The second leg of the honeymoon takes place in a much more secluded setting. A small cottage in a peaceful glade in District 7. Or at least that what it will look like on camera. If you walk for more than two minutes through the woods in either direction you'll end up in a populated area or large areas where they are felling trees for the lumber industry. For the duration of our stay here all felling has been moved to a different section of the district. The sounds of axes and falling trees are not deemed suitable for a romantic honeymoon by Capitol standards.

The cottage itself is small and admittedly cozy. On the outside it appears to be made from tree logs but that is merely an illusion to make it look rustic. It's actually made from brick, which you notice once you step inside because they didn't bother to cover up the brick walls with wallpaper. It has four rooms – kitchen, bedroom, sitting room and a small dining room. It's less than half the size of the beach house and much less luminous but I still like it. I especially like the fireplace and the bearskin rug, though as Peeta points out, it's not likely to get all that cold in late March.

It will be a lot easier staying indoors here. The windows are much smaller and we can cover them with curtains to keep the cameras out. It makes the house dark but it allows us to relax. When Peeta moves to close the curtains he gives a wink to whatever camera is filming us outside, selling the idea that we're closing them so we can spend our time trying to make that baby everyone is clamoring for. Once the curtains are all closed he flops down on the couch and looks bored.

While he stretches out on the couch I walk inside the kitchen to check if we can actually cook something for ourselves this time around. It only takes a look at the room to determine that this won't be the case. They haven't even bothered to include a stove. Unless they mean for us to cook over the fireplace, which I don't see that much of a problem with to be honest, they will supply food for us. Probably food that has been meticulously prepared to be as nutritious and healthy as can be for the non-existing fetus.

"Look at these woods, Peeta" I sigh as I walk back out to him. "If we weren't surrounded by civilization I could go hunting."

"No you couldn't" he says flatly. "They would never provide you with a bow. They mean for you to stay here, in bed, like a good little wife. Not go gallivanting in the woods by your lonesome."

"How do people stomach this?" I ask, sitting down on the bearskin rug. "I get the idea of going away for a few days when you've just married but a full month? Meant to be spent mostly in bed?"

He laughs shortly, with little happiness, shifting his right leg to cross it over his prosthetic left.

"Newlyweds tend to be insatiable" he says, and I find myself wondering how he knows that. "If I was getting married for real I wouldn't mind a month-long getaway where we never had to get out of bed."

"You'd get bored after three days" I snort, trying to ignore the strange sting in my heart when he differentiates this union from a real marriage. Love or no love, I'd rather acknowledge the validity of our marriage than live my whole life in a complete sham.

"I assure you, I wouldn't." Before I can figure out what that really means he gets up from his seat. "This, however, is boring as all hell. This place doesn't even have any games and the only books are on riveting topics such as the history of lumber."

"Guess we're not meant to be playing board games or reading books…"

He sighs heavily and kneels by the fireplace. I watch silently as he lights a fire, unable to shake the thought of a ritual we haven't performed. There was no toasting at the wedding. We mentioned that particular tradition to Effie but she just wrinkled her nose at us. Maybe it's just as well.

The fourteen days in District 7 are close to unbearable. I have never been so bored in all my life. We hardly ever go outside, wanting to avoid the cameras, but there's not much to do indoors if you're not going to work on that honeymoon baby. Peeta reads every one of the books, often nearly drowsing off from lack of interest of their subject matter. The only book he finds interesting is one that deals with the different qualities of bark and leaves, which seems to interest him on a painter's level. He doodles on the margins of the pages, in lack of clean paper to draw on. For my own part I spend most of my time writing letters to Prim, Gale and my mother. They expect us to write to our loved ones and tell them all about what a wonderful time we're having, though one might wonder where we find the time to stop and write all of this if we're so busy having the time of our lives.

My letters are a mixture between truth and fiction. I have no doubt that someone from the government will read them before they reach their destinations. I can only hope that those I write to know me well enough to be able to tell what is reality and what is part of the play of the star-crossed lovers. I write about what the beach house looked like and how cozy the cottage in the woods is. I write about funny things Peeta has said or done, often exaggerating them a bit. To my mother and sister I write about romantic walks along the beach and I let the fact that it's my immediate family I'm addressing be my cover for not saying anything about passionate kisses or bedroom bliss. I try to mention Peeta as little as possible in my letters to Gale, though it's impossible not to talk about your husband when you're selling the story of your wondrous honeymoon.

Writing has never been my strong suit so this takes up most of my time. I spend hours trying to figure out how to phrase things and which words to use to describe this or that. Occasionally I ask Peeta for help and he comes with a suggestion. He never writers to his own family. In the end my letters don't seem to have been written by me at all. I don't recognize myself in the way I describe things and the stories I tell. Maybe that's just as well.

With each passing day I feel more and more distant from Peeta. Being forced together in a small house this way, having nothing to do but supposedly have sex, takes a toll on us. We start getting on each other's nerves and I can almost feel him pulling away from me more and more each day. Every night he sleeps with his back turned to me, like he's trying to create some amount of privacy for himself. It hurts me that he seems to want to be away from me. I miss our friendship.

One night I reach out my hand and almost let it land on his shoulder to try and get him to turn around and look at me. I want to sleep in his arms, want him to chase away the nightmares. On the nights when I do wake up from a nightmare he comforts me but he doesn't hold me close the way I want and need him to do. It's almost impersonal, the way he soothes me, and it makes me feel empty and lonely inside. Instead of resting my hand on his shoulder I let it fall on the pillow beside him, the tips of my fingers just barely grazing his hair.

The honeymoon trip naturally ends with a big party in the Capitol. We are both exhausted and want nothing more than to return home where we can stop pretending every time we set foot outside where someone can see us but nobody ever cares what we actually want. We might as well accept that whenever we leave our home district we're just exhibitions in a large live museum.

So we put our game faces on and do what we do so well by now. Smile to the crowds, cling to one another, act like the happiest couple there ever was. It surprises me that nobody can tell that we're faking because I cannot believe we are being believable in the slightest but people seem to eat it all up. I feel like I have to work harder now to maintain the charade because it feels like Peeta is slipping. Almost like he doesn't care as much anymore what happens if the lie is discovered.

The easiest part of the evening is when we're slow dancing together. When my cheek rests against Peeta's and we don't have to look each other in the eye it's somehow easier to maintain the lie. I close my eyes and rest my cheek against his shoulder, grieving the loss of the days when his embrace meant stability and comfort and security. His body is still warm against mine, his arms welcoming, but I know it's not the same anymore. Snow has managed to take away what good we had between us.

By the end of the evening everybody toasts to our good fortune and, of course, to the gross of children we'll be having. It seems like people want little more from me from now on than to have a baby once a year. I can't wait until Peeta and I have become old news and they have moved on to the next new fad. Maybe then people won't care about the star-crossed lovers anymore and we can find some real normalcy.

I clink my champagne flute to Peeta's and, in a rehearsed move, we drink from each other's flute. Both flutes are actually filled with non-alcoholic cider but nobody knows that. The small trick seems to make the guests wild with enthusiasm and when we top it off with a kiss the crowd is practically ecstatic. Peeta sets his flute down on a nearby table, wraps his arm around my waist, pulls me close and smiles at the people around us.

"My wife and I would like to thank you all for this honor" he says. "It's been a lovely evening but I think we shall retire now. We have an early train to catch tomorrow."

People nod and wink all around us, clearly not buying the early train excuse. I don't care. Let them think we're heading to our room to have wild sex all night long. If they knew that we don't even sleep in each other's arms anymore they probably wouldn't believe it anyway.

We retire from the party and head to the hotel room that awaits us. The moment the door closes behind us Peeta lets out a groan and leans back against the thick mahogany that keeps the world out… or keeps us locked in, if you choose to look at it that way.

"I never thought I'd say this" he says. "But I actually look forward to the Hunger Games. How pathetic, not to mention selfish, is that?"

I nod, understanding perfectly. When the Quell begins, two months from now, all focus will shift from us to the new tributes. This time around the change in rules for the Quell is that the pool of possible tributes has changed. To remind us that both young and old participated in the rebellion – and were defeated – the pool this year consists only of those aged eleven and nineteen. The horror of Reaping coming a year early for some families and the feeling of safety at having turned nineteen being taken away from others. It's cruel beyond words. No eleven year-old stands a chance at winning. The youngest ever winner was Finnick Odair at age fourteen. And the nineteen year-olds, they should be immune now. That is the deal. Once you've survived the Reaping when you're eighteen you've done your part and you get to keep your life. Peeta's brother Ryean is among those who should have been safe this year but instead has to endure another reaping, this time with a considerably smaller pool of contenders.

In the Capitol, of course, the rule-change is heavily criticized for another reason. They call it unfair that the children between ages twelve and eighteen get a freebee year and that the eighteen year-olds especially get off too easy. Neither Peeta nor I can play along when they talk about how those children get an unfair immunity this year, as if they don't deserve to feel safe yet. Whenever somebody brings it up to us we just glare at them and that tends to make them drop the subject.

I haven't given much thought to the Quell in the past seven weeks. When the announcement was held and criticism started coming in they pushed forward our wedding plans so to distract the grumpy, spoiled Capitol people and Peeta and I were wed three weeks after the announcement. My mind has been busy with so many other things that I've allowed myself to forget that in a few months' time I'm going to be a mentor. Possibly to an eleven year-old. Possibly to two eleven year-olds. Each person of eligible age gets one slip in the reaping ball so the youngest don't have the same minor advantage of fewer slips that the twelve year-olds normally do. There's also a part of me that wonders if Peeta's brother will be safe on account of the high improbability of two boys from the same family being reaped consecutive years, or if Snow and his goons will be unable to resist the drama and make sure that Ryean's name is on the slip of paper Effie draws.

I look at Peeta and want so badly to walk into his arms and let him hold me and chase away my fears and horrors. By the looks of it he's not going to allow me that. He looks tired and moody and not much like the kind, gentle boy I've come to know before the wedding. I don't understand his change in behavior lately. During the Victory Tour we were getting along and afterward a real friendship began to form between us but it feels like that has been nullified by the marriage.

"One more performance tomorrow…" he says, loosening the tie around his neck before letting his jacket fall off his shoulders. "Then most likely another one when we reach Twelve and come home to our house together." He walks over to the bed and takes a seat, leaning forward to undo the laces on his shoes. "Effie gave me a list of Capitol wedding traditions a few days before the wedding and not so subtly hinted that I should try and spontaneously incorporate as many of them as possible."

"She gave me one, too" I say. We've only done two or three things from the list of about a dozen items, ignoring countless trite traditions related to the wedding day itself, but there's one tradition we haven't gotten to yet. "You're thinking about the bride being carried over the threshold to the new house?"

"Yeah." He finishes untying his shoelaces and kicks off his right shoe. He glances up at me. "You know where that tradition originates?"

"No."

He laughs joylessly.

"It symbolizes the groom carrying the bride to bed so that she can't escape the wedding night."

I don't know if I'm more embarrassed by the meaning or horrified by the implication. Either way my cheeks turn red and I look away.

"Oh."

"Yeah." He kicks the shoe off his prosthetic foot. "Needless to say I'm going to ignore that tradition as well. It's sick."

"I thought they just carried her over the threshold" I say, trying to wrap my mind around it. "Not all the way to the bedroom."

"Maybe they used to carry her all the way there" shrugs Peeta.

I walk over and sit down next to him, baffled over all these strange wedding customs. In Twelve all you do is sign some documents, go to your assigned house, toast some bread and have people sing the wedding song for you. Why the need for so many elaborate, stilted traditions in the Capitol? They have traditions regarding who dances with what person in which order, what type of food is served as an entrée, specific points during the reception where the newlyweds are expected to kiss. It's all so needlessly complicated.

I share a look with Peeta. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I burst out laughing.

"What?" he asks. "What's funny?"

"What isn't funny?" I answer. "This is so absurd! All of it! Effie almost fainted from dishonor because we didn't kiss after every one of those forty-five-or-so speeches given in our honor. A choir of chubby children sang a stilted love song while we were putting rings on each-other's fingers. They gave me this elaborate bouquet of flowers and then expected me to just throw it into the crowds after a few hours. Whatever happened to just declaring that you want to spend your life together, signing some legal papers, having a toasting and letting that be it? Why the need for all this… circus drama?"

He laughs a little too and shakes his head.

"At least it reminds us that it's all just a show."

That stops my laughter and I feel very depressed all of a sudden. I reach out my hand and place it on top of his, and he doesn't pull his hand away. I can feel the cool metal of his new wedding band against my fingers.

"We were friends before they rushed us off to the Capitol and the world's fastest organized big shindig of a wedding" I say. "What happened, Peeta?"

"We're still friends."

"Are we?"

He looks down at the shoes he kicked aside a few minutes ago. His shoulders slouch a bit and I feel an urge to wrap my arm over them. I just don't know if it's okay for me to touch him anymore.

"It will be better when we get back home" he says after a moment of silence. "I'm sorry I'm being such a jerk."

"You're not being a jerk."

"It's just… I'm already sick of pretending. And this is going to go on for the rest of our lives."

"Not all of our lives" I argue. "Not when we're home in Twelve. We can be ourselves when we're home."

"Ourselves… Meaning two people in a loveless marriage." He looks up at me. "I'm sorry. That was unfair. I know you suggested this to save us both and those we care about. It was a good suggestion. I just wish… You know…"

"Yeah."

"You're right, though. I haven't been a good friend lately." He smiles faintly at me. "Give me a second chance?"

I return the smile.

"Sure thing."

We're not taken back to Twelve by train the next morning, as we expected. Instead they take us there by hovercraft, though we land outside of the district where a train is waiting to take us the final ten or so miles. I'm not sure what the purpose of all this is but I can't bother questioning it.

Once we arrive are large crowd is cheering for us, much the same as when we returned from the Games. A large feast – by Twelve standards – was held in connotation to our wedding so perhaps that is why everyone is so excited. We wave at the crowds, we kiss, we play the happy newlyweds. I look for Gale in the crowd but I can't find him anywhere, which doesn't surprise me. My mother and sister and Peeta's parents and brothers all greet us and give us more or less stilted hugs in front of the cameras. Mr. Mellark shakes my hand and welcomes me to the family and my mother lies and tells Peeta she's always wanted a son. They were instructed to deliver these lines at the reception dinner but for various reasons the people arranging the event couldn't fit it into the schedule. Peeta and I smile and pretend like we're genuinely touched. It's a little bit easier to pretend now that we know that we're almost home, almost free.

When we arrive inside our new home, or actually Peeta's victor house, Haymitch awaits us with a new surprise. I can tell by the way he's acting that he's putting on a performance as well which makes me unsettled.

"There you are, finally!" he announces, pulling us both into a giant bear hug that is so unlike Haymitch it almost makes me break character. "Are you excited for the final step in becoming husband and wife?"

An ice-cold chill runs through me. Do they know we haven't consummated the marriage yet? Are we expected to do so right here, right now? With onlookers and a camera? Onlookers that include our families. Or will they all be standing outside our bedroom door, listening in? All blood must have left my face because I can see the camera crew angling their cameras at Haymitch and Peeta alone.

"Yeah" says Peeta, looking stunned as well but better than I am at continuing the performance. "Of course we are."

"Great" says Haymitch and gives Peeta a hearty slap between the shoulder blades. "Let's get to it, then."

He leads the way into the sitting room and gestures for us to sit down by the fireplace. Suddenly I feel more relaxed. I sink down on my knees, trying to ignore the large crowd gathered in our house. They want us to have a toasting. It's almost touching that they would think to include an obscure District 12 tradition and I have to think it's Effie's doing. The large crowd, the cameras and the fact that it's broad daylight takes a lot away from what I've always imagined to be a quiet, intimate ritual taking place at a time of day when the fire actually lights up the room. All the same, perhaps it's just as well that it feels staged and fabricated.

We need no instructions as to what to do. While the crowd falls silent Peeta and I start a fire together. To my relief we work as a perfect team, making us appear fully synchronized with one another. Someone hands us a loaf of bread and together we toast it in the fire and then spread some butter and jam on it before feeding it to one another. We end with a soft kiss that elicits an "aww" from the crowd watching us. When we break apart Peeta is smiling widely at me but it doesn't reach his eyes. The crowd applauds and I turn my face away, letting my burning red cheeks seem like bashful blushing and not the awkward embarrassment I'm feeling.

Afterward people begin to clear out, most of them coming with remarks on how we need our privacy and how everyone knows that newlyweds have a lot to do. I'm so tired of all of that, I could scream. The very second they are all outside Peeta closes the door and locks it shut, causing a fit of laughter from those outside who overhear him locking up.

"It's over" exhales Peeta. "We did it. We made it." He gives me a look. "They even gave us a toasting. You okay with that?"

"Yeah" I shrug. "We're married either way, right? Might as well make it feel as real as possible."

"Right." He walks to the kitchen and I follow, not sure what else to do. "You probably want to go out hunting, right?" he says. "I hope you don't mind postponing it a day. I think that today we ought to stay inside and make it seem like we're insatiable newlyweds. There's a lot to do here today anyway. Your sister told me they brought some boxes over for you."

"Oh" I say. "Right."

I had momentarily forgotten that I have personal belongings that would be transferred to this house. While we were on our honeymoon we didn't pack a single thing by ourselves. Everything they wanted us to wear or use had already been packed for us. I'm not used to having a lot of personal belongings and I haven't given any thought to how they would have to move to Peeta's house along with me.

"I think the boxes are upstairs" says Peeta, running a hand through his blonde curls absentmindedly.

"Maybe you should, uh… Maybe you should show me the bedroom. So I know where I'll sleep."

He nods and leads the way up the stairs. As I suspected his bedroom is right where mine is, or was, in the other house. He opens the door and I step inside, feeling rather nervous. He's been inside my other bedroom but I've never been inside this room before. Why does it seem more intimate for me to come to his bedroom than the other way around?

I stop at the threshold and look around the room in surprise.

"I hope you don't mind, I…" he begins, "I asked your sister to unpack some of your things and spread them around the place. To make it seem more like home to you."

I never owned a lot of things when I lived in the Seam but since I moved to the Victor's Village there are some things that I consider mine and that I've grown accustomed and a bit attached to. Peeta's house may look like mine as far as layout and basic furnishing goes but each house in the Village has its own color scheme and some personal touches to make each victor feel unique. Peeta's house has lots of yellows while mine had lots of blues. Without asking I know that the bedspread and throw pillows are from my other bedroom. Tuggs, the old worn-out teddybear I had as a child, inherited from my father and about five generations before him, sits against one of the pillows. I haven't given much thought to Tuggs since the age of eleven or so but seeing that teddybear now makes my eyes well up a bit and gives a strange feeling in my heart.

I turn and look at Peeta.

"Thank you."

"Thank Prim. She did the work. I don't know if you noticed but some of your other stuff is in the sitting room and your father's hunting jacket is in the downstairs hall by the door."

I give him a warm embrace and after a moment he returns it.

"Seriously. Thank you."

"You're very welcome. I just want you to feel at home here."

"I think I will."

That bit about the history behind carrying the bride over the threshold is actually true. Make of that what you will...

Thanks for reading!