Sitting on the edge of my bed, I watch Delly as she paces the small room. She's talking about one of the teachers in school, how he has a habit of biting his upper teeth over his lip while squinching his nose up to resettle his glasses, reminding her of a rabbit. But she is clearly distracted, babbling nonsense to keep from talking about something she thinks will upset me. No one knows what I heard last night. I'm sure she's trying to avoid telling me what I heard happen on the television through the wall. Just as I take a breath to cut in, she turns to me and makes the face he does.
My shout of laughter catches me so off guard that it turns into a choking gasp and I cough for a few seconds, helpless and watery eyed. When I regain the ability to breathe, I look up to see her watching me, blue eyes glowing with happiness. Her hand reaches for mine, but she withdraws it cautiously.
"Peeta," she grins, "you sounded exactly like you!"
Unsteadily, I reach for her hand and she clasps mine warmly. I'm so unused to human contact, it sets my whole arm trembling, but I grip hers more firmly and focus on the warm strength of her fingers, the softness of her palm. "You know who would like that story?" I ask.
"Carney," we both finish, and she laughs merrily. I grin at her. "You two would drag that out for hours, pulling faces that would have Eirik and me rolling."
"While you two pretend to be too mature for it, but then tomorrow you'd do the face in class and Carney and I would get in trouble for disrupting when we get hysterical!"
We laugh together, but the pain of loss settles heavily over us both. She squeezes my hand again, but then she tips her head and shoots a glance at the mirror. They must be talking into her earpiece. She looks worried and turns back to me with concern.
"Peeta, they think you're making great progress," she tells me.
"Thanks, guys," I say to the glass. "Nothing like having absolutely zero privacy to make me feel safe." Even I'm surprised by the acid in my voice.
Delly draws back and is about to say something when there's a quiet knock on the door. Her eyes dart there and worry clouds over the sunny blue gaze. She grips my hand in both her own and leans in close. "You're ready," she says cryptically.
"Peeta? May I come in?" The voice from outside the door sends me gasping and my eyes fly to the glass. Has he been here the whole time? Has he been spying and watching in silence? Too cowardly to face me? The whisper roars into a fury, but it's nothing compared to my own rage.
"Do you… do you want to see him?" Delly asks. I grind my teeth together as I draw deep breaths between them. I am completely in control.
"He can come in," I growl. "I don't need the restraints, but will you please ask a guard to come in with us?"
She nods quickly, and after one last pat on my wrist she darts outside. In a moment, a guard comes around the door, and then, he follows as well.
I sit rigid on the bed, my eyes raking him from head to toe. Haymitch Abernathy has definitely seen better days. The drab jumpsuit emphasizes the sallowness of his skin, the sunken hollows of his eyes. His entire appearance is like a wrung-out rat. I watch him scornfully as he stands silently for my appraisal.
"You look good," he offers and I bite out a bitter laugh.
"Do I?" I ask. "Good in general? Or good for someone handed over to the tender attentions of the Capitol?" The rage simmers behind my eyes and it's everything I can do not to swing at him.
He flinches, but he doesn't drop his gaze. "Good for someone who's been caught in a war. Like we all have."
Like a geyser, the fury claws up my throat. "You should have told me!" I scream at him. "You had no right! I am not a puppet for you to make dance and bow however you like!" The guard steps forward, but I'm not losing it. I know precisely what I'm saying. "You are exactly like him," I hiss wrathfully. "You manipulate and use people to get what you want and you don't give a damn what happens to them in the process!" I'm on my feet, vibrating with anger and, as much as I want to deny it, hurt.
He stands with head bowed and hands clasped in front of him. When he looks up, my breath is taken away by the depth of sorrow in his gray Seam eyes. He only nods, unable to defend himself. His refusal to argue enrages me even more.
"This is the second time you've left me to die," I spit at him. "Choosing her over me."
He shrugs mildly. "You'd have killed me if I'd done anything else."
His words fly at me like knives and I grip the edge of the bed, my legs trembling and weak. I lower myself to sitting and slump feebly, head in my hands. He watches me in silence for a few moments, as if deciding what to tell me. I take a shuddering breath, squeezing my eyes shut against the searing pain.
"It wasn't originally her, you know." His voice is low and distant. "You were always the one with the silver tongue. The one a lot of people thought could lead a revolution. Thoughtful and strong, a good head and a good heart." I look up in open-mouthed bewilderment. What is he telling me this for?
"Many people wanted it to be you," he continues. "There was only one problem." He finally meets my eyes. His are gray steel. "It would never work. If we'd let her die in there, and you were saved, you'd have torn us all to shreds. You'd have been useless to us." My lungs heave for air, unable to work properly against the frank assessment of commodities he's detailing us as. I grasp at the one piece of information I feel I have a tenuous grip on.
"Two problems," I growl. "I never wanted any part of your war. Do you know how many people are dead because of you? Do you realize what you've done?"
He nods sadly. "I know this sounds like a brush-off," he admits, "but do you really feel up to debating this right now?"
"I don't care enough to debate it with you," I snap.
"What do you still care about?" he asks. The question draws me up short, such a weird thing to say. "You used to care," he continues. "You cared about everyone. It was your thing," he rolls his eyes. "You were all about other people, and above all, more than anything else in the entire, rotting world, you cared about her."
"I don't understand," I cry. "Everyone keeps saying it, but I don't understand." I hear the pleading creeping into my voice. "How could I love her so much, if she wanted nothing to do with me?"
Haymitch actually chuckles at this. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you how many times I ranted to her how she didn't deserve you." He shakes his head and gives a weak shrug. "I can't explain it, boy. You two didn't understand it yourselves. But you are wrong. She needed you."
I cringe against the echo, "I do. I need you." He lets this sit with me for a minute while I turn it over against the images bolting through my head. I have terrifying memories of her as a demon-like mutt, these I'm now certain are manufactured. But I have other memories I can't make any sense of. In many flashes she clings to me, she pleads for me to hold her at night, she looks to me for reassurance. But in others, she is wooden around me, she avoids me, she despairs at the thought of being with me. And in many, she is trying to kill me.
My eyes lift to meet Haymitch's sharp gray stare as he waits patiently for me to process.
"Dr. Aurelius thinks you're having trouble getting better because you can't deal with your feelings about Katniss," he says bluntly. "What do you think of that?"
I stare at him levelly. "I think I'm sick and tired of being defined by Katniss," I reply coldly.
His eyes hold an infinite sorrow, but only for a moment. He nods. "I get that," he shrugs. "She does tend to suck all the air from a room," he smiles crookedly. His voice changes to a lighter tone, "I've been asking around. Some people have saved scraps and used pieces, and I've put together a kind of sketchbook for you. It's nothing special, but I thought you might like it. What do you think?"
My breath catches at how strong my desire is for this unexpected gift. I'm still shaky from thinking about Katniss and tears sting behind my eyes. Not trusting my voice, I nod silently. He reaches into a pocket and draws out a small, clumsily bound collection of mismatched swatches of used paper and a set of pencils. My hands tremble as I take it from him and tenderly stroke the cover, overwhelmed by how much I want it, need it, even.
"Thank you," I breathe inadequately. I have no idea how to repay this gift.
He shrugs again. "I'm sorry it's not clean paper," he says sheepishly. "They're pretty tightly wound around here about waste."
I watch him carefully. I see him struggling to make amends, to somehow apologize for what he did to me. For what he let happen to me. The whisper hisses snarkily that he can never be forgiven, but I have a vision of him at my bedside, clasping my hand, and my feeling that he was one of only two people I knew that could understand me. Of course, both of those people betrayed me not long after.
"Thank you," I say again, and for now, I leave it at that.
A few hours later, a knock on the door jolts me from the world that absorbs me. "Come in," I call, staring down at the sketch I've been laboring over.
Finnick waits carefully in the doorway, eyes darting to my unshackled wrists. "Hey, Peeta," he says in his smooth drawl. "Is it ok if I come in?"
"Sure," I reply, pleased to realize it really is. "Stay out of reach though," I add, wickedly enjoying his discomfort at the statement. The whisper screams shrilly about his leaving me in the arena, only caring about me because of Katniss. "Have you come to tell me it's ok if I die now, since someone already shot her?" The words taste acidic.
"Do you care that someone shot her?" he asks curiously. A pang blazes through my chest, I didn't think it was true. Was she really shot? No one said anything to me. I grip the sides of the bed, riding out the conflicting waves rocking through me.
"Is she alright?" I ask, when I can finally speak. Finnick's eyes are on the mirror and his head is slightly tilted, his eyes distant as he listens to the earpiece.
His lips curve into a sly smile. "How did you know?" he asks. "They didn't know you knew. They're losing their minds back there," he says as his smile widens.
"Is she?" I can't sort out why I need to know, but the anxiety is starting to escape my control.
He turns to me, his gaze sharpening. "She's ok, Peeta," he says, and my heartbeat stops crashing against my chest, but I feel my hands begin to shake and my ears are ringing with the shriek in my head. "Peeta," his voice is cautious, "were you worried she was -"
"Finnick," I gasp as I struggle for control, "if you say one more word I will tear your lungs out."
His eyes widen, but he clamps his lips together and waits while I battle it back under. It only takes a moment, but I'm frightened by how close I came to leaping for him. And immensely curious why he stayed in the room.
"Why didn't you leave?" I grind out, once I can speak.
He looks surprised himself when I mention it. "Honestly? It never occurred to me you'd hurt me, Peeta," he says, sounding a little shocked by the realization.
I shake my head and my lips curl cynically. "You really are the dumb pretty boy the Capitol says you are," I say scornfully.
He watches me a moment before asking quietly, "Has anyone told you this bitter and angry side is new for you? Do you know it's new?"
"What did you come here for?" I ask brusquely, unable to think over the raging shriek in my head. Too much has happened recently, my control is shaky at best. I can't think about how I feel about what happened to Katniss, or seeing Haymitch, or Finnick's assessment of my character.
He pauses uncertainly, but then, shrugs as though making up his mind. "I'm marrying Annie," he says simply. This sentence sends me teetering as the whisper pitches to an insane squeal at the stark truth. Because of his choices, I'm a broken, useless, dangerous puppet with nothing left. He is unhurt, his home still stands, and now he's going to have a family with the girl he loves. My teeth grind together to hold back the scream boiling in my throat and my muscles are locked in frozen rigidity. I fight to warn him, to tell him to flee, but I'm paralyzed in the fight to contain myself.
"I met the baker here," he continues, blithely unaware, "and I have to say, I'm not sure pastry is her first passion." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully, but I remain stonily silent. "I want you to do our wedding cake, Peeta," he says.
My vision blanks to a flashing white, strobing at the edges and dead silence echoes through my mind as it stutters over the flood of images crashing against my skull. My father, the bakery. The window filled with beautiful and delicate creations we worked on together. Jasper's steady hand and unfailing eye for design. Uri's endless creativity with the limited resources we had. My mother's head for business and talent for welcoming customers. My family. My home.
My eyes fill with tears as my lungs claw for the air they've been emptied of. I tremble from head to foot as I meet Finnick's sea-colored gaze, suddenly registering my distress. "I'm a baker," I gasp.
"Yes, Peeta," he nods, concerned. "It's why I asked you."
I shake my head, blinking fiercely to keep the tears back. Like a missing puzzle piece, a gaping hole in my chest has been filled with a solid, unquestionable truth. I know something true about myself.
"I'm a baker!" I repeat, the giddiness starting to fizz into a goofy smile and bubbling laugh. Finnick, worried at last, inches toward the door, eyes on the mirror. I find this hilarious and the hysteria of joyful, overwhelming relief doubles me over with laughter. Finnick turns tail and bolts, my hooting, caterwauling guffaws echoing down the hallway after him.