Welcome to arguably my least-favorite chapter of Taking Sides. There are several moments here where I feel I completely lost control of the characters. Enjoy regardless.

I've wasted a lot of time- well, no. Not wasted. I have spent a lot more time away from home than usual, and I'm on edge because of it, like I'm running late. But Prim barrels into me as soon as I get in the door and I forget all of that. First she's annoyed that I was gone so long- then she's annoyed I went to the Hob without talking to her- but she's thrilled to hear I've decided to go to the dance. Her joy reinforces my decision.

I check in on the Games while I still have time. Gale and Madge are fine; they're hunting, staying out of danger. Good. Even the Careers seem subdued now. The seemingly-irrelevant scrapes on Cato's arms have become infected and he can't move without pus seeping out. Lovely.

The implication of a quiet night makes me feel better about spending the evening away from the television. Not that I could change anything that might happen, I remind myself. And yet, it feels better to know what's going on.

Prim chatters all the way through dinner. She's thinking about breeding Lady again. Mom is quiet, but then again, she's always quiet. I bristle when she asks me how my day was, even though I remind myself that's a normal question normal people ask. And I would have needed to explain the very extra fresh loaf of bread anyway.

Prim makes a big fuss about 'getting ready' for the dance. Right. We change into clean clothes and run brushes through our hair. This is District Twelve: there's no fancy dress-up, no makeup. We more or less look exactly the same as we do on a regular day, except Prim convinces me to leave my hair down instead of in its usual braid.

It's weird. I'm not sure if I like it. I keep reaching to twirl my plait and find a handful of loose hair instead. Prim pulls me out the door before I can change my mind.

The sun is just beginning to set and there's a lively, crackly feeling in the air that makes the bleak District street almost unrecognizable. The band is warming up in the square. It's a ragtag bunch, which shouldn't surprise anyone. Most of us can barely afford food. How many of us do you think can buy instruments? There's a real fiddle and guitar, clearly hand-me-down, several homemade drums, and an upside-down frying pan that I believe will function as a cymbal.

Lots of people are already here. Prim seems to want to talk to all of them. I tag after her awkwardly, saying 'hello' when I feel like I have to and then hanging back. I'm not here to chit-chat. I'm here for music and dancing.

When the band begins to play, for real this time, the chit-chat immediately ceases. Everyone has to find a partner, and I snag Prim by the arm before she can run off with one of her friends. Unlike her, I don't have friends to dance with.

That makes me think of Gale, but everything makes me think of Gale these days. I close my eyes for a moment and let it hurt. And then I let it go.

The dancing, the festivities, all that should be enough to distract me. I don't know the song they're planning, much less the dance that's supposed to go along with it, so I let Prim lead. She knows less than I do- it makes for a chaotic dance! We fly around the square, weaving in and out of the other pairs, some who are old enough to remember the jaunty folk songs, and some, like us, who are just spinning around and trying not to crash.

Then I see him.

I pause for just a second too long and Prim stomps on my toe. "Keep moving, Katniss!" she orders, having way too much fun. She attempts to dip me flamboyantly, but I hold my ground.

"The Mellarks are here!" I tell her, tugging one of my hands away from hers. "We should go say hi."

Defying my expectations, Prim does not complain about the pause in dancing. She spots the boys only a moment after I do and practically skips towards them, pulling me by the hand. I do not skip. It's not dignified.

Fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark have already gone their own way. It's just the boys we're running into now, and I like all of them. Even though I only really know one of them well, it's obvious that Rye is a sweetheart and Nicky is so funny he could probably have our stone-cold president in hysterics.

And then there's Peeta, who is more or less completely responsible for my mental health right now, who has probably never had the smallest of unkind thoughts, and who apparently cleans up pretty damn well! He (well, all the boys, really) has gone far beyond my efforts. His wheat-colored hair is slicked back and he has on a starched white shirt, something usually reserved only for the Reaping.

"I feel underdressed," I say as soon as we meet.

"Maybe we're just overdressed," Nicky says, punctuated with a toothy grin. "Gotta go. The ladies await."

I think he's making a joke (self-deprecating humor seems to be his thing) but he might as well have said it seriously. I don't have to know Nicky to know that girls are all over him. He's a merchant kid with a handsome face and a sense of humor. I might not want a piece of him, but there's no doubt in my mind that there are plenty of girls who do.

"Be safe!" Rye yells after him, smirking.

Peeta rolls his eyes. "As if he's the one who needs to hear that."

"Thank you for reminding me; I'll see ya later!" And then Rye is off too. To his credit, he does turn back and call, "Bye Katniss, bye Prim!" before he disappears into the crowd fully. I imagine Rye and Nicky are not here for the cheerful folk music.

As for Peeta…oddly enough, I don't know why he's here, exactly, even though he should be the easiest to figure out. I know it's not for the girls; I doubt it's the folk music. Maybe he just wants to make sure his cake masterpiece is enjoyed properly.

"I wasn't sure you'd show up," he comments, nodding towards me.

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Right, because I asked so nicely."

Prim crosses her arms over her chest. "You're only here because Peeta asked you? I thought you were here for me."

"Well, he didn't ask me," I fumble. "Not, like, he asked me here. To go here. He convinced me, that's what happened."

"You convinced yourself," Peeta clarifies. "I just laid the facts out in a more convincing way."

Prim looks at one of us and then the other. She's a sweet girl, but she has kind of a judge-y face. At least she does right now. "…uh-huh. Well, come on, we're missing the fun part!"

That settles it, I guess. Regardless of what Peeta's really here for, he's instead pulled into the hurricane that is Prim, the both of us just along for the ride.

I don't know this song either, but the way the whole party has linked arms in a circle makes it pretty clear what we're supposed to be doing. I elbow Rooba the butcher and make room for Peeta, Prim, and me. We dance and kick and holler with everyone else, and while part of me still misses Gale, I am glad I'm here. At least I'm trying to enjoy it, tainted as it might be.

I forget about 'tainted' soon after.

Prim loses it when she spies a group of her friends from school. She rips her arm from mine and runs across the square, promising to meet up with me, "later". Later is too vague. I yell at her. "TEN O'CLOCK AT THE LATEST!"

Even though it's dark now and she's fifty feet from me now, I can see she scrunches up her nose. "No, Katniss, I'll see you at midnight!"

I don't argue with her. How could I? I'm glad she's got her little group. She's done much better for herself than I ever could. I have two friends to my name, one who's fighting for his life in the arena, and one who's awkwardly linking arms with me right now, a bemused expression on his face as he watches me lose another argument to the twelve-year-old.

"You going home now?" he asks. Yells it, almost. Although we've drifted from the circle a little, the dancing and hollering still demands a raised voice to be heard. "I wouldn't blame you if you did. I know you came because Prim wanted you too."

I shrug, neither confirming nor denying it. The truth? I don't know why I'm here. I don't know if it's because of Prim's plea or Peeta's 'convincing' or that it makes me feel closer to Gale or that I just enjoy the folk music.

"…so I guess I expect that you want to go home now," Peeta continues. He's rambling- I find that amusing. He ordinarily has such a way with words. It's not every day I hear him stumble over sentences like I do on the regular. "…but if you stayed, maybe we could dance?"

"We were already dancing. You don't have to ask."

Peeta shrugs. "Well, technically that dance was with the whole town. I thought I should ask you, yourself."

I raise my eyebrows. "Who gave you that line, Nicky or Rye?"

"It's not a line!" he protests. "I'm just being nice!"

"Peeta Mellark, being nice. Now when does that ever happen?"

He reaches to tug on my braid, only to realize that, for once, my hair is loose. He jostles me with his shoulder instead. "Hey, come on. Are you going to dance with me or not?"

Sulk at home for a few hours, dance with Peeta. The choice should be easy, but I'm still not sure why I say "yes". I do say it, though, and we rejoin the dance floor. They're playing "Clementine" now, one of few songs I know. My dad used to sing mining songs, for me and Prim. But that was so long ago, and I spent so much time pushing away all those memories of him. I've forgotten a lot of the tunes by now.

Dancing with Peeta, not surprisingly, is different than dancing with Prim. Probably only because he made a point of asking me, specifically- under most circumstances, I am just as comfortable around him as I am my little sister. He's just as familiar and reliable as our battered old couch at home, and it's strange to suddenly be exactly aware of where his hands are and how his feet line up with mine. His fingers brush the back of my neck and I flinch, only to realize he's just trying to untangle his wrist from my hair.

I make a face. "I knew I should have left it braided."

"Prim's idea?" he guesses.

"As usual."

"I think it looks nice."

I haven't had a chance to look in a mirror tonight, so I can't agree or disagree. "You look alright too," I say slowly. A compliment from is rare, but it's the truth, and it seems unfair to withhold it now.

"Just trying to keep up with my incredibly suave and charming brothers," he jokes. Ah, a joke. I like jokes. Obviously I am not funny, but it is familiar territory.

"Maybe they've just been compensating to keep up with you," I joke back.

"Oh, trust me. Either one of them has twice the game I could ever hope to have."

I squint at him. "Is that really what you think?"

Peeta is my friend, and always has been, but I am not going to kid myself. I know he's handsome. Wheat-colored hair and kind blue eyes, the type of muscle you only get from years of hard work, he's the dictionary definition of gorgeous. When you add in his merchant background, his heart of gold, and his natural charm, there's no denying that he's attractive. His only flaw seems to be that he prefers to hang around with Prim and me over courting the merchant girls who are surely dying for his attention.

"You don't have to dance with me," I say abruptly, dropping his hands. "You can have your pick. I thought you knew that."

He shrugs, looking suddenly discontented. No more jokes, I guess. Whoops. "You are my pick. I asked you, remember?"

"Well, sure, but only because-"

Because why? I pause, not knowing how to finish that sentence. Because he's afraid to talk to other girls? That seems very un-Peeta-like. Because he felt bad for me, who had no one else to spin around with? That seems more likely, but luckily, he finishes the sentence for me.

"-because you're my friend," he concludes, confidently, if a little stiffly. "I thought that was obvious."

"I know you're my friend," I complain. That's one of few things in life that is clear, although I can acknowledge that the lines had shifted a little lately, with Gale being out of the picture. Well. In a different part of the picture. "I just thought…"

"That you're not good enough for me to pal around with?"

I glare at him. "Can you let me finish a sentence?"

"Sorry." He twirls me around once; I have almost forgotten we're still dancing. Badly, obviously. "I'm listening."

"I just thought…" I continue. "I don't know. Something stupid, probably."

"I wouldn't go that far," says Peeta. "But then again, I never know what's going on in your head."

"Neither do I, most days." And that's never been truer than now. Normally I can count on my head, and even if Peeta doesn't understand the reasons behind my actions I do. These days, not so much. I find myself working harder and harder to justify everything even to myself. Like how my heart had sped up when Peeta called me "his pick". There simply wasn't reason for that.

"I guess we're even, then."

His blue eyes are so intense- the word 'dazzling' comes to mind, but I will not use it- that I find I have to look away. I look at my feet instead, under pretense of making sure they move in the right directions as we dance. Not that either of us really knows how to dance. We're more or less just trying not to step on each other.

"Even is good," I eventually say, and that's the end of it.

We dance; we spin. We pause and have a slice of (fantastic) cake. Peeta and I find our rhythm eventually. We still can't keep up with the complicated dances the old folks know, who learned all the steps before fun was crushed in District Twelve, but we manage. I'm light on my feet, and Peeta has a talent for timing, that we spin in and out, hand in hand, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Some of the dances have us separate and dance a step with a new partner, but we always come back to each other, whether on purpose or by coincidence. I don't consider ceasing the dance, even as my cheeks flush and hands grow sweaty. They were right, that I need to be here. I can't remember the last time my heart was this light.

Hours fly by. I spot Prim and her friends, holding hands and ambitiously dancing in a group of four, a few times, and the sight of her enjoying herself only reassures me more. Actually, I would say that everything goes well until the last song they play.

I know it's a love song, and I think it's called 'Candlelight'. I freeze a little as a long-forgotten memory jams its way into my head: both of my parents, singing together. My father was the one with the knack for all things musical, but my mother's voice, filled with so much more love than she ever produces these days, had something beautiful about it too. She doesn't sing anymore.

Peeta doesn't notice the alarm bells going off in my head. He takes a cue from the other dancers and steps a little closer to me, lowering his right hand from my shoulder to the small of my back. His fingers glide over the rough fabric of my shirt in a way that feels incredibly personal. I guess everything's personal, when you're inches apart. My hands automatically shift position too, and I find our foreheads nearly brushing. A subtle glance around tells me we're not doing it wrong. I'm just not used to being this close to a person who's not Prim.

I've danced many times before, albeit badly with no instruction. But I've never slow-danced. I'm not sure if my nerves stem from the inexperience or the closeness. His shoulders shifting under my fingertips every time we sway. The way his eyelashes look from three inches away, half-lidded as he peers down and counts our every step. Most importantly, the way his arm wrapped around me seems to burn. I feel a way I didn't know Peeta could make me feel, and that draws my heart into my throat.

I can't wait for this song to be over. I hope it never ends.

The song does eventually end. I'm still not sure whether I'm feeling relief or disappointment when Peeta and I step away from each other.

"You know, you're a pretty good dancer," he offers.

"You're just saying that because I let you lead," I scoff. Oddly, my heart is still beating at a higher rate than normal. Even though it's midnight, I feel more ready for another dance than for bed. "…anyway. I ought to go find Prim."

Peeta nods. "Of course. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"As usual," I reply, but I'm not thinking about seeing him tomorrow. I'm not even thinking about finding Prim in the crowded square. There's only one thought in my mind, one that's much more pressing.

What would Gale think of me right now?

Yes, I made Prim say see you at midnight. No, I do not have impulse control.

Even though writing Katniss well is basically impossible (and I am NOT claiming to have done a good job, in this chapter or any) I have found that since I finished TS and the 2 sequels I have really missed it! So maybe there's another long Hunger Games fic in my future. We'll see.