The hours melted into weeks; each passing day, her hands thawed and became more accustomed to the warmth I offered.
The long, cold hallways ceased to be my pacing ground. The damned white pills were forsaken; instead, each night we slipped into each other's rooms, limbs intertwined, finding comfort in the silent acknowledgment of our shared existence.
In District 10, she clutched my arm so tightly that my fingers almost turned blue, her nose scrunched up as we traversed through the endless strings of slaughterhouses. The pungent odor of blood seeped into our bodies, erasing any and all traces of home. That night, I brought her pine leaves a futile attempt to override this parasite of a feeling.
During dinner, my hands never left her skin. We laughed and ate, dancing under the fake facade I had created. Despite the privilege of being in such proximity to her, I couldn't help but feel like a gutted animal—her gutted animal. An arrow shot right through my eyes at the tender age of 5, and now she was skinning me alive with her false affections.
"Peeta, I keep having this dream about my hands being blotched with blood, " she confided in me one night, leaning over the sink at two in the morning. "It never washes off, no matter what I do."
Instead of calling her back to bed, I stood beside her and started washing alongside her.
In District 9, amidst the mass fields, I told her about my dad, how he patiently taught me how to make bread dough when I was 7 so my mother would stop slashing my face every time I messed up. I told her about the time our mother banned me and my brothers from eating lunch and dinner for 3 days, so each night our dad sneaked us a can of dry lentils.
At night, she told me, "I wish we'd met before the Games; maybe then I could've protected you from your mother," before wrapping her leg over my thigh.
In District 8, she was coached by Cinna to present her newly designed clothing line. The tall, white factories churned and burned, engulfing any attempts at conversation. The interviewers crowded and crowed over her rehearsed lines, applauding at every chance.
My thought kept returning to that night in the arena, Katniss perched up on a tree while Cato continuously stabbed the girl who lit a fire. How her screams…
During the evening banquet, the music roared and riled trying to veil the constant whizzing of the machines—a reminder of the persistent oppression of its inhabitants.
Our voices intermingled during the speech as we tried to subdue the glowering embers growing within the crowd. Each phrase uttered by our tongues added nothing but fuel to an already open flame.
That night, Katniss came to bed late, saying she needed some fresh air. That night, she found me frozen solid, crying for Cato to stop, so I wouldn't have to kill the girl later. That night, she took me into her protective arms and rubbed circles on my back. That night, I buried my face into the smooth curve of her shoulder and wept for hours. That night, she sang me a song, my song.
Down in the valley, valley so low, Late in the evening, hear the train blow. The train, love, hear the train blow. Late in the evening, hear the train blow. Go build me a mansion, build it so high, So I can see my true love go by. See him go by, love, see him go by. So I can see my true love go by. Go write a letter, send it by mail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail. Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail. Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. Know I love you, oh, know I love you, Birds in the heavens know I love you.
In District 7, we found solace in the shadows of the trees.
"I'm gonna show you how to swing an axe; Gale and I used to always stock up before winter," she told me proudly.
I watched as she swung the axe; sweat dripped off her forehead. I tried not to notice how gracefully her hips moved….
"Your turn now," she turned towards me and handed me the axe. I picked it up and realized it was harder than it looked; the axe kept falling out of grip. Slowly, she came up from behind me and pressed her stomach against my back; I started feeling lightheaded. Her hand slid up my bicep, lingering before she told me to loosen my upper body.
At night, when she thought I had fallen asleep, her fingers traced my skin, starting from my arms all the way up to the light hair on my eyebrows.
In District 6, the crowds chanted our names. To an untrained ear, it might sound like cries of admiration, not of vengeance. Vengeance for our support towards the Capitol. Vengeance for our inability to rebel. Vengeance for their children lost year after year.
In District 5, her green, silk dress brushed my shoes as she whispered, "Let's sneak off."
I raised my brow but nevertheless obeyed her.
"Kiss me, so it looks like we're sneaking off to be together," she said softly as her lips brushed my ears. I cupped her neck and delicately pressed my lips against hers. She giggled and grabbed my hand, whisking us out of the dinner hall.
"Katniss, what if we get into trouble?" I asked her.
"That's kinda the point," she said while rolling her eyes.
I looked at her with sad eyes but went along all the same. We found a closet nearby and settled ourselves inside. She then came up to me, placed her hands on my neck, and undid the first 3 buttons. The rough calluses of her fingers grazed my chest; her hands then moved down and untucked my shirt.
"So they think we were, ya know," she murmured as an unmistakable blush filled her cheeks. In return, I ran my hands through her hair, loosening her made-up curls, and pulled her straps down; she shuddered. Katniss then wrapped her hands around my waist, resting her head on my chest; we stayed like that until they found us.
In District 4, I woke up to find her on top of me, her soft curves flushed against mine. I had never imagined that one day she would lay in front of me with such vulnerability; she's always so quick to put on her stoic and composed mask, controlling each emotion with relentless determination.
"Hi," I said as her eyes fluttered open.
"Ugh, I neeeeed sleep, don't talk," Katniss groaned as she burrowed her face deeper into my neck.
"Agh, how'd we—why?" She sputtered as she realized how she was perched on top of me, she quickly untangled herself from me. Her face turned beet red as she turned away.
"It's fine; you must've rolled over sometime at night," I attempted to reassure her. She awkwardly nodded and padded down to the bathroom. It always surprised me so much how Katniss could shoot animals with such ease, but when it comes to matters like this, she's so-pure…
I heard the sound of the toilet's flush and joined her in the bathroom. I had started keeping my toothbrush in her bathroom since it was more convenient, so every morning it became routine to wash up together.
"I was thinking we'd go for a swim," she said in between brushing her teeth.
"I can't swim though," I told her sheepishly.
"Come on, I'll teach you," she said as she pulled out her bathing suit.
The waves crashed into us, the salty air breathed its way into our skins. I watched her smooth dives and wondered where she learned how to swim. Maybe Gale...
After a while, I persuaded her back to shore, where we watched the patches of clouds sway and wave, forming several patterns, intermingling with the pink wisps of blazing light. The sun-drenched horizon revealed shades of warm oranges and yellows, illuminating our gloomy shadows. And in that moment, we were almost happy.
In District 3, we hid under the covers hoping the thin layers of linen would block out the voices. I enfolded her in my incapable arms—incapable of protecting her from the wrath of the crowd, the unyielding cries that led to gunshots, the three-finger salute that spread like a forest wildfire, while we pathetically stood as Capitol puppets.
In District 2, Cinna dressed her in a deep blue velvet strapless number embedded with countless diamonds. Her bare shoulders sagged as the dreary clouds hugged her eyes. We stumbled through the black-printed letter as the crowd showered us with deafening applause. Aggressively clapping and hooting to show they're suppressed resentment.
At night, his name never left her lips. She begged and cried for mercy, apologizing. What for? For killing him, for letting the mutts devour what was left of his soul?
In District 1, she stopped talking. They adorned us with endless jewels and trinkets as if the events of the past year had been a trivial and insignificant 'accident'. As if we hadn't personally killed their children, as if Glimmer and Marvel simply ceased to have never existed, a piece in their games, so utterly expendable.
We all were.
That night neither of us slept.