A/N: I don't own anything, in case anyone was curious, and there are some direct quotes from the book in here, so yeah. Also, I'm a little fond of this chapter lol :) Enjoy!
Review Replies:
Kari: Thank you!
iam97: Thanks for the encouragement! I'm glad you think Peeta's in character, and well, I just feel so bad for Madge. Her life just sucks right now. XP
AriadneO: Thank you and welcome! I have a lot of the explanation of what happened in the past already written, so I don't want to explain to much yet. Besides, it's fun to guess what's going on. x) I just think it's more entertaining, but don't worry, I promise we'll get some more info down the way.
CHAPTER 5: FINE AND FAIR
"I do the cakes," Peeta admitted a little shyly. "At home. The iced ones, for the bakery."
"Lovely," Katniss muttered sarcastically. "If only you could frost someone to death."
He didn't know why it made him so angry, she hadn't been inaccurate or dishonest in her evaluation of his skill set. Icing cakes was his only skill and it wasn't going to do him any good in the arena. He knew this was true, would have probably pointed it out himself at a different time.
But the anger boiled over anyway.
"Okay!" he yelled at her. "I get it! I get it! I'm screwed, I'm useless, I'm worthless. I'm dead. There is nothing I can do that will make me any match against the other tributes. I can't even climb a goddamn tree!"
He wasn't clever, like Katniss. Didn't have the skills to survive alone in the woods. Wasn't quiet, cunning, or handy with a weapon. He wasn't trained to survive or to compete. And there wasn't enough time to even attempt to learn. They had been training, practicing. She was doing her best to give him the skills he needed to make it through this alive, and it still wasn't helping. Because he was a lost cause.
Once he was in that arena, he was dead. End of discussion.
But did she really have to throw that back in his face? Couldn't he just have these few moments alone with her without the sarcastic, biting bitterness of a mentor who knew her tribute was as good as chopped liver?
"Excuse me?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes dangerously. "Did I say you could just give up?"
It was a rhetorical question.
"Did I say you could just toss in the towel because you're too chickenshit to put in the effort? Did I say you were allowed to quit just because it's the easy way out?" By the end she was yelling at him, tossing her hands about wildly, accusation in her every gesture.
"No," she informed him. "I didn't. And if I didn't tell you to do it, you will not do it. You don't give up, until I tell you to give up. You don't quit, until I tell you to quit. You don't die, until I tell you to die."
Her face was flushed with anger and adrenaline. She looked like a tiger ready to spring at any moment, baring teeth and claws. Instead, "Drop and give me fifty."
Peeta stared at her blankly.
She stepped closer to him, closer until she was an inch from his chest, staring up into his bright blue eyes. "I said, drop and give me fifty." He could smell the berries from breakfast on her breath.
It took him another three seconds to finally register what she was telling him to do.
"Do it now, or you can do it with me sitting on your back."
She was telling him to do push ups and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. But he complied all the same. Getting down on his hands and knees, he stretched out until he was planked on the floor. He went down, and she counted out loud.
"One."
…
When Katniss trained with Peeta she was dressed mostly in modesty. Though tight fitting, her black pants were designed to stretch and move with her as she ran, climbed, and crouched. Her shirt was black as well and cropped just above her navel, revealing skin that was just a little lighter than the dusty tan that the rest of her had; it was a tank top with a modest neckline attached to wide straps on her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back as it always was in a loosely constructed braid that severed to keep most of it out of her face save a few flyaway strands. Her boots were mid-calf and laced up tightly. They looked like they fit perfectly and she moved as though she had spent her whole life in them.
Overall, her work-out gear was designed mostly for practicality, and only a little for show.
But when they were outside the training grounds, anywhere that there might be cameras, her wardrobe changed dramatically. Silky, slinky materials emphasized curves that she barely had. Cuts and slits revealed what seemed to be miles of silky skin. Copper metals accented her dark hair, her tanned skin, even criss-crossed her delicate neck.
Occasionally, when her back was exposed, he could catch a glimpse of something shimmery and gold.
All of it was Capitol designed. They wanted to give the audience that girl from the Games. The Victor from District 12 who blew everyone away. The Girl Who Was On Fire. And they tried to show that with make-up and strange twists in her hair and slinky materials... but they never quite got it in Peeta's mind. They never captured the girl who had the strength, at only thirteen, to step forward and take her little sister's place. They didn't—couldn't—show the girl who tried so hard to save her family when they were starving, her friends when they were dying, her district when they were lost.
The Capitol didn't understand hardship. How could they ever expect to embody it?
If anything, their attempts at beautifying Katniss only seemed to make her seem less like the spectacular girl everyone had watched on screens across Panem. The more painted she was, the more her personality seemed to fall away, leaving behind this empty, painted shell.
Peeta felt like he was still watching her twirl like a frivolous little girl on stage for thousands of cooing Capitol idiots until she was too dizzy to stand.
He liked her far more as she was now, dressed as practically as the Capitol would allow, prepared to train with him right down to the last day. He thought back to their conversation earlier (and the soreness in his arms from all the push-ups...) and felt a little swell in his heart. She was trying so hard to keep him alive. And he wanted it, oh, did he want it. To have her care about him... but it was such a stupid thing to want now. Here, at the Games, where he was going to die. If she finally felt something for him and then lost him... Well, he wasn't too keen on that either.
He let out a sigh. Sometimes, life sucked no matter how much he told himself to be grateful that Katniss was only about a foot from him. She had finally taken pity on him and they were taking a break—one of very few she ever allowed them to have—Peeta sitting with his knees slightly bent on the strange, shiny black surface of a platform near the obstacle course where they had been training. Katniss was beside him, legs dangling over the edge.
She was staring at Madge, a look on her face that was riddled with indecision. No, not indecision, but maybe a little regret for the decision already made that she would not take back.
Whatever her qualms with helping Madge, Katniss hardly seemed happy about the whole thing.
…
He was exhausted. Katniss had worked him harder than any other day to date and it had definitely taken a physical toll on his body. She, however, seemed unfazed with energy to spare. She walked ahead as he slumped heavily behind her down the hall towards his room. Just as she had done every night before, she walked him to his door where she would deposit him there and march down the hall, in theory, to her own room.
A flash of Cinna and Katniss standing closely together, speaking furtively flashed through his mind, but he shook it away. If it wasn't Gale, then it wasn't anyone, he told himself. Katniss hated the Capitol too much to truly love anyone from it.
They stopped outside his door. She hesitated.
"Good job," she muttered a little pink on her cheeks. "You did good today."
He had just enough energy to smile at her and reply his thanks. A few slow seconds passed in silence. Finally, she nodded, bit her lip, and turned away. "Night," she muttered, heading down the halls.
Still with a little smile playing on his face, he entered the room and didn't even remember crashing down on the bed and falling into dark oblivion.
But he would remember the dream.
He awoke from it with a hoarse throat and a sweat-covered body. His blonde curls were plastered to his face and he was breathing with difficulty. In only seconds, his door burst open and Katniss appeared in the rectangle of light.
For a moment, they stared at each other. Him breathing hard, her framed by the doorway and light from the hall. She was in her night clothes, a tank top and loose-fitting pants, both colorless. Her hair was an array of messiness, tangled out of its usual braid by a probably fitful sleep.
When he was able to make out the expression on her face, he realized it was one of pity. It took him a second later to realize why she wore it.
He didn't mean to cry. Certainly not in front of her. But here he was, trying desperately to hold back tears that despite his efforts rolled steadily down his pale cheeks. She moved into his room, closing the door behind her. Her footsteps were silent and then she stopped in the middle of his room. He waited for the lecture. The one that went along the lines of don't cry, Peeta. It makes you look weak or don't cry, Peeta, or I'll kill you myself or Gale never would have cried. And other such comforting words from his lovely, breathtaking, spectacular, and completely cold mentor Katniss.
The girl who was on fire.
No one would ever forget her.
But the speech never came. The lecture, harsh and entirely correct, seemed to linger only in false memories. Instead, he watched as she stared at him a moment, blank as the cakes before he decorated them. Then she slowly made her way to his bed, sitting on the edge with a sigh that spoke of years she hadn't lived yet.
Some part of him was just glad that she would get the chance to live those years.
"You can cry here, Peeta," she said quietly, softly, in a gentle voice that hinted at the beauty of her singing. "Here. Alone, where there are no cameras, no contestants, no mentors. When you are alone, Peeta, that is when you cry."
And it was like she didn't have the heart to look at him, because she rose off the bed with all intent to leave.
Peeta stopped her.
He wondered if she cried alone. The thought clutched at his chest.
His hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, gripping, perhaps too hard, with shaking fingers. "Please," he whispered in a tight voice, pleading. "Stay with me."
She hesitated. He knew she didn't want to stay, and he couldn't blame her. Dead tributes—those she had mentored, those she had killed—must haunt her nightmares and flash before her open eyes. She didn't need another one.
But he needed her. Katniss Everdeen. The girl who was on fire. The only female Victor from District 12. The only girl he had ever loved.
Maybe she sensed this, maybe she just couldn't leave her tribute in such a wreck. Whatever the reason, she sat back down and let him cling to her wrist as he cried, staring at the blank wall with such intensity as to suggest it had personally attacked her. She never looked at Peeta; he couldn't stop looking at her.
A/N: Also, if anyone is interested in betaing for me, I'm not opposed to a little help just so long as you have some experience.