***Now, now, I have to say, readers, I'm suspecting that many of you will skip first to the end of this one. I encourage you to be patient and read straight through (though, I mean, how would I know about skipping to the end of a fanfic chapter?)! …But, if you absolutely MUST skip ahead, at least admit it in a review. ;)

"I know one way to make it feel like our bed," I announce.

But first…

"Sealed," Peeta mutters, annoyed, as he stares at the fireplace in our bedroom. It's decorative. This is not surprising in the slightest. People from the Capitol have other ways of obtaining heat and ways of cooking food. Now we do, too, but the comfort of our fire at home never fails to soothe me. I drop my one bag, the same leather one I've had since my father died, unceremoniously on the floor beside it. The room favors the Capitol's stark, bright décor, with a sunken platform bed that looks as big as a raft…I can't imagine why a room meant for one would harbor such a bed…a nightstand with what I can only assume is a lamp, and a wardrobe. And of course, the requisite television set hanging on the wall. It is predictably dark. When I open the wardrobe curiously, it contains any number of outfits. But they don't appeal to me. They lack Cinna's delicate, focused effort and elegance. I can change my shirt, at least. When I shrug out of my wrinkled flannel and am standing in my bra, reaching for the simplest black shirt I can find, I feel Peeta's hands slide around my waist and pull me in. He kisses my hair, then my neck, my shoulder. I lean my head back and close my eyes.

"It feels weird to have people around," he says. "I think I've gotten used to our privacy." He sighs. I know how he feels. Everything feels like infringement. I relish just this one little moment of peace between plans, the way he must. The air is thick with anticipation and it feels stifling, like it's cramming itself down our throats. The blinds covering the windows are slanted, and I'm glad that I can't see what's outside, can't see the Capitol, can have just one place for Peeta and I.

"Guess your clothes are in your room," I tell him. I can feel his cheek move as he must smile.

"Guess I'll have to go back and get them," he says. He was pleased when I broke the news that we wouldn't be requiring another room to Gale. Gale's face went very still for a moment, and though he was quick to extinguishing his look of resignation, it flickered there for just a whisper. But it lacked surprise….certainly Peeta and I cannot be that surprising to anyone, anymore. It might only have been the apparent seriousness that ruffled his feathers. When he answered, it was stiffly.

"Of course. Your room will easily accommodate two, Katniss."

I expected to feel pain at Gale's reaction, even regret, but all I feel is relief that it's over and one less thing with which to occupy my mind. I would not have been cruel enough to tell Peeta I'd made my decision unless I truly had. In answer to my confidence, Peeta refrains from being antagonistic or even overtly affectionate with me in front of Gale…typical gentleman that he is. It's actually me who's less restrained. As we thank Gale and walk away, I take his hand. His closes around mine, warm and strong, though. I don't want to cause Gale any harm, truly. Yet this is my life. I'll still be living it no matter where in Panem I am. It's best he gets used to it now if he's going to remain some satellite part of my life. It's one awkwardness to eliminate off the bat.

I can't think too much about what will happen tomorrow, and maybe that's best. There's no point in it. I'm grateful that we're expected to spend the minimal amount of time possible interacting with people this first night. I need to get my bearings. I feel suddenly sorry for Johanna, bunking next door, but then I remember she has her giant dog and probably, an enormous bed to share with him, and I feel a bit better.

Peeta takes the shirt from my hands and gently turns me. He slips it on and begins buttoning the front as I stand, like a young girl, in front of him. His nimble fingers slip buttons neatly into their loops. But I miss the shirt with the buttons he sewed back on, immediately. The fabric feels foreign against my skin and I can't wait to take it off again. Peeta reaches behind me and gently frees my braid from its elastic.

"Wear your hair down tonight?" He implores me. I reach up and touch his face. I feel that openness come into mine that only comes around him. He says he can see the softness in my eyes when I get it. I stretch up to kiss him. I don't tie my hair.

Peeta returns to his former room to change, and then meets me so we can walk down together. Johanna joins us on the stairs. Haymitch has already descended, and shockingly, uncorked a bottle of something fruit-flavored that I can smell from the landing. He may as well get one thing out of this trip. Johanna's wearing black, too, something funky and made of leather with intricate stitching forming a star on the back. I'm instantly lonely for Cinna.

"Your stylist survived the war," I say. It's not a question.

She grins. "I have no idea. Maybe not, or else the closet would have looked like a forest. This is a new one."

She doesn't look particularly sorry for her old one, which, horribly, makes me want to laugh. Undoubtedly the outfit fits her personality, which is no secret. Peeta's wearing slate blue and it brings out his eyes. The three of us stand at the last landing for a minute, getting our bearings. Gale, Paylor, Plutarch, Fulvia, Beetee, Haymitch, and, to my surprise, Hazelle and the kids, are seated around a long glass conference table lit generously with candles and piled high with meats, cheeses, breads, and side dishes of all sorts. Conspicuously absent are my prep team and Cressida, who I'll be seeing tomorrow morning. The one who immediately rises and looks thrilled to see me is, of course, Hazelle. The others stand, but not fast enough to beat her. She has no room for decorum, and rushes into my arms. I'm hit with an unexpected flood of emotion. This is a woman I helped take care of, who helped care for Prim and I, after all.

"How are you, baby?" she whispers in my ear. I nod but my throat constricts, and it's Posy, now nearly seven, who clinches it. She runs up to me and wraps her tiny arms around my waist. Immediately, the tears begin to slide down my cheeks. I will them to stop, furious that my immediate action in coming into this space is to show weakness, but it's too big for that. None of this is unexpected or nonsensical. I feel Peeta's presence behind me, and it steadies me. I bend and kiss Posy's head. The boys are standing, tall and smiling. It's amazing how much Rory looks like Gale, at the age I first met him. Unsettling, almost. They look healthy, their cheeks filled with color. Hazelle dries my face with the hem of her sleeve and pats my cheek. Her eyes are bright, too. I know I'm like a second daughter to her. She turns to Peeta and smiles again, beaming up at him. He steps forward and envelops her in a hug. Posy stands back from him a little, gnawing on a pinkie, but she's smiling. Her hair is so long now. I can't help taking in these little details. Things change so fast. Prim flickers across my consciousness like a shooting star, but, as always, I strike the thought from the record as quickly as it comes. If this is betraying her memory, I'm not yet strong enough to act honorably. When I look up from Hazelle and the kids, I see that everyone at the table is smiling. Even Gale, though he looks wistful. And I actually feel a little better. None of these people, for all their obnoxiousness and association to bad memories, in some cases, are hateful. And all of them helped us, or tried to, in some way. I don't let my guard down, but my shoulders drop from my ears and I manage to sit, next to Peeta on one side and Johanna on the other. Despite myself, I'm hungry.

It's only small talk that's made over dinner. No one apparently wants to risk bringing up anything controversial. Paylor asks politely about 12 and, since I can see no reason not to and I'm assuming she already knows, I give her updates on the progress. She smiles when I tell her I'm working with a building crew. I can see the wheels turning in Plutarch's head, though, and can only imagine the potential propos he's salivating over. We talk weather, Johanna launches into an animated and vulgarity-laced story about how she acquired her dog—a card game is involved—and Haymitch gets progressively drunker. Gale is reserved, still polite and comparatively distant. I'm finding it hard to get an emotional read on him now, which is sad, because I remember I used to be able to sense his thoughts without even looking at him. I wonder if he's happy with his life. At some point, I'm sure we will have to talk again. Like tomorrow, I try not to dwell.

Paylor sets a merciful start time for our meeting tomorrow. The meal is delicious, though it's not home. I remember that soon enough I'll be eating Peeta's bread again, and will be probably twice as glad of it. Their bread doesn't stand a chance. Dessert is raspberries with cream and chocolate syrup, and somehow, I leave space to nibble on it. It's predictably delicious. I wonder if this is how they eat all the time. Of course, there is still no way to produce dishes like this in the Districts.

Dinner lingers a bit over coffee and discussion of the rebuilding status updates of the other Districts—4, 7 and 10 are moving fast but 2 and 11 are predictably shaky—but the kids are trying to delicately disguise their yawns by ten and Hazelle's polite excusal of herself and them, pausing to hug us as she goes, begins to break it up. Our little gang of three quietly says goodnight. I get the sense from the jittery, high-strung energy coming out of Johanna—she joined Haymitch in his acquisition of some of that fruit-flavored liquor—will be up for a bit, but she doesn't seem put out by it. As Peeta turns back to ask Haymitch if he'll be alright ("Don't worry about me, loverboy," is the response, and it's not in a steady tone, though it is in a definitive one), I call goodnight to Johanna up the stairs, and she responds with a flippant wave over one shoulder without turning around. Peeta catches up but, halfway up, I hear Gale's voice from the bottom.

"Katniss, a minute?" He sounds tentative. I only realize then that I'm holding Peeta's hand again. He looks to me with the question in his eyes: Will you be alright?

I answer him with my returning glance. Fine, go ahead. He kisses my cheek and disappears up the stairs. I revolve slowly to face Gale, and descend the steps one by one until I'm standing on the last one, level with him. I don't have time to be afraid. He simply gazes at me for a minute. I meet his eyes. They flicker back and forth between mine, and then a tentative, wistful twitch twists his lips, and he's smiling. Only then do I descend the final step and stand, looking up to him. I recognize the smile for what it is—hope. That there is still something. Maybe anything. He must know it'll never be like it was. But he smiles to me, and asks, in a tone that's low and pensive:

"Are you happy, Katniss?" It's the very question I'd wanted to ask him, and it comes prefaced with no cute pet names. I realize just then that he's almost twenty. We're adults now. It's a thought that keeps surprising me from different angles, this year. It's also an odd thought, since for me, there's been no demarcation between adulthood and childhood. Yet it makes me feel self-conscious. But the question is sincere, and it deserves an honest answer.

"Yes," I say. This is, of course, not the same thing as saying things are perfect, or that they are everything that we would all hope they would be, but it is true, I am, most moments, happy. It's nearly always tinged with some baseline level of anxiety, but I've come to accept that as part of the reality of what's happened. Peeta bears it too. I have to ask the thought that's in my mind.

"Are you?" I ask him, honestly curious.

"Sometimes," he says, and I know he's answered me honestly, too. This is a start, this small measure of truth that's slipped between us. One day I might be ready to handle hearing all of it, but this is something. We stand awkwardly in front of the darkened dining room, the light from wall sconces playing across Gale's strong nose and high cheekbones, for awhile. I'm about ready to wish him goodnight when he speaks again.

"Do you think we could talk sometime?" he asks.

"That depends on what you want to talk about." I continue to tell the truth. It just seems easier this way.

"Just life. How you are. How I am. It doesn't have to be for long." I'm honestly conflicted about answered this. There's such a wide field of information that I don't want to access. I'm afraid that if we try to talk we'll find that we can't anymore, that I'll find I can't be around him.

"Can I let you know?" I ask. I'm tired. Suddenly all I can think about is bed. But my mouth twitches a little too, even though I can't manage a smile.

Gale doesn't try to mask his disappointment this time, but he nods. I bid him goodnight and move to turn away, but his voice stops me once more.

"Katniss," I pause and look back.

His fingers reach out and he tucks my hair behind my ear, and his smile, for the first time, reaches his eyes.

"I really am glad," he says. I nod, but hard. I don't trust my voice. I know he understands. I turn, and I don't look back to him but I know he stands, arms at his sides, watching me until the dark in the hallway swallows me up.

Peeta sits on the edge of the big bed, clad in a soft old t-shirt and shorts. He's taken off his leg so only one foot reaches the ground, but I hardly notice anymore. When he hears the door open, he looks up.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Okay," I say. This is true, too. I cross to the mirror and look at myself, almost as if to see if I've changed at all, pre-Gale to post-Gale. My same old face stares back at me, only with all that dark hair unbound. I begin to unbutton my shirt, but then those familiar hands encircle me and move up to do it for me.

"This part is even better," Peeta whispers salaciously, and I laugh. He presses his nose to my hair and inhales. He slides it off my shoulders and I have a moment to look at our contrast in the mirror; his light eyes with my dark hair, and think how lovely it looks, before he's whispering against my hair.

"Come to bed?" he queries.

He draws back the thick blankets while I slip my pants off and reach for a long nightshirt that hangs at the end of the row of outfits. As soon as I cross to the bed, though, Peeta rises up on his strong thighs and, reaching down, pulls it up over my head, leaving me standing only in my underwear.

"No," he murmurs, and pulls my wrists down to him. I shiver as he pulls me to him and flips the covers over us. He lies behind me and holds me, my back to his chest. Our fingers twine together under the comforter. The room is lit by very soft pink light that shines just enough to see his fingers by. It seems very still, with only the rhythmic breathing of the boy with the bread behind me, and my own beating heart against his curled hand. He whispers to me, "I miss our bed. It's not the same."

I roll over under his arm. His hand strokes the curve from my ribs down to my waist and out. "I know one way to make it feel like our bed," I announce. He smiles. I lean in and stop just short of his lips. I want him to do it. Of course, he takes my cheek in one hand and kisses me with light, open lips. And of course, it makes the bed feel instantly more like home. Our heat has gathered in this small pocket and I feel dreamy and relieved. Peeta nips my lip and when I shiver, pulls me in closer. His hands caress my bare back and roam into my hair. They're gentle tonight, searching, and I welcome it. I cling onto him as he tucks one long thigh in between mine. The friction makes me bite my lip. I can feel his erection between us when the kiss deepens. When his hands move around to my breasts, up to their tips, I sigh. He dips his head and kisses them, soft little pattering rain falling down on me as he lies me down. His hands stroke my flat belly, find their way down over the slowly saturating cotton between my thighs. He murmurs against my mouth, kisses down my throat, nips my collarbone. Now that we're here, and it hasn't, at least thus far, proven the stuff of my nightmares—though I guess there's plenty of time for that—the resignation has inspired a lack of concern in me. It, like so much else, is like the dentist. I'm glad we chose not to put it off too long. My body drains of the tension that remains under Peeta's assured hands, so much more confident now mapping out the territory of my body. I remember that first night, when Peeta carried me home and kissed me in front of the fire. That night I made a conscious decision not to think anymore. The raw need to get out, to be the half of me that was so tired of hiding, consumed me.

Necessity.

But this is pure luxury, though the vast expanse of the bed is lost on us. We occupy only one small island, sandwiched in between sheets as soft as silk against my bare skin, as warm as though the sealed fireplace were roaring.

Peeta's fingers are slow, lingering. I tug his t-shirt over his head, ball it up, toss it away. His shorts fall away somewhere too. He kisses my hipbones, nibbles gently on the goose-pimpled flesh of my sides.

"You're so soft," he sighs. He kisses the delicate skin at the underswell of my breast. "I'm so lucky."

I reach down and tug my one remaining scrap of clothing off, and luxuriate in the sheets, twisting around. Peeta laughs and moves up against me, and as he leans down and presses into me and I feel that solid twitch between us, the wall is gone, as evaporated as though it had never been. I almost feel myself fall through it, like Alice in the rabbit hole. And I'm smiling up to him. My hands cup the back of his neck, and there it is.

"I love you," I tell him, before his mouth can reach mine.

"I love you too," he whispers back, and then descends again. I speak again, and he stops once more. And grows very still at the words.

"Make love with me," I say. The phrase slips from my lips as easily as though I had been asking him about his day. His eyes don't flicker back and forth like Gale's; they're steady and piercing and so blue. I see some deep dance of longing in the back of them.

He only asks me once.

"Are you sure?" His hands stroke my cheeks, both sides with his thumbs. He looks like he's drinking me in with those widened eyes. And I nod.

He rises and when he returns, I see he's traveled ready. I have a moment of shyness, but before I can hold onto it, he lies the foil packet aside, and takes me in his arms again. He nuzzles my neck and we rock together. I close my eyes and when his hands move again, they're over my own, moving so slowly, so tender. He guides me as I prep us for what seems like a millisecond before Peeta's propped on his elbows above me. I open my eyes, because I want to be there for every moment that I can be, watching his face. Those long, light eyelashes shade eyes that glow for me. I feel anticipation but never a moment of doubt. He rubs tentatively against me and I gasp and bite my lip reflexively, but he's done his work. I'm glad that I can feel the glide between us from his ministrations. Just before he moves, I whisper, "Are you?"

His mouth lowers again and just as he kisses me, I feel him press into me and I wrap my legs tightly around him. I can feel his body shaking as he moves, the only betrayal of his confidence, and I know he's struggling not to quicken his pace already. My breathing is coming shallow against him, though. It doesn't hurt exactly; it's just strange. I'm immediately flooded with a vast wave of gratitude that we took our time. I can't imagine trying to do this with a wall. The earthshaking feeling of vulnerability is held at bay only by the love and desire in his eyes that makes me feel like the only thing that exists for him in the world. Even through the kiss, they're open, looking soft with shock as we melt together. He breaks the kiss because his lips are parted, hanging open just near mine. I hear a tiny sound escape him. He must feel me stiffen as we move closer together, because he stops, though, his hand trembling as he pushes my hair off my forehead.

"Am I hurting you?" he asks, looking nervous.

I shake my head. "Just…go slow, okay?" He nods and it's not at all like everyone makes it out to be, not at first, because we just stay that way for awhile, unmoving. When I nod, having adjusted, he moves again. It only takes a moment this time before he stops, but it's because we're pressed together, as close as we can be. The feeling of having someone else's body inside me is otherworldly. I can't enjoy the pleasure of it just yet because of the foreignness. Peeta bites my neck gently and I shudder, my nails digging in to his shoulders, even though I don't mean to. He must feel this all the way down, because he groans softly. When he begins to move, I relax my body, vertebrae by vertebrae, back down into the down of the mattress. He shifts back and then forward again, and just for this first time, I'm glad it's not me who has to figure this out.

By the time he shifts forward again I feel it…a pleasure that begins between my legs and flows out and out. It makes my nipples taut and raises the hair on the back of my neck. I whimper softly and Peeta looks alarmed again, but the look in my eyes must be what he's searching for, because he drops his forehead to the crook of my neck and pants softly there, still shivering. I wrap my arms around his back as far as I can get.

"Oh my god, Katniss," he whispers in my ear. He's having trouble catching his breath, and I know it's not from the exertion. I hear him struggling with his own self-restraint.

"I know," I breathe back. He pushes in again and my legs tighten once more. My hands slip down to his hips as I try to learn his rhythm. It's all waves of pleasure now, and I want to keep my eyes open and trained on that hazy look that's washing into his, but they close involuntarily. When I open them again, I realize that I'm moaning softly to him. He's moving faster now; not hard, but not like the beginning. The friction is unbearable as he presses into me. I know this is probably still too uneven for me to orgasm, but there will need to be one in here somewhere, because I can't bear it if there's not. I'm willing to sacrifice anything he teases out of me after this. Listening to me, though, has pushed Peeta closer to his own edge.

"Katniss," he says, and it sounds like pleading, "I can't…"

"It's okay," I murmur against his ear. "We're going to do this again and again and again, don't worry." I suckle at his earlobe. My body is suffused in pleasure. I can distantly hear the soft knock of the bed against the wall as we move together, but I don't care. I can't remember anything about where we are; all that thrums in my ears is our rhythm and Peeta's name, over and over. It sounds like my lake, lapping at the shore. And it feels like all the things I love.

"Katniss…" he groans at my words, and then I feel a great shudder pour through him. Even his calves flex under my legs. His belly pulls tight against me, and I can feel the muscles. His face is buried into the crease of my shoulder, my hands wrapped in his sweaty hair, firm against his back. I hold us together. As he slows and then stops, I'm sorry for it, though. I immediately want more. I'm not through yet; the fire that shot down me rages and rages. I know he needs time, but the place we meet throbs wickedly. I try to catch my breath as he lies limp atop me. I've never felt closer to any human being than I do to him now. I never thought it was possible, and now that it's happened, I can't imagine it happening with anyone else. I'm not given toward trust, toward romance, toward even intimacy, but I can truly grasp how much I could have given up, almost did. I never stopped being scared. I'm still scared now. Just not of the same things. And there's no room for it, because other, more important things subsume it. These are the half-formed thoughts that flicker through my consciousness, and I see drifting lights behind my eyelids. Peeta's so quiet against me I think maybe he's drifting off. Then a shy voice, so uncertain compared to all that confidence, pipes up softly in the dark.

"Was that…okay?" I can tell he agonizes for a moment over how I'll respond. My arms immediately tighten around him in response and I hold his head to me. I don't have the words to describe any of it, but he melts back into my arms at the touch.

When I find my voice again, I answer. "Can you…finish me?"

"Of course," he says hastily, raising his head almost as though he's embarrassed not to have offered in the first place, and I can tell he was still drifting in his sea of afterglow. I feel bad for disrupting it, but I'm starting to squirm. He plays no games tonight. His mouth and hands find me, and it's blissfully brief. When my orgasm is at its peak, I call his name into the air that's long since grown humid and rich with the smell of our lovemaking. We've long since thrown the covers off. Our muscles are collectively completely slack as Peeta collapses beside me.

I close my eyes. I know I have to process, but in the aftershock of my pleasure, I let it go. A breeze drifts through the window we've cracked and alights on my overheated skin. I can sense Peeta drifting. He barely moves up to me and pulls me against his chest before his breathing begins to deepen. I feel exhausted from the day and the newness, and, once my body returns to normal, slightly sore from the sex. I know already that it won't stop me from wanting more, though. Honestly, I could go again now. But it's very late, and we have to get some rest. I close my eyes in the mild glow, and comfort laps against my mind and body both. It'll be even better once we're home, in our own bed again, I think.

Just before I give in and drift off to sleep, and as though echoing my thought in some telekinetic universe, Johanna Mason's highly amused voice pipes up right behind our bed, only slightly muffled by the wall between us.

"Have a good night, you two!"