A/N: Hey guys! Sorry I'm getting this out just a tad bit late. I've had a super busy week and it SUCKED. Seriously, worst week ever, only brightened occasionally by the best group of friends a girl could have. So, I'm kind of down at the moment, but alas, I could not forget about you guys! :)
I've been getting some comments about PK's steamy nightly activities. Most are something along the lines of, "Woo! Finally!" and some are like, "Don't make them sex-crazed." So, just to address that, PK will not be sex-crazed. It only seems that way now because the last two of the three chapters have had a saucy scene. Besides, PK's relationship has evolved to that level, and well, they ARE teenagers. Hormones are raging, people. But to those of you who are worried that this story will lose some of its essence, never fear. Trust me.
Also, it seems like most of you want Katniss pregnant for the Quell, while some of you don't because it's an overused plot. I see both sides. And while I'm not revealing my plans, I will tell you to trust me. This story has been read by two of my friends (guess you could call them secret betas) and they were absolutely fine with what I did, and thought it added a new depth to the story without causing unnecessary drama. Just trust me, guys.
So, now that that's out of the way. Let's get to the quote of the day from the one and only, The Lion King.
"Slimy, yet satisfying." - Timon
Random Disclaimer: I do not own CF, though I do own a rather fantastic fedora; "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"; "Why is the rum always gone?"; "Why so serious?"; "I'll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!"; "I am Asneeze, father of Achoo."; "Dobby did not mean to kill . . . only to maim . . . or seriously injure."; "My precious!"; "Puny god"; "So that's what it feels like"; "Yeah, I can fly."; "There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."; "Your skin is pale white, you dress fashionably, and you abstain from sex. . . I know what you are . . . Jonas brother"; "Snakes. I hate snakes."; "When you marooned me on that god forsaken spit of land, you forgot one very important thing, mate: I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."; "It's like Christmas, but with more . . . me."; "It's the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."; "It's beautiful isn't it, Harry? The moon."; "Hang on, everybody! I wanna try something I saw in a cartoon once!"; "Well that's as clean as it will ever be.; "Slimy, yet satisfying."
Chapter 20
"Haymitch!" I call as I enter my mentor's house. It's still odd for me to walk into his house and not be assaulted by the reek that I'm used to. I can actually see the floor, the furniture looks glossy again, and there's the smell of some type of stew on the stove. Hazelle has turned this place upside down. In a good way.
"What do you want?" Haymitch grumbles, appearing from the kitchen, a glass of clear liquid in his hand that I desperately hope is water. After all, it's hardly eight in the morning.
"Just need to catch up on a few things," Peeta says, speaking for the first time.
After our, um, detour last night, Peeta and I never quite managed to make it over to Haymitch's house to talk like we'd previously discussed. As it was, we had a hard enough time managing to get from the couch to the bedroom. Who knew stairs could be such a hindrance?
Haymitch's eyes narrow. It's uncanny really, his ability to hear what isn't said, but then again, it's not too much of an intuitive leap to come to the conclusion that Peeta and I are not here to discuss how spring is approaching and pretty soon we can frolic through a field of wildflowers.
"Alright, then," he says, making a grand gesture toward the couch. "Let's catch up."
Throughout the past few months, Peeta, Haymitch, and I have developed a sort of shorthand language, just in case we don't want to be overheard talking directly about, oh, I don't know, rebellion? In a matter of minutes, Peeta and I tell Haymitch all about Bonnie and Twill and their belief in the existence of District 13. I tend to do most of the talking, as I continue to tell Haymitch about the uprisings in District 8, 4, and 3. In turn, Haymitch tells us about rumors of revolts in Districts 7 and 11. Peeta and I share a look at the information, thinking the same thing. Nearly half of the districts have attempted to rebel.
Even though I know the answer before I ask the question, I can't stop myself from saying, "Do you still think it won't work here?" I ask.
"Not yet," Haymitch shakes his head, as if he'd anticipated my question. "Those other districts, they're much larger. Even if half the people cower in their homes, the rebels stand a chance. Here in 12, it's got to be all or nothing."
And what with Head Peacekeeper Thread's continuing crackdown here in 12, I'd say that our chance for revolting are practically nonexistent. But, hope, as irritating and uplifting as it is, causes me to insist. "But maybe at some point?"
"Maybe," Haymitch allows. "But we're small, we're weak, and we don't develop nuclear weapons," he adds with his signature sarcasm.
He didn't react very much to my District 13 story. He doesn't believe that somehow, despite all odds, some of District 13's people survived the attacks, escaping the decimation of the Capitol bombs, and began to rebuild underground. And when I put it like that, it seems even more ludicrous.
"So you think 13 was really destroyed?" Peeta asks. Granted, when I'd told Peeta, he had practically shot down the district's existence as well, but he was much more open to the idea.
"Bonnie and Twill were right about the footage of the mockingjay," I state as evidence.
"But what does that prove?" Haymitch asks. "Nothing. There are plenty of reasons they could be using old footage. Probably it looks more impressive. And it's a lot simpler, isn't it? To just press a few buttons in the editing room than to fly all the way out there and film it?" Haymitch takes a drink from his glass. "The idea that 13 has somehow rebounded and the Capitol is ignoring it? That sounds like the kind of rumor desperate people cling to."
I don't argue because he's right and we all know it. Peeta and I stay for a little bit longer, though really it's just me sitting on the couch, tucked into Peeta's side as he and Haymitch talk. I'm struck by the sudden thought that Haymitch spends too much time alone. I mean sure, he's definitely moved up a few steps from the hermit he was before the Games, but he still spends the majority of his time in solitude, only venturing out to buy more liquor, eat with my family or Peeta and I about every other week, and play chess with Prim every Wednesday. That's the only constant. After all these years of being alone simply because he had no other real options, he actually has a family now. Granted, it's completely dysfunctional, and one of the family members is a wolf, but it's still a family. And still he chooses to be alone most of the time?
"Aren't you lonely?" I blurt suddenly, interrupting whatever Haymitch had been about to say.
I know Peeta's giving me a confused look, but my eyes are trained on Haymitch, who is meeting my eyes unflinchingly. I swear I almost see a hint of a smile pull at his lips. "Hard to be lonely when you've got kids," he says after a moment. "Now, go on," he makes a motion toward the door. "Get out of here."
Somehow, I manage to hold back my smile and follow Peeta out the door. Once we're outside, I allow the smile I've been squashing to show, and I glance up at Peeta. "Haymitch has feelings," I say, and Peeta rolls his eyes. "I didn't know he thought of us like that, though," I continue, frowning slightly.
"Emotion is not his strong suit," Peeta says, though I sense his mind is elsewhere. "But he did get us out of the arena, and if we go down, he'll go down with us without complaint."
"Your optimism is overwhelming," I say dryly. Peeta doesn't answer and I take his hand, causing him to look at me. "What's wrong?"
Peeta exhales loudly, running his free hand through his hair, something he does when he's frustrated or stressed. "Haymitch isn't telling us something," he says, and I have a feeling if he weren't holding my hand he'd be pacing. "Something just doesn't feel right."
"What do you mean?"
"Wouldn't you think he'd at least have some hope?" Peeta asks pointedly. "About 13? Wouldn't that seem even more ideal for him than for us? He's been suffering much longer than we have, and he has sources in places high up and down low. If anyone knew anything about whether 13 is alive, it would be Haymitch."
"What are you saying?" I ask. "That Haymitch lied to us?"
Peeta looks at me, his face troubled. "I don't know, exactly. But he knows something that he's not telling."
I frown at the thought. Would Haymitch really keep us in the dark? Why? Don't we deserve to know? Or is Peeta wrong? Is he just reading too much into it? I sigh. Peeta knows people better than anyone I know. He can size up a person in one conversation, even if it's about the weather. If Peeta thinks that Haymitch is hiding something, then he's probably right.
The only question is what? What is Haymitch hiding?
This question sits uncomfortably in the back of my mind all day. Peeta and I spend most of the day doing random things. We run by the bakery and talk with Rye and Chris. Mr. Mellark comes in half way through the conversation and says 'hi,' and Mrs. Mellark is mysteriously absent, but I don't give her more than a moment's thought. Things take a turn for the absurd when Rye tries to get Peeta to wrestle.
"Come on, man!" Rye gives Peeta's shoulder a shove, but Peeta ignores him. And being the child he is, Rye resorts to taunting. "Chicken!" he grins. "What? Afraid to lose in front of your girlfriend?"
After five more minutes of nagging, Peeta finally caves, and Rye whoops in triumph. Chris, who has been silently watching the events unfold like me, merely shakes his head, and I laugh. Chris and I follow Peeta and Rye out the back door so they have some room. Peeta hands me his jacket, and gives me a cocky grin. "This won't take too long."
Rye is affronted. "Oh, we'll see about that, babe! Come on, let's see what you got!"
"More than you," Peeta retorts and Rye smiles gleefully.
"See?" he questions, looking at me. "He thinks he's actually going to win! Don't worry, I won't beat him up too bad."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I look at Chris. "Have an ice pack ready. Rye's going to need it."
Chris laughs, and Rye makes a sound of outrage. Peeta winks at me, before returning his attention to his older brother. "Let's get this over with, Rye," he says. "I've got more important things to do than kick your ass."
"Oh, talk dirty to me," Rye waggles his eyebrows, but nonetheless he gets situated.
There's a brief second of stillness before Rye charges Peeta. I resist the urge to laugh when Peeta catches Rye and throws him to the ground, pinning him. Rye is surprised. "W-what the hell? What was that?"
"Me using your momentum to my advantage?" Peeta suggests, getting up and backing away from his older brother. An easy smile graces his face, and I can't help but smile at the sight. It's rare that I see Peeta interact this way with his brothers. I've usually only seen them working together in the bakery, and though they tease and joke with each other (occasionally threatening), I've never seen them outside the bakery, acting like the teenage boys they are.
"Again," Rye demands, looking more serious than I've seen in a while.
I look up at Chris. "Why do I think this is going to turn violent?"
"Because it will," Chris smiles. "And then I'll have to listen to Rye complain all day."
Peeta and Rye wrestle two more times, and both times Peeta wins handedly, only serving to make Rye angrier. By the third round, fists are being thrown, and it's beginning to look more like a brawl than a wrestling match. Peeta eventually pins Rye to the ground, twisting his older brother's arm behind his back.
I've never heard Rye curse before, but the profanity spewing from his mouth in this moment is enough to make me raise my eyebrows in disbelief. But apparently this isn't new to Peeta, because he's grinning in response.
"Okay, okay," Chris begins to break it up. "Let him go, Peet."
Peeta releases Rye's arm, and springs lightly to his feet. Giving me a bright smile, as he wraps his arms around me, but I push him away. "You're all sweaty!" I complain, crinkling my nose, which only makes Peeta more determined to hug me. Eventually, I give up and let him hold me. He gives me a quick kiss before letting me go, and taking my hand.
"See you guys later," he calls over his shoulder to his brothers. Chris waves, and Rye flips him off.
Peeta laughs.
"Having brothers would be weird," I wonder aloud as we walk back toward the Victor's Village.
Peeta shrugs. "Having sisters would be weird."
"Touché," I admit. "But seriously. All you guys do is eat and fight."
"We're bonding," Peeta says like it's simple, which I suppose for him it is. "Girls show love differently."
"Prim braids my hair," I admit, and Peeta chuckles at the cliché. "We even talked about boys once."
Peeta looks at me in amusement. "So let me get this straight. You, Katniss Mellark, actually participated in the horror known as girl talk?"
I can't help but smile when he calls me 'Mrs. Mellark.' "Yes," I say smartly. "I did." My smile doesn't fade as I think of our conversation we'd had weeks ago. "She likes Rory, but don't say anything!"
"Oh, my lips are sealed," Peeta assures me with a grin. "Does Rory like her back?"
"Prim says that, and I quote, 'he's giving me mixed signals,'" I tell him, and Peeta chuckles.
"I think Prim is smart enough to figure it out," he says. "But maybe I need to have a little talk with Rory . . ."
"Don't you get involved," I chastise him, giving him a playful shove, though it pleases me that he is that protective of my little sister. "You'll just mess it up. Let things unfold naturally."
"Katniss, are you giving relationship advice?" Peeta teases.
"Yes," I answer firmly, fighting a smile. "I do have some experience in the relationship department."
"Really?" Peeta continues to joke.
"Mhm," I nod, pulling him to stop, and standing in front of him. "After all, I married you, didn't I? I think that makes me fairly qualified to give relationship advice."
Peeta smiles softly. "That you did." His hand caresses my cheek. "I guess you are somewhat of an expert in the relationship department, huh?"
"If I can sort through my feelings and yours, anyone can," I say and Peeta laughs, remembering those days when I was so confused it was almost like up was down and down was up.
We spend the rest of the day at my house, sharing a smile when my mother asks him if he finished his painting last night. Peeta replies in the negative, claiming that he got districted by something else. I had to disguise my laugh as a cough.
For the rest of the afternoon, Maya sits at Peeta's feet as he draws absently in his sketchbook. As for me, I'm stretched out on the couch, resting my head in Peeta's lap. I don't realize I've fallen asleep until I'm jolted awake by the door slamming shut. Prim comes into view, so school must be out.
"Hey, Katniss!" Prim bubbles excitedly, causing Maya to lift her head from her paws. "Guess what!"
"What?"
"They're showing your photo shoot tonight!" Prim squeals in excitement, but I frown.
"But they just filmed it yesterday," I argue confusedly, but Prim shrugs.
"The teachers said that we have mandatory viewing tonight!" she argues back with a smile. "It has to be your photo shoot! That's the rumor."
Sure enough when we gather around the television at seven-thirty that night, we see Caesar Flickerman warming up a standing room only crowd. Cinna is ushered onto the stage, and his entrance is greeted by an uproar of cheers and applause. After all, he became a star the minute I stepped onto that chariot before the parade, my outfit of fire securing him his fame. After a few moments of obligatory chitchat, they get the show on the road, and I see shots of my photo shoot appear on the screen.
Prim begins to gush about each dress, while Peeta merely smiles, though his arm tightens around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. We watch all the different photos go by. I learn that Cinna initially designed twenty four wedding dresses for me, and the people of the Capitol actually voted for all the separate pieces. They continued to vote until they'd narrowed it down to the six dresses that I'd worn yesterday.
They gasp and cheer for the dresses that they like and boo for the ones that they don't. It's crazy to think that these people are so absorbed in my wedding. Although, when I look up at Peeta and he meets my gaze, we share a smile, because little does the Capitol know that we're already one step ahead of them. I give Peeta a kiss, not caring that my mother is in the room.
Peeta keeps the kiss chaste and pulls away after only a few seconds. I rest my head on his shoulder as we continue to watch my photo shoot. Finally, it's over, though Caesar reminds the audience to cast their final vote by noon tomorrow. I'm just about to tell Prim to turn off the television when Caesar tells us to stay tuned. "That's right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"
Both Peeta and I tense at the reminder, but Prim is the first one to realize a problem. "What will they do?" she asks. "It isn't for months yet."
Almost as if acting on some unknown signal, our heads turn toward my mother, who is wearing a worn, solemn expression. "It must be the reading of the card."
My eyes dart back to the television screen when the anthem begins to play, and when I see President Snow walking forward onto a balcony, I shrink back into Peeta, as though I'm worried that Snow will simply walk through the screen. Peeta is completely still, his arm around me stiff, though he pulls me even closer to him.
My eyes find a little boy, dressed in a pristine white suit trailing along after Snow holding a simple, rectangular wooden box in his hands. President Snow begins to speak, talking about the Dark Days, which resulted in the Hunger Games. To commemorate the anniversary, every twenty-five years would be marked as a Quarter Quell, an especially horrifying Hunger Games to keep the memory of those killed in the rebellion fresh in mind. The words resonate with me, because no doubt many districts are rebelling now.
Snow continues on, oblivious to my discomfort and disgust, and tells of the previous Quells. "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."
Horror and shock hit me like a freight train. What must that have been like? Voting on who would be, in essence, given a death sentence. Standing in the crowd at a reaping, waiting for your name to be drawn is hard enough. But being chosen by your district? Knowing that more than one person chose you to be thrust in the arena? I shudder.
"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes . . ." Snow continues.
That was the year Haymitch won. How insurmountable his fate must have seemed, facing forty-seven tributes instead of twenty-three.
"I had a friend who went that year." My head turns to my mother, who looks more haggard than I've seen in a while. "Maysilee Donner. Her parents owned the sweet shop. They gave me her songbird after. A canary."
I hardly have time to think on this before President Snow begins to speak once again. "And now we honor our third Quarter Quell," he says, actually having the gall to smile, and somehow I have a feeling that he's smiling just for me. A sense of foreboding settles uncomfortably in my stomach. The little boy holds up his little rectangular wooden box, and Snow reaches in and selects a card, which is aged and yellow. He unfolds the envelope gingerly, and immediately reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."
My mind goes blank. For a moment, nothing processes. My basic senses are the only things functioning. Peeta's fingers digging into my shoulder. A shriek. My mother? Prim's face buried in her hands.
And then it all clicks and my brain begins to work. It swiftly forms one, horrifying conclusion.
I'm going back into the arena.
And now you know that Katniss is going back into the arena. Woo! Bring on the Quell (and whatever else I have in store)! Muahahaha!
Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . Katniss!
"I should've just died."
Lots of love,
AC
