I'll be honest this chapter is basically filler. But some parts of it are funny so you should still read it.

The next morning, we have a quick meeting with our stylists before breakfast. It's good to see Cinna again- he's the sanest person I've met from the Capitol by far. He asks me a few questions and we talk for a while, but I'm quickly whisked away by my prep team, putting me and breakfast even further apart.

Luckily, it doesn't take as long for them to make me over this time, since they're not doing it "from scratch". It's still not fun, and I'm relieved when they send me back to the penthouse to eat. As always, the Capitol Avoxes have set out far too much food for five people, but I am in no way, shape, or form complaining about it.

"I rode the elevator up with Turquoise," says Peeta, breaking the layer of ice that has formed in the room. "She had tinfoil all over her head. It was weird."

Nothing Turquoise does can shock me anymore.

Effie gives a little chuckle. "She's dyeing it. They put foil on it while the dye sets."

"…oh."

"Do you two know what you're dressing as?" asks Haymitch. For the moment, he seems mostly sober. I'm sure that won't last long.

Peeta and I both shake our heads. "Cinna made it sound like a surprise?" I venture. In truth we didn't really talk about clothes at all.

"I'll be wearing a suit," Peeta supplies.

Haymitch gives him a look that says "are you dumb". "Well, yeah, I figured. I think every male tribute in the history of the Games has worn a suit for their interview. Got anything more specific than that?"

He does not. Effie frowns tersely. "Haymitch, you really could be more constructive. Gale, your interview was only a year ago. Why don't you describe your outfit?"

"Um," says Gale. "…it was a suit."

Effie throws up her hands in despair and starts ranting about how men don't understand the importance of fashion. Truth be told I don't think the problem is men. I had watched Gale's interview with rapt attention last year and I couldn't tell you what color his suit was either. Effie remembers, though. She remembers in great detail. She kindly/passive-aggressively refreshes our memories.

Once the breakfast table is cleared, I try to make my way up to the roof- all I want is a moment of solitude to get my head on straight- but Gale snags my arm before I get out the door. "What are you running from?" he asks, somehow maintaining a completely neutral tone.

How he can act even remotely neutral is beyond me. His indifference infuriates me- maybe because just being near him threatens to make my bubbling cauldron of emotion boil over. When I look at Gale, I see a longtime friend, a loyal hunting partner…someone I used to love. Someone I still love, on some level. No matter what Gale says, we can't suddenly just be mentor and tribute. Between us, there is no 'neutral'.

"Do you want a list?"

"Don't be difficult, Katniss."

If Gale knows me- and he does- he should know that I've never been anything but difficult.

"It's the truth."

He sighs heavily, like I'm being far too dramatic for him to put up with- which is ridiculous, by the way. The world has thrown a lot of shit my way in the past week, and I have handled all of it as well as a person possibly can. "You know, it's not easy for me either."

"I didn't say it was."

I had, initially, at least, known that Gale was put in a tight spot as well. His first year as a mentor combined with the knowledge that he was at least partially responsible for his girlfriend's trip to the death arena could not be easy on him. But now that I am his nothing rather than his girlfriend, I truly don't feel that bad for him anymore.

"I hate seeing you get so close to Mellark," Gale says in a low, almost sultry, voice.

I draw back. Really, that's what he cares about? Not the burden of mentorship. Not the gore or the guilt. The fact that I've made a friend.

I'm not going to apologize for that. I wouldn't have apologized for that even if Gale hadn't dumped me at my lowest point for no reason, and I tell him as much.

Gale just huffs at me. "If you had any idea…"

"I don't care."

I've had enough of this. I turn on my heel and storm off, forget the roof. In all the years I've known Gale, every fight we've had, I don't think I've ever been this annoyed with him. I don't even feel like I know him anymore.

There is no peace for me in the penthouse, either. Haymitch seems to have been waiting for me. "Everdeen, over here!" he orders, gesturing to the seat next to him on the couch.

I groan, but obey, sitting as far away from him as I can get. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk about your interview."

Another groan. "Haven't we talked about it enough?"

"The clothes? Yeah. But we haven't said a damn thing about the content," Haymitch insists, slamming his whiskey sour onto the coffee table. "If you hadn't guessed, it's a little more complicated than smiling and waving at the parade."

"What do you mean, 'content'?" I ask. "Won't he just ask me questions and I answer them?"

"Yes, that is how an interview works," Haymitch says sarcastically. "But you need to decide on your angle."

"My angle," I repeat.

"Yes." He's getting more exasperated now. "The Capitol is not interested in anything complex or authentic from you. You can pick one thing, one trait, and embody that so they can remember you as "the funny one" or "the sexy one" or "the charming one"."

"I'm none of those things," I say flatly.

"Thus the need for practice."

I turn as the door opens and Gale slinks in. He slinks out just as fast and I pretend he was never there at all.

"So what do you suggest?" I ask Haymitch irritably, finding him to be the lesser of two evils.

He takes a sip of his whiskey. Completely necessary, I'm sure. "Let's try some practice questions and we'll see if you can answer them as a more pleasant person. Just pretend I'm Caesar."

I really try to take his advice to heart and pick out an "angle". I try "funny" first, but instead of laughing at my jokes, Haymitch looks like he's just eaten a particularly tart lemon. "Okay, that's…not quite what we're going for. You need to be a little more…funny."

"That was funny!"

"Okay, then try something else."

Charming is worse. Sexy is a nightmare. I fail miserably at genius and cocky. The only approach I'm decent at is stoic, and Haymitch says that doesn't actually make me any more likable. "What you really are," he declares. "…is hopeless. You shouldn't be placed in front of an audience at any cost. I need one beer for every sentence you've spoken."

His words really should hurt me, but I agree with him more than anything else. I'm painfully aware I'm doing it wrong with no idea how to do it right. I am useless in an interview setting. "Maybe you're just a bad host," I say defensively.

"Which one of us has been doing this for twenty years, sweetheart?"

My shoulders sag in defeat. I know Haymitch is not the problem. It's me; it's very much me. I clam up at even the least invasive questions, and this is in front of one person who I actually know. I imagine how much more uncomfortable I'll be on the stage tonight, in front of hundreds if not thousands of strangers who may or may not have already decided I'm a whore. The word "disaster" comes to mind.

"I'm sorry I'm hopeless, Haymitch," I sigh. "What do I say when I'm onstage?"

"Whatever feels right?" he suggests. He's holding his glass up, observing the way the light reflects across the mound of ice cubes. At least, that's what I think he's doing. Maybe he's just wishing the drink was still full. "Ideally nothing that reflects badly on me. Or Hawthorne- actually, better you don't mention him at all."

The mention of Gale sparks something in my mind. "If you're coaching me, does that mean Gale's telling Peeta what to say?"

Haymitch shudders. "God, can you imagine?"

§

The two boys sit at opposite ends of the table, as far away from each other as possible while still maintaining some pretense of civility. Peeta is staring the table. Gale's eyes are fixed on a point slightly above Peeta's left shoulder. Both of them maintain the body language of tortured prisoners of war.

Gale grinds his teeth. Peeta sighs heavily for the fifth time in two minutes. Neither of them is happy with this situation, and they both fruitlessly wish that they could do this any other way.

Gale sucks in a deep breath, like he's about to dive underwater, not say one sentence out loud. "So about your interview…"

Peeta's expression is hopeful, but guarded.

"I'm thinking we should portray you as some kind of weirdo. Think, really weird. Like, sex offender weird. When Caesar asks you how-"

"Oh, forget it," Peeta mutters. He shouldn't have been surprised that Gale wouldn't help him. "I've got my own ideas."

He pushes his chair back and starts for the door. Gale clears his throat. "Uh…Haymitch said we have to talk for at least an hour."

Peeta looks at the clock, which indicates fifteen minutes has passed. Their standoff didn't last as long as it felt like it did. "Talk for an hour, or be in this room for an hour?"

Gale shrugs helplessly.

Peeta sits back down.

It's going to be a long forty-five minutes.

§

In the afternoon, we have "lifestyle coaching" with Effie. This covers everything from manners to posture to how to walk in heels. I'm not a natural by any means, but she doesn't call me hopeless like Haymitch did. Maybe because calling people hopeless is simply not good manners.

My prep team works on me next. Nothing painful this time- just hair and makeup. It's painful in its own way, I guess, but sitting still and getting my hair tugged once in a while is something I can bear.

I don't make much effort to speak with them, like I did before. I'm too nervous for small talk, and it doesn't help that I have little-to-no idea what they're talking about most of the time. I don't think they're bothered by my quietness- actually, I think they understand. Right before they leave, Venia pats my arm and tells me she's sure I'll do great. Normally, I don't take comfort from people who are pea-green, but I will make an exception for Venia in my dire need.

I'm left alone in a room, waiting for Cinna. I spin my chair around so I'm facing the mirror, looking at my made-up reflection for the first time. I'm stunned. My hair is pulled into a braided bun- sort of how I wore it for the Reaping, but bigger and more in accordance with Capitol styles. My makeup is surprisingly light, accentuating my features without overpowering them. I look like myself but prettier, with black-lined eyes and a dusting of red and gold glitter over my cheekbones.

There's a knock at the door that means Cinna is here. "Come in," I say, still marveling at my own reflection.

"Ready to see your dress?" he asks, keeping it hidden behind his back.

I nod and he makes a big show of revealing it, a mass of red and tulle and flashing gems. It's incredible. It's flame. Cinna has set me on fire again, this time without anything that could actually burn.

"It's beautiful," I say. "But do you really think I can pull it off?"

"Of course you can, girl on fire," Cinna reassures me. "Here. Try it on."

I step into the red dress, shedding the thin robe that had done little to cover me anyway. Cinna zips me up and nudges me towards the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. For a moment, I barely recognize myself. I'm…well…I'm gorgeous.

"Oh, wow," I breathe, unable to look away. I've never been the type of person to worry much about my appearance- I've been too busy worrying about my own survival- but I can see the appeal now, of wanting to be beautiful. "Cinna…thank you."

"Only doing my job," he replies cheerfully. "Now let's try those shoes on."

He produces a pair of matching glittery red high heels, and I'm suddenly glad for Effie's lesson in walking in them. I'm certain I'll have blisters by the end of the night, but I'm optimistic for at least staying on my feet. Cinna gives me some additional instruction- he's a better teacher than Effie- and warns me I'll be expected to twirl.

"Twirl?!" I repeat, holding back a groan. "In front of everyone?"

Cinna nods, genuinely looking sorry for me. "Yes. You're nervous about the crowd?"

"I'm nervous about a lot of things," I admit. "Haymitch says I'm hopeless. I'm not good at making people like me."

"That's just not true," he says. "You made me like you."

"Yeah, but that's different," I argue. "You're really…friendly. And you wanted to like me."

"Caesar's friendly, and he wants to like you too!" Cinna says encouragingly. "He's a great guy, actually- really fun at parties."

That part does not surprise me at all.

"If you can connect with Caesar, the audience will follow his lead," Cinna promises. "Just be yourself. And let the magic happen."

I shake my head. "It's a little…more complicated than that."

My stomach turns as I remember the first impression I made on the Capitol. "They might, um. Already have a reason to dislike me."

"I know."

I tilt my head. A simple statement, but one that surprises me nonetheless. "Did Haymitch tell you?"

Cinna actually winks, which I find oddly reassuring. "Hey, I'm not just a fashion icon. It's my job to know the inside scoop on my tribute."

"And that includes the bad stuff?"

He nods.

I swallow hard. "So you know…my mentor…"

I can't even bring myself to say it out loud. Not in so many words.

"I know."

There's something close to relief about having it out in the open. Not that it was secret before- actually, that was the entire problem.

Cinna continues. "Not many people will remember you, or your connection to Gale. Even those who do, they don't really know you. This is your chance to show them who you really are."

It's the exact opposite advice Haymitch gave me, and I find it much more comforting.

"If they see the real you, they'll like you," Cinna promises. "They'll be tripping over themselves to sponsor you- I know it."

"Thank you," I tell him. I mean it. I mean it more than a lot of things I've said in the past few days.

"Don't thank me," he says, maintaining a playful tone. "Thank you. For being such a wonderful canvas for my work."

"I don't think being a canvas will help me in the Games."

"Hey, you never know!" At first I think Cinna's just joking around, but then his dark face turns serious. "They won't let me bet, you know. But if I could, I'd be betting on you."

Cinna's belief in me means more than anyone else's ever could- even Prim's, although I'd never tell her that. I swallow hard. It doesn't matter. More than likely, I'll never get the chance to tell her anything.

Gale coaching Peeta was one of my favorite scenes to write over all 3 fics. Not sure why.

I've been stuck on 666 reads for a few days now; I really hope this chapter will catch some people's eye so I will stop feeling cursed.