I keep my eyes glued to the menu in front of me. We are in the luxury of the Capitol, so most of these dishes mean nothing to me. The descriptions do little to help. I seem to discern from the menu that haricot verts are some kind of string bean. I don't know why they have to make up names for things. Just call it what it is. I feel Plutarch's eyes on me. He's clearly decided ages ago what he was having, but I'll waste as much time hiding behind this menu as humanly possible. When the waiter comes over for a third time, I finally order squab. From what I gather, it's like a tiny chicken. I regretfully hand over my menu, and find myself face-to-face with a Head Gamemaker.
I try not to stab him in the leg with my steak knife.
The waiter sets down a flute of champagne in front of each of us. "I've been avoiding punch ever since your training," Plutarch winks as he takes the glass by the stem.
"Oh, you're the one…" I start to chuckle. He's the man who tripped backwards when I shot the apple out of the pig's mouth.
"Ah, well at least my misery finally got a smile out of you," he relays, before raising his glass in a toast to our meal. As the crystals clink in the middle of the table, photographs flash from either side. Inside, I'm furious. After what Haymitch told me, I have no interest in playing the part of a Capitol puppet anymore. What will the rebels think when they see me smiling with a Gamemaker? I don't even recognize myself.
I swallow hard and remind myself he might have information for me on the upcoming Games. Something that might save Prim's life. I play along. The press files out, photo ops achieved. The restaurant has been cleared except for us, and I feel very exposed at the center of this massive dining room. The plates are delicate and hand-painted. A bottle of expensive-looking olive oil perches in the middle of the table, the glass blown into intricate scrolls.
"You must be very honored to have been named Head Gamemaker," I say, my eyes following the curves of the bottle.
"Between you and me, there weren't many takers for the job. So much… responsibility." Plutarch says, winking again. I think he believes this makes him look friendly, but instead I just imagine he has some pestering eye infection, and maybe one day his eyeball will shrivel up and fall out, and he'll have to wear an unattractive patch. I smile to myself.
"Yeah, and I heard the last guy's dead," I say nonchalantly, and Plutarch nearly chokes on his champagne.
"Yes. Seneca Crane. A tragic accident," Plutarch says after composing himself with the appropriate amount of feigned concern. An accident. I bet.
"Are you planning the Quarter Quell already?" I ask. Let's get right to the point.
"Well, I'm not supposed to tell you that," he chortles. "But yes. The Quarter Quell has been in planning for years, of course. Arenas don't build themselves overnight!" The waiter approaches our table, unfolding the cloth napkins and placing them on our laps. It's awkward, but Plutarch acts as though he expects this kind of service. He can't possibly put his own napkin on his own lap. "However, the… how do you say… the flavor of the Games is still being sorted out. And that's really where I come into play."
"Really?" I say, leaning my chin on my hand and pretending I'm fascinated. "You're that powerful?"
Plutarch beams at the compliment. "Of course! We are in heavy debate, this week in fact, over the different traps we might use. Many of the Gamemakers are pushing for more pyrotechnics, after the success of the Girl on Fire," he winks at me again. "But I think it might be a tad overdone. I'm looking for something that's constantly being wound up. A new danger every time, per se."
He talks about the arena as if it's full of landmines. A new danger depending where you step. I remind myself to ask Haymitch what pyrotechnics are. "That must be very expensive," I suppose, fishing for more details.
"Nearly twelve times as expensive, if I had to estimate. But no corner should be cut! It is a Quarter Quell, after all," Plutarch adds lavishly.
Our dinner is served. Plutarch ordered some kind of seafood dish that comes with its own special fork. It's a bit too prissy for me. It looks like art, not food. It turns out squab is a tiny roasted bird, nearly whole, save for its head. My eyes drift over to Plutarch. He picks up the silverware daintly and begins dissecting his meal. I cut a bite off my bird with a fork and knife. It tastes a little like groosling.
I remember little Rue. I remember giving her my groosling, her eyes wide with astonishment, as if two wings were a feast. I remember the children starving in my District, lying on my mother's kitchen table, their stomachs distended in hunger. I look up at Plutarch – a picture of gluttony, years of overindulgence swelling at his belt. He swirls the shellfish in a sauce and plops it in his fat mouth. How can he live like this, knowing there are nursing mothers too famished to produce milk for their babies? Children taking out tesserae to feed their starving parents? I see Prim – gaunt and bony after our father died. After the Capitol took him from us.
I lift the bird from my plate and rip the flesh from the bone with my teeth. This is how I'd eat this if we were lucky enough to have food on the dinner table at home. I feel the grease drip down my chin. The eyes of the restaurant staff fall still on me. Plutarch's mouth hangs open. I smile at him with a mouth full of bird. "This is so good," I say, spitting bits of my meal on the table as I speak. I continue that way until there's nothing in front of me but a pile of tiny bones. I wipe my hands on my skirt and my chin on the table cloth. Plutarch pushes his meal aside, thoroughly unappetized. "Are you gonna eat that?" I point, and he shakes his head vehemently. I slide the dish across the table and start sucking the mussels from their shells with my lips. It makes a hideous slurping sound when they slide down my gullet, and I'm almost as disgusted as he is, but I keep going. "We never waste food at home," I say, scooping the last bits of juice from his plate with my fingers and sucking it off. I wish I could summon a belch, but I can't so instead I wipe my face with my napkin and throw it on the table.
The waiter approaches us with a busboy, who swiftly clears the plates away. "Could I interest you in any dessert?" he inquires, nervously eyeing me as I pick pieces of squab from my teeth with my knife.
"That will be all," Plutarch says. The wait staff gratefully flees. "I apologize for ending our evening, Katniss, but I actually have a strategy meeting tonight, if you can believe it!"
I don't believe it. He wants to run. I'm exceedingly pleased with myself and grin widely. "Oh, really? What a shame!" I lie.
Plutarch leans back from the table and reaches into his vest pocket, pulling out a gold watch on a chain. He flips open the watch to check the time, frowning. "Regretfully, I will need to excuse myself," he apologizes, turning the watch so I can see it. "It starts at midnight."
"Isn't that late for –" I start, but I lose my words. As Plutarch runs his thumb over the crystal face of the watch, an image appears, glowing like candlelight. A mockingjay. It vanishes as soon as it appears, and he snaps the watch closed. Maybe I was seeing things. Why would he carry a symbol of my token?
"That's very pretty," I say.
"Oh, it's more than pretty. It's one of a kind," he says. Plutarch rises from the table, bids me "adieu" and leaves. I sigh out in relief.
An escort of Peacekeepers drives me back to the Tribute Center. The lights are all out. Our team must have gone home for the evening. I check the clock on the wall - it's nearly one. I open the door to my room and find it empty. I throw my dress on the floor. I hope Cinna isn't too mad, but it's completely ruined with grease stains. I wash my face and brush my teeth. My mind is a mess. I'm not sure if I messed up tonight or not. I certainly let my emotions get the better of me. I need to stop thinking about it. I stare at my empty bed – the silver silk sheets folded under a heavy satin quilt. My skin is burning with anger and I imagine the fabric lifting the heat from my body. But it's not enough.
I creep out of the door to Peeta's room. I don't knock anymore, I just slip inside. Peeta's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. When he sees me at his door relief drifts across his face. He's out of bed immediately, his arms wrapped around me. I let myself sink into him.
"Finally," he sighs, breathing me in. We just stand there for a while. "How was your day?" he asks quietly.
"Awful," I reply, burying my face in his chest. "Yours?" I pose, though my voice is muffled in the fabric of his tee shirt.
"Same," he says. I pull my face up and he rests his forehead on mine. "I'm so glad you're home." It's weird that he's referring to this place as home. It still feels sterile and foreign to me, despite all the time we've spent here. But I realize quickly he's not talking about where we are. Home is wherever we end up together.
"I don't want to think about it anymore," I whisper.
"Okay," he says, not moving. I lay a soft kiss in the crook of his neck and I feel his body react beside me. I pull my mouth up, dragging my lips along his neck until I find the place under his jaw where his pulse hammers in his throat. I place my mouth there, sensitive to its steadily increasing rhythm, and kiss him lightly. His hands slip up the back of my shirt, rough on my skin. I perch on my tiptoes and kiss his mouth – wet and hot and ready for me. He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth and heat pools deep inside me. I press my body into his, and his hands drop to my thighs and he hoists me up. I wrap my legs around his waist as he takes a few hefty steps forward until he presses me into a wall.
For this one moment I want to forget. I don't want to think about the rebellion, or Snow, or his threats. All I want is to feel something that isn't terror or regret. I don't want to be angry all the time. The way Peeta's moving his mouth on mine, it's like he's trying to forget something too. He just wants to be in this moment with me, and nowhere else. My feet slide to the floor. We're both panting and pulling at each other, not knowing what we want but not wanting to stop. Peeta tugs my earlobe into his mouth and it tickles in a way that makes my stomach twist into ecstatic yet uncomfortable knots. He grabs one of my wrists and presses it hard against the wall, and in a way I like that he's in control. I trust him, and everything feels so out of control right now. I just want him to fix me.
He runs his mouth down my arm and finally weaves his fingers in mine, loosening his grip until my arm drops onto his shoulder. I want my hands to do something, and I'm terrified. I run my fingers along his stomach as his mouth covers mine, his tongue dipping inside, knowing me in a way only he does. When I tug at the waistband of his shorts I feel him give a sharp inhale. His eyes flash open and he's staring at me fiercely. His hands are on either side of me on the wall, and I watch the muscles in his arms shake as I slide my hand into his boxers. His eyes open wide in wonder and pleasure as I move my hand around him, almost like he can't believe this is happening.
His skin is impossibly soft, although he feels hard as a rock in my fingers. I pull my hand upward, swirling my palm over the tip of him and he groans into my mouth. He's silky and wet and I repeat the motion. His entire body shakes, and he collapses onto his elbows, bringing him closer to me. The angle changes slightly but I just keep moving my hand, slowly at first and then faster as his breathing picks up pace. I can't rip my eyes from his face. His brow furrows and he bites his lip, trying to silence the soft moaning but not quite succeeding. I can feel the heat billowing from his body, his skin radiant and drenched in a sheen of sweat. He opens his eyes to look at me. "Katniss, I…" I swirl my hand over him and he groans, his chest dropping onto mine. He sighs into my shoulder, and his hot breath on my skin makes me shake beneath him. It only makes him more alive. I squeeze my hand tighter as I pull it up, following the lead his body is giving me, and I feel him shatter. His body locks and then shakes, and he collapses his entire weight into me. The wall, which felt cold when we first moved into it, now exudes our heat back to us. Peeta is sweaty and we've made a mess, but he smiles brightly at me as he plants soft kisses all over my face. He can barely breathe and finally collapses at my feet, resting his head on my legs.
"That was amazing," he whispers, stroking my hip with the palm of his hand. We stay this way for a while, and I run my other hand through his hair, still soft and falling in smooth ringlets around his face. He hums a happy sigh into me, and we finally get up and clean up in the bathroom. He seems a little embarrassed about it all in the stark white light, but I shush him. I run a wet washcloth over his face and he gives me a spare shirt to wear. When we finally curl together in bed, I drift into a happy, thoughtless sleep.