Without getting up, Dr. Antyllus rolls his tiny stool across the cold room to take a closer look at my lip. With his face inches from mine, I am thankful his beverage of choice this afternoon is a sweet fruit concoction, bearing no resemblance to the bitter reminder of coffee.
"How'd you manage this one?" he asks with the same dry enthusiasm from my previous visit. He has been the training center's physician for the past eight years and with my busted lip and recent introduction to womanhood, I am sure he is bored of me. I'm not too fond of the idea of seeing him either, but I finally gave up my solitude when the white towel becomes completely saturated.
"I told you, sparring." I flex my hand against the stiff white tape that wraps over my knuckles, holding in place a sterile strip of gauze. My hand is puckered and pruned from being submerged in a small tub of an iodine mixture and the dull pain is slowly fading with the aid of cold antiseptic, the same I used in the arena last year. I remember the smell and the cool relief it offered, never forgetting that it is this same milk colored gel that essentially saved Peeta's life and mine. When the doctor uses it on my hand, I feel horrible for letting him use the expensive medicine to treat the consequences of my stupid actions.
"Well, the bleeding has stopped, but it's pretty swollen. Hold still," Antyllus says, taking my chin in one hand and dabs the cream on my lip.
Although the ointment has life saving effects, its taste is retched. My tongue curls to the back of my mouth, hiding from the offending taste and a groan rumbles from my throat as I shoot Antyllus an angry look.
"Yes, I'm sorry. It tastes quite ugly doesn't it?" Antyllus' use of 'ugly' is somehow the perfect word for it and I nod in reply, refusing to let my tongue anywhere near my teeth to form a verbal answer. "Keep it on there for fifteen minutes, then you can rinse it off. I do have to say this is the first that I have heard of tributes training with each other. Don't they discourage that?" I simply shrug at his question. "Eh, I guess this year there aren't the same kind of turf wars or things to prove when you are among friends. Just keep the rough and tumble to a minimum, I don't think your prep team wants to deal with any more split lips next week for the interviews and the Sponsor's Ball."
The one time Antyllus says something of interest, is when I have stuff that tastes worse than pokeweed on my lip. Maybe this 'Sponsor's Ball' is a last hurrah for the Capitolites to say their goodbyes, or the tributes can get in some more 'sweet-talk' in hopes of one more parachute. Either way, it is a question more suited for Effie.
Antyllus hands me a familiar blue pill in a small paper cup. "Here you are, down the hatch." I pop the pill in my mouth and dry swallow it, not trusting the mix of water and ointment on my tongue.
He rolls back towards the counter and spins around in one fluid, well-practiced movement and his attention turns to the digital device, probably to fill out more boring forms regarding my boring treatment. "Now, off you go. Report back to the training room," he says with his back turned to me. I am disappointed that I am not able to return to my room and hide until the games.
I find an unattended training station in hopes of being left alone for the rest of the afternoon. I will hear enough from Peeta and Haymitch this evening as it is. Atala said my attendance is required for another two hours, but I'm not expected to do anything.
From my seat, I see a dark room with floor to ceiling glass walls as orange flashing light pulses throughout the interior. Inside, Brutus is training with his spear, performing a deadly choreographed dance against an array of holographic figures. They have an eerie similarity to the other twenty-three Victors - including myself, which is posed on the mezzanine level of the combat range; bow drawn, arrow nocked. When Brutus sends his spear through my orange projection, creating a dazzling explosion of fractals, my heart skips a beat.
"Pssst. Hey." I turn and see the hollow-eyed tribute from District 6. Frayed, brittle hair crowns his yellowed, sunken face. "You just s-saw the d-doc, right?" I give him a curious look from my seat. He glances at my right hand, wrapped in fresh white tape.
"Oh, it's nothing really-"
"He give yo-... gi- give you anything?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Yeah, li- like, some, morphling. You know, little blue p- pills. M- m- morphling. You... you got any ex- extra? Hey, where a- are you g- going?"
Across from the twelfth mirror, I enter the twelfth stall and force myself to throw up. I should have known the little blue pills were more than a simple pain reliever. The last few nights were free of nightmares. Although, I didn't feel the need for the pills last night because the feverish discomfort in my abdomen had gone away, I popped one to go to sleep anyway. I wonder if the morphling slowed me down while Cashmere landed me on my ass, twice.
This past year, I have had every accommodation I could ask for: enough food to feed both Gale's family and mine, ample clothing for any occasion, money to buy the things I couldn't make or find on my own and now expensive medicine to relieve minor aches. I have grown soft.
In the arena there will be no morphling, hot food, soft beds or trainers to break up a fight. If Peeta is going to survive, I will have to feel every cut, blow, burn and sting.
I wipe my mouth and head straight for the combat range. I am exhausted, dehydrated, sore, bruised and pissed off - but can I still shoot?
When I arrive, I watch the last round of orange explosions scatter through the dark room as I wait my turn, bow in hand.
In the arena I will not make the mistake of getting close enough for hand-to-hand, especially now that everyone knows how dreadful I am at it. I will get a bow. I will not hesitate. I will make every arrow count. I will kill my fellow Victors - for Peeta.
- O -
"Nice shooting yesterday. When you see Cashmere in the arena, you should shove one of those arrows up her ass," Johanna says, clapping me hard across my back. When I turn around she holds her hand out, gripping an unseen object and bounces it around, "Hey look, I'm Cashmere; Beauty of the Capitol. I am so sad that I won't be coming back home to my adoring fans. I'm too busy getting rear-ended by Katniss." She then drops the imaginary puppet and punts it into the distance. I can't help but laugh at her performance and I repay her for the gesture with a simple thanks before I take a lap around the training center, looking for any last minute skills I may find useful.
I soon find Peeta working with the tributes from 6, elbow deep in multi-colored grease paint. I watch for a moment, admiring Peeta's concentration and attention to the detail of the hibiscus he is painting on the female while her partner clumsily spreads the paint across her arm and chest. I can see how Peeta uses the streaks as a background for the flowers and with precise shading and highlights, they look real, standing off the girl's arm.
I step closer to inspect his technique and it isn't until my head is right over his shoulder that he notices my presence. This makes him jump and his brush mushes across the morphling canvas and leaves a streak of soft white over the already perfect flower. The girl doesn't move or notice the interruption; her attention is on her partner pawing at her multi-colored breast, swirling new colors into abstract shapes.
"They seem to be having fun. How about you?" I ask Peeta as he turns his head to look back at me.
"I'm doing okay. I'm trying to figure out how to paint faster. Last time it was rocks. I want to see what I can do with flowers, other than making them out of sugar." He gives a small smile and sets his brush down.
"They're beautiful. But how do you know we'll even have flowers? One year, it was nothing but a white landscape. Their clothes and weapons were black and the only real color was the blood." We had all heard the stories; it was a game too old to have had a playable record. The only way the tributes obtained food or weapons were from their sponsors. That year made the importance of the sponsors more pertinent and our mentors made sure we knew it, thus the extravagant outfits and personality coaching.
"I have to hope, right?" he says as his mouth forms a hard line. I've done it again; I let a stupid thing fall out of my mouth. Peeta is sitting here trying to hold onto some beauty of this horrible situation and I make all of the color disappear. I look away from his disappointed eyes and try to find something to brighten his mood again. There is a small patch of yellow flowers about a foot tall surrounding a frail apple tree. I run over to the display and lie down in the flowers with my arms out and prop one leg up against the tree.
"You've got ten minutes!" I yell from my position. "Make me disappear!"
"Ten minutes? That's-"
"Tick-tock, Peeta!" I smile as I hear him clamor for his supplies. Suddenly, he stands above me, holding a can of yellow paint.
"You sure about this?" He asks, shakily. I nod and close my eyes. Peeta kneels down beside me with his bad leg splayed out to the side. He nudges my hip with his other knee as he leans over and wipes handfuls of paint across my outstretched arms. When he reaches my shoulders, I feel him hesitate before he moves to my belly. His frantic movements tickle and I start to giggle.
"Shhh, you're supposed to be a flower. Flowers aren't ticklish," Peeta says as he works the paint along my shirt and my hips. He gives a few more jabs with his fingers, making me giggle again.
"You're going to blow our cover, quit it," I say and slap his arm. He then reaches out with his yellow-soaked hands and covers my face, wiping paint across my cheeks and forehead. Suddenly, his hand stops over my mouth.
"I said, quiet." He is still smiling but I am not.
Before I can blink, my hand grips his wrist and I yank his hand away. Peeta almost loses his balance and the yellow flowers are smashed under his right hand.
"Whoa, what happened? Katniss, are you alright? Talk to me. Katniss?" he says, staying completely still while his wrist remains in my grasp. Then his blue eyes, washed with worry, make me realize what I have done.
"I- uhm, I'm sorry." I let his wrist go and put my hand to my mouth. "My lip is still sore. You startled me, I guess." With a deep breath and a smile, I hope he is convinced.
"I forgot, I'm sorry. You can barely see it." The remedy I received yesterday sealed my cut over night, leaving nothing more than tender, plump flesh. "You're sure you're alright?" Peeta asks again.
I motion to my leg propped up against the tree and wiggle my foot, "Seven minutes."
When his attention turns to the task of blending my black legging into tree bark, I am free to blink back the tears. I can't be upset with him; he doesn't know what he did. Really, I am more upset with myself for letting his play shock me. I had Cashmere on top of me yesterday with no issues, but why did Peeta frighten me? It was too similar I guess. It's not his fault. If Peeta and I are to continue the act of The Lovers, I can't let this happen again. It is my choice to lie here and let my guard down while Peeta touches me.
He is gentle. He is kind. He loves me. He is the only person I trust. I am safe when I can see his blue eyes.
A few minutes later, Peeta gets up to fetch more supplies and I look at my leg completely camouflaged against the tree. I have to wiggle my foot and bend my knee to see where the tree begins and my leg ends. He has definitely improved considering the last time I saw his abilities were with river rocks. He returns a moment later with a large chip brush and kneels down at my side again.
"What's that for?" I ask.
"I have to finish the rest of the yellow." Peeta says reaching for the paint can. If I was going to get comfortable with Peeta again, now is the time.
"You won't have brushes in the arena, silly." He looks back at me with a puzzled look. I smile and take the brush from his hand. He looks at the untouched portion of my shirt and then back to me.
"You're sure?" he says, clearing his throat.
"Three minutes." This time, my words come out sultrier than I intended, but it gets him to dip his hands back into the paint can. His hands hover over my chest and I can see slight embarrassment cross his face. I look at the crystal blue eyes above me and relax. Taking a breath, I await the application of the cool paint and close my eyes. He is much gentler than before as his fingers start at my shoulder and cross over my collarbone, eventually kneading the pigment over my neck.
The artfully skilled caress makes my temperature rise. I start to share the nervous feeling with Peeta, anticipating the destination of his hands, still unsure if I will be comfortable with the contact. Slowly, his hands dip lower and run along the hem of my tank top, grazing the top of my breast with the heel his palm. I try to keep my breathing steady and my eyes closed so he can concentrate without any judgment - he is just as vulnerable as I am at this point.
Finally, I hear him take a deep breath and clear his throat before he places his palms directly on my chest, slowly working the yellow paint over the black fabric of my tank top. I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. When he lingers for a brief moment, I can feel his conflict between being an artist and a teenage boy as his thumb flexes ever so slightly, kneading my flesh. There was something about his awkwardness that amuses me and something about his touch that surprises me when it makes my heart race. In this moment, Peeta is the pure one and I think he finally realizes it.
His hands work their way to my ribs, blending the paint with the first layer he placed around my belly. I feel him lean over me again and hear the slosh of paint as he mixes a new color, then his fingers start to dab and flick over the rest of my body as he works in the details of the flowers. His pace quickens and the hesitation is gone as his concentration takes over - I am no longer a girl, but a canvas filling with flowers.
"Keep your eyes closed," he whispers before he begins to dab around my forehead and eyebrows, smoothing the color over my eyelids, his touch even lighter than before. I try to picture the petals developing under the pad of his finger as he grazes my nose and chin. When I feel his thumb linger on my bottom lip, I open my eyes and see his face inches from mine. His eyes move from my mouth to meet my gaze and I am thankful for the camouflage when I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
"Is your lip okay?" he asks softly. I give a small nod, careful not to shake his hand away again.
"That's good." When he smiles, I fall deeper into the blue of his eyes and sink further into the yellow flowers. I was wrong before when I startled so easily, because at this moment, I have never felt safer. "All finished with thirty seconds left to spare," Peeta continues with his voice low through a smug grin. More like two minutes over, but I don't correct him.
What is it about this touch this time? Is it his warmth or innocence? We have been much closer than this before with plenty of people watching. We have even been in complete isolation, but our contact was meant for keeping the nightmares at bay. This is a different kind of touch, and I like it.
"Ho, Peeta! Where are you?"
Peeta quickly sits up, seeking out whoever was calling him. "Shhh, close your eyes. Don't move." He whispers to me and stands up.
"Hey, Finnick, what's up?" Peeta says as Finnick makes his way up to our station. My heart starts to hammer in my chest when I hear Finnick's footsteps land a few feet away from my head.
"You see Katniss around? I need to ask her something?" I hold my breath and clamp my eyes shut. Finnick hasn't discovered me yet and I don't want to ruin this for Peeta.
"No, actually. I've been here the whole time. You check the combat range?" There is no change or crack in Peeta's voice. His ability to lie is impeccable.
"I did, and it's full. Since yesterday, everyone has picked up a bow. Still can't find her." I didn't think Haymitch was serious when he said that at least half of the victors had put in a request for me to be an ally, but now that the range is full, I can't help but feel a little pride in my skill.
"If I find her, I'll let her know you were looking for her. Where will you be?" Peeta keeps the lies rolling and I find myself amused with how well his camouflage works.
"Down range, practicing with my trident." When I no longer hear Finnick's retreating footsteps, I open my eyes and look up at Peeta whose grin spreads from ear to ear.
"That was amazing," I say from my position among the small flowers.
"You were amazing. Wow, that's weird. All I can see is your eyes and mouth when they're open. Is that how I looked last year?" He kneels down beside me to take a closer look and I close my eyes and mouth for his inspection. "Open your eyes again." He asks as he places his fingers under my chin. His eyes are mixed with amazement and concentration, much like the time in the cave when he searched for any trace of the cut on my forehead that was erased by the Capitolite medicine.
"I've never noticed how pretty your eyes are." I know his comment is complete bullshit considering he has an incredible talent for attention to detail, but it makes me blush and look away all the same.
"What are you doing? There are no cameras in here," I say, smiling back at him. Peeta bites his lip and then stands up, wiping his hands on his pants.
"Sorry, I- I uhm. Practicing, I guess." He must have used up all of his confidence when I let him put his hands on me. I feel horrible for teasing him, I aam sure I would have reacted the same way if I had my hands on him. I stand up and start to apologize but something catches my eye.
"Oh wow. . . we should- we should go." I stammer as I stare at a mound of colors on the far end of the station rise and fall.
"What do you mean?" Peeta looks in the direction my eyes are fixed on. "Oh jeez, yeah." He takes my arm and leads me down the small steps away from the multi-colored morphlings entwined on the floor swirled in paint. From the way the colors were moving, there is no doubt their activities were not part of any kind of training.
