It's well past midnight but I refuse to leave the hospital wing, despite the near murderous looks the nurses are giving me. Instead I concentrate on the way Peeta's eyelashes fall against the tops of his cheeks. He looks like the most peaceful person in the world—a far cry from the person he was earlier this evening.
I've been sitting by his hospital cot listening to the gentle hum of the machines around me and when I'm positive the nurses have left the area, I inch as close to the narrow bed as I can. I place my palm over Peeta's chest, comforted somewhat by its steady rise and fall. With my other hand I brush away the hair that's fallen into his eyes and I let myself linger a bit on his cheek.
Wake up, I silently plead, remembering the way his eyes went wide with terror in the conference room and the way he gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned bone-white. I was so focused on Coin's directions that it wasn't until almost everyone had left the room until I realized something was wrong.
Very wrong.
In a flurry of movement, Johanna had pushed herself out of the chair next to Peeta and yanked his arms up and away from his body. Peeta had fallen to his knees, tried to stand, and then careened towards the wall, all the while his face a mask of pain and fear. Before I could even process what was happening he started clawing at the concrete wall of the conference room, tearing his nails to pieces.
Carefully, I run my fingers over his, frowning at the bandaged tips. When I had tried to run at him, Haymitch grabbed my arms and pulled them behind my back. My screaming is what alerted one of the District 13 guards to run down the hall and towards the commotion. Luckily he'd had a sedative on him.
Even after being transferred to the hospital wing hours ago, Peeta has yet to wake up.
I lay my head down on the stiff mattress and clutch onto his forearm. Closing my eyes, I bring his hand to my face as delicately as I can.
"I couldn't let you go," I whisper into his palm. I doubt he can hear me but at this point I'm speaking to try and ease the tension that has been slowly building behind me eyes and inside my chest. I just need to tell someone.
After Peeta's 'episode' Haymitch gave me a very basic description of the types of attacks Peeta's been prone to ever since the Quell—influenced heavily by the amount of venom he was exposed to in the arena.
The type of attacks Peeta has never told me about.
The type of thing that Peeta kept from me even though I thought we were done with secrets months ago.
But right now I'm too worried about his health to be angry and I'm too caught up in the reason he had this 'episode' in the first place. Peeta must know why I volunteered to go on the mission. As much as I've grown fond of Finnick, I didn't volunteer for him. Or Annie. I volunteered for Peeta because this time I can.
I volunteered for Peeta because I will not lose him again.
Never again—he said it himself.
"You promised me you wouldn't leave me again and I couldn't let you go," I murmur again into the skin of his wrist. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to block out the memories of my life after the Quell. "You know how much I love you, don't you?" I sigh, feeling sleep start to tug at me. "I need to keep you someplace where you won't get hurt."
I don't even know why I'm explaining this to him when he's clearly not conscious. I don't even know why I'm explaining this at all considering he must know it himself. How could he possibly think he is stable enough to enter any sort of combat training—especially after the episode in the conference room? I hate myself a little bit for thinking along the lines of Alma Coin, but he would be a danger to everyone involved if he were deployed. He'd be a danger to himself.
Selfishly, though, my reasons had nothing to do with logic. I simply couldn't bear the thought of seeing him leave again.
At some point, I drift off clutching Peeta's hand to my cheek and wake up to it being pulled roughly away. It must be one of the nurses, so I open my eyes groggily, ready to start arguing, and instead am met with Peeta's blue stare.
I sit up quickly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and move back in my chair to stretch my spine. My back cracks and I look down at Peeta, taking into account his ashen face and blood-shot eyes.
"Peeta?" I question, worry evident in my voice. He stares down at his hands, which are clasped together in his lap and, noticeably, not between my own. There are about a hundred things I want to say to him. How is he feeling? Is he in pain? What does he remember?
Why the hell he didn't tell me he was so sick?
"How do you feel?" I ask instead.
He doesn't answer but I see his jaw clench tightly so I know he heard me. A part of me wonders if he knows what exactly happened. During the incident, I had turned to Finnick for answers but he just looked at Peeta with glassy eyes. Johanna wasn't much help either, only muttering under her breathe that it wasn't her damn story to tell.
Again, I've been left in the dark.
"Peeta," I whisper. "Do you know what happened?" I ask, reaching for his hand. Peeta glances at me, his blue eyes shining against the fluorescent lights of the hospital. The sweat has dried from his hair, making the ends curl against his neck. When my fingers brush his, he does something he's never ever done before. He shrinks away.
My mouth falls open in shock. I'm too surprised to be hurt by the action—too confused—so I search his face, starting to worry and trying to figure out if maybe something terrible happened inside that head of his. I'm about to ask him another question when he speaks.
"When do you go?" he asks. His voice is short and clipped and I've noticed that he's not even looking at me, but at the door behind me. I narrow my eyes at him, out of reflex more than anything else, wondering why he's taking this tone with me and why he refuses to meet my eyes. A bubble of dread begins to form in my stomach as a plethora of confusing worst-case scenarios fills my mind.
"I…I have a meeting tomorrow with Coin and the rescue team," I explain. The details of the mission weren't exactly hashed out in the conference room. There was a lot of arguing between Haymitch and Coin and once I figured out that Peeta was…not right…I forgot everyone else in the room.
At my words, Peeta's mouth sets into a firm line. Frustrated by his behavior I grasp one of his hands in my own, only to have Peeta yank it away.
"Stop!" he bellows, and the sound is deafening in the silent room. I can feel my eyebrows pull together, angling high over my nose. "Stop," he adds more quietly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What is wrong with you?" I ask quietly, unable to hide the fear from my voice. My gut twists uncomfortably when he looks away from me.
Peeta rolls his jaw and closes his eyes briefly.
"What's wrong with me?" he asks, opening his eyes to send daggers my way. "Let's think about that one for a second, OK? What's wrong with me is that I have one leg and one kidney. What's wrong with me is that my shoulder looks like ground beef. What's wrong with me is that I have panic episodes that leave me tired and confused and terrified and I don't know how to make them stop. What's wrong with me is that I can't control anything. Not one thing. What's wrong with me is that I can't even look at you right now because I'm so angry at myself and the Capitol and at you!"
Peeta is roaring by the end of his tirade, his neck red and cheeks ruddy. I've never seen him this furious before. In fact, I would have suspecting him incapable of such anger. I search my mind for way to handle the situation. I've felt terrible about Peeta's circumstance for as long as I can remember. How many times have I told him he's too good and sweet and kind to deserve all of what's been handed to him? He's been chewed up and spit back out and he's quite obviously not the same—something that breaks my heart because I know he hates how much he's changed. He blames himself for it.
But if he thinks he can take this tone with me he has another thing coming.
"At me?" I ask incredulously, once I locate my voice. Peeta shifts on the bed, his mouth curling into some sort of sneer, and shoots me a look as if to say "where the hell have you been?"
"Yes. You," he clarifies when I don't respond.
"What the hell did I do?" I nearly screech. In the back of my mind I wonder if the nurses can here us screaming at each other and how long it will take for them to usher me out.
Peeta's anger dissipates slowly. His shoulders slump and his head hangs low against his chest. He runs his hands through his tangled blonde hair and breathes deeply. When he lifts his head to look at me again his eyes are pained.
"Why did you have to do it, Katniss?"
I realize that as Peeta yelled I'd shrunk back against the chair I'm sitting in. Embarrassed that I let his anger get to me, I sit up straighter, lock my shoulders and lift my chin.
"Because I couldn't let you go again," I tell him clearly. Swallow thickly, I attempting to ward off the memories of having to say goodbye to him before the Quell that usually leave me either an emotional mess or completely numb. I can't afford to be either of those right now so I wait a few moments before speaking next.
"I couldn't watch you leave again and not know if you were coming back. I couldn't do that again."
I let my eyes bore into his, hoping, for once, that he could just see right through me understand. He doesn't say anything though, and I wonder if he thinks less of me because my actions were not motivated out of love and respect for our friend Finnick, but out of my own selfishness.
"You're sick," I explain. "You've been through too much and you need to be safe. Here."
While my voice had started off clear and strong, it's dissolved into nothing more than a whisper now. Peeta's face contorts and I realize too late that I've struck a particularly sensitive nerve.
"Don't tell me what I need," he snaps. "You don't know what I need. You have no idea," he shouts.
Far too quickly, I shoot up and out of the chair by his bed, almost tripping on his prosthetic that I'd removed while he was out cold.
Because I know that he needs it to be removed for him to rest properly. How could he believe I don't know what he needs? I know what he needs more than anyone. I'm one of the few people in the world that understands Peeta the way he needs to be understood.
Anger and frustration flow through my limbs with increasing speed and after only a few seconds I'm shaking. We stare each other down and the longer I stand over him, the more furious I become. In fact, I don't think I've ever been this angry with him in my life. I can hear my teeth grind together in my jaw as my blood boils beneath my skin.
"How the hell am I supposed to know if you don't tell me anything?" I shout at him, poking him hard in the chest with my finger. "You didn't tell me about your episodes! I had to learn about that through Haymitch. I should know about that!" I explain, completely irate. "You're my…" I trail off, searching for the correct word. We've never felt the need to define what we are because everything has always been so heated and confused between us. But fuck if I wish we just had the damn conversation because now I'm sputtering like an idiot.
"You're my…you're mine and I need to know that stuff. And you lied to me. You kept your condition a secret. What happened to no more secrets, Peeta?" I finish furiously.
"Yeah, well you don't tell me much either," he shouts back. "It's been months and you haven't told me what exactly happened in District 12 after I left. That's been a secret, too. Why won't you let me in? I thought I might have deserved that much. Just to know."
His statement literally forces me away from his bedside. Is he aware of how much of a hypocrite he is being? My expression must look stony.
"You want to know?" I hiss. "Fine. I lost my mind. I stayed in bed for days at a time and would only leave when Prim would start to cry. I hid in closets because everything reminded me of you and I thought you died and I was alone and I couldn't handle the thought of living if you weren't doing it with me. I forgot to eat and I couldn't sleep and I was weak and pathetic and when those Capitol reporters came onto your lawn, I shot at them and I don't even know if I meant to miss or not. I threatened to kill them and then I hid in your house and waited to die. And frankly, Peeta, I think I wanted to."
I refuse to break eye contact with him even though all I want to do is run away. My chest is heaving after my emotional explanation—and my throat hurts from the yelling—but I keep my chin held high.
Good, I think. Now he knows how completely pathetic I am.
Something shifts in him though, and for the first time during our 'conversation' I think that Peeta finally realizes just how much of an asshole he's being.
"That's what happened," I confirm in a sharp whisper. "Now you know."
Peeta gulps and the way his fingers twitch against the bedspread have me thinking that he wants to make a grab for my hand. In most cases I would curl up next to him and let him hold me, breathing in the comforting scent of his skin.
But right now I just want to get the hell away from him. I turn sharply on my heel and head for the hospital exit. As I'm opening the door, Peeta's quiet voice halts me mid-stride.
"If you leave and don't come back, that's what I'll be like. Why would you want that for me?"
His words deliver the blow he obviously intended but I suck up any sudden doubts I feel creeping forth and take a deep, grounding breath. I move my head to the side but don't glance back in his direction. That's what he would want.
"Because I'm selfish," I respond, and then I leave the hospital before I do something stupid like cry.
The next morning I purposely get breakfast at the earliest possible hour, intent on avoiding anyone and everyone that may have been witness to Peeta's episode yesterday.
I shovel food into my mouth without tasting it and guzzle coffee until I feel my fingers start to shake. Last night I slept in my bed in my family's compartment. Needless to say, I didn't actually sleep. There were a variety of times throughout the night when I almost snuck back into the hospital wing but as soon as I remembered just how much of a stubborn ass Peeta was being I changed my mind and silently berated myself for almost being so pitiful.
I walk down the twisted maze of hallways to one of the lowest floors in the District. The schedule tattooed to my arm says I'll be in training this morning but I don't recognize the area I'm being sent to.
"Compound 6"
It takes a while for me to find the place, but once I reach the double doors of Compound 6, I'm ready to just get my hands on a bow and start firing arrow after arrow into a dummy. I'd never tell anyone this, but I actually enjoy the training District 13 forces us to do. They always make me practice my archery and I relish in the feel of a bow in my hands. And although I miss my father's bow deeply, I'll take what I can get.
It's something I haven't been able to do freely since before the Victory Tour.
The double doors lead into an enormous gymnasium, completely barren except for a line of dummies on the far side and a stand with a variety of bows and quivers in the middle. Gale is rifling through a quiver as I enter. His back is turned to me but when he hears my footsteps hit the floor, echoing loudly off the walls, he turns around. My stomach drops when he does.
I knew that I had to face Gale eventually, especially after the latest meeting in the conference room when he volunteered to accompany me on the mission, but I didn't know that it would be so soon. At this point, I'm aware of how stubborn I've been these past few months. As time has allowed, my head has been cleared of its blurry rage and bitterness. I understand why Gale didn't tell me about Peeta, or the rebellion, and I know that I would have done the same thing if I were in his position. It took me months to grasp and I know there's no way I can articulate just how I came about that realization. It's simply something that I've come to see over time.
An apology has been long overdue but the longer I've waited, the more difficult it's become to confront him.
And as he stands in front of me now, staring at me with hard, grey eyes, it's a struggle to even maintain eye contact with him because I'm so ashamed of my behavior. If he senses how uncomfortable I am, he doesn't let on. In fact, he just keeps staring at me.
It takes an exorbitant amount of time to swallow up my courage and speak but I find the strength somehow, choosing the simplest words.
"Gale," I say, my voice radiating off the polished floor. Briefly, I allow myself to close my eyes and I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry," I say, pulling at my braid awkwardly.
Gale remains standing, the arm that holds his quiver falls slightly by his side. I can't even look at his face, knowing that what I see staring back at me will probably send me running.
"I'm sorry for blaming you for something that was out of your control," I explain, taking time to find the right words even though I just end up disappointed with myself when I hear them come out of my mouth. "I understand why you did it," I add quietly, hoping that he'll throw me a bone and talk or move or acknowledge me in any way.
Gale shifts on his feet and then hikes the quiver over his shoulder. I watch as he takes a few steps away from me, snatches the bow off the stand in the middle of the room, and then turns to face me again.
"You know, you're really horrible with words," he says, meeting my eyes. He doesn't look angry, or sad, even. I find I can't read him at all and for the first time in a very long time, I realize just how much Gale Hawthorne has changed.
"I never said I wasn't," I reply, shoving my hands into my pockets and feeling the cold sea glass against my fingers. Gale studies me for a minute, his expression hard, before turning away and moving toward one of the targets lined up against the far wall.
He positions himself and aims an arrow one of the dummies on the far left. I watch as he pulls back the bowstring, and he releases an arrow into the dummy's neck. He moves for another arrow but I speak again before he can string it.
"Gale," I shout, my voice more panicked than I had intended. This seems to get his attention and he turns around quickly. It's overwhelming trying to apologize to someone who deserves so much more. Who's worked day and night to help, to do the right thing. Who is my oldest friend and saw me at my absolute worst. I have no idea know what to say and I rack my brain for something.
A quiet "thank you" escapes my lips before I can think of anything more meaningful.
Gale's eyebrows turn down.
"For what?" he asks gruffly.
"For volunteering to go with me on this mission," I answer automatically, although I know it's more than that. I'm thanking him for so much more. And I'm sorry for so much more.
"I figured we'd spent so much time protecting you we might as well keep up with the charade," he answers dismissively, though he doesn't turn away from me like I think he would. His words sting.
"I understand why you're mad at me," I say quietly. Of course I know. I've known for months but I've been wallowing in self-pity and fear of confrontation because I know he was right.
Gale pauses, glancing down at his bow, plucking the string gently. He stares at the weapon for a very long time.
"I'm not mad at you," he says after a while. I'm about to open my mouth and argue but he cuts me off. "I can't be mad at you when none of this is your fault. Or my fault. The Games changed you and I was naïve enough to think they wouldn't. The Quell changed you even more. And this war has done the same. It's changed me, too."
Gale's words stun me silent and we share a long look. He's tired and seems older beyond his years. His short haircut makes his features look severe in the unforgiving light and his eyes look haunted. But I guess they've been that way for a while now.
"I'm not mad at you for adapting to survive. I've done the same," he continues. "People change."
With that, Gale turns around, stings an arrow and shoots straight into one of the dummies resting against the wall. I walk on stiff legs towards him and pick up a twin bow and a quiver of arrows. We practice shooting together in silence and for a moment it could be as if we were back in District 12, scouting the woods for game to bring back to the Hob.
But we're in District 13, preparing for a rescue mission. The country is at war.
Gale is right. Too much is different.
"Thank you for standing by me," I tell him after about half an hour of shooting practice. "Even though I changed."
I more or less sneak into the cafeteria that evening, hoping to go by unnoticed again. I still don't want anyone to confront me about the scene in the conference room and I definitely don't want to have to face Peeta just yet. I've had to deal with a camera in my face for most of the day as they captured footage of me 'preparing for battle' so I'm really not in the mood to talk to or see anyone. But like most things in my life, nothing seems to go my way.
I'm just about at the end of the food line when Johanna 'accidentally' nudges my side.
"Everdeen," she sings. "Don't think you can avoid us."
I sigh and turn around. Johanna is balancing her tray with one hand while the other rests on her hip. I contemplate abandoning my food and just running but she has me cornered and making a scene would be equally as unpleasant as just dealing with her. Johanna takes me by the arm and drags me over to a table where I see Finnick staring vacantly at his tray. I slip into the bench and start eating my food, hoping that the faster I do so, the faster I'll be relieved from this awkward situation.
My mouth is filled with potatoes when Finnick sighs and then speaks.
"Katniss, I never thanked you for volunteering to go on the mission to Four. Thank you. I can't even begin to tell you what it means," he says. I look up from my plate and see him staring at me beseechingly. It's a far cry from the usual 'playful cockiness' routine he has going on. His normally vibrant green eyes are dull and his skin looks a bit pasty. To be completely honest, I haven't even really thought about the importance of this mission, or what it will mean to Finnick. Like always, I've been thinking about myself. But now, as I stare at the broken man before me, I understand just how important it is to bring Annie back to safety. It's incredibly sobering.
"But Peeta—" Finnick begins before I cut him off angrily.
"Peeta was being an asshole," I snap. Out of the corner of my eye I see Johanna grin widely. Finnick only frowns and then glances down at his food, as if his potatoes have the correct response to my outburst. I don't even know if they heard what went on in the hospital but if they didn't, my behavior is probably very confusing.
Luckily Johanna answers my silent question right away.
"Don't pretend you didn't hear the screaming match," Johanna tells Finnick, annoyed. I might not like her, but Johanna isn't one to beat around the bush. For once I find myself thankful for her brazen remarks because I honestly don't think I can handle this side of Finnick. At least not right now, when I have a million other things on my mind.
"Finnick was hovering around the hospital wing, ready to apologize profusely to Peeta after he woke up," Johanna explains with her mouth full of chicken.
"Peeta's not the boss of me," I barge in, irate. "He's not my keeper."
I don't know how or when everyone decided that Peeta was suddenly responsible for my every move but I swear to God if one more person references "apologizing to him", I'm going to throw something. Finnick looks up at me quickly but doesn't show any sign that he might apologize. I scowl and spear a potato with my fork, shoving it into my mouth forcefully.
"I know that," Finnick says softly. "But put yourself in his shoes. The episodes make him temperamental and over-emotional. He's not himself during them and he isn't really himself directly after them, either."
Finnick runs a hand through his hair and then rubs his eyes. I want to tell him that maybe I would know these things about his episodes if Peeta had told me about them in the first place but I really don't want to start ranting right now. Plus, I'm so tired and frustrated that there is a high chance I might start crying if I explain my feelings and I definitely don't want anyone to witness that.
And did he forget the terrible things Peeta happened to say?
"You don't know what I need. You have no idea."
"Can you honestly blame him, Katniss?" Finnick asks quietly. "He's worried about you. It's not the Hunger Games but it's still a war mission and it's dangerous."
Finnick pauses before taking a short sip of water. He looks like he wants to say more but ultimately decides to leave the table without saying goodbye. As I finish the rest of my food, I let my mind carry me to a place where I have the strength of character to apologize to Finnick. Maybe I've been too callous with him. My frustration with Peeta has prevented me from thinking about my friend. I haven't really thought about Annie at all and I know that if I were in Finnick's position I would be a complete wreck.
Even though Peeta is driving me crazy.
With nothing to say, I finish off my meal in silence. Johanna seems to be in her own little world, staring off into the corners of the cafeteria, lost in thought. When I'm done with my food, I pile my utensils and plate onto the cafeteria tray and get up from the table.
"It was actually kind of pathetic how quickly he lost his spunk," Johanna muses just as I'm about to walk away. "I went to see him this morning but he was too busy moping and hanging his head and figuring out ways to try and apologize to you."
I don't even have to look at her to know that Johanna is telling the truth. It's not like Peeta to remain angry for a long period of time. On top of it all, I've been increasingly worried about how our fight might be affecting his mental state because I still don't know anything about that.
I don't care though. I'm still mad at him.
Johanna smiles at the look on my face.
"Think on the bright side, Everdeen. The more angry you are with each other, the better the makeup sex will be."
My scowls and glares have lost their luster since being cooped up underground but I think I manage to send Johanna a pretty lethal one, nonetheless.
After dinner, I walk slowly back to my compartment, not wanting to face the fact that I'm most likely sleeping alone again. It confused my mother and Prim when they found me 'asleep' in my bed last night but they were both smart enough not to say anything.
I'm watching the floor when I open the door so I'm surprised when I look up to see Peeta sitting on the sofa. Not expecting—or wanting—to see him so soon, I frown and shut the door behind me. Peeta gets up off the couch, wincing slightly at the pressure put on his hip.
I pretend no to notice it.
"Hey," he says quietly. I look him in the eyes but then think better of it and avert mine to his forehead. The way he's standing, and the look on his face, reminds me of the orphaned puppies that would crawl around the Hob in the summers looking for scraps.
"I know you probably don't want to see me right now," he explains in a quiet voice. "But I owe you an explanation."
I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin. I continue to stare at his forehead, knowing that if I let his eyes sway me, like they so easily do, I'll just end up forgiving him and I am not ready to do that yet. Peeta sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. He looks once at the ground but then looks right at me, his blue gaze unwavering the entire time he talks.
"My episodes are a direct result of the venom I was exposed to in the arena. The doctors here tell me that it reacted chemically with the enzymes in my blood and tissues, causing me to have seizures at times when my adrenaline runs high. That's all I really understand of it."
I swallow the lump in my throat but make no other movements. Peeta takes a small step towards me but halts quickly when he sees me begin to back away.
"I've only had a few episodes but they've been terrible," he continues. "The last one before the one in the conference room was the day they told me the Capitol was going to bomb District 12."
Peeta says the last bit with difficulty, imploring me with his stare, pleading me to understand. I think I might. But I'm still so angry and hurt that he didn't tell me this in the first place. He might not have lied but he sure as hell didn't tell the truth. It's the one thing we promised never to do to one another.
"When you volunteered, I just kept thinking about...about the Reaping and...I didn't like you risking yourself like that," he struggles. "I hadn't had one since you got here and I thought that maybe it was because I was better. But that's not the only reason I didn't tell you," he adds. Peeta takes his hands out of his pockets and runs them through his hair roughly. He looks at the wall to his right and bites his lip while I fight off the urge to reach out for him.
"I don't like who I've become," he explains. "I'm not the same person I was. I don't look the same," he continues, laughing bitterly and gesturing down his body. "I can't do a lot of the things I used to. I guess I was scared that if I told you about how mentally unstable I could be, then…then it would be like admitting how useless I've become."
I take the end of my braid in my hand, twisting the end through my fingers. He must know that's not how I feel about him. But I'm still too angry to clarify this.
"Like dead weight," Peeta exhales. "Just like in our Games. A burden."
I look quickly to him, remembering finding him in the mud and discovering his festering leg. Even if I wanted to say something I don't think I could. I never looked at him like a burden, even if he—and the entire country—thought of him that way during our Games. He was my ally. He was my hope that we could survive together.
He still is.
Peeta takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his eyes.
"I'm sorry I kept this from you," he says, taking a step towards me. When I don't move away, he takes another.
"And I'm sorry for the way I acted in the hospital. And the things I said."
When he gets close enough, he runs his fingers over the end of my braid, catching my fingers as he moves down. I let myself search his eyes, finding myself lost in how glassy they've become. He's not far. If I wanted to, I could probably lean forward and kiss him.
"And you are not selfish," he finishes quietly, before turning away and leaving the room.
I'm barely awake. I'm a zombie.
The training has been exhausting, yes, but it's the briefings and the meetings that are the most tiring. I don't know if I can remember all the steps in this elaborate plan. I don't know if I'm smart enough, or if I can follow directions like I'm supposed to. I don't know how to be a soldier, even if Coin says I'm technically not one. Even if I'm going on this mission to be a 'prop' of sorts, I'm still a part of the team.
A team that is going on a recovery mission and needs to be prepared for battle.
I'm on my way back to my room from dinner after my second day of 'mission training'. Gale and I are still awkward, which, although it's to be expected, and is my fault, it's another unwanted weight on my shoulders. I didn't sleep last night and I've been anxious all day. Peeta wasn't at dinner, either. I haven't talked to him since he showed up at my compartment last night and I have no idea how he is how he is doing.
His forlorn expression and puppy-dog eyes haunted me all night.
So when I see Haymitch ambling towards me as I make my way through a deserted hall, I'm not in the mood to be hassled. I'm completely aware that I have to apologize to him, as well. But for some reason I can't explain, apologizing to Haymitch is far more difficult than apologizing to Gale. It's so difficult I've all but bleached the idea from my brain because it brings me such anxiety.
Haymitch was doing his job as a Mentor. He was protecting me. And he was protecting Peeta. As best he could.
And he succeeded.
I owe him more than an apology. I owe him more than I can possibly comprehend.
Haymitch raises his eyebrows at me when I stop in the middle of the hall. Turning around would be cowardly and walking past him, ignoring the man, would be equally as bad. He crosses his arms over his torso and cocks his head to the side, amused by the sight of me.
"Always the one with words, aren't you sweetheart?" he says with a bit of mirth to his voice.
"I've got too much to say. It's clogging my brain," I shoot back. It's not a lie, that's for sure. Haymitch laughs at this, a booming sound that's offensive in the quiet hallway.
"That's quite the line. Did the boy teach you that one?" he asks when he finally catches his breath. I stiffen noticeably at the mention of Peeta. Now that I think of it, I'm not sure Haymitch has ever referred to Peeta by his real name in my presence. He's always "the kid" or "the boy".
The same "kid" or "boy" that lied to me and the same "kid" or "boy" that I love so damn much that it's becoming increasingly more difficult to just stay mad at him. Staying mad at him would be best because then it would be easier to leave him in a few days.
My mind is tangled up.
"I'm sorry," I blurt out suddenly. Haymitch's smile slowly twists itself into a thin line. We stare at each other for a few more minutes. He is, no doubt, taking in my ragged appearance. The unkempt braid and dull eyes. The pallid complexion and ever-present scowl. He looks similar: messy hair and sunken cheeks. He might be drunk, I honestly can't tell anymore. Maybe it's the only way he functions. I've accepted that about him, though. Just like he must accept that my sudden, belated apology is the only way I'll be able to communicate how ashamed I truly am. Unlike Gale, Haymitch doesn't need an explanation. He knows I'm sorry for the way I acted in District 12, for my catatonic grief, and my misguided anger and betrayal once we arrived in 13. All Haymitch has to do is look at me to just know.
Maybe it's because he and I are more alike than we like to let on.
"Good," he says. "You should be."
All I can do is nod. I shift on my feet a little, tugging the sleeves of my shirt down over my wrists. Haymitch moves forward but before he can move past me, I stop him, unable to contain the question that's been eating away at me since arriving here.
"Do you trust President Coin?" I whisper dangerously low. I search his face, hoping to find an answer I don't know how to look for. I don't even know what answer I want. I do not like the woman, that's for sure. I hate her. I hate that she parades Peeta and I around just like Snow did. I hate her and her politics. But do I trust her?
I don't know.
Haymitch swallows and rubs his hands over his face. When he looks at me again, his eyes are clear and hard.
"I trust her with this mission. I trust that she will bring you, Hawthorne, the 13 soldiers and that crazy girl back here."
I stare at him, unmoving. Something's off. Haymitch doesn't look as relieved as I feel. In fact, he looks more even more conflicted.
"I don't know about the rest, though."