The next life, I try not to waste time.
There is little about Peeta and I that changes. Only one thing: we no longer hide. I still take him into the woods. I still train him covertly. We still spend that winter night huddled around the fire. He still kisses me in the Meadow, the snow falling around us. I still stand in that kitchen decorating cupcakes. Except, everyone knows. I meet him at school in the morning. We hold hands. His friends gossip about us. Madge tells me she thinks that we look good together. Gale grudgingly attempts to allow Peeta into our fold; and while that is slow-going, the rest of the Hawthornes do not appear to resent Peeta's presence at our family get togethers. He brings fresh bread over to my house when he can. His brothers joke with me, tease me, about my ability to decorate the cakes in comparison to Peeta's. Peeta pretends to scold them for it.
His mother does not approve.
She first discovers us on a day that Prim and I walk Peeta home from school.
Mrs. Mellark is sweeping the front steps of the bakery. Her eyes instantly zero in on our clasped hands.
Peeta's shoulders stiffen. His smile disappears.
When he tries to politely pull his hand from mine, I hold fast.
Mrs. Mellark marches up to us, brandishing her broom like a weapon. Her words are shrill.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asks.
Peeta opens his mouth as if to reply, but even I know she's not asking him. She is looking right at me.
"Is there a problem?" I ask, trying to appear innocuous.
"You're the only problem I see," she says. "Some Seam brat! Of all girls!"
Mr. Mellark rushes out the front door. He pauses on the steps. He looks winded, taking in the scene. He takes those last few steps towards us. He stops next to Mrs. Mellark and asks what's wrong.
Mrs. Mellark gives him a look of fury. She merely gestures at me.
Mr. Mellark meets my stare. I know he recognizes me. He looks beyond me to Prim. I wonder if he thinks of my mother, or even my father, at this moment. His hands rub together. He turns back to Mrs. Mellark.
"I don't see anything wrong," he says.
"Don't tell me that you approve of this," she says. "You know what she is. She's only using him."
Peeta starts to speak up, to defend me and himself, but Mr. Mellark beats him to it.
"They're children," says Mr. Mellark. "Shame on you."
Mrs. Mellark has the decency to look taken back. She looks around. There are others that are noticing the scene. She flushes; whether with shame, anger, or social embarrassment, I could not say.
"Shame on you," she spits at Mr. Mellark. "Letting him do something like this. Ruining his life!"
She turns to me, pointing an accusing finger.
"You stay away from him," she tells me. "You –"
"I'm not going anywhere," I say, interrupting her.
She seems agitated by the fact that I remain calm and unaffected by her judgement. She gives up on intimidating me and turns to Peeta. She opens her mouth.
Mr. Mellark puts a hand on her shoulder.
"Leave him alone," he says.
Mrs. Mellark gives her husband a glare, then storms off.
Mr. Mellark stands there a moment, looking somber. Peeta seems surprised by his father's action.
"I'll see you inside," Mr. Mellark says to Peeta, then nods at Prim and I in farewell. He leaves.
From that moment on, Mrs. Mellark continues to make comments about me, but appears resigned to her defeat. She often implies that I am trying to move up in this world, and take her son, and use him, in order to put myself into a better position. Peeta tells me to ignore her and apologizes for her behavior. Even his brothers tell me that this is their mother's norm.
I tell them that her opinion could not change anything.
Mrs. Mellark, if she is a villain, is the least intimidating one that I have ever faced.
Or, rather, will face.
If anything, she is a pale echo of what I have to deal with, when it comes to Haymitch.
I go to him this time.
I come up to his house in the Victors' Village. I knock.
I have to knock again, rather loudly, before I even hear stirring inside.
Haymitch answers the door. His clothes are filthy. The smell of him, as well as the trashed house, is almost enough to make me take a step back. I cover my mouth and nose with a hand.
"What do you want?" he asks me, slurring.
He does not usually get visitors. He is considered distasteful to most. His status as a Victor makes him seem untouchable, as though one could never socialize with him. I pity him in that moment. He is friendless. He is probably afraid to get too close to anyone; especially anyone young enough to be reaped. He is likely grieving, year after year, every tribute that he loses. Even now, though I cannot recall the names of last year's tributes, I am sure that he does. District 12 is empty to him. District 12 is full of children that he does not want to grieve, that he cannot save. His only respite, the Hob, and Greasy Sae, who will give him his liquor. His one outing of the week. The one thing he has to look forward to.
As I stand there in front of him, I look him up and down. I see myself. I see who I was, before this time loop happened; taking those sleeping pills, night after night; wallowing, isolating, empty. If I did not know him from that other life, I would never have had the gall to come here. It is easy to assume things about him, from what is seen during the reapings and the Games. It is the way he wants to be seen: angry, sullen, bitter, unpleasant, useless. Only, I know that these things are not true. While he may be unpredictable and sarcastic, he is not dangerous. His drinking is a coping mechanism, just as much as it is a mask; a shroud he pulls over himself in order to seem less threatening, less important.
If he stays sober long enough, I know that he is also clever, that he is resourceful, sometimes even kind.
I need that man.
Only, it is not that simple. This plan will take time, and patience, to come to fruition.
"I need a job," I tell him, straight forward. I peer around him. "And your house needs cleaning."
Haymitch takes his time to process what I've said.
"I like my house the way it is," he says, then slams the door.
I knock again. Then louder when he continues to ignore it.
"Go away!" I hear him call out.
I leave, for that day.
Next afternoon, I am back. I bring offerings. I have wild sweet potatoes that Gale and I collected out in the woods. Goat cheese from Prim's latest batch. A bottle of spirits that I was able to trade a particularly soft and beautiful rabbit's pelt for.
Haymitch answers the door, swinging it wide. It knocks into the wall.
"You're back," he says. "I told you to leave!" It seems like he is trying to sound angry, but I have seen him full of true anger. This is not that. Mostly, he seems annoyed. He is trying to scare me off.
"I need a job," I repeat. I hold out the basket of goods. "I am willing to barter."
His eyes linger on the bottle of spirits.
"Well," he says. "Barter, then."
"I need pay," I say. "Decent pay. Enough to feed my family."
"And you'll do what?"
"I'll clean the house," I say. "Do your shopping. Even your laundry if I have to."
"Can't you get a job somewhere else?" he says.
He knows that's not true. He can see I am too young to be in the mines. That I am from the Seam, and that no one in the Town shops will hire me. There are scarce enough jobs as it is.
"I can hunt," I tell him. He looks surprised. Not so much because I can, but because I have said so. It is illegal. And while he has likely seen me around the Hob, many people consider Victors hard to trust, because they are seen as aligned with the Capitol. "I can cook you the meat I catch. I can mend clothing. I can bring you your liquor. I can clean. You need the help."
He looks affronted.
"And what makes you think I want your help?" he asks.
"I don't. And I don't care. But I need a job. Your house needs cleaning. It's simple, old man."
Haymitch is speechless. It may be the first time I have seen him that way. I want to crack, to laugh, as if we are old friends, bantering, but I remain serious. This matters. I need this job. If I am able to convince him, then I will have the resources necessary to feed myself and to prepare for the arena.
In his moment of silence, I take the bottle out of the basket. I crack the top off. I hold it out to him.
"What do you say?"
Haymitch bursts out with laughter.
"You've got spunk, coming here and demanding a job," he says. He takes the bottle from me. "Who are you, anyway?"
"My name's Katniss Everdeen," I tell him. He swings the bottle back, tasting it.
"Alright, alright," he says. "You can clean up. I'll pay you. But don't steal anything. And don't bother me."
"Shake on it," I say, my hand extended.
Haymitch clasps my hand. To him, I am some insistent starving Seam girl. To me, he is so much more. When he takes my hand, I suddenly grieve him. While he never died in my other life, and despite never being that close, I feel as if we had drifted apart. My grief had made me forget him. He was always just across the street. Suffering, just like me. And there I was, overlooking his importance to me. It had seemed easy back then to blame him for my losses, for Peeta's hijacking and his death; but Haymitch had lost him, too. And I had never acknowledged that or even allowed myself to. Now, I do.
I take too long to drop his hand. When he pulls his back, he wipes it on his shirt.
"When do you start?" he asks.
"Now," I say. I pick up the basket and walk inside.
The place is abysmal. I almost regret saying that I will take it on. I do not even know where to start.
I place the basket onto the kitchen counter. I start unpacking the contents. Haymitch did not follow me.
It is only fall.
It is not until it is nearly half-way through winter that the house is semi-presentable. I am still working on some of the rooms upstairs, but at least the living room and kitchen are spotless. His favorite perches.
I have worn him down to the point that he will sit in the same room as me, especially when I am cooking. He will sit at the kitchen table, a bottle in one hand, his knife in the other. He does not normally talk to me, but he will watch me, or critique my cooking. Even though he always eats it. He has never not eaten something I've made for him. If there are leftovers, he always tells me to take them home.
He pays me at the end of the week. At first, a moderate amount. As time wears on, I notice more coins falling into my palm. I do not comment. When I do his shopping, he gives me too much money for it, and when I try to give him the change, he makes a face and does not accept it back. I tuck it into my pocket.
With the pay, I am able to feed not just myself, but my family, and the Hawthornes. I gain the weight. Out in the woods, Peeta and I train. He does not realize that we are. He thinks this is merely what I enjoy doing; running around the woods, climbing trees, making fires, foraging for food, hunting. When I show Peeta how to make snares, he takes to it faster than I would have thought possible, but then I remember that his fingers are precise enough for something like that; from years of cake decorating. His desire to learn the plants, and to draw them into his notebook, is even stronger.
Our afternoons are no longer lazy, but they are still ours.
Gale questions me about my new employment. He seems uncertain of the grouchy Victor up in his fancy Capitol-made house. I tell him Haymitch is harmless. He does not seem to believe that. While Haymitch is recognized as a useless drunk, he still holds that status as a Victor. Ominous, almost. When I give Gale a fraction of my wages, he shuts up on the matter. Even if he hates all things Capitol, money is not one of them; especially when it helps clothe his siblings and fill their bellies.
That winter is the most comfortable winter my family has ever enjoyed. The food does not run out. The firewood is in an abundance. Our clothes and blankets are thick. We are not as rich as when I was a Victor, but in place of that, we also do not have any of the consequence of my victory. We do not fear overstepping. We do not have to tip-toe around the topic of my recent traumatic experience. We do not have to relive said experience on the televisions. We do not have to uproot our lives.
One night, Peeta ends up staying over at our home. It is the weekend. The snow had been falling, softly at first, but then more heavily, as the afternoon lengthened. By night, you cannot even see the sky. My mother tells him to stay. He restocks the stove. We watch the fire burn. Prim makes us tea. We sip the hot liquid. Peeta curls up around me on my bed. Prim lays in bed with our mother.
Once the tea is gone, Peeta insists that he sleep on the floor. I refuse. I tell him it would be pointless. How improper could it be, sharing a bed, when just across the room, my mother and sister are slumbering? He relents.
This is the first night I sleep in his arms since his death.
I dream of the war.
The Peeta in this dream is less like my Peeta, than even the past one. He is handcuffed. His gun is full of blanks; and he does not even carry it; Gale does. He is sullen and bitter, his face sunken into a scowl. I cannot even imagine past Peeta like this. Which is ironic, because it is him, in a way. They are all fragments of him. I am forced to re-watch him murder a member of the squad, launching them towards the Capitol trap with his legs. He is broken, unhinged. He is thrashing around in the arms of the others. There is spittle running down his chin. His eyes are wide, swinging around wildly. All black, they land on me.
The hatred in those eyes, the desire to destroy, takes my breath away.
I sit up, gasping awake.
I am crying, and even when I try to stop the heaving sounds with my hands, the sobbing will not stop. I do not want to wake my mother or Prim. I stand up, grab my jacket, and rush out the door as quietly as I can.
I do not go far. Only a few feet across the yard. The snowbanks are thick and fresh. I do not have shoes. The icy burn reminds me of the lake, but I welcome the physical pain. I fall to my knees in the snow.
I am not surprised when Peeta follows me.
He must be shocked to be woken up like that. To watch me flee. Even so, he calmly joins me. He crouches at my side. A hand on my shoulder. At his touch, the sobs renew and my chest is shaking.
Peeta wraps me up in his arms.
I almost wish he hated me, even now. Just like in the first Hunger Games, things would be simpler if he would just hate me, or if he were easier to hate. I start to think life would be easier if I did not love him, or anyone else; then I am reminded of what that life was like. A life without love, without them. It had been empty and without meaning. And while there is meaning in this life, it is almost too large. It is intimidating, unfair, that my life's work must come down to saving everyone I know, not just from death, but from a tyrannical government, and only through a role that reduces me down to a propaganda figure.
My agency feels as if it is non-existent, regardless of the changes I have made.
"It's freezing out here, Katniss," says Peeta. His hand rubs up and down my back.
I am just regaining my composure. I wipe at the tears.
"It was a nightmare," I tell him. "I'm sorry."
"You don't need to be sorry," he tells me. "Let's get you back in bed."
"Not yet," I tell him.
Our breath is visible in the air around us. I look up. It is no longer snowing and the clouds have all cleared away. The sky is brilliantly bright with starlight.
"Peeta," I say. "Have you ever thought about being reaped?"
Peeta frowns.
"Doesn't everyone?" he asks.
"I dreamed that we were reaped together," I lie to him.
He is silent for a moment. His hand on my back has stopped rubbing.
"The chances of that are extremely low," he tells me.
"But it's never crossed your mind?" I ask. "You've never feared it?"
"I've thought of it," he says. "But, mostly, for you. I know you take out tessera. I don't, so it's less likely. I am more afraid of losing you, and anyone else I know, in that way. Not just that they might die in the Games, but that they could win, and they could lose who they are. They could win… but at what cost? Something like that changes a person. What the Capitol forces them to do? It's unspeakable."
I want to speak about it. The Capitol thrives off of the fact that people are afraid to talk about it. Not just because they fear the Capitol is listening, but because it is a hard thing to talk about. Stigmatized. Parents fear scaring their children. Children fear speaking it into reality. Everyone is afraid.
Except, as I know all too well, it is only matter of time before anger and hatred outweigh the fear. It only takes a spark of hope, a glimmer of Capitol weakness; just one person, that is not afraid to talk about it.
I turn to Peeta. I take his hand into mine.
"If we are reaped," I say to him. "I have a plan."
It looks like he might laugh. At first. Because it is a frivolous thing to say. Childish, almost. Sometimes you will hear other kids say things like this; usually when they are five or six. This is before the children dying on the television mean anything; before they realize those other children are real; before they realize that it is not the fun and colorful fanfare that the Capitol paint it to be. At that age, they talk a big game. They talk about how they will win with ease. They imagine themselves as if Careers. They plan out a scenario that is almost impossible to guarantee, since none of the arenas or tribute pools are ever the same.
I am in a unique situation, where I can plan it. Even the Careers do not have that.
"Well, if that ever happens," he says. "Then you can tell me. But it won't."
I allow him to take me back inside. We dry off our feet. Fall back into bed. He strokes my hair, my face pressed into his chest. It is easy in these moments to pretend we are not in the past or even the future. We are timeless. It is just him and I. No Panem. No war. No hijacking. My hand runs up and down his bicep.
"Do you think anyone could make it through the Games unchanged?" I whisper.
"They can try," he responds. "Even trying, means something."
Eventually, I fall asleep. This time, I do not dream. I wake to sunlight. Peeta is sitting at the kitchen table, laughing. Him and Prim are talking. My mother is making breakfast. Buttercup is curled up at Peeta's feet beneath the table. When Prim notices that I am awake, she urges me to join them. I nod, then disappear into our bathroom. I scrub my face. I change, then re-braid my hair. I brace myself against the sink.
The reaping is nearing. My body is as ready as it can be. Peeta is as ready as I can make him; the only thing to further this would be to tell him the plan, but as he has stated, that will need to happen after the reaping. Haymitch is close to progress; and even he might need to wait until after the reaping. It is my family that needs prepping. Only, there is not much I can prepare them for, for this Hunger Games.
If it was the Quarter Quell, then I would have sat them and Gale down, and warned them about the firebombs. We would have created a plan to save everyone in District 12. I could have warned them about the change in District 12, before that, regarding Head Peacekeeper Thread. Only, none of this matters yet.
None of that is guaranteed. I must bid my time.
During the spring, I start to bring Prim with me when I am working at Haymitch's house. It takes him time to notice. But, one day, when Prim is helping me cook him dinner, he pauses in the doorframe of the kitchen.
"Who's that?" he asks.
"That's my sister, Prim," I tell him. I turn from the stove, spatula in hand. "She's been helping me."
He wants to argue, somehow. It's been hard enough for him to tolerate me; or anyone.
"She's a lot more likable than me," I tell him, turning back to the food. "You'll like her."
"Hi!" says Prim. She is slicing goat cheese and placing it on bread. "I hope it's alright that she lets me tag along."
How can someone say no to her? How can someone, even Haymitch, be hostile towards her?
I might not be able to wear him down, but maybe Prim could.
Haymitch sighs heavily.
"Don't expect me to pay you more, just because there's two of you," he mumbles.
He sits at the table, his back to us.
I smile to myself over the stew.
Peeta makes me another cupcake for my birthday.
Prim's birthday dinner is a happy event.
The reaping is getting closer and closer.
That weekend is the last chance Peeta and I have out in the woods. I tell him that we are going for a hike. We trek all the way to the lake. I have not brought him here since my first death. This lake is nothing like that one. It is a warm, pleasant afternoon. The sun is shining unrelentingly over us. The lake is endless rippling blue. We even bring a picnic.
Peeta is laying out the blanket. I stand at the shore, looking out across the water. I think of running. I have already promised I would not kill myself again, but I think of going to District 13. We could make it. My family, the Hawthornes, Peeta. We could, but it would still be risky. There are wild animals. There is President Coin, and the militaristic society they hold; an entirely different oppressive regime. Would I have any power there? Doing this would change the future, completely, and then my knowledge would be useless, and I could not use it to my advantage. Yet, I would avoid the Games, and being the Mockingjay.
"You ready?" asks Peeta.
I turn. He has laid out all the food. He is sitting cross-legged, leaning towards me. The sun is shining down into his eyes. He pushes the blonde curls from his forehead, squinting up at me. He smiles.
"Ready," I say. I join him.
We enjoy this last afternoon of peace. I know as we chat, and eat, that we cannot run. I do not want to live under Coin. I cannot stand the idea of being underground for the rest of my life. I must go to the Games.
The picnic is happy, but I hold a piece of melancholy inside of my chest. I have softened my heart these last few months, and the life before that, but I feel I must harden it again. I am going into the Hunger Games. I will be in the Capitol's midst. I will have to lose Rue, and watch the others die. I have to grieve them. All over again. Possibly even kill them myself; more than I had that first time. I have to be strong.
On the walk back to District 12, Peeta asks me what's wrong.
I shake my head. It is not possible for me to come up with an adequate excuse for this kind of grief.
"You're thinking of the reaping, aren't you?" he asks me.
"A little," I admit.
He pauses, then tucks hair behind my ear. I do not meet his eyes, even when he tries to make me.
"It's normal to be afraid," he tells me.
I do not think it is normal to feel this afraid. To have this many fears. I fear, so much. For so many. I fear for my family. For him. For myself. For the other tributes. For the nation. For the other Victors.
"I love you," I say to him, finally meeting his gaze.
He smiles.
"I love you, too," he says, though there is a note of surprise in his voice, it is a pleasant surprise.
"That's why I'm afraid," I admit to him.
"You shouldn't let fear keep you from living, from loving, Katniss," he tells me.
Something about that startles me; cracks me a little. I want to weep. Fear had kept me from that. For an entire lifetime. Fear had held me back; and then when those fears were actualized, through war, and when surviving and fighting and fearing no longer mattered, there was nothing. Fear had held me back from the love, from the living, but it had done nothing to protect me from the grief.
I reach out for Peeta. He holds me. I do not know how long we stand there. He does not begrudge me the time. Just holds me. I fight the desire to cry. I try to hold myself together. I cannot fall apart now.
When the sun is starting to set, Peeta pulls back, looking down at me.
He grins.
"Want to race back to the gate?" he asks me.
I laugh.
"You know I'll win," I say.
"Maybe," he says. He steps back and takes on a ready stance. "But I've been practicing."
"Fine," I say, clutching the strap of my backpack. "We'll race."
We take off.
He's got a good pace. I plan to hold back, to make sure he is never out of sight, but even doing so I struggle to keep a good buffer between us. At one point, he almost overtakes me. But he gets too excited, winking at me about it, and loses his stride. I beat him.
We are both breathless at the gate; but the run has filled me with endorphins. It has cleared away the cloud in my chest. I pull my breath in with relief. Peeta is doubled over, trying to catch his.
"Come on, we have to get back," I tell him, crawling under the fence.
I spend the night before the reaping with Prim. I hold her close.
I am not ready to spend the next few days in the Capitol, then those long, long days and nights in the Games. I am really, truly, committing to the reaping this time. I have a small fear that the time loop will be broken by this. As if after the reaping, I will no longer have the ability to restart upon my death. I have never wanted or planned to die in the arena, but I fear it even more, in the scenario that I cannot restart.
I tell Prim a story, to distract her, and myself.
At the end of the story, Prim turns to me in our bed.
"That Peeta boy," she says. "You love him, don't you?"
"I do," I tell her.
She closes her eyes, snuggling close.
"You two look good together," she murmurs. "Like Mom and Dad."
I say nothing.
The next morning, after a sullen hunt with Gale, my family is getting ready for the reaping.
My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Prim puts on a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, like it was that first time around. The back is untucked.
In a strange bit of nostalgia, I motion her closer.
"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the blouse back in place.
Prim giggles and gives me a small "Quack."
"Quack yourself," I say, and I have to force the laugh.
I dress myself; one of mother's dresses. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.
Like last time, my mother does my hair, braiding it up on my head.
"You look beautiful," says Prim in a hushed voice.
"Not as beautiful as you," I tell her, tugging one of her pigtails.
We eat lunch, but before long, it is time to get to the town square and check in.
We are corralled into our respective places. I keep tabs on Prim.
Last time, I searched the crowd for Gale. This time, I am looking for Peeta.
Peeta stands near the front of his group. He catches my eye.
He smiles, but I can see the anxiousness in him.
I do not return the smile.
On stage Madge's father, Mayor Undersee, and Effie Trinket, sit.
I keep looking at Effie, in her Capitol get-up, like I hardly believe she is real.
As the reaping begins, the mayor steps up to the podium and reads his script.
Right on cue, Haymitch, the paunchy, middle-aged man that he is, staggers onto stage, hollering and completely drunk. He falls into the chair beside Effie, a complete spectacle for the cameras.
Effie quickly gets up and goes to the podium, giving her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
It's time for the drawing.
Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names.
She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper.
I know what name she will call out. I prepare myself to volunteer.
"Primrose Everdeen!" says Effie.
I move without thinking. I hurry into the middle aisle, where Prim has stepped out of the crowd and take her around the shoulders. I push Prim behind me.
"I volunteer!" I call out. "I volunteer as tribute!"
On stage they mumble their confusion, but Mayor Undersee, just like last time, sweeps the protocol aside and allows me to volunteer.
Prim begins screaming hysterically behind me. She wraps her skinny arms around me like she can stop the inevitable.
"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"
"Prim, let go," I say harshly.
Gale comes forward, prying Prim off of me. I give him a look that he will understand: a token of my appreciation. To let him know that I am sorry, for doing this. For everything that may come from this one fateful moment.
I climb the steps, dreading the second part of the reaping.
I introduce myself, keeping my face in a steely scowl.
Like last time, no one claps. They salute me, with the three fingers. It will in a year's time come to mean something else. They do not know that.
Even the salute is not enough to move me, not like last time.
It is when Haymitch comes over and throws his arm around me that I stumble and am taken off guard.
For a moment, unlike last time, Haymitch pauses and looks down into my face. His eyes, though glassy, seem angry; resentful. Does he regret taking me on? Does he somehow think he has caused this?
Then the moment passes, he turns towards the crowd.
"Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers. "I like her! Lots of ..." He can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!" he says triumphantly. "More than you!" he releases me and starts for the front of the stage.
"More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly into a camera.
I know now that he is definitely so drunk that he intends to directly taunt the Capitol.
Then he falls off the stage and knocks himself out. I wince.
Effie walks over to the ball containing the boy's name.
She is muttering about the excitement of the day, and then she has the slip of paper.
"Peeta Mellark."
His face is fully shocked. Our eyes meet.
He looks at me with a mixture of pain and regret.
I watch him walk his way to the stage. I can hear Prim crying in the crowd.
Today is finally here.
Peeta takes his place by my side.
Effie asks for volunteers, but, of course, there are none.
When we are motioned to shake hands, I briefly consider just kissing him, in front of everyone. Let the world see, let the love story start here; but no, that would certainly be too much.
Peeta hesitates to let go of my hand.
At the Justice Building, there are my revolving number of visitors. First, my family. It is hard to let go of Prim. She makes me promise her to win, again. I want to tell her I will, that I have won before. I make my mother promise to take care of her. Then there is the baker. Him visiting me is more poignant than last time. He knows about his son and me. I cannot bring myself to eat any of the cookies he gives to me. I keep thinking of my birthday and the cupcake Peeta had given me.
When Madge pins the Mockingjay to my chest, I feel the urge to rip it off. To throw it. It is cursed. It will be the reason they all die.
I leave it, despite my anger.
Gale is as determined as ever. He tells me he knows that I will win. He tells me that I must see the other tributes as not people, but animals. As if it is just any other hunt in the woods. I am reminded of his philosophy. No one else matters. Just us.
I hug him, making him promise to look after Prim and my mother.
Then I am escorted to the train station. The cameras are waiting. Peeta has tears on his cheeks.
On the walk from the car to the train, I take his hand. He does not hesitate to hold fast to mine.
When we pause to face the cameras, I lift our linked hands above our heads. It is not a kiss. It is not a clear show of our romantic connection, but it will make us look unified, and it will certainly throw off the reporters.
Peeta turns to look at me, a question in his eyes.
He does not know how we will do this. He does not realize there is a chance both of us can make it. I know before he even speaks, that he will be working to save me. That he is prepared to give his life. That he has resigned himself to the task of dying. I am angry at him already. I remember his lifeless body on that Capitol street.
He will not do that to me again. Ever.
Inside the train, we have our own compartments, but before I can escape, Peeta tightens his hand around mine, not letting me go.
"How did you know?" he asks me, his eyes still red from the tears.
"What do you mean?" I ask, taken off guard.
"How did you know we were going to be reaped?"
My heart is pounding. There is no one else around us.
I could tell him, but I simply shake my head.
"I didn't know," I lie to him.
Peeta frowns.
"It was just a dream," I tell him.
"You…" he starts. He seems to struggle. He looks me up and down. "You're surprisingly calm."
I can see how it would look to him. All of those times I brought the reaping up. Perhaps he saw me tense, before Prim's name was even read. That I moved before they had even finished saying it. The fact that I am not more broken up or shaken by the events of today. I have had so much time to accept this day, it is hard to conjure up those intense emotions of helplessness and anger. I mostly feel determined.
"I told you," I say to him. "I have a plan."
"To win?" he asks.
Of course, he must think I mean to be the sole Victor. I wonder if he entertains ideas of how I have thought out his own murder. If, like my first time in the arena, he is imagining that I am being nice as a ploy, or these last few months, or maybe… I stop myself from spiraling, and him:
"For both of us to win," I whisper.
Peeta looks like he wants to believe me, but I can see his shoulders sag. Defeat.
"Katniss," he starts.
"I mean it," I say. "I do. I – "
A Capitol attendant enters the train compartment we are in. I shut my mouth.
The attendant tells us that our individual compartments have been prepared and motions for us to follow them. We follow. As we reach my door, I turn to Peeta and mouth the word, "Later".
Peeta tries to give me a smile. It does not reach his eyes.