For breakfast we eat Peeta's cheese buns with the eggs my mother scrambled. Our prep teams arrive in short order and Peeta and I are readied for the closing ceremonies. Today's events occur outdoors in the town square, so we are dressed in warm furs and sweaters. For once I get to wear pants. When we arrive in town, my jaw drops in wonder. It looks… nice. 12 has been transformed into a happy place that isn't covered with years of soot and worry. Food carts and booths line the street. People happily fill their plates with grub and their cups with ale and wine. The festival is lively and rustic. I imagine the Capitol is trying to make us appear quaint and folksy. It's not entirely untrue. A fiddle plays out over the crowd, and a small group spontaneously dances and spins. I stomp to the rhythm of the music and Peeta laughs as one of his neighbors falls haphazardly to the ground, tripping on his own feet.
Suddenly, I feel Peeta's hand ripped from mine and panic surges through me. They're taking him now, in front of everyone. I ready myself for a fight as he's lifted in the air. Under him, though, I see his brothers Bannock and Rye hoisting him higher on their shoulders, crying out, "Let's hear it for our brother, Victor of the 74th Hunger Games!" The merchant crowd erupts in hoots and hollers of support. Peeta's face is bright red. I try to catch my breath, to cease the terror rising up in my chest.
When they finally put him down, Peeta grabs my hand and pulls us out of there. I know they are celebrating for the right reasons. This isn't for the glory of the Games. They are celebrating that we survived. That we both survived. That we brought food to a starving district. That we proved something. But it still feels odd to be reveled in. We killed people.
Their faith in us will be short-lived after the last Parcel Day. When we aren't able to save the next children reaped. When we come home alone. When the wooden boxes arrive.
My mind starts wandering into unfriendly territory. If we run, there will be no more Parcel Day for 12. The next tributes will be abandoned without a mentor. I shake my head. I need to stop thinking about that. That is not my responsibility. Prim comes first. Effie comes and escorts us to the stage. If we leave, what will happen to her? I'm sure Snow will brutalize her for information she won't have. Would she run with us? I don't think Effie would be happy living in the woods.
A crowd gathers around the stage and the mayor gives a speech. It was clearly written by the Capitol, and he reads it mechanically. People clap politely at all the right cues, giving no more enthusiasm than is required, but enough to avoid censure. Peeta and I take the stage and are presented with flowers and gifts. I feel the words I've recited a dozen times now pounding in my head, but I don't see the point. Snow already won. I don't need to give the Capitol speech anymore. When I step forward to the microphone, I'm not sure what's going to come out of my mouth.
"Hi. Umm…" I stare at my hands for a second, then scan the crowd. I see Prim, smiling and waving at me. Offering me encouragement. "I, uh, I haven't had the opportunity to thank all of you for taking care of Prim while I was in the Games. I know watching me was hard on her. She felt guilty I was there, like she was somehow responsible for a cruel twist of fate. But you did what you could to make things easier on her." I gulp as I remember the stories Prim has told me. "On her way home from school, Willow Matterwood snuck Prim candy from her parent's shop. And Mrs. Ackley brought her clothes her daughter Brin had grown out of. And Thom gave her a dozen eggs from his chicken coop." I know this doesn't sound as eloquent as I want. I'm not a wordsmith. I'm frustrated with myself, but press on. "I hoped I'd come home. I promised Prim I'd try. But knowing that all of you looked out for her, took care of her when I couldn't… It's a debt I'll never be able to repay. But I promise I'll try."
I step quietly back from the microphone. It wasn't rebellious. It wasn't filled with odes of love. But it was true. Peeta finds my hand and squeezes it tight. "We can't run from these people," I whisper to him.
"I know," he mouths back, already understanding. So we choose to stay.
We start to descend from the stage when I hear a voice calling from the crowd. "Peeta! Peeta!"
"Delly!" Peeta drops my hand and runs for the bouncing head of blonde curls. When he reaches the girl he lifts her in the air and spins her around him. It almost reminds me of Gale spinning me around in the woods. I try to swallow my guilt, but it's easily overcome by another emotion. I shift uncomfortably in place watching the two of them. She pushes a curl away from his eyes and I imagine breaking her dainty little fingers with a rock.
"Katniss!" Peeta waves me over. I step forward begrudgingly. "This is Delly. She's my oldest friend," he beams proudly, as if introducing a prize pig at a fair. She sort of resembles one with her round face and pink cheeks and pretty little turned-up nose. I smile to myself, and Peeta clearly thinks I'm making nice.
"I know who you are," I reply. Delly's impossible not to know. She'll talk to anyone with functioning ears. I've had to duck her in the hall at school on more than one occasion.
"Oh, because Peet talks about me?" She asks cheerfully. Peet?
"No, actually, Peeta never even mentioned you," I say coldly, but she doesn't seem to be perceptive to the spite in my words at all. She just smiles brightly and before I can do anything about it, she's wrapped her arms around me. Peeta laughs out loud behind her, and I scowl at him through a mop of flaxen hair.
"I have to go find my family, but it's so wonderful to finally meet you officially! I must have spent weeks trying to braid my hair like yours after the Games, but my fingers are just too daft I guess! Maybe someday you could show me?" she gleams at me. I can't help but laugh at the idea of Delly and I braiding each other's hair, but she takes it as approval because she immediately squeals and claps her hands like a toddler with a new doll. I stare at her viciously as she presses a kiss to Peeta's cheek before she bounces back into the crowd.
"She's… nice," I say sarcastically.
"Isn't she though?" Peeta grins sincerely. I resist rolling my eyes.
The festival runs until late evening. Gale is conspicuously absent. Peeta and I dance and laugh. For the first time on the whole tour, I have a genuinely good time. There is no fancy cuisine. We eat with our fingers. Eventually Effie, Cinna, and Portia bid us farewell before boarding the train back to the Capitol, along with all the camera crews, but Peeta and I stay as long as we can. We aren't the only ones who don't want this day to end, and the night carries on for hours. I can no longer feel my feet or the tip of my nose. My cheeks are fiery from wine. The moon hangs low in the sky, and the music slows to a lazy lilt. Peeta and I sway back and forth. I lean my head on his chest and listen to a rhythm I've grown familiar to. It means I'm here. I'm alive. I'm with you. I lift my head and face him, my eyes dropping to his mouth.
"Are you going to kiss me?" he asks softly. I nod. "But the cameras left."
"I know," I reply.
"And there are people around," he says quietly, his feet stilled.
"I know," I murmur. I trace his lips with my eyes. He swallows nervously. If we do this, we are saying something. Not to the cameras. Not as the counterfeit personas we've put on display. We are in front of our friends, our family, our neighbors. The people that know us. The people we don't have to pretend in front of. The people with no expectations of us. If we do this here, we're saying its real.
I lift myself onto my tiptoes and kiss him softly. He gasps slightly into my mouth, like he can't quite believe this is happening. I bring my hands up to his cheeks, cupping his face. This is real. This is happening. I feel eyes sweep over us, then move on politely. One of Peeta's hands buries itself in my hair, the other presses into my lower back. Closer. I need you closer, he's begging.
I find comfort. I find belonging. I find peace. In the end, the cheerful din quiets into nighttime stillness. Peeta and I walk home to the Village and find ourselves lingering outside my door again.
"I'm not going to be able to stay awake tonight," I slur slightly, still coming down from the buzz of the wine.
"Katniss," Peeta scolds gently, his voice quiet.
"Come upstairs with me," I beg softly. The alcohol has made me bolder than I expect.
"You know I can't do that," Peeta whispers, pushing his fingers through my hair, pressing his forehead to mine. It's eerily similar to how I was with Gale earlier, and my face starts to burn. But it feels different here with Peeta. My skin feels like its vibrating. He steps closer to me, our bodies pressed together in the night, our skin cold but our hearts hammering fast against our chests.
"I want you," I exhale between us, and the corners of his lips turn up. A light flickers on upstairs in Prim's room, and I know I have to go inside. He kisses me tenderly good night. I sigh and go back inside to my room.
I change into a nightshirt and hang the dress in my closet. My wardrobe has been invaded by formal gowns I'll literally never ever wear again. Even if I have other formal events, I can't be seen in the same dress twice. It all seems very wasteful to me. I daydream about trading one at the Hob, letting it be sold on the black market. I could probably feed a family in the Seam for a year with what some rich Capitolite would pay to have an article of clothing that I legitimately sweat in.
I sit on my bed but refuse to lie down. I made it much longer than this on the train without sleeping, but the liquor in my system seems to be rocking me like a cradle. I can't keep my eyes open.
I get up and pace around my room. I will not spend the night seeing Prim torn to pieces. I can't wake again with my throat burning and no idea where I am. I pull a blanket from my bed and pad to the kitchen and stare at the phone on the wall. I know Peeta's number is somewhere. I find it in a tiny black book in a drawer of the office desk. There's a phone in there too, but I see Snow staring at me from the armed chair and I close the door tight, sealing him inside. I creep back to the kitchen, pick up the receiver, and dial the number from the book. It rings a couple times, and I wonder if Peeta's already asleep when the phone clicks.
"Hey," he says quietly into the receiver.
"Hey," I say softly back. "How'd you know it was me?"
"I guess I was just hoping," he replies. He's using a hushed nighttime voice, even though I know he's alone over there. There's no one to wake. I'm tethered to the telephone base in the kitchen, the receiver attached by a long ivory cord that coils back to the wall. I sit on the floor and wrap the blanket tight around my body.
"Talk to me," I ask gently.
"What about?" his voice comes over the line. I picture him in his own house, in his identical kitchen, on his identical floor.
"Just… talk to me until breakfast," I whisper.
"Okay," I can hear him smile through the phone. I smile back. "Did I tell you about the time Rye switched out Bannock's left shoe for one that was a size too small?"
I laugh lightly. "No, I haven't heard that one."
"Oh gosh," Peeta laughs just thinking about it. "It all started when Rye realized that Parker Overseer had the same shoes as Bannock…." My eyes feel heavy. I bob in and out of the story. "The best part was we all pretended that we thought just Bannock's left foot was growing. Rye had everyone in on it." The story is light, silly even, but his voice sounds like a song without a melody. "Rye got Bannock to spend an entire year's worth of savings on a new pair of shoes two sizes up, and when Bannock brought them home, he looked like he was walking around with duck feet. We called him Ducky for months," Peeta says in a low voice, his tone even. His story is happy. He's hoping I'll sleep.
"I call Prim Little Duck," I say. "Because she's growing so fast and her shirts never stay tuck…" I doze off.
The Tour is over. We're home. And so we choose. We choose to stay. We choose to fight. We choose to protect those we love. We choose each other.