Gale?
"I can't keep this up any more, Katniss," he tells me, and it as if that despite the audience that cranes forward to hear our every word, he is speaking only for me. I want to respond, but I am frozen. The only voice that I can muster is in my head, keeping up a mantra of a single word: no, no, no, no…
"It's not right." He frowns, pulls away from me, runs a hand through his hair. Everything in the studio is silent. Even Caesar is wide eyed and staring. "I can't do this anymore. I can't carry on loving you this much – and I do love you, so, so much, wondering if one day…" He turns his eyes back to me and every single camera in the room zooms in on the single tear running unashamedly down his cheek. "Wondering if one day, you're not going to want me any more."
Silence.
No, no, no, no, no…
"I would do anything for you, Katniss," he says, putting one hand on my cheek and stroking it lovingly with the fingers that, sometimes, are my only salvation. "I would die for you. The days that I have spent with you have been the best of my whole damn life." He pulls his hand away and sighs. "But now, I think… being with you isn't enough. Not anymore."
He's sliding away from me, off the couch that we share…
No. No. No. No. No.
…and onto one knee.
Nonononononono…
I frown. Wait, what?
"Katniss…"
He has that smile on his face. The one I see when we've just made love, or when we're just sitting together in silence, when he's stroking my hair in the sunshine. The smile that I love.
Like the audience, with their bated breath and widened eyes, I think my heart might explode.
"…will you marry me?"
And then the studio is a chaos of screams and cheers and everyone – even Haymitch, I think – is in floods and Caesar is in shock and the cameras don't know where to point and Peeta is still smiling at me with that smile that I know is meant only for me.
And then I'm kissing him, and my arms have wound themselves around him and nothing, not even President Snow, will ever sever the ties between us. When we come up for air, Peeta looks at me quizzically. He's looking for an answer. He's still smiling, but his eyes are flooded with nerves. I simply nod, sending the audience into another wave of ecstatic screams, and pull him towards me for another kiss.
AN: Here you have it! Sorry it took a while, I have absolutely no experience at writing proposal speeches so yeah… took a while. At least I'm prepared now for any relationships that evil dictators with puffy lips might force upon me…?
Hope you guys enjoyed this, thanks for the responses so far. Hopefully I'll be posting the new chapter very soon. Please review!