***Hello, all! I wanted to thank everyone for all the positive feedback and kind reviews that you've given me over this story! Please do keep reviewing as I do think about your thoughts and ideas during the writing. The truth of the matter is, I'm going through something difficult in life right now…like lots of people…and writing this story has been a way to help me work through it, so I feel lucky it's turning out so well! I have plans to continue it indefinitely, so never fear.

P.S. For those of you that have commented on characterization, I have to tell you, honestly, that Johanna has been the most fun character to write. I'm glad you feel that they're working for you! I'd definitely want to be friends with her in real life. Cheers!

I only wake up because I'm hit with something, full in the face. Luckily it's something soft, because boy do I have a headache. It's so easy to forget the aftereffects of this stuff in the moment, I remember. Afterwards, suddenly, it doesn't seem quite as appealing. My mouth tastes like I've been sucking on my foot all night. My eyes are blurry, and my stomach…

It hurts even to open my eyes. I've been sprawled on the living room floor on my back, my mouth open, passed out. Johanna's the one wielding the pillow. She looks a little like how I feel, but better. More practice holding her liquor, I guess. "Johanna, oy," I say by feeble way of complaint.

"You should be glad I didn't hit you with the bottle, you were totally out," she says, indicating the empty white liquor bottle tipped over on the sofa cushions. The fire is out and it takes me a minute to even get my bearings once I realize where I am. I'm woozy. I'm…and then I'm up, scrambling to the bathroom. I barely make it in time to the toilet before I'm retching, and boy, does that stuff taste worse coming up then it does going down. The acid taste gets into my sinuses and doesn't come out. I groan. I'm in there for at least twenty minutes. When I come out, I recognize that Johanna would be smirking if she didn't feel kind of off, too.

"What were you trying to do to me last night, brainless?" she finds the spark to ask. "Is that how they get down in district 12? Phew."

"I can't even remember what we actually did and what I just imagined," I mutter, trying to rinse the taste of vomit out of my mouth. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. "Didn't you have to puke?"

"Beat you to it," she says, "But not as bad. I've been drinking longer than you have. You need to find your sea legs."

"No, I don't," I say adamantly, though I remember thinking this was a great idea in retrospect. The thing with alcohol, I'm realizing, is that it always seems like a great idea until you actually drink it, and then afterwards, it seems like a terrible idea. "Alright," I try to crawl back to some semblance of myself. It's not that late in the morning but it's late enough that I would've expected to see Peeta and Haymitch.

"Peeta?" I ask.

"Yeah, they tried. I told them you were…indisposed," she's grinning. Another thing to add to the long list of my bad behavior. Maybe Haymitch will remember the steak knife, I think hopefully.

"Okay," I say slowly. "We drank that entire bottle by ourselves last night so I could tell you the story of what happened with Peeta and I."

She catches on immediately. "Real."

"I let Buttercup out of the bedroom and Mutt chased him all over the house." I wince as I say this, because I'm glancing into the kitchen, where two things are apparent: Mutt has heard his name and is thumping his tail against the floor, and half my dishes are tipped over and broken all over the floor around the sink.

"Real."

"Jesus. Is he okay?"

"He might never come back, Katniss!"

"We were…dancing? Singing?"

"Real. And I think they heard us," she makes a conciliatory face that would be more convincing if she wasn't obviously trying to hold back giggles.

"You think or you know?"

"I know." This is getting better and better.

"There were really pretty colors in the sky and we were lying on the lawn watching them…"

"Half-real. I think we were actually outside…I think…but the colors were probably fictional projections. It was fun, though," she adds as an afterthought.

"We figured out how to fix this issue."

"Also half-true. We have ideas. You seemed a lot more pliable after you got about three-quarters of the way through that." She jerks a thumb at the bottle. "I think it might improve your personality, Katniss."

"Jesus, stop, my head hurts," I whine. She doesn't look sorry for me. I'm not surprised. It wasn't her idea. I did this to myself.

"Can you….remind me?"

"Well, I suggested to you that maybe Peeta had just figured out the point at which he was comfortable stopping for now, and that he never told you he wouldn't have sex with you, just that he wouldn't right this minute," At this point she pauses and gives me a conspiratorial look, "You're extremely impatient, you know. I suggested that maybe you're missing the point that he could also be trying to protect you, and that his choice indicates much more that he's a good guy…not a surprise…than a bad one. And I know the bad ones pretty well," she adds. I wonder if she'll ever get around to THAT backstory. "Then I asked you a question which seemed to shock you, which was this: what would you expect from him if it had been you who decided at the last minute that you couldn't do it?"

I do not remember this, but it must have the same effect, because I stop in my tracks. Now THAT is a perfect question. What would Peeta have done? Do I even need to think about these things anymore? Peeta would have been disappointed, maybe, but he would have agreed immediately…and probably pulled me into his arms and comforted me, besides, to let me know it was alright.

"Am I always going to be the shitty person in this equation?" I yell. I'm so frustrated I could scream. My own yelling makes my head hurt more. I pick up the pillow and throw it at the wall. When this is not satisfactory, I pick up the bottle and throw that, too. It shatters against the wall and Johanna ducks, even though she's behind me. My house is already covered in shards.

"Okay, Girl on Fire, chill out," she says, amused. "You're not a shitty person. Stubborn, sure, and bossy, and moody, and bratty, and forceful, immature, demanding…"

"That's not helping!"

She raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, I'm hanging out with you, and you know what they say about the company you keep."

I'm trying to think straight, but it's so hard with this headache.

"Drink water," she advises, so I cross to the kitchen, careful to avoid the shards, and guzzle some more. It's cold and feels good. I dump some in a bowl and put it by Mutt, who licks my hand. I remember him circling us, barking, excited as we danced. Whatever last night was, it was really fun until this morning.

"Alright. Okay. I'll try to remember. What now?"

"You talk to him."

"That's it? I thought you'd have an answer!"

"That is an answer, Katniss. That's how relationships…" she says the word "relationships" like most people say the word "maggots"… "work, or so I hear from the people that practice that sort of thing. That's why I don't have them. Oh, and while you're doing it, try not to physically injure him, threaten him, or storm off in a huff. Or stab a knife through his clothing." I have no idea how she knows about that little part of last night, except that she's exceptionally perceptive.

"If you don't believe in relationships, why are you giving me advice about one?"

She grins. "Because I'm not sentimental about them, which means I just calls 'em like I sees 'em. Plus, you just admitted you're in a relationship." Smug.

I'm glowering.

"Last thing: do it soon. Stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting!"

"What did you expect me to sugarcoat it for you? Not my style. Thought that's why you asked me. Or not?"

"Yeah," I admit. I know this about her. She shares the trait of tactlessness with me. "Can I wait until this subsides before I do that? How long will it take?"

"'Bout two days," she says, "With your weight and how little you ate last night. Dummy." She says this last bit kindly but all I caught was the first half. "Two DAYS?"

"Well, to be completely functional, anyways. Do you have plans for today, or are we just winging it?"

"I can't remember what day it is," I say, trying to focus on one thing so that the double-vision goes away. I wonder if I ever will get Prim's cat back home. I feel a little remorse. She'd be uncharacteristically furious with me about now. It hurts just to think about her, though, so I stop. At least there were no nightmares. Maybe that's why Haymitch is so hooked. I could see how someone could get used to that. Before I can answer her, I hear the front door open again. My hair has come loose from its braid and I haven't even showered yet. For all I know, neither has Johanna. I sniff myself surreptitiously. I smell gamey. I sigh.

Peeta walks right in and examines us briefly sitting on the floor. His eyes shift between my bloodshot eyes, which I can't bring to meet his yet, the bottle shattered against the wall, the dishes all over the kitchen, the dog, who jumped up and it jonesing to be pet, and back to us.

"So…" he says, seemingly at a loss for words, for once. Then he unexpectedly crosses to the kitchen and begins to pick up the shards of the plates and glasses. I blink. Knowing Peeta how I do, I get the impression something is going on in his head that I'm not reading right. Pity? Understanding? I remember his anger the last time I got trashed. I'm glad he's not angry, but this is even more disquieting. Johanna gives me a told you so look, and she goes to join him. Even though the broken dishes are my fault, I'm feeling like I need to get into a shower right this minute. Not just because I feel disgusting, but because my body is threatening to revolt again.

"Just leave them," I mumble, attempting to brush the broken glass into a pile with my bare foot.

"Don't, you'll cut yourself," says Peeta quietly.

"I'm taking a shower, just leave it, I'll do it later." I head upstairs without another word. I hear Johanna talking quietly. I trust her to leave the important things that were said between us out, though. At the same time, it might be easier if she mediates a little.

The shower only makes me feel moderately better. I have to throw up again, of course, and I clutch my stomach as I watch it swirl down the drain. I wash myself slowly, since the world is still moving around a bit. When I towel off and dress in clean clothes that don't stink of sweat and smoke I feel better yet. Maybe I could eat something very…very…small. I edge down the stairs. I'm not eavesdropping, but just because of the way the house is set up, I hear, just before I clear the corner, in Johanna's voice, "I know that, Peeta. You know that. But Katniss lacks two things she needs to get it intuitively: moderation and experience." When I round the corner she immediately clams up.

"It's Saturday," she reminds me by way of greeting. "Peeta's offered to give me a lesson for a little while." I'm still slow catching up to figure out she means painting. "That way, you can lie down until you feel better." She hands me a cheese bun and I turn it over in my hands but don't eat it. I don't ask where Haymitch is. I tear off a hunk and throw it to Mutt, who catches it gratefully out of the air and munches. Technically I don't have to hunt this morning. We have enough food in the house. Johanna will be here tomorrow, too, so we could do it then. Lying down sounds so good right about now. I nod in acquiescence and look up from the bread. For the first time, I catch Peeta's eyes, but I can't read them. They're unreadable. I remember fleetingly what Johanna said: Talk to him. But I can't bring myself to do it yet. I still feel embarrassed under everything. I'm afraid that if he touches me again I'll move into the comfort without thinking. I remember the day I thought long and hard out in the woods about Haymitch's warnings, not that long ago, and decided that I did want Peeta. And I do. But I feel queasy, not just because of the booze, but from thinking about having a relationship, all the talking, all the compromise. I'm bad at compromise. I'm bad at talking, too. Is it always going to be this back-and-forth? Will I ever feel really secure? Have I ever?

"If you don't mind," I say to no one in particular. They shake their heads.

"Go on upstairs, Katniss," Peeta says, without looking at me again. "Go rest." He's being amazingly good-natured about my out of control drinking binge. Maybe he figures I've already gotten my comeuppance. But before I go, there's something I need to do.

"Oh, I forgot, there was something I wanted to show Johanna," I say, and tug her into the other room. This is a transparent ploy, but I'm so hungover I don't care. Once she's out of earshot I whisper urgently, "Don't tell him everything!"

"Like what? I'm not going to tell him anything except that you're bothered and that I gave you some advice, and I'll tell him what advice I gave. I won't tell him all the sordid details about your twisted inner workings. Fair? It's not like he doesn't know you're bothered by all of it. So's he."

"Are you going to give him advice too?" I ask suspiciously.

"Yeah, the same advice I gave you, if he asks. And I'll let him talk, if he wants. Maybe I'll give him sex tips." She smirks, looking self-satisfied.

"He doesn't need them," I say without thinking. She snorts back a laugh. "Just…be discrete, Johanna, okay? I don't have anyone to talk to about this stuff." I hear the note of vulnerability in my own voice and hate it. But she nods, like she understands. I head back upstairs, the sounds of their banter fading below me. I want to spend as much time with Johanna as I can while she's here, but she's Peeta's friend too, and my bed calls to me. I climb in it, kicking off my pants until I'm just in a t-shirt and my underwear, and snuggle down into the pillows and blankets. I listen to myself breathe. That's the last I remember until…

We have to go back! We can't just leave them! They'll die!

Katniss, it's a death wish…they're staying behind to let us get out. It's triage. Go, go!

But…

I'm turning back, and all I can see is the last contortions of his face, calling to me to go, saying he'll catch up. Those sea-green eyes, wild with adrenaline, sweaty copper hair falling over them. His back turns, and I'm staring into the abyss, and I see the monsters coming, the muscles in his biceps ripple as he raises his trident. Then the world explodes.

"FINNICK!" When I wake, I'm already screaming. "FINNICK! Come on! We've got you! Come on!" I'm disoriented and my voice is hoarse. The last fragments of my dream haven't left me yet. I don't recognize where I am. Where's Finnick? Where are the others? Are they alright? My shirt is plastered to me with sweat. Gone. They're all gone. No one left but me in this silent, this too silent room. I roll off the side of the bed just in time to throw up on the floor again. By now, it's nothing but bile. I'm glad Peeta doesn't come in, because I'm so shaken, I feel like panic incarnate. My eyes reflected in the mirror on the dresser are enormous. It seemed so real. It seemed…and my face is wet, though I don't remember crying. I seem to be doing a lot of this lately.

Then the door eases open, and on soundless paws, a giant yellow dog with a serious face, now, pads in to meet me. As I slump to the floor next to the traces of my own bile, he comes up to me and delicately begins to lick the salt from my face. I wrap my arms around his shaggy neck and hold on tight. And to his everlasting credit, Mutt sits beside me, and lets me cry as long as I want into the ruff at his neck, until I feel as dry as dust inside. And then I just sit, limp and numb. I don't know for how long. The sun passes over midday and begins moving west. I haven't eaten, but it must be late afternoon before I hear footsteps on the stairs. I pull my pants on from where I am.

I don't even have the wherewithal to guess who's coming up, but it's Johanna's paint-smeared cheek that makes its way around the doorframe. When she sees the state I'm in, her face looks pained for a minute, and at first, I take it for annoyance, but when she crosses to me, her dog wags his tail as she sits beside me. She doesn't look at me; just straight ahead.

"Sometimes in the middle of the night I'll get tangled in my blankets from tossing and turning, and it will feel just like the restraints they put on me, on the tables." Her voice is flat, unfeeling. I listen. "I used to think every day, well, at least when they kill me, no one will care. Since I don't have a family." I open my mouth to say something, but she waves it away, and I shut it again.

"When you first come in, they're nice to you….feed you decent food, talk about how it's just traditional prisoner-of-war handling, you know. Part of the whole deal. Sometimes they gave me cigarettes. You saw how Peeta first was on camera." I nod. "Then, in the middle of the night, these guys began to come. Guys with masks, like gas masks? Scary. And you'd hear them talking about what they were going to do to you, and it sounded like they were looking forward to it, Katniss."

I wince. "Was it as bad as I worried it was, all day long in 13?" I ask, not sure if I want the answer.

"Worse," she says. "They'd make me stand on a box with electrodes attached to me. They'd bag my head and leave me there as they interrogated me for hours. By then they weren't feeding us, either, so you'd get tired really quickly. When you got too tired, you'd fall like you were falling off, but then it would pull on the wires and they'd zap you. Over and over. It's like being burned, but worse. It was all worse for the girls because….you know." Her tone is still completely flat, like we're discussing district politics. "They did these, too." She lifts up her left sleeve and I see what look like brands or strike marks. Deep keloid scars have formed. They march in neat lines down her arm. Tens of them. "And they'd use a board, like a washboard. Hold one end over your chin. And pour water down it. They'd hold your nose as they asked you questions. It was supposed to simulate drowning. People made up all kinds of bullshit to make them stop. We were so afraid that they'd just keep going. It gave me panic attacks every single time I saw it come out, for anyone, not just me. They said it was a very old method of torture."

She continues. "Sometimes I thought it was easier for Peeta, and I was jealous, because he had you, at least. He'd say your name in his sleep, when he was crying. I didn't have anybody but me. It would have been kinder for them to kill us outright."

This shocks me, because they did, after all, make it out.

"Whenever I see anyone who has the same tone of voice one of them did, or the same height and build, my heart goes out of control until they're gone. They have me on six pills a day now to manage all of the aftershocks of it."

"I couldn't do that," I say without thinking.

"Oh yes, you could. If you'd seen the things I have. I tried to go without them, and then one day I woke up covered in blood. The dog was curled up in the corner, shaking. It wasn't his blood, though. It was mine. I cut an artery in my arm. Myself. My shrink…" she makes a disdainful face…. "said that I was, quote, 'trying to recreate the trauma.' But I don't remember any of it. After that, they were afraid…me too…that I'd kill myself either intentionally or accidentally. So I took the pills. Maybe one day I won't need them. I keep hoping."

I look at her for the first time. "No one gets off free, I guess."

"No one. That was as much a part of their Games as the bloodbath. They know what they did."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

She contemplates briefly. "I don't know. To say it. To have it on record with someone besides me and my stupid doctors. To remember, as painful as it is. If we forget, and human beings over the course of things are great at forgetting, it happens again." Her face is bitter now, hard as stone, prematurely lined. "Every day I hold my breath, Katniss. I couldn't live through it again. As soon as I saw it coming, I'd be gone." I hate hearing her talk like this, but it helps me to realize that even strong, savvy, tough Johanna, who seems so much easier and funnier, is struggling, like Peeta and I. Like Haymitch.

I take her hand and squeeze. "Thank you for telling me." Another thought occurs to me. I have to show her the book. "I have something to show you later tonight."

"Peeta wanted to come up, but I said I'd ask first. Is that okay?" But now, all my walls are down, all my tears are cried, all my vim has dissipated. I don't have the care or the energy to deny him.

"If he wants," I say, hollowly.

She leaves and a soft knock comes. Peeta. He's holding something out to me, a sandwich, bread and cheese. His eyes are quiet, guarded. Suddenly, I want nothing more in the world than for him to tell me it will get better, for Johanna, for all of us. The sex seems like such a small thing in comparison to the love. When I lift my head and he sees the exhaustion lingering there, the way the dog has stayed, even without Johanna, curled protectively close to me, when I lift my arms to him imploringly, he crosses to me, wraps his around me, and picks me up. He puts me down on the bed without taking them off me and pulls me in close. I can hear that steady, dependable beating of his heart. I'd cry if I had anything left to cry. He rocks me and murmurs to my hair. I whisper into his chest.

"I made you a promise and then the first chance I had to prove it, I screwed it up," I say dejectedly. "I never think of anyone but myself. Even Johanna said that."

"She didn't say that," he says. Not technically. But she meant it.

"You would never have done that to me, if our situation was reversed."

"I'm flattered, Katniss, it's okay. I know how much trust it must have taken you to get to that point with me, and how hard that is for you. You must have felt like I was taking it for granted. But I'm not, I swear I'm not," he says adamantly. "I wanted nothing in the world more than to make love with you that night. I swear on my family's graves."

"I know," I say, and suddenly, I do.

"And I'm still going to," he whispers into my ear, his breath tickling me so that goosebumps shoot up and down my arms. "If you still want me. Just not yet."

Despite everything, despite what Johanna told me and my heartbreak and loss and the dreams and the fears, my body has its own designs, and when I shiver, it's with the thought of what he says will happen running through it, down through the center of me and out my toes.

"Why did you say no?" I have to ask.

He thinks about it carefully. I have the feeling I'm not the first one to have asked this rather obvious question. "Because…" he starts.

"Because I need to be sure that it's safe. Not just safe physically, but that we're safe, inside our heads. It hasn't been that long and I didn't know if I felt equipped to make such a big decision. Or, honestly, if you were. It happened so fast, and I never expected it." This comforts me, to know that he is as surprised as me about what grew between us since that night he found me on the steps in the cold. "I felt as though I'd be doing it some disservice, to do something so sacred…"…he blushes… "when we're still just learning to seek out comfort. To manage our daily lives. To…to love." When he says "we," I can't help but hearing "me" and thinking maybe he's being a bit generous.

"I've never felt this way about anyone. No one. Not sexually, not romantically, not fraternally. I know it'll be special no matter what, but I'm so content just getting to know you in other ways, Katniss, I can live without it for awhile, let us get a little stronger on our own and…and together. I got afraid, I guess. But you're so beautiful." He smiles, and it's that smile I know, the one that lights up my world. "So beautiful. Like an angel, reaching up for me. I felt so unbelievably lucky to have you; I'm so sorry if I hurt you in some way. Does that make sense?" His voice has a note of pleading, like what he's said might be incomprehensible to me.

"Yes." It does. Nothing he's said is wrong. It's sensible, logical. But that night I was running on pure emotion and passion and even erasure, I have to admit. There was no room for logic. "I'm sorry, too. I don't…I don't…want to let you down," I say haltingly. There's that note of tears in my voice again.

"I'm proud of you," he says, and his lips stray, so gently, to my forehead, testing. To my nose. And then to my mouth, sweetly. I don't resist; I lean in, breathe him in. I realize that even a day or two without this boy is a loss. I can't take time for granted anymore; there's no guarantee that we'll have enough of it. "You should be proud of you, too. Do you know what Johanna said to me?"

I shake my head.

"She said, 'I know you two will make it through together.' She believes. So does Haymitch. We have people rooting for us." He's smiling. "But…let's just take it a little slow, okay?"

"Can we still do the…the other stuff?" I ask. I'm blushing, I can feel the heat in my cheeks. I don't want him to say no. It's been comforting, to have such good feelings inside and out. Luxurious, almost.

He's trying not to laugh because he thinks it will offend me, which it wouldn't, because I recognize the irony. "If you want to, I would love that," he whispers into my ear again, then kisses my earlobe, and I shiver. "There's a lot of other things we can do that we haven't done, you know."

I look suspicious. "How do you know this stuff?"

He gives an uncharacteristically wicked grin. "Johanna?" He says this like it might be up to me to decide if he's kidding or not. Knowing Johanna, I'd bet on not. She probably offered it up, though, I can't imagine Peeta asking her that question.

"She said I'm going to have to learn to communicate better."

"Yeah, but that's a skill that'll help anywhere, not just with us."

"I don't know how I feel about romantic relationships still, honestly, Peeta."

"I know. No pressure, okay?" He brushes my hair back behind my ear. "I thought with you and Johanna co-conspiring I was a goner for sure."

"I think we're kind of growing up." I don't realize this is actually true until I say it out loud. "I think all this has made us grow up in certain areas, but lag in others. Maybe this is one we're just catching up in. She's like an older sister I never had." I sound wistful. I wish she was closer, but there's no way to make that happen. Even if we wanted to move…which neither of us does…the government won't let people relocate to new districts until they can get a handle on who is alive, dead, hiding out, etc. They don't even have a comprehensive list of the citizenry yet, last I heard. I keep hoping my mother will come back, but I think it might just be too painful. She spent many years and many tragedies here.

"So that explains the newfound interest in drinking?"

"Trust me, drinking pays for itself," I say adamantly. "I have no interest in drinking again for a very long time."

"I heard you guys singing," he says slyly, "It sounded like there were ten of you instead of two. Boy, was it raucous. Luckily we don't sleep anyways or you'd have kept us up all night." I laugh.

"How're you and Johanna getting on?" I ask.

"I think we share something different," he says. "We're bonded through a different kind of pain. But it makes it easier to remember, hearing her voice." He cringes a little. "At least this time it sounds sane and stable and okay. Not like other times. But it's really good to see her…to see anyone. It does get lonely out here."

"I'll keep you company," I offer. He hugs me tight. "You already do."

"I love you," I whisper. He kisses my temple, where the soft little hairs will never be tucked back no matter how often I try. He kisses down my jawline and along my neck, trailing hot little openmouthed nips to my shoulder as he tugs the fabric gently aside. I feel him get turned on and press into it. He murmurs to me, "See? Nothing's changed, Katniss. It'll be better if we wait a little while. You know you like the slow build." This is true. Sometimes I stop us on purpose just to tingle all day long in anticipation. I want more from him, I'm so glad we're okay, but now is not the time. We have a guest waiting. But when we descend the stairs together, my little hand subsumed by his big one, the dog in tow, it's to approving looks from the peanut gallery, particularly at me. I'd rather everyone just left the topic alone, though. I have to remember to thank Johanna for the advice. Haymitch is there, and of course, his presence is usually incompatible with my wishes at any given moment.

"Ahhh, young love. Get over our little tiff, did we?" he snarks.

"Subtlety, Haymitch. You should learn it."

"Coming from you? I think I'll take my lessons elsewhere, since your idea of subtlety is only to stab someone's clothing and not their body parts. Oh, and Katniss?" he drawls, "Why don't you save the booze for the people who can handle it."

"Once I identify them, maybe I will," I snark back, my feathers ruffled.

But he leaves it there. I think he's just glad that he doesn't have to worry about more drama coming from teenagers he's sort of been coerced into adopting. I know that deep down at the bottom of his shriveled heart, he cares a lot about us now, even if we grate on each other. Johanna preoccupies herself with tackling her dog. She roughhouses with him on the floor for a few minutes, laughing. I wonder if he keeps hoping Buttercup will come back.

As Haymitch and Johanna begin discussing food, I turn to Peeta and hiss, lightning-quick, "And don't tell Haymitch about our sex life!"

"I didn't tell him the details, Katniss, sheesh, give me some kind of credit."

I think by now I could probably even stomach some food. Maybe my stomach wasn't just doing flips over the alcohol. Maybe it was something more. I realize that I want…no, more…need to find out. I finally understand the comment I overheard this morning. Moderation and experience. There's only one way to get to them, and of course, it's the one I'm horrible at: patience. I'm still playing catch-up with my self-awareness. But as we settle in to the warm, brightly lit kitchen, the four of us, survivors together, gritting our teeth and bearing down and just refusing to let our past define us, I know I'm in very good company, indeed. I ruffle Peeta's hair gently, and he smiles. Just for now, I decide not to worry about it too much. After all, how much have I made it through already?