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"Where did you get this?" I whisper, and hardly a foggy breath leaves my lips. I resist looking to Haymitch all alarmed. Instead, I focus only on the still sealed envelope.
"Effie was about to put it in your room," Peeta replies. "What do you think it is, Katniss?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. My next question trips over my tongue but I manage. "Did you get one?"
He shakes his head and turns to Haymitch, but Haymitch preoccupies himself with his goal of reaching the bottom of his flask. There's a glint in Peeta's eye that indicates how he still resents being left out of the loop during last year's Games. "Come on," Peeta murmurs, slipping his fingers between mine. I guess that I'm not hiding the despair on my face very well. "Let's go inside. Maybe I have one in my room, too."
Will he? I don't get the chance to find out since it's strictly time to go to bed. And when I try to stretch the seconds I have left before Effie personally closes my door for me, I only catch Peeta slip into his room after a half-hearted "Good night." I'll have to wait until tomorrow morning to learn whether I'll have to rush into this marriage sooner rather than later.
However, I can't possibly sleep well if I don't read my letter now. Like working with a sensitive time-bomb, I deftly work a finger beneath the flap and flick off the waxy Capitol seal. I lean towards the moonlight for assistance, tugging the card out into the glow.
It's a matter of horrible timing when the train slips into a tunnel and I'm left to sit here in the dark, straining my eyes to read the print. I consider turning on my lamp, but I don't want to give anyone the reason to check up on me. So I decide to wait it out, no matter how painstaking it seemed.
My hazy mind drifts to the thought of Peeta again. Ever since he discovered my scheme with Haymitch, he's put some distance between us. I hardly spoke to him after the Games, after that train ride home. His behavior, though, reassures us that he'll play along as long as the camera's on; he proved that when we tumbled around in the snow and kissed. Maybe the hug I so thought was convincing was just an act for television…
And we're supposed to get married like this? What do I even really know about Peeta? He bakes. His gentle eyes. His warm embrace despite his great strength. These are all superficial things. I should simply break this news to him now, this contract. That way I could have another head to wrap around and look for ways out of this binding settlement. Not that I've even signed the contract yet.
How can I get out of this? I can't let President Snow shackle me like this, especially after trying to get me killed in his first Game. Maybe I can run away.
As thought as if it were a sign, moonlight finally filters in through my window, and I take in a breath, flipping back the lip of the envelope.
Please return signed paperwork to Ms. Effie Trinket tomorrow morning.
She will provide further instructions.
Involuntarily I scoff at the implied courtesy because it's clearly an order. Snow expects me to sign my life away now, and he wants it in his hands as soon as possible. "Or else" should be the closing of the letter, instead of a chilling, "Until next time, Ms. Everdeen."
By reflex, I toss the letter across the room and bury my scream into my pillow before I retrieve the contract from my unpacked things. I've left them untouched, so the idea of fleeing must have been lurking in my subconscious for a while now.
But here I am instead, flipping through pages and pages of rules and guidelines, signing at the x's as I go. However, not without jotting them down. As I squint in the minimal moonlight, I scribble out everything that has to do with putting my family, Peeta, Gale, Haymitch and anyone else important, in danger.
Peeta Mellark…Katniss Everdeen…be in love.
Cameras will be appointed…will be reported when going live…
Family/friend affairs are to be requested…give five days notice for camera crew to prepare…
Must remain within a quarter-mile radius of home…shopping and trade permitted.
Timely visits of capitol authorities ("Guests")
Accept all missions when they are assigned…complete within timely manner. Subject to "punishment" otherwise.
No speaking of contract to those outside of contract.
Wedding…children…
Divorce strictly forbidden unless maker of contract vetos agreement altogether.
My hand cramps from all the signatures and copying, so when I rest, I slip in a few minutes of restless sleep. Overall, nevertheless, the morning comes unwelcomed and I'm in no good mood to eat breakfast.
First things first. I crawl into a black leather chair that swivels on an axis, and my prep team goes to work. They make sure I'm free of any hair other than the top of my head and my eyebrows, but even there they insist my brow arch can be more defined. Comments and complaints bounce off the walls, that whatever was bothering me should be forgotten, or else I will get wrinkles on my forehead. And I'm making concealing the dark circles under my eyes more difficult.
But I won't forget. Not when one of Snow's workers sits across from me at the table for breakfast. I can't believe that this bright colored, cotton-candy-headed Capitol is a part of this. She seemed nice enough—sickeningly sweet, really—but look at her now. I can't trust that chirping voice of hers. Not a word. So when she rambles on about the exciting Victory Tour we're about to have, I snap.
"No one cares, Effie!" I burst out. The silence that falls—no agreeing comment whatsoever—propels me to march out. I find it harder and harder to breathe through my infuriation so, without thinking, I trigger an alarm upon opening an emergency door. The snow melts instantaneously at my feet when I land in it. I'm that fuming.
As I come down to my knees and let the ice cool me down manually, someone else lands into the snow behind me. The ice under his artificial leg just seems to mold around it.
"Bad day, huh?" Peeta asks. When I ignore him, afraid to spit something unintentionally acidic at him too, Peeta takes the reins on the conversation, as he always does. "I'm sorry, Katniss."
"For what?" I wonder out loud.
"For how ridiculous I was. You remember, on that train back home from…" he trails off, the subject too sensitive to bring back up. "Anyway, I want to say I'm sorry for the way I acted. I put two and two together about you and Gale. It's not your fault you didn't know about my feelings, when you didn't really know I existed."
But I did know he existed, this boy with the bread. The fury inside me takes a turn for the worst, and now I'm guilty that I lied to Peeta. Lied about loving him when my intentions were elsewhere. We are going to be in this for the long haul, now that I've signed my soul away.
So I murmur, "I'm sorry, too," though I'm not entirely sure what for. My feelings were too far up in the air to see clearly. But Peeta's sincerity is there, and it only cues my curiosity. Did he get a letter last night? About…recruitment?
"How about we take a shot at being friends?" he offers, adamant on keeping whatever relationship we have alive. So no letter…
"Okay," I say. Friends is a good start, but it's far from where we are supposed to be. We're supposed to be levels in love beyond friendship. But I take it. At least we're talking again.
"So what's wrong?" That's a question I refuse to answer. It requires me severing this rekindled friendship and jump right to the wedding. Peeta senses this, so he back tracks. Trying again, he offers, "My favorite color's sunset."
"Sunset?" I ask.
"A shade of orange," he explains. "What's yours?"
Amused at the lighter conversation subject, I answer, "Green." I reflect the small smile he gives me. "Sunset's not a color, though," I insist, thinking of the shades of red, yellows, oranges.
"It is! I have paintings to prove it. I think we can go look at them now." He stands up and holds out a hand out to me. "That's what your letter said, too, right? That they set up one of the train cars with just my paintings?"
I force a tightlipped smile, neither agreeing or disagreeing, and take Peeta's hand of friendship. I let our fingers thread around each other's, and absorb the fact that our talk was comfortable due to the absence of cameras. Once we step foot onto the train, I still find comfort there in his hand. His left hand.
"Oh," I speak up, coming to a stop right before getting on the train. "I need to talk to Effie."
Peeta again assumes that I'm going to apologize, but really, I'm dealing with the obligation of turning in my documents. I tell him to go on ahead, and I make a detour to my room for the contract. I call back the feeling of Peeta's hand when I face Effie.
"Here," I say firmly, slapping the packet on the coffee table in front of her.
"Oh my!" she gasps, and laughs at her own shock. I scowl at her. "I'm terribly sorry, Katniss," she says, catching me off-guard. "I wish to have told you sooner, but I have direct orders from our President Snow to refrain from ruining the surprise." Translation: He has something against her as well.
I can't decide on my feelings: angry or pity or empathy. But I settle on giving a nod and walk away, in high hopes that Peeta's paintings will sooth me numb.
They indeed numb me, but the paintings he has strung up on the walls and brightly lit do all be sooth me. There are realistic images that yank back the most terrifying of memories from the Games. The blood, the gore, the tracker jackers, the cornucopia, the mutts, the cave…And Rue.
I reach out, but I forbid myself to touch. "I hate them," I blurt out, caught between glaring and tearing my eyes from the pictures. "The paintings, I mean, Peeta. They make me sick."
He drops his head, nodding somewhat. "I see them every night," he admits darkly. "I can't sleep much ever since then." I ask about last night, if he slept, but he shakes his head no.
So he might've heard me scream over President Snow's letter. I'm much more grateful to him for not asking about it.
All of the sudden, the train jerks back, slowing down for a stop. We rush to a nearby window and wince at the gleaming pinks, greens, yellows. We pass by a golden gate, sky high it seems, and the train pulls into an equally ornate station. A sea of dazzling and outrageous clothes swarms the car, waving and cheering. Last time this happened, we were lining up to get killed.
This must be a scheduled stop, because Effie isn't irked when she steps out. She's smiling. Effie calls us forth, out into the crowd that appears to have been waiting for us. She informs us that the Victory Tour has unfortunately been cut short. Instead of visiting the Districts individually, as they have done for the last 74 years, we will be televised.
I blink again and see the vibrant colors a little more clearly now. The ostentatious clothing, the decorative pave way, the plump citizens…We aren't at District 11, that, I'm certain of. We are at the Capitol.
And on cue, Effie reveals my second letter. While Peeta's distracted by all his wealthy, adoring fans, I read the note.
Everyone will be watching.
It's a warning. My insides coil and I crumple the note, throwing it under the train tracks. This is it. This is where I have to convince everybody how in love I am with Peeta.
When we arrive at the outsized auditorium, with my arm inseparably hooked around Peeta's, I'm astonished by the number of screens arranged on stage. I count them swiftly. Twelve. Professionals wire up each television and one by one they go from static to live feeds of starving, heartrending bodies of people. In one sweep, I look into the eyes of every person from every district. Meanwhile, the Capitols make a beeline for the closest available seat to the stage.
I'm reluctant to detach myself from Peeta, but I'm in need for touch-ups. My prep team slips on my dress, press powder on my cheeks, swirl my hair up and then down. The faster they work on me, the faster my heart thrums against my chest. But I gather myself at the seams and put one foot in front of the other as Peeta leads us out into the spotlight.
It's the same roar of energy from the Games, if not louder. Peeta lifts our clasped hands high into the air, and we receive a thunderous response. In the time that we have to present ourselves, Peeta and I take turns speaking in the direction of the audience, when really, we're intended to speak to the Districts. Encouraging them, reassuring them that if we can beat the odds of the Hunger Games, maybe they can, too.
This more than feels scripted, and it's evident in my anxious voice. Peeta, on the other hand, speaks without a prompt, so full of enlightening and flippant things to say. But he does all he can to not make me look bad by stealing loving glances here and there. I never leave his side.
President Snow stays out of sight during our speeches. I pretend to scour the audience, but there's no sign of his puffy lips or trace of his acerbic breath.
It's Peeta's turn at the podium when we speak to District 11.
"Tributes' families from District 11," he begins solemnly, "although it has no coin value, you have my undying gratitude." A low hum rises out of the audience. I glimpse at the District 11 monitor, and they're listening very closely. "Because of how you raised Thresh and Rue, both of whom, I believe, were some of the strongest tributes…" He takes a moment, a deep wrinkle forming on his brow, and stares at me. The arm he has wrapped around me tightens, and, without tearing his eyes away, he adds, "They live forever in our hearts. Without them, I wouldn't have her."
At the outset, we hear people gush and even cry when Peeta presses a kiss to my lips. But when we part, Peeta and I catch a distinct gasp that sparks off others. I survey the crowd and grasp that several of them are pointing at the televisions. I whirl around in time to see pandemonium on the District 11 screen. They're angry—no, livid at Peeta's words, and I don't understand why. I notice fervently shaking heads, acts of defiance. A step closer and I read the mouths of one of the rebelling citizens.
"Liars! You're liars!"
No more than two seconds later, the live feed cuts to static.
Silence from the auditorium. And then, in a synchronized fashion, the audience jumps to their feet to cheer and applaud eccentrically.
(A/N: Thanks for reading! I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. As you can tell, the story will start out pretty similar to the beginning of Catching Fire, but it will span outwards into it's own individual plot with hints of the original story.
Also, thank you so much for reviewing, for those lovely readers who have! You do realize I receive emails about those of you listing We Got Married as a favorite story or putting it on alert...It kind of, sort of, breaks my heart to not hear from you! Please don't be shy! I'm not mean or anything! In fact, I try to personally reply back signed reviews! So please, if you've got a question, comment, correction, random fact, please share it with a review! I love you forever!)