Peeta and I stay up all night talking, but by morning I'm not doing well. I haven't really slept since our falling out, and now at breakfast I'm feeling the effects. I'm clumsy with my fork and I'm eating nothing but sweets. Effie tells us tonight we are attending a late music concert by some famous Capitol violinist, and then we have a reception with the Sponsors from our Games - strictly hors devours and cocktails. Haymitch stresses how important tonight is, not just for our love story, but also for our upcoming bout as Mentors in the next Games. If we want to help whoever the next tributes are, it's paramount we make nice tonight.
Even thinking about mentoring makes me want to jump off the roof, especially when I am nearly certain one will be Prim if I do anything to step out of line. I think Peeta can sense my unease.
"So if it's a late concert, do we have anything today? When does prep start?" he asks.
"Your prep isn't until seven," Effie answers with precision.
"When is Katniss's prep?" Peeta says.
"Engaged for less than a day and already pestering me about your fiancée!" Effie twitters playfully. "You two! Hmm... Let me see..." Effie refers to her calendar. "We have an early dinner at four, and then Katniss's prep begins promptly at five this evening."
Breakfast ends and Haymitch and Effie leave. Cinna and Portia had a morning appointment, so that just leaves Peeta and me. We aren't used to having nothing to do. We head to living area. Peeta finds a magazine on Capitol cuisine and immerses himself in it. I curl up on the couch with my head in his lap. My thoughts drift to the next Reaping. Standing on stage in front of my district, punished for surviving. A boy. A girl. Maybe someone I recognize, or maybe I don't. It doesn't make it less horrific. I must be restless, because Peeta runs his hands through my hair.
"You want me to read to you?" he asks softly. I know he's hoping I'll sleep. He can see the dark circles under my eyes, the discoloration of my skin. I don't really care about what people in the Capitol eat, but if it keeps my mind from my sister's name in a reaping bowl, I'll do it. I nod and he starts. "Well, the pictures are the best part, but I'll try to describe it. Uh, so the current craze in the Capitol right now is caramelized pears." Peeta clears his throat and puts on his reading voice. "The essential element to creating the perfect pear is choosing the right bourbon," he clicks in a Capitol accent. I smile with my eyes closed. I assume he smiles back because he squeezes my hand a little. "While some chefs may tell you any shelf bourbon will do, the sugar balance in a small batch bourbon will get you the right flavor profile when melted with butter."
I feel myself starting to drift. He's still reading, but I'm not hearing the words so much anymore as the tone of his voice. My body feels light and easy. I feel like I'm floating above the cushions, but sinking into them at the same time. When Peeta lifts me from the couch, I lean into him, not quite awake but not asleep either. I feel him steady on the stairs, creaking open the door to his room. I feel his bed under my back, my body curling into the soft down comforter. He's gone for a moment, but then I feel his warmth curl beside me. I roll over and bury my face in his chest. His head is propped reading, and he rests his chin on top of mine. I feel sleep lull me under. Peeta presses his mouth to my hair.
"I love you, Katniss," he whispers, barely louder than a breath.
I drift into a dreamless calm. When I wake hours later, Peeta is sleeping beside me, the magazine fallen to his side. The ceiling fan spins and the curtains are drawn to keep the light out. I don't totally remember coming to his room, but I remember the words. Normally his declarations of love make me uncomfortable, but in this moment I feel sheer panic. The weight of his arm across my waist feels confining and the air is too stuffy to breathe. I try not to panic, but my heaving chest is giving me away. My mind is telling my feet to get up and leave. It wouldn't be that weird, it's his room. I could say I needed something in mine. Like… privacy.
Peeta sleeps soundly beside me. What am I doing here? What have I gotten myself into? I can feel Peeta stir, and I try to gain control of my breathing. I try not to give myself away.
"Did you have a nightmare?" he whispers. Yes, I think, but I shake my head no. He squeezes my hip reassuringly and starts drifting back to sleep, making up for the hours we lost last two nights talking about useless things until the sun came up. His hand slides my shirt up slightly, and he lifts his own so the skin of his stomach is pressed against the skin of my lower back.
"I just want to feel you," he says quietly, and his breathing steadies into the low, full breaths of rest. Despite what was seizing panic, my breathing starts to slow. It's feeling him here, pressed against me. His skin hot against mine, like a furnace. It's knowing he's alive. It's knowing he's here with me. I'm not scared of this. I'm not scared of him. I'm not scared of his words.
I'm scared because I'm choosing to stay. I'm scared because I feel it too, and he knows it. I'm scared because I'm giving a part of myself to him, and I'll never get it back.
I need to get out of my own way for once.
"Hey," I shake Peeta slightly. "Hey."
Peeta wakes quickly, sitting up. "Are you okay?"
"I'm not going to say stuff a lot," I stammer.
"Okay?" he says back.
"So… I'm just going to say it a lot right now," I fumble.
"Okay," he says again, a sleepy grin stretching across his face.
"I love you," I say insistently. It doesn't sound romantic at all. It sounds sterile, like I'm introducing myself in school or reading aloud from a manual.
"I love you," he says back, and I put my hand over his mouth.
"You don't have to say it just because I say it. And I don't have to just because you do," I state.
"Okay, Katniss," Peeta says.
"I love you," I say again and his grin widens. "I can hear you thinking it! Stop!" I cry, shoving one of his pillows at him. "I love you," I repeat. He says nothing, biting his lip. "I love you." Peeta leans forward and presses his mouth to mine. I push his chest away from me but he leans into the kiss, his tongue tickling my top lip.
"I can't not kiss you," he begs.
"I love you," I breathe into his mouth, and I feel him shake. "I love you." The kissing gets lazy and slow, until our eyes are both heavy again. His arms wrap around my neck, my head presses into his chest. "I love you," I say once more into his tee shirt. I lift it up a bit, exposing his stomach, and I do the same to mine. I press our skin together like he did, and before long we're both asleep again.
Haymitch knocks on our door. Effie refuses to come get us now after catching us in a scandal this morning.
"Her bar for a scandal is pretty low," Peeta complains playfully as we climb out of bed. We head down to dinner. I feel so much better. After sleeping. After talking.
Dinner is light so we can still eat with the Sponsors later. Cinna tells me about the dresses I'll be wearing tonight. The concert is black tie. I wish I could wear a suit, but Cinna tells me I have a formal ball gown for the concert itself and then I'll change for the cocktail hour. Apparently there is such a thing as a cocktail dress. A whole style of dress that exists specifically for drinking cocktails. The Capitol amazes me with its frivolity sometimes.
My prep team chatters on and on about the violinist from tonight as they get me ready. I can't understand why I need a new color on my nails every night.
"You must be excited to see her play," I say, and they all laugh in that fake way I've come to distinguish from their genuine flourishes. "I'll tell Effie we'll need three more tickets." My team gets quiet. They don't know how to react to someone being kind. I don't really either. I don't take compliments well. I don't want anyone's charity; it just means I'll owe them later. We aren't all that different – my prep team and me. On the outside we are, obviously. And even what preoccupies our minds is vastly dissimilar. But the idea of making it on your own. Earning what you have. I respect that about them. Knowing that one part of what makes them tick is so like me, it makes them feel more human.
"I owe you, anyway," I say. "For all those products you sent me home with after the Games." It's true. I needed a whole bag just for the bottles of creams and goops and oils and other potions they sent to keep my hair soft or my skin clear. I never used any of it, I mostly gave it to Prim, but knowing what a price the Capitol puts on beauty, it must have cost a tiny fortune.
"Well, if we were there we could help transition you into your second look," Venia adds, some hopefulness in her voice.
"We'd love to, Katniss. Thank you," Octavia says, and Venia twitters incomprehensible noises and claps her hands.
The ball gown reaches the floor. The bodice is fitted, and the skirt is full. There are layers and layers underneath it. I wonder how I'll be able to sit in this. You'd think I'd be comfortable playing dress up by now, but every time I just feel a little less like myself. It's too bad Prim isn't here. She'd swoon for a dress like this.
When I come downstairs, the rest of the team is already waiting. My prep team frets and fidgets, adjusting one another's clothes or accessories. Effie gives them a strict look, and they fall silent. Peeta steps forward to greet me.
"You look like royalty," he whispers, kissing my cheek.
"I can barely breathe in this," I complain, awkwardly shifting myself in the dress.
The concert itself is enchanting. I expect to be bored, but when the violinist draws her bow across the strings, something inside me shifts. I find myself holding my breath, wistfully pulled into the melody her violin sings to us. It reminds me of the birds singing in my woods at home. It reminds me of Rue. It reminds me of what it feels like to be free, even if only in fleeting, sad moments. The violin weeps in lament, then tells a story of joy and happiness. When the concert draws to a close, I find myself without words. I catch Haymitch smiling at me, and I pretend to yawn.
My prep team changes me into the cocktail dress – shorter and freer than the gown. They each kiss my cheeks in farewell and gratitude. I'm uncomfortable, but I just let it be.
The cocktail hour is in a large room with white tile floors. A bar lines one wall, decorated with bottles of alcohol in all colors. Stemware hangs from a rack above the bartender's head, each glass a different shape and size, from giant goblets to what I heard Effie refer to as flutes.
My dress is pure white and I don't dare eat or drink in it. I wonder if Cinna is playing up the marriage card. I assume so. Remind them I'm a blushing bride-to-be. It was Haymitch's advice, too. Make nice. I squeeze Peeta's hand tight and let him do most the talking. He's a natural conversationalist and soon is charming Sponsors left and right. Who knows, maybe our Tributes will have a chance next year with someone like Peeta on their side.
Effie comes over with a dozen or so sponsors. "Children! I have some very important people I'd like you to meet!" she sing-songs. "These generous patrons are responsible for that delightful meal Haymitch sent you!"
"The china was my idea," drolls a fat woman with teal hair.
"The china was… lovely," I say, trying to sound gracious. The china was ridiculous. We could have used so many other things with the money they sent spending china into the Arena. Send the food in a plastic bag for all I care. Peeta goes on and on about how romantic it all felt, and I see the woman fawning over his every word.
"I shouldn't tell you this, but I wanted to send you help earlier," she attempts to whisper to Peeta, but her nasal voice carries across the group. "But Haymitch was only collecting Sponsors for that skinny girl you're stuck with," she adds salaciously.
"Oh, I know," Peeta flirts. "That's what I wanted. Haymitch knew that. I wanted Katniss to get out." I know Peeta means it, but I have to imagine while he was dying alone in the Arena, that he must have felt incredibly alone. I swallow hard.
That night, wrapped around each other in his bed, I try to make Peeta feel less alone. I tug his shirt over his head, and I pull mine off and throw it on the floor. I lay my head on his chest and press my body along his side, so our skin is touching everywhere. I feel him breathe in a shaky breath, and exhale. He's not alone anymore.