Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peeta

I don’t sleep much anymore. Not that I was ever well rested prior to our arrival at 13, but without her it’s so much worse. Here, underground, miles upon miles away, my nightmares of losing Katniss no longer end when I wake up.

Nothing brings me solace.

You’d think it was me in the hospital bed the way Haymitch has to force feed me. My own stay here was brief. When the hovercraft turned around after saving Haymitch, Beetee, Johanna, and Mags, I became a ‘serious security threat’ for whatever reason, and I wasn’t allowed to wake up until we landed in District 13. 

After that, I graduated from ‘serious security threat’ to ‘mentally disoriented,’ which earned me a special little white bracelet and several special chats with a doctor. Although I’m no longer required to stay in the hospital, the wristband of shame and the therapy sessions are nonnegotiable for now. We don’t talk much.

“You should really finish that,” Haymitch says, nodding to my tray, “you look like you’ve lost twenty pounds.”

I wonder how far off that actually is. I indulge him with a small bite of the dense bread. It’s not good.

We’ve been here two weeks now. Thankfully, intelligence from the Capitol strongly indicates that the tributes taken from the arena are still alive. As promised, Haymitch and I’ve been in Command nearly everyday in preparation for the extradition of the captive victors. Luckily, we haven’t had to fight to get Coin and the upper ranks on board with a rescue mission. The only thing we’ve had to push for is to speed up the timeline, but even Boggs has reassured us that if we do this, we don’t want to risk doing it the wrong way, unprepared.

It doesn’t make every day without her any less excruciating.

It doesn’t take away the suffocating dread over the small possibility that she’s already dead. That I’ve lost her forever.

Neither of us like Coin, and we figure that out pretty much right away. Haymitch never sleeps through the night. Most of mine are also spent sleepless by his side in the hospital, there to ground him when he gets lost in a flashback. I’ve gotten pretty good at sleeping sitting up. He told me, after the first night, that he doesn’t need a babysitter. 

“Think of me like your mentor then.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t protest at my presence anymore. I didn’t tell him how afraid I am to be alone. I think he knows.

I have no one else anymore. District 12 has been firebombed, and my whole family is dead.

Maybe it’ll hit me harder later, but the hollowness caused by the absence of my loved ones doesn’t send me into the tidal wave of grief I’d have expected it to. I don’t feel much of anything most days.

I miss my brothers. They’d always been far closer with each other than either of them had been with me, but I know they loved me, despite how much I got picked on. I used to feel jealous over their relationship with each other, but now, I just regret what could’ve been. Maybe we’d have changed as the years went on. Maybe we’d have grown closer. Maybe not, but now I’ll never know.

Now, all I have are the memories. Paten’s cheerful customer service voice dropping into a groan as soon as he makes it into the kitchen. Paine’s laughter, usually at me; the way he went about life without a care in the world. Paten taking a beating for me. The time Paine and I cracked an egg over Paten’s sleeping head, and Paten putting vinegar in our water at breakfast the next morning. Paten’s art. Paine’s jokes. The three of us dodging an angry wooden spoon after a spontaneous, disastrous flour fight.

I miss my dad. He was gentle most of the time, and always kind. I miss the patient way he had of teaching, the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled, the way he laughed. If there was anything he knew as well as he did baking, it was how to tell a story. When I was young, I would cherish every word. Now, I’m grasping at any details I can remember because I’ll never have the opportunity to hear him tell another.

My mother is also gone.

My mother is dead.

It doesn’t sound the same. It doesn’t feel the same. I know I shouldn’t be thinking like this. There’s still pain there, but do I miss her? I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of person that makes me, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything when I think about it. I don’t doubt that it could still break me when my guard is down, but right now, I’m too far past broken to feel anything for the bitter woman.

My mother is dead.

The sky is blue.

Life moves on.

In District 13, life moves on rather efficiently whether you’re moving with it or not. I am not. I accept the little tattoo on my wrist at breakfast indicating my schedule, but I don’t make an outstanding effort to follow it. I’ve been in the kitchen once, and I’m sure I’ll go back, but not yet. I have no interest in soldier training either.

Of course, I do attend every meeting in command that I’m scheduled for, and Haymitch and I have already developed a habit of loitering around other conferences in an attempt to gather information. I’m glad that I don’t have to worry about Haymitch being every bit as motivated to get Katniss back as I am.

“She’d want you to be taking better care of yourself.”

Haymitch’s words reel me back into the room. I look at him dumbly.

“Please,” he pushes my tray, “eat. She’s not going to be happy when she comes back if you look like a twig.”

I snort. “Hardly think there’s a chance of anyone calling me a twig.”

“Eat, smartass.”

I take another angry bite of my bread and Haymitch looks somewhat appeased.

“What do you think we’re walking into today?”

He shrugs, swallowing his oats, “I can’t imagine it’ll be very fun.”

He sounds about as excited as I feel. Today, I’ll be filming my first propaganda spot — propos, Plutarch calls them. We’ll be working with the overenthusiastic man and his meticulous assistant Fulvia to create videos that they’ll broadcast to the districts, in hope of inspiring others to join the revolution. Something that wouldn’t have been possible without Beetee, who apparently redesigned the network that transmits the Capitol’s programming a number of years ago.

I begrudgingly agreed to the propos in fear that our lack of cooperation may affect the course of the extradition mission. I wouldn’t put it past them to hold the safety of the other victors over our heads. Haymitch outright refuses, not sharing the same concerns as me. They want to bring in Johanna too, but she’s also refused to have anything to do with the ‘clown show.’ Haymitch and I fought a lot over it the first few days we were here, and although it’s clear he’s not going to budge, he’s not getting out of coming with me.

He finishes his breakfast and we make our way down to one of the lower levels where Plutarch and Fulvia await in front of a small studio set. The backdrop behind a narrow platform is green but completely bare. The pair don’t notice us at first upon arrival, Fulvia scribbling rapidly on a clipboard while Plutarch talks more with his hands than with his voice.

“Good morning!” he calls cheerfully when he finally sees us approaching, “we’ve got quite the day lined up for you. If you’ll just head through the door on the right there, we’ve got some familiar faces eager to get you ready for the action!”

Haymitch and I share a look in lieu of responding. I’m already sick of this guy and it’s only 7:45.

To my surprise, behind the grey door we’re met by our former prep team and Portia. Lupercus, Thalia, and Odelette are ecstatic to see us; I greet them warmly but Haymitch is stoic at best. He’s never been fond of the trio. We’re both delighted to see Portia, however.

“How are my favorite young men?” she asks, pulling me into a tight hug. Haymitch laughs; it’s the first time I’ve heard it since he’d gotten out of the arena.

“We’ve been better,” I tell her. She nods in understanding. She looks to Haymitch, smiling warmly, but she doesn’t move to embrace him like she did me. She knows better.

“It’s good to see you,” she says to him.

“Likewise.”

“So,” she begins, “we’ve got about an hour with you before they want to go over the lines and shots you’ll be doing today.”

At this moment, Octavia walks in, carrying a garment bag in one hand and a small rectangular box in another.

“Oh!” she says, seemingly just as surprised to see us as we are her. There’s something else on her face. Guilt? Pity? She masks it quickly. “It’s so wonderful to see you both.”

She looks as if she wants to speak again, but her composure breaks and her eyes well up with tears as she quickly excuses herself from the room.

“Venia and Flavius are here as well,” Portia says lightly, “for when our girl gets back.”

I exhale loudly and turn to look at the rack of clothing to my right so that I won’t cry.

“Ready?” Odelette asks far too cheerfully. 

No. I nod. 

“Let’s get this over with.”

Katniss

We’ve been here eleven days.

That’s what Wiress tells us. If not for her, I’d have no idea. The lights in our cells turn off and on at random. Sometimes we’ll sit in darkness for hours and hours, but the time before now, I’m positive that the lights remained on for at least three days. They were off after that for a few hours, but they’re already back on again. The long bright bulbs give me a headache. I bury my face in my arms in an attempt at rest.

Our first night here was the longest. I don’t think any of us slept. Wiress had been vague about what awaited us, despite our attempts to get her to talk. Finnick had been acting uncharacteristically quiet, and still is. I don’t know Journey, but she seems rather calm considering our circumstances. I heard her cry once, the second time we all slept. Besides that, she’s been a sturdy and reassuring presence. She says the things that give us hope are the same things that allow us to be brave. 

I don’t know about that. When I think about all the things I’m hopeful for, I feel more like a coward than I ever have. Why would I be comforted by how much I have to lose?

I do like Journey though. The frail District 6 tribute is far more perceptive than I’d have expected her to be. She’s nothing if not kind, and she was a reliable source of comfort after my first panic attack.

After that first night, when the lights turned on, I was immediately dragged from my cell and thrown into the elevator. When the doors opened, the guards led me out into a wide hallway. We made one turn before stopping at a door identical to countless others lining the hall.

The room was small. A large wooden desk separated two chairs. The smell was sickly sweet with the aroma of roses that always accompanies the man who sat in the chair opposite me.

President Snow gestured for me to join him in the empty chair.

“Miss Everdeen. Tea?” he asked. A kettle and two cups sat on the desk.

“No.”

“Very well,” he said, taking a sip of his own. He considered me for a moment; I tried not to let any of my fear or discomfort show, but I’m not sure how successful I was.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

I didn’t answer, and he didn't wait long.

“My original plan was to have you killed right away, of course. I ultimately came to the conclusion, though, that it would just be too much of a waste.”

Still, I didn’t speak. The next time the rim touched his lips, a trail of blood trickled down to pool into his tea.

“You see, I think there are several ways that the Mockingjay might be useful to me. Are you aware of what’s happening in the Districts right now, as a result of the escape from the arena?”

So the others have escaped , I thought. I didn’t want to allow myself to believe it when Finnick made that allusion. I shook my head at Snow.

“Uprisings,” he said slowly, “violence and killings. Those in the Districts seem to believe that destruction of the arena means now that the destruction of our fragile system is also within reach.”

He looked at me intently, clasping his fingers together tightly on the desk in front of him.

“Not only do I think you’d make an excellent bargaining chip with the rebels, but I also believe you’ll be of great help in persuading those in the Districts to surrender.”

“I’m not sure why. You and I both know I’ve never been a very good actor.” 

Snow smiled at me perversely. “You’d better learn then, my dear, because there are many lives at stake and an infinite number of ways to break the human spirit.”

He’s right. There’s nothing I could do. While it’s probably safe to assume that Haymitch, Peeta, and the other victors made it somewhere free from danger — perhaps District 13, where Bonnie and Twill claimed they were headed — there’s no way of knowing where my family is at or what’s happening in District 12. I know that given the choice, Peeta would never leave our families or Gale’s family behind, but there’s a strong possibility that nothing is within his control. Whatever the plan had been, I don’t think Peeta knew about it until the very end. I wish I’d been paying more attention to him. Or at least, I wish I’d been paying attention to him differently.

I was dismissed without ceremony, not given any information about what will be required of me. The guards led me by the arms back down to my cell, throwing me into it pretty roughly when we reached the door.

“You okay?” Finnick had asked with a great deal of concern in his green eyes.

“Yeah,” I lied, lowering my voice, “I just had a meeting with President Snow. He wants me to dissuade the Districts from rebellion, and that I might be a good ‘bargaining chip’ with the rebels.”

Finnick let out a sigh of relief.

“That’s good. I mean, not good, but it could be a lot worse.”

By the way he said this to me, I got the impression he’d been speaking with first hand experience.

“Who’s to say it won’t get a lot worse?” I spat with bitterness that I hoped Finnick would realize wasn’t meant for him.

“It might,” he said quietly. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about Wiress telling us that we were here to play another Game. I couldn’t stop thinking about Snow’s words, Finnick’s words, picturing my family being tortured, starved, murdered…

I lost it. I was a shaking, sobbing mess. I could faintly register Finnick calling my name, somewhere in the distance asking me if I was alright. I had left, though. I was gone. More gone than the night Peeta found me broken on the bathroom floor of the Training Center. I shook with grief and fear and loss to a degree I’d never felt before.

The only thing that brought me back was Journey’s soft, gentle singing from the cell adjacent to mine. A lullaby. Not one I know, but it somehow still reminded me of home. It took time, so much time, but she pulled me out of the nightmare going on in my head. It was after this that I decided how much I liked her.

One by one, my neighbors would start to disappear. They took Finnick on the third day; he returned with bruises on his neck he wouldn’t talk about. After that, he ripped the hem off of his blanket and meticulously began tying and untying the strip of fabric in a variety of intricate knots. He hasn’t stopped.

Wiress is the one who tells us when it’s nighttime. Despite how much I try to refrain, when we all go to sleep, I wake several times a night to check on Finnick. To make sure he hasn’t tied himself a noose. 

Wiress was next, and she was gone for two full days. She has yet to speak a real word since. Just hums and the occasional clicking or whistling noise. I can see her when she comes to the door of her cell, but usually she lays curled up somewhere out of my sight. Journey and I both sing her lullabies. We all learn some new ones.

Journey was taken on the sixth day, and while her vacation was the shortest, she returned in the worst state. I couldn’t see her, but I could see Finnick’s look of horror when they brought her back. When I stood on the left side of my cell, I could smell the blood. 

Still, the woman didn’t cry.

No one comes for me. It’s been five days since Journey’s return. Each passing hour brings me a new sense of dread. The evidence of what Journey went through is clear, but Wiress came back without any bruises or scratches. Finnick came back with an almost unharmed frame as well. 

Which way will they target me? Do they want to hurt my body or my mind? Will they save both pleasures for their little Mockingjay?

Why haven’t they taken me yet?

I don’t have to wait long to find out.

Chapter Text

Haymitch

Portia and her flock of birds waste no time descending on Peeta. The green one tries to make conversation with me at first, but he quickly learns his lesson. Peeta also sits mostly in silence while his prep team prattles on about how dreadful life in District 13 is compared to the Capitol. Portia is better at reading the room, thankfully, and only makes small conversation with Peeta, which seems to relax him a bit.

There’s not a drink in the world strong enough to make me do what he’s doing now. I know they’ve got a costume ready for me too, but they’d have to kill me before they'd get me in it. I try to push down any feeling I have about the loss of the man that designed these uniforms with her. Even though it’s not for me and never will be, Cinna and Portia’s work is beautiful by design.

Peeta looks good. Strong. In his element. The uniform is armored, all black, accompanied by several hidden weapons and a curved helmet. It’s clear how much thought and attention was put into the work. The only thing out of place on Peeta  is the grimace he wears.

I feel for the kid. I’m not exactly sure what Plutarch has in mind for him, but knowing the man, it’d be pretty foolish to expect something good. I’m not proven wrong.

They have Peeta stand in front of the green backdrop, which projects images of battle and destruction around him, smoke billowing around his frame. They position him and give him lines. 

It’s terrible.

Something about defeating hunger for justice. I don’t know exactly and I don’t care to because there’s no way I’m letting Peeta do it Plutarch’s way. What a burden it is to care, I think. Before I can even throw a wrench — an axe? — into Plutarch’s operation, Peeta beats me to it.

“No.”

“What?” Fulvia asks, bewildered.

“No, I’m not saying this. It’s stupid.”

She looks like she’s about to have an episode. Plutarch looks tense. I make no attempt to hide my amusement.

“Well, Peeta, did you have something else in mind?” Plutarch asks. He shakes his head.

“No. But that… is terrible. Really bad.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” I interject. All eyes turn to me. I think for a moment before speaking again.

“It doesn’t sound like Peeta. People know him, or at least they think they do. I think a scripted speech will undoubtedly come off as phony and insincere because it is. Let the message come from him. We’ve all seen how persuasive he can be on his own. Ask Peeta why he thinks people should be fighting, don’t tell him.”

The room is quiet for several seconds as the team takes in what I’ve said. I look to Peeta, wondering if he’ll be upset with me putting him on the spot, but he nods. Plutarch’s eyes grow wide in a way that I’ve come to passionately despise. 

“Brilliant!” he claps, “that’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

So with that, I convince Plutarch to ditch the cheesy background as well, and we focus on Peeta’s words. The kid is brilliant, as always. He starts speaking from the heart.

“Panem,” he begins, “this is Peeta Mellark, speaking to you from District 13. The Capitol has lied to you about its destruction; the citizens of 13 are surviving underground in a world where there are no starving children, no hangings, and no Hunger Games.”

He pauses.

“A future like this awaits the rest of Panem, as long as we’re willing to fight for it. Make no mistake: the Capitol has been lying to us about far more than this. Immediately following the collapse of the Games, the Capitol firebombed the residents of District 12. There were only eight hundred and seventy-two survivors. District 12 had no organized rebellion, no protests, and no violent uprisings. This was a heinous act of retaliation. District 12 just happened to have the misfortune of being home to three victors who challenged the Capitol.”

“Several of my fellow victors have been taken hostage directly following the destruction of the arena, including Brutus Einar, Wiress Eszes, Finnick Odair, Journey Wheeler, and Katniss Everdeen.”

His voice breaks a little on her name, but he pushes through.

“We're not giving up on them, and I ask of you — we all ask of you — not to give up either. The only way to get to the future we want for ourselves, the future our children deserve, is through perseverance and unity. Thank you.”

The room is silent for a long while. Peeta doesn’t look at any of us. He heads back to the room to change.

It’s nearly perfect. It’s longer than Plutarch wants it to be, so they set about finding places to cut, and I have to persuade them one more time to leave out the special effects. When Peeta returns, we say our goodbyes to Portia and the toddlers she works with before heading to the elevator.

“I’m gonna head to my room,” Peeta says, “I need to shower. See you at lunch?”

I nod.

“Wanna try it in the dining hall this time?”

I scowl. “Why would I want to do that?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Doctors said you’re getting released tomorrow. You don’t wanna go scope out the loneliest corner to eat your mush in solitude?”

“What? Tomorrow?”

He looks at me like I’m dense, and I suppose I am.

“You need to pay attention when people talk to you.”

“Sorry, what was that? I wasn’t listening.”

He shoves me into the wall. 

“Watch it, I’m injured.” 

He rolls his eyes at me. The elevator opens up and he walks with me back to my room. “You’re not injured. You’re delusional.”

“No, I’m disabled.”

Peeta howls at this.

“You are not disabled. You have nerve damage and incompetence, and one of those you were born with. This,” he knocks on his metal leg, “is disabled.”

This is true, obviously. Not the incompetence part. I know full well that I’m not disabled. The nerve damage will be permanent, but it only causes numbness in areas of my arms, back, and chest. My motor skills are unaffected; I still have full control of all surrounding muscle groups. The tingling sensation is strange, and I can really only feel it when an affected part of me brushes against something, but it rarely hurts anymore. A hard hit in the right spot still sends a burning, shooting pain through my body, but the doctors tell me I’m incredibly lucky.

“Agree to disagree.”

He snorts. “Whatever. See you in the dining hall.”

“No promises.”

Katniss

When they take me, I’m not ready for it.

It’d been so many days since Journey’s return that I’d let my guard down. Now, I’m shaking on my feet in the elevator in fear of whatever unknown horror lies ahead.

The only thing that comes to me though, is solitude. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this room, but it has to have been at least three days. They’re feeding me more here, and this is a true bedroom. It’s not a cell. There’s even a door to a bathroom instead of a toilet, a showerhead and a drain on the floor.

I have a deck of cards, a notepad, and a pencil that sits on a table. I don’t touch any of it, save for one piece of paper. I make a paper hovercraft and throw it around the room for hours. I’m getting pretty good at making trick shots. I can do a double loop that lands right back on my bed.

Again, it’s been so long that I’m unprepared when they drag me away. This time, we leave whatever building we’ve been in these past two weeks. We drive, not far, but I’m not sure where to. I’m wearing a blindfold that they only remove once we enter another building and take another elevator. I think we’re moving up. My assumption is proved right when my mask is lifted and the green arrow glowing at me faces upward.

We enter the first door on the right. It’s a dressing room.

There stand two stylists from the Games. I don’t know their names, but I recognize them as the stylists responsible for the District 4 tributes: Finnick and Mags. Save one, the men escorting me leave without a word. The man who stays is the one who likes to throw us around.

“It’s so nice to meet you!” the pink haired, bedazzled stylist says. The other woman nods and smiles politely at me. She’s got no hair and a golden snake tattoo wrapped around her neck that glitters when it catches the light.

“Why am I here?”

They look at me like I’m delusional. “For your interview, of course! You’ll get the opportunity to sit down with Caesar Flickerman again! ”

The pink woman’s enthusiasm at the situation pushes aside my fear to make room for anger at the situation. I hate these people. I hate what they’re making me do. I hate who I have become.

The pair of vultures set to work on me. The guard doesn’t bother hiding his depraved stare as I strip; I think he licks his lips. I fight the bile rising in my throat.

It doesn’t help much when I’m in my new outfit. I’m dressed in a way Cinna would never dare. Not with a gun to his head. The padding in my chest and hips that accompanied my dresses on the victory tour are again present today. This is the least offensive part of the dress.

It’s maroon, strapless, and far, far too tight. It doesn’t cover enough of me and I feel so exposed by the thin material. I can’t even bear to be seen in it by these three people, let alone the entirety of Panem. I feel hot with shame. I think of my family.

I’m led out of the room, arms crossed tightly over my chest, when the bald woman approaches me with a fur coat.

“They won’t let you keep it on for the interview,” she says apologetically, “but for before and after.”

I nod in thanks, tears welling up in my eyes. She wraps it around me gently. I think of my family.

This time, instead of grabbing me by the bicep, the guard with the greedy eyes gets a firm grip on my waist as he leads me down the hallway. I don’t put an arrow through his eye, but I would if I could. I debate sticking a finger in there but we’re finally in a place I recognize.

We’ve been somewhere in the Training Center, because we’re quickly approaching the studio where Caesar normally sits with a full, vivacious audience. Now though, it stands empty and silent. I’ve never seen it this way, and it’s more than unsettling. Somehow it’s worse than the gawking crowd.

Caesar greets me warmly, but there’s an edge to his expression that I’ve never seen before. I wonder if he knows that when I leave here I’ll be returning to a prison cell.

Will I? I freeze. Will they send me back to my solitary white room? Are they going to be through with me after this? Kill me now that they have no use for me anymore?

I don’t have time to dream up more possibilities.

“So, Katniss, just a few notes before we get started. We’ll keep our talking points pretty simple. The goal here is to remind those in the districts the dangers another war proposes. Panem desperately needs a guiding voice to carry us to peace. I’m sure that’ll be no trouble for you!”

He’s wrong, but the way he says it, I get the feeling that I won’t be allowed to have any trouble. I think of my family. 

I nod.

I get a notecard with phrases I’m supposed to use and a list of the questions Caesar is planning on asking me. The stage lights turn on and I’m blinded. There’s a countdown coming from somewhere above me, and the anthem of Panem begins to play. As it dies down, Caesar introduces me.

“So, Katniss… welcome back.”

“Thank you, Caesar.”

“I think we’re all happy to see you alive and well.”

That’s rich.

“However, the circumstances that led up to your return to the Capitol are, I think, a little murky. We saw, of course, that the destruction of the arena was caused by violent rebel interference. But what went down from your perspective?”

“I’m really not sure. I wasn’t made aware of any rebel escape plan, and I don’t think the other tributes were either.”

Caesar looks at me pointedly. This wasn’t the right thing to say.

“Well, Katniss, that isn’t completely true. Beetee Latier and your own District partner, Haymitch Abernathy, were the ones responsible for the explosion. Are you saying you had no knowledge of this?”

“No,” I reply firmly, “I don’t believe Haymitch knew anything either.”

“Unfortunately, Katniss, the evidence contradicts this. Haymitch both destroyed the forcefield and cut your trackers out himself.”

So this is why he hit me, I realize. More of the pieces are coming together.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. I was unconscious.”

“Of course,” Caesar concedes, “but what about Peeta?”

I freeze.

“What?”

“What about Peeta? Surely he must have known about the conspiracy.”

This was not on the list of questions. I try to keep my composure.

“I highly doubt that.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he’s my fiancé,” I spit, “I know him, he wouldn’t want to be involved in anything like that. He would’ve told me even if that weren’t the case. We tell each other everything.”

“I’m sure, Katniss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I just have one more thing I’d like to touch on, if you’re not too upset.”

I know Caesar giving me this out is insincere. I’m not allowed to quit now.

“No, that’s okay, Caesar. Please.”

“Well, I was hoping you could share with us your thoughts on the war. As you know, losses on both sides have already been steep. What do you make of the future of Panem?”

The easy part. I look at my notecards before answering.

“We cannot keep fighting each other. We almost went extinct doing it before. What will be left when the dust settles? If we don’t all put down our weapons soon, we’ll destroy ourselves.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Katniss, but are you calling for a ceasefire?”

I look at my notecards. I think of my family.

“Yes, Caesar. Let me be perfectly clear. No one is coming to save the Districts from the mess they’ve created. There will be no happy ending to this story. The escape from the arena was an isolated attack on the sanctity of the Games by a group of ill-equipped and underprepared rebels. They’re not the army nor the saviors you think they are. The only thing this war will bring is more destruction.”

Peeta

I stay in the shower as long as possible. The showers here shut off after eight minutes, but I get an extra two minutes as an accommodation. It’s enough time to wash some of the anger away.

I already hate this.

I hate what they want me to say, I hate what I say myself, and I hate doing it in a fucking studio set. I feel used all over again. My choices aren’t really mine to make. I’m a piece in a different game this time.

The shower shuts off on me and I have to  bite back a scream of frustration. I towel myself off and dress slowly. Although I said I’d meet Haymitch in the dining hall, I have low expectations of him actually meeting me there, so I head to the hospital unit first. Sure enough, he’s still there. Before going in I let the nurse know he won’t be needing a tray brought down.

“Ready?”

“I’m eating here.”

“Nope,” I say, closing the book he’d been reading, “told the nurse you were itching to get out of here, not to bother with a tray.”

“Aren’t you just so helpful.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

We head down in silence. Katniss is still all I can think about. Every second I wonder where she’s at, what’s happening to her, what she’s thinking. It was the only thing I could focus on this morning during the propo. Haymitch told me that Plutarch liked it. I couldn’t care less. I don’t know if I can move through this world the same way anymore.

We hop into line and grab food. Haymitch’s tray rattles between his white knuckles. I find a quiet spot by a wall for us to eat at.

“Not so bad, right?” I ask Haymitch once we’re settled across from each other. He gives a noncommittal grunt.

“At least the food’s just as bad down here.”

“There’s always that,” I raise my glass. Hunger finally begins to win over my body. I think the anger and stress the morning provided are finally beginning to bleed into my stomach. Haymitch is right, anyway. Katniss would probably throw a fit if she knew I wasn’t eating.

Haymitch looks up, and I turn around to find Mags approaching us with a tentative look on her face.

“Can I sit?”

“Of course,” Haymitch says immediately, which surprises me. No one could dislike Mags, but the tone in which he speaks to her is… perfectly pleasant. He actually looks like he doesn’t mind her company, which is an expression I never see him wear with me.

Mags sits beside me, reaching across to grab Haymitch’s hand and squeeze it twice between two of hers. His expression remains neutral.

“It’s good to see you both up,” Mags smiles at me.

“Thanks,” I smile back politely, “I suppose it’s nice to have a change in scenery.”

“Agree to disagree,” Haymitch interjects.

“He’s just pouting because he gets assigned a living compartment tomorrow morning,” I tell Mags.

“Not pouting. Brooding. There’s a difference. I brood, Katniss broods, but you’re a pouter.”

“Anyway,” I ignore him, “Mags, how have you been since we got here?”

She was also let out of the hospital not too long ago. It was dumb luck that Mags made it onto the hovercraft. She and Wiress had been waiting at the two o’clock tree when Wiress suddenly bolted in the direction of the lightning tree. Mags followed as fast as she could, but lost sight of her by the time lightning struck. When she got to the tree, Wiress wasn’t there. Mags was far enough from the strike to remain mostly uninjured, but she suffered a nasty fall. Still, no one knows why Wiress ran or where she was going, but she’s now also at the mercy of the Capitol.

“I get by,” she says lightly. I know it’s just as hard for her right now as it is for us. Anyone can see that her bond with Finnick is strong. I nod at her in acknowledgment.

Across the room, I find Gale Hawthorne staring at me. Weird. Next to him are his brother Rory and Prim, engaged in what looks to be a heated discussion. Gale looks away quickly when I catch him, but I’d felt a pair of eyes on me for at least a few seconds before I turned his way. He looks about as unhappy as I feel.

He’s been training and working as a soldier with fairly high rank due the heroism he’d shown during the firebombing. It was largely due to his help that the small percentage of survivors even made it at all. It was three days that the remaining residents of 12 were stranded in the woods before District 13 hovercrafts came to their rescue. 

I’m beyond grateful to Gale for prioritizing Katniss’ family. The Victor’s Village — although I’ve heard it was left untouched — was far from the Seam, far from the woods. It was definitely a risky decision on his part, to go back for them, but I know the man wouldn’t have even considered another option.

Still, the way he was looking at me was startling. I can’t place exactly what it is in his expression that bothers me. His looks of… distaste for me are nothing new, but this is different. He looks murderous.

I try to put it out of my mind. I hate myself too. I hate myself for leaving her behind.

I’m suddenly too nauseous to finish my meal. I stand to leave, but Mags grabs my arm and points. On the opposite side of the room, a crowd gathers at one of the televisions. Behind me, a second large crowd forms at the other one. They usually just play Capitol broadcasting around the clock, which people hardly care to pay attention to, so I’m not sure what has people so interested in them today.

Then I see it.

A glimpse of her, and then I’m running. I push people away until my face is a foot away from hers. She looks the same, but tired. Tense. It’s a relief to see her alive and seemingly unharmed, but she wears the fear, the anger, the discomfort on her face plainly. She’s dressed in a way that makes my blood boil. It's downright provocative. I can feel how much she hates it. I can’t stand it.

“-the destruction of the arena by violent rebel forces. But what went down from your perspective?” Caesar Flickerman asks her. She doesn’t know. He tells her that Haymitch was responsible for the destruction of the forcefield, and she reiterates that she wouldn’t know anything about his actions or an escape plan.

Then he asks her about me.

“What about Peeta? Surely he must have known about the conspiracy.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he’s my fiancé. I know him, he wouldn’t want to be involved in anything like that. He would’ve told me even if that weren’t the case. We tell each other everything.”

My heart pounds in my chest at her words. Caesar apologizes for upsetting her, and the last question he asks Katniss is about the war.

“Let me be perfectly clear. No one is coming to save the Districts from the mess they’ve created. There will be no happy ending to this story. The escape from the arena was an isolated attack on the sanctity of the Games by a group of ill-equipped and underprepared rebels. They are not the army nor the saviors you think they are. The only thing this war will bring is more destruction.”

The room around me grows loud with chatter. Some people are muttering angrily, some in concern. I hear the word “traitor” whispered from somewhere behind me. I don’t care. I’m trying to soak up every inch of her face, every word off her lips, but way too soon it’s all gone. The program cuts to the regular midday news.

I’m quick to leave. I go straight to my compartment and stay there for the rest of the day. I don’t sleep by Haymitch’s side tonight.

Chapter Text

Haymitch

It’s Mags that notices Katniss’ face first, behind the sea of people straining to catch a glimpse of her on the screen.

She looks okay, but looks can be deceiving. I do think it means that it’s more likely she’s still alive though. It’s very possible that the interview could've been taped immediately upon her capture, but I see it as a small sign that she’s probably okay. I hope it’s not just wishful thinking. If this is what they’re keeping her alive for… I doubt this will be the only time we’ll see her on screen. They’ll need her to remain at least somewhat presentable to continue exploiting her. Right?

Mags grips my hand again tightly, squeezing it twice, and it doesn’t help because the only thing it makes me think of is Katniss. I push my way out of the dining hall shortly after Peeta does. I don’t go down for dinner.

__________________

I’m allowed to eat one final breakfast in solitude before the nurse kicks me out in the morning. I’m escorted by a red haired man who explains the curfews, meal rules, and scheduling. I know most of this and I don’t care much about what they want me to do anyway so I ignore most of what he’s saying.

“Here we are,” he says enthusiastically, “Compartment 414!”

We’re standing in front of a heavy white door, identical to all the others lining the hall. My living space is just around the corner from the elevator.

Just then, Peeta walks around that corner and stops when he sees us.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He looks at me, shakes his head, and points to Compartment 416, the door directly on my right.

“That’s me.”

“What’re the odds of that,” I say dryly, “don’t worry, I’m a good neighbor.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re a horrible neighbor.”

“Unfortunately, I have significantly less ways to be horrible here. In District 13, I’m a good neighbor.” Peeta shakes his head in amusement. The man showing me around bids his goodbye and I enter my compartment.

It’s a small room with a bed and dresser on the back wall, a table with two chairs, a loveseat across from it, and a small set of cabinets just behind the door. Another door just beside my bed no doubt leads to a bathroom.

It’s no more or no less homey than my house in 12. I have no belongings to fill it with, besides a thin gold bracelet. I set this on top of the dresser.

I’m irritated when the shower cuts me off after eight minutes, but at least it was warm. A loud knock at my door has me hurrying to dress myself the rest of the way. I found my dresser already full of basic underclothes and several identical gray jumpsuits.

Dove gray.

I shake my head hard and swallow before swinging the door open. As expected, Peeta is on the other side of it. I step aside to let him in and shut the door.

“Nice decor,” Peeta says, nodding at my bracelet.

“Thanks. I got it from a madwoman.”

He smiles, then frowns deeply.

“Effie?”

I feel my heart pound with shame. I hadn’t spared her a thought till now, but I don’t think Peeta did either.

“I have no idea. I can ask Plutarch.”

He nods. I sit on my couch and Peeta sits at the table. We’re quiet, the unspoken words hanging like daggers over our heads. Peeta is the first to cut the rope.

“So. Yesterday.”

“Yesterday.”

There’s a long silence again before another knife drops.

“I take it as a good sign. That she’s still okay, that they have reasons to keep her alive.”

Peeta looks at me harshly. “The Capitol having brand new ways to exploit my fiancée isn’t exactly comforting news, Haymitch.”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Fiancée? Really? ”

He blushes and mutters, “it’s technically true.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I just shake my head and sigh. “Well, you might want to clear that with Katniss when she gets back. Anyway, I do think it’s a good thing.”

I tell him that I think she’s likely safer now that she’s been seen on camera. I tell him I truly think she’s coming home. Not home. Coming here, anyway. He considers this a moment.

“We have no way of knowing, and we still don’t have any idea of when that’ll be,” Peeta shakes his head.

“Maybe not, but we’ll do what we can,” I pause, “your propo is airing in the districts tonight, by the way. Beetee can’t get it into the Capitol, but it’ll be on nearly every screen in the districts tonight. It could help. It could make a difference.”

I’m trying to convince myself as much as I am him. He doesn’t give a reaction to this. I sit on one of the chairs at my table and Peeta moves to the couch and sighs.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

I feel my heart break for him.

“I know,” I say, “it won’t be long now though. It won’t be long.”

He closes his eyes, shaking his head.

“It won’t be,” I reiterate. I can’t be sure of this, and he knows it, but I can’t stand to see him as miserable as I am. It’s a while before I speak again.

“It’s not pretend anymore,” I speak lightly, more as a statement than a question, “this thing between you and your… fiancée .”

He swallows and gives me a look. “It’s always been real to me.”

“I know. But it looks like she was finally starting to admit it to herself.”

He presses his lips together, shaking his head and looking at something that seems mighty interesting on the floor.

“She told me I was her person,” he says quietly.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He pulls a face and rolls his eyes.

“It’s a valid question.”

“Sometimes I think it means she loves me,” he admits quietly, “but I try to not let myself believe that.”

It’s so obvious he’s right that I want to scream and shake his shoulders, but he’ll just have to wait for Katniss to muster the stones to tell him herself. Maybe that’ll be one silver lining about their separation. I think the Quell forced her to face more than one tough truth.

“I wouldn't give up hope,” is all I say.

We both have a meeting in Command after lunch, so Peeta grabs a deck of cards from his room and we pass the time with a few games until it’s time to head down to the dining hall.

I don’t like getting my wrist stamped every morning, I don’t like eating my meals in a cafeteria, and I don’t like being told I can’t drink. I don’t like that I’ll only get an hour of time outside each day. I don’t like these fucking jumpsuits.

We find Mags already seated by Beetee, which surprises me. We’ve barely seen him since he’d recovered, since they wheeled him to a special weapons unit the moment he could sit upright. He gives a friendly nod as I sit next to him and across from Mags.

“How are you fairing so far in 13?” Beetee asks us.

“It’s better than the arena, but worse than the hole I like to drink myself into.”

“It’s definitely a far cry away from District 12,” says Peeta. Beetee looks at him in understanding.

“Lots of changes,” he says noncommittally. Mags simply nods in agreement.

“Peeta?” a small voice calls out from behind me. It’s Prim. Peeta furrows his brow in concern.

“Prim? What’s wrong?”

She fidgets with the tray in her hand, shifting from foot to foot.

“Can I sit here? Just for lunch,” she asks quickly. Peeta’s eyes widen a little but he quickly masks his surprise.

“Of course,” he nods at the seat next to him, “is everything okay?”

She sighs, and sounding every bit like her sister, says “that’s kind of a stupid question, Peeta.”

Peeta genuinely laughs for a second. It’s a very welcome sound.

“It was,” he agrees. We eat in a comfortable silence for a while, until Prim asks a question and the reason for her visit becomes clear.

“What do you all think?” she blurts, “about yesterday. What do you think it means? Her saying all that?”

“I think it’s a good sign. She’s cooperating, so they shouldn't have any reason to hurt her. That’s the best thing she could be doing for herself,” Peeta says right away with the same false confidence I tried to reassure him with. By the look on her face, Prim’s too clever to buy it too.

“It wouldn’t make sense for them to put Katniss on television,” Beetee speaks quietly to Prim, “if they weren’t planning to keep her in the media cycle. Even Capitol citizens would become suspicious at her disappearance after seeing her assert her allegiance to the Capitol so plainly.”

This seems to send Prim’s mind racing, but ultimately she ends up looking a little less queasy than when she arrived.

“We’re bringing her back,” Peeta says firmly, turning to her. “Soon. We’re not resting until we do, and I can promise that.”

Katniss

I wrap the fur coat around me as soon as I’m allowed to leave the chair. Caesar says something to me in parting but I don’t care and I don’t answer. I feel sick with self-hatred.

I’m going to ruin the rebellion. I’m letting them use me like a puppet, like a piece in their Games. Peeta would be so ashamed of me. Peeta probably is ashamed of me, I realize. There’s a strong possibility he’ll see the broadcast. I feel tears burn hot down my cheeks.

I feel sick. I want to put the stiff shirt and baggy pants from my cell back on. I want to scrub all the makeup off till my skin bleeds.

When I’m back to the dressing room, none of the guards accompanying me leave this time. Great. I hand the coat back to the bald stylist and she gives me a kind smile. I undress in front of a full audience, reveling in the security of my prison clothes once they’re back on.

Leaving and driving pass in a blur. I don’t have to go back to the white room. I’m back in my grey prison clothes, still wearing a full face of makeup when the elevator descends for what feels like eternity before opening up to the wing of cells I share with my fellow victors.

The guard with his hand on my arm waits while the other unlocks my cell. Before pushing me in there, he grabs a fistful of my breast roughly and lets out a low, throaty noise of approval. The strength of his assault forces me back into the wall. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and resist the urge to bite down his arm. I remind myself how quickly this could get worse if I did. I think I have to just take it. I want to crawl out of my flesh.

“Hey!” Finnick yells roughly. I didn’t see him when we entered, but he’s on his feet and pushing his face so forcefully into the grated bars I’m sure it’ll leave bruises.

“Hey fuckface! How about you get handsy over here instead?”

“Once I’m done, if you insist,” the guard says, his lips curling provocatively. He flexes his hand and lets the other drop to my hip. He slides it back and forth. I hold my breath. The other man laughs.

“She’s seventeen years old, you piece of shit! ” His voice echoes strongly off the concrete walls. There’s a wildness to the way Finnick’s eyes dart around in a way that reminds me a bit of an animal that knows it’s dying. Like he’s searching for a way out. The rest of his face resembles prey in no way at all. His expression is murderous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Finnick angry, I realize. Truly angry. It’s frightening, even if it’s not directed at me. It doesn’t keep the man holding me from sliding his hand around to grope my ass though. Finnick bangs on his door.

“Is this the only way you can get a woman to let her touch you? You sick fuck !”

The guard drops his smile. He pushes me back and I catch myself on my hands before he slams the door shut on me. Then he has the other guard open Finnick’s cell.

“Since you were begging for it,” he says maliciously.

I scream, but there’s nothing I can do. The two men have closed in on Finnick. It takes three good punches to send him to the floor. They kick him mercilessly. My sobs and protests go unnoticed. Blood splatters on the ground. It’s an agonizing amount of time before he begins to go still. My blood runs cold.

“No!”

The guards pause. They look at each other with fear in their eyes. The one with the keys leans down to check his pulse.

“Finnick!” I cry out. I can’t. I couldn’t handle it if he-

The guard shakes his head and breathes a sigh of relief. My own quickly follows. They roll him onto his back and close up his cell, leaving without another word.

“Finnick?” I whisper.

He groans and rolls over. “They didn’t even ask for my safe word.”

I laugh through my tears. I rub at my face and my hands are stained black.

“Are you both okay?” I hear Journey ask. We both are, we tell her.

“What’d they do to you?” Finnick asks me, expression alarmed. He’s looking between my hands and my face closely, sitting up to lean against his door. 

“Actually, all I did was an interview. They kept me in a room for a few days and before you know it, I was onstage with Caesar in front of a camera. No audience though.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. I feel guilty for admitting this, that I haven’t been punished in the same way as everyone else, even though that’s ridiculous at face value. None of us have any control here.

“Why?” I ask. I’m getting a weird feeling about his reaction. I think back to what he told me after my meeting with Snow.

That’s good. I mean, not good, but it could be a lot worse.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says earnestly. I nod, but I know that something about my return had concerned him, whether it be the state I’m in, the amount of time I was gone, or maybe even the guard’s groping. Should’ve expected it with all that pent up aggression he had after watching me change. Fucking pervert.

“Were you expecting something else?” I have to just come out and ask. Finnick’s face darkens, and I feel guilty for it immediately.

“Yeah,” he answers honestly, and the way he looks at me makes my stomach churn. “I’m still worried I might be right.”

I’m afraid to ask. So I don’t. Maybe this is a mistake.

“I saw your stylists,” I say instead, "both of them, for District 4.”

He looks surprised and smiles softly. “Oh yeah? Stheno is really nice. She was Mags’ gal.”

I nod. “With the snake tattoo?”

“That’s the one. I always liked her.”

“She was sweet,” I agree. I hesitate, and Finnick can tell I want to say something.

“What’s wrong?”

I bite my lip. “What did you think had happened to me?”

My voice comes out much smaller and more afraid than I mean it to. I feel tears start to form in my eyes for whatever reason and I’m instantly furious with my body’s betrayal. Finnick just looks sad. Empty.

“I thought they might sell you,” he mutters, “loan you out, to curry favors usually. Political or personal. They like to dress you up nice for it, and with the makeup, I just thought…” he nods at my hands, not meeting my eyes. In a flash I’m brought back to what he said to me the first time we met.

Oh, I haven’t dealt in anything as common as money in years.

I know, without having to ask, that Finnick is worried for me because this has already happened to him. Maybe it’s been happening the entire decade since his Games. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces for fourteen year old Finnick Odair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s not the right thing to say, but I don’t know what is. He shakes his head. I think about Finnick’s state upon his return — his numb stare, silence, stillness — and I’m positive that the bruises on his neck were hickeys. My stomach lurches.

“Do you mind if I shower?” I ask him.

“Of course not,” he says, moving to stand. He falters, and instead crawls to his bed, wincing as he sits down.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he sighs before turning around to face the wall.

“Thanks,” I say as I strip my clothes, “you too.”

I shower as quickly as possible. Although Finnick is decent enough to turn away from me, I know we’re being watched at all times. I try not to think about it.

“Done,” I tell him once I’m dressed. He stretches and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. I begin braiding my hair back.

“Okay, my turn, but feel free to watch.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t you think that joke’s getting a little old?”

“What joke?” he smirks, pulling his shirt off. He doesn’t pause before shoving his pants down and I whip my head around so that I don’t get a glimpse of anything.

“Ugh!”

“I warned you.”

“You could wait until I actually turn around next time.”

“Noted.”

I hear his shower start. I start over on my braid, securing it with a tie Stheno gave me. I’m still laughing after Finnick’s third sea shanty. He does this, every time he showers, without fail. He’s a horrible singer. When his shower is off, I speak.

“Thank you,” I start, “for trying to help, but next time don’t get yourself beat up over me. Please. I can handle a little groping, it’s better than you getting your ribs broken.”

This is true, as much as I hated the feeling of his hands on me. I just don’t want Finnick to end up dead because he’s starting fights with the guards. It’s a moment or two before he responds.

“I can handle a little groping too. You can turn around now.”

I do, and he’s toweling off his wet hair.

“That was kicking and punching, not groping.”

He shrugs, “I like it rough.”

“I don’t,” I say sternly, “so behave. I mean it.”

“Yes, Mom.”

I glower at him and his bloodied lips grin back at me.

“Who doesn’t like it rough?”

“Shut up, pretty boy.”

Peeta

I walk Prim back to the elevator, where she descends to the floor on which she’ll finish up the rest of her school day. I’m more than surprised when she pulls me into a hug before we part ways. 

I feel guilty. I’ve barely spoken to her since we’d arrived at 13. I’d only seen her in passing a few times at the hospital. I know how scared she must be right now. I make a mental note to visit with her tomorrow after her hospital shift. I head to the eastern elevators.

Haymitch stops by his compartment before meeting me at Command. He’s late.

Everyone else is seated around the conference table as he arrives. Annie joins us  today; her attendance at these meetings is flaky at best, so I get the sense this might be an important one.

“Took you long enough,” I mutter to Haymitch, but he’s not the last to arrive; Gale slips in behind him and shuts the door. This is the first time I’ve seen him at one of these meetings, I realize, and I wonder why. Surely he’d want to be involved. It strikes me as incredibly strange, but I don’t have any time to think on it further before Boggs begins with his briefing.

“As most of you know, the first propo is going out tonight. Heavensbee, myself, and a few others will be watching from Special Weaponry where Latier will be monitoring the signal, and anyone here is welcome to join. It will air after dinner: exactly 19:15. Any questions concerning the propaganda launch?”

There are none, so he lets Plutarch speak about the content and several ideas he has for future propos. When he’s done, the floor belongs to Boggs again.

“So. Extraction.”

I clench my fists together and lean forward.

“We’re confident we’ve located the facility the tributes are being held at. It’s an underground prison not too far from the president’s mansion. We’ve organized a team and expect to execute a rescue operation within the next two weeks.”

Boggs’ eyes flicker to mine for a moment and I nod dumbly. My mind is racing. I’m relieved that we finally have a timeline, but a lot can happen in two weeks.

“Can I be added to the extraction team?” I ask.

Boggs shakes his head. “The list is already set. I’m sorry.”

I clench my jaw but nod. I wasn’t expecting them to let me anyway. I haven’t shown interest in any soldier training, and I’m technically still ‘mentally disoriented.’ It doesn’t make being helpless any less frustrating.

The rest of the meeting is dedicated to hashing out the specifics of the operation, and it’s then that I realize Gale will be on the rescue team. I feel a little less hopeless. If there’s anyone else I’d trust to protect Katniss as fiercely as I would, it’s Gale.

I feel his eyes on me again throughout the meeting, but every time I look up he’s looking back at Boggs or Plutarch. As grateful as I am to him right now, the moody glowering is really starting to piss me off.

As soon as the meeting is over, I’m scheduled for an hour of recreation time, which means I’m allowed outside. Haymitch jumps at the opportunity to join me.

The fresh air does him wonders. He hasn’t stepped outside in the two weeks since we’ve arrived. We stroll casually around the perimeter of the allowed area, occasionally exchanging thoughts and questions about the rescue plan.

“How much faith do you have in all this? Honestly,” I eventually ask. He nods, considering my question for a moment. The sun feels so nice on my neck, and I want more of it. As we walk, I unzip my jumpsuit to the waist and wrap the sleeves around and tuck them into my pockets so the jumpsuit sits on my hips like pants. The sun seeps more easily into my skin through the tank top, and I revel in the security the warmth provides.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up. But I feel like there’s a good chance she’s coming home. I just feel it.”

It comforts me a little. At least we’re helpless together.

__________________

I’m in my compartment the rest of the evening until dinner.

I lie on my couch and stare at the ceiling. According to the tattoo on my wrist, I’m supposed to be attending school in the education center. Apparently my accelerated graduation as a perk of my victor status doesn’t carry over here. I laugh when I think about it. I haven’t stepped a foot on that floor since I’ve been here and I don’t intend to.

I can’t relax. There are way too many thoughts swirling around in my head, all of them about Katniss. I try to picture her as she is now, try to see what she sees and hear what she hears, but my visions are always grim. The only thing I can picture is her being harmed in increasingly awful and creative ways. It takes all I have to not punch a hole in the wall when I get lost in these types of thoughts.

I also imagine what it’ll be like to see her again. As Haymitch had said, it’s not smart to get our hopes up, but it feels like everything is finally starting to click into place. I’m no fool, but I need to have something to hold onto. The thought of what it’ll feel like to hold her in my arms again… that’s what keeps me upright.

It’s much, much more enjoyable to get lost in my memories of Katniss. I miss her smile, her scowl, her blush. I think about spending time in her room or outdoors on lazy days, sketching flowers and leaves across the pages of her family’s plant book. I had tried to hide my elation when she first asked me to work on it with her. It was such an honor to put a part of myself in something as intimate and precious as a piece of their history.

I get flashes of our nights together on the victory tour, holding her hand as we walk toward the train, brushing a lock of hair out of her face in the Games, the peck on the lips she gave me after career training… all our other kisses.

The small amount of time I got to be intimate with Katniss occupies an excessive portion of my thoughts nowadays. I feel a little guilty about it, but being with her, feeling her compassion was better than anything I could’ve imagined, and it was all over far too soon. I allow myself to ruminate on those few blissful moments when I feel my thoughts start to grow too dark.

I picture the dark halo of hair around her as she tips her head back on the pillow, eyes closed in unabashed pleasure. I picture the flush on her cheeks spreading down her neck to the curves of her breasts. My body quickly reacts to the image, my own face flushing and blood rushing south. I can feel her tongue on my skin, her hot breath on my neck, her fingernails grazing my chest in that way that drives me fucking crazy . I picture her reaching for the waistline of my shorts and I actually groan out loud. My hand moves down to palm at myself, just as I imagine her doing. My breathing quickens at the sound of her quiet gasps and moans in my ear. I unzip my jumpsuit.

Katniss reaches down hesitantly, looking up at me through hooded grey eyes. Is this okay? Yes, fuck yes, of course it is. She grabs me gently and I melt under her touch. 

In real life, I snake a hand underneath the waistband of my underwear and grasp myself gently like she would.

She touches me with a small smile on her lips, staring down at the movement of her hands under my shorts, and fuck , it’s sexy. I reach to my waistband and ask her.

Do you mind?

I’ve been waiting for those to come off.

This Katniss is a far cry from the blushing girl who couldn’t bear to look at my dying, naked body in the river. Her eyes roam over me greedily and my lower half twitches in pleasure at the scrutiny. She notices.

When she grabs me again I bury my sounds in her neck. She arches her back as I trail my tongue down her chest. I run my hands up and down her thighs and she squeezes me tighter, making me buck into her hand. She releases me, and a very immature part of me wants to whine until she shimmies the rest of her clothes off, baring herself completely to me for the first time. I can’t even pretend not to stare.

I think this right here is you in your element. Forget what I said about the shooting.

I still kind of want you to picture me shooting arrows.

Trust me, you don’t have to worry about that.

Back on Earth, my strokes are getting faster, hips rolling, one hand clenched around my length while the other fists itself in the couch.

She pulls me by the neck into a kiss and I accept it greedily. She grabs me again and resumes her tentative strokes. I move my mouth down to her chest and she sighs as my tongue trails lazily over her nipples.

I’ll always picture you with a bow and arrow in hand, Katniss. I actually think you’d look quite good wearing just a quiver…

That’s quite the mental image.

I wish it was a real one.

She speeds up the pace of her strokes. I gasp and drop my hand back down to her hip. I bring my right hand to the spot I found on her the other night. She moans my name, loudly, her grip on me loosening as I circle her with my fingers faster. She pulls my hair hard when I slide one inside her. She looks at me with wide eyes and I can’t help smiling down at her. I want to tell her everything all at once, so I do.

You’re beautiful.

Katniss, you’re perfect.

You make me feel amazing.

You’re everything to me.

I love your voice. So sexy, so strong.

You’re so good at this.

I love the way you feel.

You’re so beautiful, Katniss.

You’re the only one for me.

The reverence in her gaze has me believing for a moment that she really could be in love with me.

Yes, Peeta…

When she comes underneath my touch, Katniss looks at me with such longing compassion I allow myself one idiotic, reckless moment of self-destruction.

I love you.

I’ll allow it.

I come undone completely at her response, then and now. My pounding heart begins to slow. The mess on my hands and stomach immediately disgusts me, but I can’t move yet. I imagine the way Katniss stretches as she catches her breath before rolling into my open arms. I feel a lump start to form in the back of my throat.

A loud knock at my door pulls me out of the fog. Haymitch, meaning it’s time for dinner. I sigh and pull myself together, but not before slamming my head back and screaming into the couch cushion.

Chapter Text

Haymitch

Peeta looks glum when he answers his door; I find that odd considering the good news we’d gotten today and that we’d ended our walk on a pretty positive note, but we’ve both got plenty of reasons to be sad. I don’t think he’s looking forward to watching the propo he shot after dinner, and I don’t blame him.

“Did you want to watch it in Special Weaponry with the others?”

He hesitates. “I really haven’t decided yet... I’m not sure who else’ll be there.”

“Avoiding Gale?”

He looks at me with raised eyebrows. “No. Not really,” he shakes his head. “Maybe. Why?”

I shrug. “He’s been eyeballing you like crazy, I wouldn’t get too excited over watching a movie together either if I were you.”

“So then you noticed that too, huh? I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined it.”

I snort. “Nah, he’s got something up his ass.”

Peeta laughs. When the elevator doors open, we almost run straight into Johanna. She gives us a dirty look and brushes invisible debris from her clothes; I have to bite back my laughter. She walks the rest of the way to the dining hall with us.

“How’s training?” Peeta asks. Johanna hasn’t been concerned with much other than soldier and combat training since our arrival. This is only the third time I’ve seen her: once in the hospital after we arrived and once in the meeting this morning.

“Wonderful. I’m right at home in a place where violence is considered productive. I could do with some different clothing options though,” she nods down to her jumpsuit, which sits unzipped and tucked in at her hips in the way I often see Peeta do. She bites her lip and feigns thoughtfulness.

 “Although I suppose I always have the option of not wearing any clothes at all.”

“Good talk, Johanna,” Peeta says, turning away from her and stepping into line. I snort and slide in behind him. Johanna, grinning, appears unperturbed.

“How’s your clown show going?”

“You’ll get to see for yourself after dinner,” Peeta responds without turning around. She waggles her eyebrows.

“How’d he do?” she asks me.

“I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.”

“So tight-lipped,” she smirks, “it must be good then.”

“Will you be in Weaponry?”

“No thank you,” she says easily, “I get enough face time with Boggs as it is.”

We find Mags and Annie on the left side of the dining hall at the table that the victors living in 13 have started to take residence at; not that we see much of Johanna or Beetee anymore though. I smirk when Peeta makes it a point to side beside Mags before I can, presumably so that he doesn’t have to sit by Johanna.

Johanna, Mags, and Peeta exchange more small talk, but Annie and I eat in relative silence. For whatever reason, I’m itching for a drink more than anything today. It’s all I can think about when we’re not discussing something serious, and even then the bottle still lurks like a feathered shadow of temptation, entreating entrance into my mind.

“Would you like to join us in the Special Weaponry room for the propo?” Peeta’s quiet question to Mags distracts me from the brooding raven.

“Of course, dear,” she smiles at him toothily. So I suppose Peeta’s made his decision. He asks Annie if she’s doing the same, but she said she’d like to watch it in her hospital room.

It’s not long before we’re wrapping up since we’ll need to meet Plutarch by the elevators to make it down to the military floors, as they require a key for access. The three of us bid Johanna goodbye and head to the eastern elevators. Plutarch’s grinning like an idiot when we get there.

“Wonderful to see you three,” he says, as if Mags was an expected guest, “I think you’ll all love how the final product turned out.”

He speaks as if he wants to show us a particularly intricate bit of landscaping, rather than the first of several high stakes propaganda videos that may have the power to influence the course of the revolution. I will never understand this man.

We find a small group in Weaponry that’s comprised mostly of soldiers but also includes Beetee, Fulvia, and Annie. Gale is also present, I notice, speaking quietly with another soldier that I don’t recognize. Beetee sits in front of three computer screens and barely acknowledges our arrival. When our attention is directed to a large screen on the back wall, the three of us move in to hover between Beetee and Fulvia.

It’s not long before Beetee pulls some sort of program up on his middle screen, broadcasting several seconds of Capitol television. He types away furiously on the right screen, and Peeta’s propo appears on the left. On the big screen in front of us, the Capitol broadcast plays for about twenty more seconds before it’s replaced with Peeta’s propo.

“There we are,” Beetee sits back in his wheelchair and smiles. He still carefully monitors the three screens, the Capitol broadcast still running silently on the middle one. Everyone in the Districts is hearing Peeta speak.

“Panem. This is Peeta Mellark, speaking to you from District 13. The Capitol has lied to you about its destruction; the citizens of 13 are surviving underground in a world where there are no starving children, no hangings, and no Hunger Games. A future like this awaits the rest of Panem, as long as we’re willing to fight for it.”

The rest of the propo plays; despite what Fulvia and Plutarch had said, they hardly made any cuts. Peeta’s message stands almost in its entirety, and I’m glad it does. The kid’s got a way with words that’d be downright terrifying if he wasn’t such a good person.

“We are not giving up on them, and I ask of you — we all ask of you — not to give up either. The only way to get to the future we want for ourselves, the future our children deserve, is through perseverance and unity. Thank you.”

The screen cuts to black and the Capitol broadcast resumes as if nothing happened. A small round of applause goes out to Peeta, and his cheeks redden.

“Fantastic,” Plutarch says, “I’m really happy with the way that turned out. Anyone have any feedback?”

“I think we should show them 12,” Peeta speaks up, “I don’t think it was enough to tell them. I think we should go there and let the Districts see what they did to us.”

There’s a long silence as people absorb this.

“I agree,” says Plutarch instantly, “I think that’s a great idea. Fulvia, start a shot list and get me in contact with Cressida and her crew first thing tomorrow.”

“I think Gale should lead this one,” I say, “considering his role in the evacuation. It’d be good to have someone who saw the firebombing firsthand. If you’re okay with that.”

I turn to him, and he gives me a long stare but eventually nods. “Okay, yeah.”

“Great! Then it’s decided. We’ll have a schedule lined up for you by lunch tomorrow. Any questions?”

No one answers Plutarch, so Peeta, Mags, and I head back to our compartments. We head up two extra floors to walk Mags back to hers before arriving on level 4.

“You feel good about this?” Peeta asks before we head inside. I nod.

“Yeah. It was a good idea. And I thought you looked awfully pretty up on that big screen.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’ll be nice to have the opportunity to grab things from home. My sketchbooks, some painting things. We’ll have to grab the plant book from Katniss’ house. Her dad’s hunting jacket too.”

Yes.

“Recreational provisions,” I grin. Peeta gives me a stern look, but eventually just shakes his head.

“Make it last,” he warns, “See you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early!” I say chipperly.

I fall asleep tonight with dreams of a boozier tomorrow.

Katniss

The lights shut off shortly after Finnick’s beating. He thinks his nose might be broken, but he’s not worried about anything else. I’m fairly certain he has at least one broken rib based on the way he’s carrying himself, but he won’t admit it if he knows.

When we wake in the morning, the lights are still off, but we’re brought a meal, meaning it must be morning. We talk about our lives in the Districts while we eat. It’s been really interesting hearing how things differ, but I’m more surprised by how much is the same.

Finnick talks about boats a lot. He loves diving, and cast net fishing was his favorite part of work. Throwing the net was his job before his Games, he tells us with an endearing hint of pride in his voice. We swap fishing stories, and I tell him about the lake outside 12.

“I knew you didn’t learn to swim in a big bathtub,” he says with narrowed eyes. I laugh.

He tells us about someone he loves at home. Someone with sea-green eyes and a tormented mind. A woman who loves seashells and bonfires but hates crab and having to wash her hair with any sort of regularity. Someone who can make him laugh one minute and cry the next. Someone he’d die for, over and over and over, without a second thought.

Journey tells us about working on trains. She was on track to becoming a mechanical engineer after her schooling. Then she was reaped. She tells us about traveling to shadow the train mechanics, and I realize that because of this, she knows a lot more about the other Districts than any of us. She says it was a really lucky opportunity for someone from a family as poor as hers. I’m also starting to realize just how incredibly smart she is. From the beginning, Journey struck me as wise, but it’s clear she was born with her intelligence.

She also tells us about her art. She likes working with clay and usually harvests it herself, crossing District lines just as I do to hunt. I tell her about Peeta’s illustrations in my family’s plant book. She listens with rapt attention, asking plenty of questions. She also tells us about her sisters, how one of them loved to sing and the other was a fantastic painter. I take note that she talks about them in the past tense.

Wiress hums. We hum with her, and we sing her songs. I teach them the Capitol Store and That Thing I Love With . Finnick loves the second song; it’s a pretty fun, upbeat tune. It’s one of Prim’s favorites too. My heart twists inside of my chest.

I tell them about Prim’s sweetness, her love of blackberries, and her menacing cat. I tell them about meeting Gale in the woods for the first time, and I talk about Peeta and the bread. Journey asks a lot of questions about this, too. I tell them about twisting my ankle and Peeta bringing me cheese buns. How he’d carry me to and from my bed every day until it healed. I get teased by Finnick at this, but I don’t care. The three of them already know that Peeta and I’s engagement is fake, and Finnick’s had great fun in making jokes about how convincing our ‘act’ is since I admitted as such.

I even talk about my father. It’s easier with them, in this space that might be the last one I ever see. I tell them about learning to shoot, fishing in the lake, singing songs, and my first trip to the Hob with him. I tell them about my mother’s grief, having to protect my family from starvation. My first trip to the Hob alone.

We even talk a little about the Games, but it upsets Wiress, so we never do it again. We sing lullabies to her after this until she drifts off. Sweet, strong, brilliant Wiress.

Finnick is taken again shortly after our second meal. Now that I know where he’s going, it’s all I can do not to scream my throat raw in protest. The only thing that it would do is get us hurt.

We wait in agony for his return, but this time, they take Journey too before bringing Finnick back. I tell her to have hope and be brave, even though she doesn’t need the reminder. I get a glimpse of her for the first time when they have her stand behind them as they lock up her cell. We make eye contact very briefly, she nods, and then she’s gone.

Wiress and I wait together in silence. I’m not sure if she even woke up when they took Finnick or Journey. I try to sleep too, but I can’t, even in the dark. For our third meal of the day, the lights come on but our friends have not returned.

We both eat, so Wiress must’ve woken up at some point. When we finish, I lie on my bed and wrap my shirt around my eyes to block out the light, waiting for Finnick and Journey’s return. Just as I’m finally about to doze off, Wiress speaks for the first time since her first departure.

“It’s going to start happening a lot faster now.”

“The disappearances?”

“Yes.”

I consider this. She’s right. Finnick was taken quickly after I returned from my interview, and they didn’t even wait to bring him back before taking Journey. I frown.

“Wiress? How long ago were you… here?”

She goes back to humming, and I’m left to imagine the horrors that prepared the woman for our capture now. I wonder if it was worse for her this time, knowing what was coming.

Tonight, I dream about lacy outfits, silk sheets, sticky hot air on my neck, and greedy, anonymous hands snaking around me. 

__________________

We wake to the sound of the elevator doors opening at the end of the hall. The lights stayed on throughout the night, so I’m able to see Journey again for a second before they throw her back in her cell. She looks awful. Bruises, blood and gashes everywhere. Behind her, Finnick is returned at the same time. He has no new injuries. Just a single hickey at the base of his neck.

“Are you okay?” I ask our customary question upon someone’s return. We’re never okay, and we always lie about it. Today is no exception.

Finnick showers immediately and I hear Journey do the same. We’re not served a meal for another few hours, but I know I’ve slept through the night. I’m wondering if they’re cutting us back to two meals a day.

Finnick eats so ravenously it has me wondering if they were fed while they were away. I’m afraid to ask. I hear Journey throwing up on the other side of my wall. When her stomach finally settles, Finnick encourages her to pick at the bread or at least try some sips of water. She does so reluctantly, breathing heavily.

They both sleep until we get our next meal. Almost as soon as we’re brought food, the lights shut off.

“Seriously?” Finnick asks indignantly, “I just spilled soup on my pants.”

I laugh and feel around for my own spoon carefully as my eyes start to adjust.

“Not funny, Everdeen.”

My reply is cut short by an ear-splitting screech.

It’s lasting, lingering, and then it’s followed by another.

“No! Help!”

“Who is that?” I shout.

“I don’t know! It sounds like it’s coming from a speaker!”

“Please!”

I realize Finnick’s right. It’s extremely loud, but it still feels removed from the room.

“Why?” I scream in frustration. But the reason is clear why. Our torture has now infiltrated the walls of our cells.

It goes on for what feels like hours. We stuff fabric in our ears and bury our heads under our thin pillows. When it finally stops, when the woman on the tape takes her last shuddery breath, it’s sweet relief. My head pounds and my jaw hurts from the continued tension. I try to take stock of my other muscles and relax them one by one, the way my mother taught me to do as a child when I was stressed or frightened. Slowly, the tension in my head ebbs away.

“That was awful,” I mumble. Finnick makes a noise of agreeance.

Then I hear it.

Journey’s desperate weeping.

My heart drops. 

She cries for a long time. I sing to her, but it doesn’t help. I wish I could hold her hand, stroke her hair like my mother would do. I whisper words of reassurance, but few come to me. I eventually go back to singing.

Wiress joins in when I begin the meadow song. I see her creep to the door of her cell and I give her a wide smile as we sing to Journey.  Finnick joins in by the second verse, but it’s clear he knows about a third of the words, and it makes me laugh. His singing has not improved even with all the practice we’ve had.

By the last lines of the song, Journey has stilled. I hear her slow, heavy breathing on the other side of my wall. We fall silent for a long moment until she whispers a faint ‘ Thank you.’

“Always,” I tell her instinctively, and then it’s my turn to cry. My tears fall silently down my face, and I turn into the wall to hide them from Finnick. 

“That was Odyssey,” she murmurs, “I couldn’t tell at first, they sound so similar. We all did…”

My heart shatters. Her youngest sister. The singer.

We don’t talk anymore. I see Finnick lay down to sleep, so I do the same.

Until another sound begins playing.

Peeta

I’m not sure how to feel when I see the propo. I don’t look quite like myself; not quite the version of me that has to perform for the Capitol, but a performer nonetheless. I just hope it helps. It’s all I can do, short of breaking into the Capitol myself and dragging Katniss home.

Not home. But to safety.

I’m nervous about having to return to District 12. I’m afraid of what I might see, but I think I’m afraid of what I won’t. I really believe it’ll help to show everyone the firebombing though. I hope it makes them angry. Removes any doubt that people may have about my word. Makes it clear how much they are in danger of succumbing to the same fate.

I’m afraid to see the bakery. I’m not sure if it’d be worse to see the remains of the building or to see nothing at all. Either sounds terrible. Will there be bones? Will I uncover layers of brick and stone just to find my family lying underneath?

I shudder at the thought. There’s nothing I could possibly do that would truly prepare me for the horrors I’m about to see.

When I try to sleep tonight, I watch the firebombs rain down on District 12, Paten and Paine’s screams swirling through the air in tandem with the thick black smoke of their remains.

__________________

I knock three times before Haymitch comes to his door.

“Finally,” I mutter, then louder, “How’d you sleep?”

He laughs without humor. “That’s funny.”

“Me neither.”

On the way down, he tells me that Plutarch said they’re unaware of Effie’s whereabouts right now, but they’ll reach out for an update when they can. There’s nothing to go on, so whether she’s alive or dead remains a mystery.

We’re not very talkative this morning. Fulvia approaches us toward the end of breakfast to deliver a shooting schedule, as promised by Plutarch. I’m pleasantly surprised that it’s set for tomorrow; we’re slated to arrive in District 12 by mid-morning.

As it is, we have the day to ourselves. It’s Saturday, so we’re able to spend two hours outside. I tell Haymitch that I’ll probably go out soon. Prim’s shift at the hospital ends at lunchtime, and I want to catch her afterwards so we can eat together. He easily agrees to go outside with me.

“Why do you want to eat with Prim today?” he asks. I feel the guilt creep back up. I take another bite of oats before answering.

“I just wanna make sure she’s doing okay,” I say, “I haven’t really talked to her much besides lunch yesterday.”

He nods. I’m not very close to Prim, but you can’t help but love her. We’d spent a lot of time together over the past year. She liked to sit with Katniss and I every now and then when we’d work on the plant book together, happily munching away on baked goods. Cinnamon rolls are her favorite, so I’d make sure they always had plenty in the mornings.

A few times, Prim had even stopped by my house to fill me in on all her best bits of gossip. She usually had to stay for at least an hour in order to do so. When she came bearing news of a fight between Katniss and Gale though—about which she swore me to absolute secrecy—she stayed for two hours. She’d practically skipped over to tell me the ‘good news.’ Apparently, the argument had been about me. I felt guilty, knowing something I shouldn’t about Katniss and keeping that from her, but Prim had dismissively assured me it was for the greater good. Whatever that means.

I smile at the memory and Haymitch looks at me funny. I give him my best scowl, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Katniss’.

“What’s got you so smiley?” he asks with raised eyebrows.

“Just remembering something.”

He shakes his head. We leave the dining hall and head back upstairs, me to grab a sketchbook and Haymitch to grab his novel. This is the third book he’s read since we’ve been here. I’ve never even seen Haymitch read before now, but I suppose he’s saving a lot of time staying sober, and there aren’t many books in District 12 anyway. Although, I know he owns a couple. The small library in District 13 is quickly becoming one of his favorite places.

Once outside, we pick a quiet spot in the grass to sit. The weather’s perfect, so there are a lot more people out than normal today. A few stare, but most people pay us no mind. Haymitch opens his book to read, and I lay back to stare at the wispy clouds for a while.

“What’re you reading?” I ask him.

“ The Sun Also Rises ,” he answers without looking up from the page. I haven’t heard of it.

“Who’s it by?”

“Hemingway.”

“Have you read it before?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it about?”

“Some asshole that asked too many questions and should’ve died during the Hunger Games.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

He snorts. “You’re smarter than you look.”

I grin. “Seriously, what’s it about?”

He sighs. “Guy wants to fuck his lady friend but can’t because his junk is broken.”

“Whatever,” I roll my eyes and sit up to grab my sketchbook.

“I’m serious. There’s a little nuance, but that’s about half of it.”

Surely he’s lying. I flip to a blank page and begin to draw. The time passes quickly, but I like what’s starting to take shape on the page. It’s relaxing, except when I get hung up on the eyes.

The rest of our morning passes by peacefully. It’s almost time to head back underground before either of us speak again.

“What’re you drawing?”

I hold it up.

“Some asshole who should’ve died during the Hunger Games.”

He laughs and then leans in, studying it. He smiles.

“That’s not bad. You made me look old though.”

“I think the liquor made you look that way.”

“No, there’s definitely an issue with the artist.”

Haymitch returns to his compartment to drop off his book before lunch, but I tuck my pencil and sketchbook under my arm on my way to the hospital.

Prim is engaged in quiet conversation with a nurse when I arrive. When she sees me, her eyes light up. She says a few more quick words to the older woman before walking briskly over to me.

“Is there news?”

My stomach drops. Of course that’s what she’d think I’m here for. I start to shake my head, then remember something.

“Have they already told you about the rescue? The two week timeline?”

She nods, “they told our mom already. What do you think about it all?”

I hesitate. She isn’t nervous in her question. She’s calculating. An honest answer would be better than a comforting one. I talk in a low voice as we walk toward the elevators.

“Two weeks is a long time. A lot can happen, but I don’t foresee the Capitol being eager to get rid of her after the propo that went out. My guess is that they’ll want to send a message in retaliation, and they’re going to need Katniss if they do. I really do think she’ll be safe,” I take a deep breath, “even if she’s not… okay .”

Prim stares ahead, assessing my words as we descend in the elevator. Eventually she sighs and nods.

“I think you’re right,” she agrees, looking up at me. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“What? Oh,” I run a hand through my hair, “I was actually just wondering if you’d like to have lunch together again.”

She looks surprised at first, but then she grins.

“That’s perfect actually, I have tons to tell you.”

She does. Mags and Haymitch sit at our table as usual, but Prim does enough talking for the three of us.

I get a thorough update on pretty much every person she knows from District 12 that survived. Their old neighbor, who was heavily pregnant at the time of the firebombing, gave birth four hours after the hovercraft landed. She’d been in labor for a full, agonizing day in the woods before that.

Prim tells me that most of her friends did not survive, but she’s grown much closer to the ones that did. She tells me a little bit more about them all, here and gone. She says the groups in school here are really small; a pox epidemic years back resulted in a large number of deaths and many cases of infertility for the residents of District 13. As such, there aren’t many children Prim’s age.

She tells me about working in the hospital. She loves it there, and fits in really well with the other nurses. Her mother is finding purpose and stability in the work, feeling more at home there than in their compartment. The way she says this, I get the impression that Prim’s spending a lot of time alone.

“By the way,” I manage to squeeze in after a while, “we’re going back tomorrow. To 12… We’ll be filming a propo there, so if there’s anything you may want from home,  let me know by tonight.”

Her face lights up.

“Oh Peeta, thank you! Could you bring our plant book and my parents’ wedding photo? It’s in front of the fireplace, and the book should be right there too.”

I nod. “Definitely. I was counting on the plant book, and Katniss’ hunting jacket too. Anything else? Something your mother may need?”

“I’ll ask her. And maybe one of my ribbons; they’re on my desk,” she smiles.

“Sounds good. If I don’t see you at dinner, I’m in 416, you can come find me there.”

She agrees enthusiastically. For the little bit of lunch that is left, Prim and Mags talk more about her job in the hospital. Haymitch gives me an amused look.

With a promise from Prim that she’d find me later, we part ways after lunch. On the way back to our compartments, Haymitch asks me if she’s always been that chatty. I laugh.

“Yes and no,” I answer, “depends on if there’s something good to talk about.” He exhales loudly before opening his door. 

“A mile a minute, that one,” he mutters. I give a small smile.

“If only I could get Katniss to talk that much.”

Chapter Text

Haymitch

I try to sleep after lunch, but to no avail. I consider reading more, but I’m at my least favorite part in the book. Personally, I find Jake Barnes insufferable. Lenore Dove had loved the two romance novels she had; I can’t remember the names. I’ll admit, I didn’t mind the sappiness as much when it was her reading the mushy words to me. But this is not that type of story, and I’m not that type of person anymore.

So instead of sleeping, instead of reading, I sit on my bed, twirling the golden bracelet on my pointer finger. I think of Effie, in all her frivolousness, now possibly at the mercy of the Capitol she’d spent her life pledging allegiance to. Through no doing of her own. Regardless of what Plutarch said, I’m positive they won’t just leave her alone. Cinna wasn’t safe, and the other members of the District 12 team wouldn’t have been safe either had they stayed.

First thing tomorrow, we’ll be returning to a District 12 that is far, far different from the one we left behind. Peeta’s right; people need to see it, and I think I need to see it too. I need to know.

Not only that…

I can taste the liquor already. My mouth waters at the sweet burn. My hand twitches and the bracelet goes flying to the other side of the room. I sigh and retrieve it, setting it back on the dresser.

The itch is so bad I want to scream. With the adrenaline running through my veins almost constantly during the Games, I didn’t notice the cravings as much. Here, I have nothing to do but notice them. It’s maddening. There are few things worse than this feeling.

Desperate again for anything else to think about, I begrudgingly pick my stupid book back up and begin to read.

“How did you go bankrupt?” Bill asked. 

“Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradually and then suddenly.”

I gradually and then suddenly fall asleep before I reach chapter fifteen. It’s a short-lived relief, however, since it feels like no time at all has passed when suddenly there comes a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

It’s always Peeta. I groan.

“Go without me!” I’m asleep again quickly after he’s gone, but I wake sometime in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. A familiar nightmare. Feeding Lenore Dove that plump gumdrop.

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

I don’t return to sleep.

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

__________________

When it’s morning, I shower and wait until it’s time to knock on Peeta’s door. I’ll be drunk twelve hours from now, I think with glee. My knock is a little louder than necessary.

“Ready?” I ask the bleary eyed boy.

“Not at all,” he shakes his head. I know what he means.

We eat quickly and alone; no sign of Mags this morning, for whatever reason. We do run into Gale on our way to the eastern elevators though. The walk to the hangar is less than comfortable.

We make it a few minutes early, but the entire team is already there. Plutarch introduces us to Cressida and her camera crew: Messalla, Castor, and Pollux. We’re quickly ushered onto the craft.

I’m not ready for the sight of it. When we exit the hovercraft, you still can smell death in the air. It’s suffocating. The rubble smolders. I feel my hands start to shake. I see Ma and Sid. A roaring fire. Thick, black smoke. I feel myself start to slip away.

The world starts spinning, my ears go cloudy. I squeeze my eyes shut tight but everything hurts. Every breath burns, every sound aches.

I’m sorry, I whisper.

A firm grip on my shoulder registers somewhere faintly in the background. I don’t open my eyes. I start to sway.

“Haymitch.”

I can’t right now.

“Haymitch.”

Please go away.

“Let’s go. We can skip it all. Let’s go see home,” Peeta murmurs.

“Can’t.”

“You can,” he affirms. I open my eyes and he gently pulls me in the direction of the Victor’s Village. I don’t know if he got permission to leave, but we go regardless.

The walk gets easier as it goes on. The village is far from both the Seam and the town, so we’re done walking through the destruction by the time we reach the long road leading up to the gate. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Meet me at mine?” Peeta asks. I nod, and we part ways.

I didn’t expect to feel any kind of emotion stepping through the threshold of my former home, but something indescribable overcomes me. I certainly don’t have fond memories of the place, but it’s more familiar than anything else I know. I never thought I’d see it again, either.

I fill a bag with three of my books, one fucking shirt and one fucking pair of pants that aren’t fucking gray, and as much liquor as will fit everywhere else. I only find one of my flasks—the other two are in the Capitol, I realize. This was the third I couldn’t find on the morning of the reaping. A lifetime ago. I take a hefty, long overdue gulp. It burns so deliciously down my throat. I can’t think of a single thing better than this.

I end up draining the flask twice before refilling it. I place the thing in my breast pocket, stumbling way more than I thought I would on my way to Peeta’s. It’s been a minute. I try my best to collect myself. I don’t know if I could handle the devastation of getting caught. Not of the larger consequences, per se, but the fact that my liquor would instantly be confiscated.

When I arrive at Peeta’s, he’s not there, so I settle into a chair on his porch and wait. I see him emerge from Katniss’ house a few minutes later with a jacket in hand and a bag slung over his shoulder. When he gets closer, the bag hisses.

“I think that’s broken,” I point to the wiggling sack.

“It’s Buttercup. Ugh, you already smell like a distillery,” he wrinkles his nose.

“Thank you,” I say, “what’s a Buttercup?”

He rolls his eyes and opens the sack a little. “He’s Prim’s cat.”

“Gross.”

“We have a little bit of time, but we’re supposed to meet them after lunch. They’re heading down to the lake where they were rescued, doing some shots there, and ending back where we landed. They let us go since… I promised to say a few words in front of the bakery.”

I nod. I wonder how he feels about that. I wonder how many of those other shots Peeta was supposed to be in. If he got out of it all under the pretense of babysitting me. I don’t voice this question, taking a swig of my flask instead. Peeta’s braver than I’ll ever be.

“You might want to cool it,” he eyeballs me, “or else you’ll get caught before we even land back in 13.”

“I’ll sober up on the walk back.”

He rolls his eyes and moves to grab the flask. I yank my hand back but he catches my arm and swipes it from me. Before I can yell, he takes a drink. Then another. He hands it back with closed eyes.

“It’s not bad,” he sighs. I snort.

“Understatement of a lifetime.”

Katniss

“Hi there, pretty boy.”

There’s no screaming, no crying on this tape. It’s a woman’s voice. I feel like she sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t know her.

“Hi, Venus. Eros. It’s nice to see you both again.”

This is a voice I do recognize. Finnick’s purring over the speaker in that sultry way he talks to me when he’s feeling flirty. I look over at him against my better judgement and even in the dark I can see his face is shrouded by devastation. He shakes his head at me in panic.

“It’d be nicer to see you on your knees.”

The voice belongs to a man. I look away quickly and shove the fabric back in my ears. I cover them instead of shoving my head under the pillow. 

It’s no use. Just as the screams were, the sounds of Finnick’s exploitation is far too loud to be drowned out. We have to wait until it’s over.

The content of the recording is shocking. It’s very explicit, very enthusiastic, and very… perverted. I hear Finnick make sounds that make me blush. I feel horror and  disgust on his behalf. I know what we’re hearing isn’t something he wanted. When I sneak another glance, he’s sitting with his head tucked tightly between his knees, hands in his hair.

The sounds go on like this for the rest of the night. There’s not a moment of quiet until the morning. When one tape ends, another begins. I wonder what it is they could possibly use to torture me with. I haven’t had a loved one killed by the Capitol like Journey has, and I’ve never been exploited in the way Finnick has.

The next voice we’re subjected to belongs to Wiress. This Wiress is different. Younger and sound of mind. She screams in pain for hours, pleads with her captors to believe that she knows nothing. However, the sounds of her interrogators, over her screams of torture, are what shock me the most.

“What do you know about the rebel communication today?”

“Who are you working with?”

“What is the extent of your involvement with Haymitch Abernathy?”

Haymitch Abernathy.

My head snaps up. I look to Wiress’ door but she’s not visible in her cell. I look over at Finnick and he just shakes his head and shrugs. What does it mean? What could Haymitch and Wiress have done that led to her torture?

Was Haymitch tortured like that too? 

Unfortunately, there’s no time to ask Wiress about it, no time to think further, and no time to find more clues.

The next tape plays.

“You’re my person, Peeta.”

“You’re my person too. You’ve always been my person.”

No.

No.

Not this. Anything but this. I look over to Finnick, and he looks at me curiously until the sound of my breath quickens and Peeta lets out a deep moan. Then his eyes turn so sympathetic it makes me sick.

“Katniss…”

It’s my turn to trap my head between my knees.

It goes on for what feels like forever. My whole body heats and shakes with shame. Though, if I’m being completely honest with myself, hearing the sound of Peeta  this way again, reliving that memory, arouses a small part of me. A hungry part of me that still lingers, despite all the shame.

“Are you sure?”

“Did you want me to put it back on?”

“Absolutely not.”

I think about my cellmates hearing this, the guards hearing this, the countless strangers that may have even seen this, and it makes me nauseous.

“You know, I never imagined you getting this loud.”

I was loud. I was enthusiastic, as was he. The sound of Peeta’s name on my lips in this way was only meant for him. There’s no one else on Earth I would’ve been okay sharing this with.

“Are we feeling shy now, all of the sudden?” 

I’m teasing Peeta about his fantasies. Out of nowhere, the lights in our cells come back on.

“I’ll always picture you with a bow and arrow in hand, Katniss. I actually think you’d look quite good wearing just the quiver…”

I risk a glance at Finnick in the light and I wish I wouldn’t have. His face is beet red and to my horror, he was looking at me. He averts his eyes guiltily as soon as I see him. Was he picturing it? This is so much worse in the light.

“That’s quite the mental image.”

“I wish it was a real one.”

Silence, then a gasp. Mine.

“Did that hurt?”

“No.”

I try to imagine that I'm there, not here. It's happening right now. Just Peeta and I.

“Peeta…”

“Oh, Katniss.”

Over and over and over. I don't remember it going on for so long. It feels like it'll never stop.

“I love your voice. So sexy, so strong.”

“You’re so good at this.”

“I love the way you feel.”

“You’re so beautiful, Katniss.”

“You’re the only one for me.”

It's not too much longer, until the sounds of my orgasm, my desperate chants of Peeta’s name echo off the walls. 

“Yes, Peeta…”

A whispered confession.

“I love you.”

“I’ll allow it.”

Eventually, we hear our breathing slow, and Peeta and I fall into silence.

I run to the toilet and vomit my dinner.

The next tape, the last of the night, is the death of Journey’s middle sister, Mercury. 

“Please!”

“No! I can’t, please! No!”

Sobbing, screaming, crying, pleading. Then silence. It lasts an hour.

If Journey cries this time, she does so silently.

By the time it’s all over, a man has arrived with a meal. Meaning it’s morning. None of us eat. I’m not sure what the others do, but with the horrible tapes having finally ended, I try my best to succumb to sleep.

__________________

When I wake, I eat my cold soup. Finnick is already awake, tray empty. He’s sitting on his bed, staring at the ceiling. I hear Journey start to stir.

“Is everyone alright?”

For the very first time, the question comes from Wiress. She sounds strong and aware of herself. Still afraid, but steadier than I’ve ever heard her. I don’t answer out of shock.

“We will be,” Journey answers.

“Are you okay, Wiress?” I ask tentatively.

“I’m neither here nor there,” she says simply.

“Can I ask… How long ago was that?” I’m desperate to understand.

“Twenty-five years.”

Haymitch’s Games. My mind races with the possibilities. Unfortunately, Wiress shuts down after this, not responding to anyone. She starts humming a lullaby that I taught everyone.

We’re all quiet for a while, but after the lights shut off, Finnick’s quiet voice breaks the silence.

“What you heard… It wasn’t real. I wasn’t… That wasn’t me.”

“I know, Finnick. We know. I’m so sorry,” I tell him. I wish more than anything I could take the pain in his voice away.

“Do you remember my District partner, Rush?” Journey asks.

I see Finnick nod, and then realizing Journey can’t see him, answers yes.

“He had something similar happen to him. He was older obviously, it ended before you won your Games, but he struggled with it till the day he died. His hope, his reason for being brave… He wanted to make sure that it never happened to any other scared kid ever again.”

I hear Finnick let out a small shuddery breath. He sounds so small as he weeps. I cry silently too, for the child that died within him, for Rush, for all the victors whose suffering didn’t end after the Games.

Eventually, Finnick groans loudly.

“I feel disgusting. I’m gonna shower.”

I face the concrete and curl into a ball. No sea shanties this time.

“Done.”

I turn around. “Finnick?”

He looks at me, and his cheeks color.

“I’m sorry… for calling you pretty.”

Hearing that woman say it made me feel sick. He grins though.

“I am pretty.”

I give him a small smile.

“It’s okay though,” he continues more seriously, “I don’t mind you saying that. Unless you’re trying to stick your hand down my pants or something. Even then…”

I scowl at him and throw my blanket over my head. I’m glad that he’s acting like himself, though.

“I swear I won’t bring this up again, but I have to say something.”

I lift the blanket off my head and look at him in curiosity.

“I really thought it was all fake.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, perplexed.

“You know… your star-crossed lovers' romance.”

Oh. I feel my ears grow hot. “It is.”

I can see the amusement on his face even in the dark.

“It is ... Or it was. I don’t know. I’m- we weren’t…” I’m grateful Finnick can’t see my heavy blush.

“I get it,” he says kindly, “I was just curious. It’s pretty clear you weren’t head over heels for him right away, as much as you were pretending to be.”

I hesitate. I’ve never talked to anyone about this. Not even Peeta. Was I really going to open up to three people whom I didn’t even know a month ago? I want to though, I realize. I want to talk about Peeta.

“I wasn’t,” I tell him honestly, “but I didn’t feel nothing. I didn’t know what I felt, other than the need to survive. It was never just that, though. Everything was too confusing, it was hard to understand in the arena what I was doing to save our lives and what I was doing out of… curiosity. Or maybe both.”

I can see him nod. For some reason, my mouth opens back up.

“I started feeling a lot differently sometime after the Games. He iced me out for about six months after he realized it was an act, but the Victory Tour kind of…  changed some things.”

I pause and shake my head. Why am I doing this?

“What kind of things?”

“Well, we started sleeping together,” and I instantly regret my choice of words when Finnick wags his eyebrows, “not like that. We both have nightmares, and sleeping in the same bed helps. That was all that was happening… until a few days before the Quell started. We only… it wasn't exactly what it sounded like, and it was only a couple of times.”

My cheeks flush. I can see Finnick nod.

“I’m really sorry they got that.”

“It’s okay. It’s what I get for doing it there when I know they have eyes everywhere.”

“It’s not your fault,” Journey speaks up, “you shared something beautiful with someone you care about, and they can’t take that from you. If we don’t allow ourselves to love, what’s the point in fighting?”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“I think I do…” I whisper, “love him. I wish I got to tell him. I should have. I could’ve said it back.”

“You still can,” Journey says, “there’s your hope. There’s your reason to be brave.”

We wait for a second meal that never comes. We sleep with empty stomachs tonight, and I prepare myself for the hunger that I’m sure will only get worse.

Peeta

From Katniss’ house, I grab the plant book, the wedding picture, a few hair ribbons from Prim’s desk, some herbs and supplies that Prim described, and to my surprise, Buttercup. He’s perched by the kitchen sink when I walk in, looking at me curiously. The lovebug instantly cuddles up to me, so I scoop him into my arms and place him gently in the bag.

I hesitate on the threshold of Katniss’ bedroom. I’ve never been in here alone before. It feels like an intrusion.

It’s exactly how I remember it. Like she stepped out to go hunting and could be back any minute. It smells like her; the woody scent has me blinking back the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I rub a hand over my face angrily. I grab her hunting jacket from the hook on her door, rubbing the leather affectionately, and look around. I head to the dresser and tentatively open the first drawer.

It’s not that one.

I snap it shut. The second drawer has her shirts in it. I grab a few that I see her wear often, and I find her favorite pair of pajamas in the next one. I add a pair of pants into the bag and grab a sweater from her closet. Taking one last look at the room, I head back downstairs.

Haymitch is waiting by my front door when I exit the house.

“I think that’s broken.”

“It’s Buttercup. Ugh, you already smell like a distillery,” I nearly gag.

“Thank you. What’s a Buttercup?”

I roll my eyes. “He’s Prim’s cat.”

“Gross.”

I tell him we need to eat lunch and head back soon. He pulls a flask from his pocket, already needing to drink again at the idea of returning to District 13, apparently.

“You might want to cool it, or else you’ll get caught before we even land.”

“I’ll sober up on the walk back.”

I snatch the flask from him as he’s bringing it to his lips and take a sip. Then a longer one. I resist the urge to gag. It burns, but soon the warmth floods my belly, and I feel a tad lighter.

“It’s not bad.”

He gives a short laugh. “Understatement of a lifetime.”

I take another drink before returning it, and then I tell Haymitch I need to grab a few things from my house. Once inside, I resist the urge to run straight upstairs and curl up on my bed. I grab the good vanilla from my pantry, two of my sketchbooks, my favorite pencils, and two rolled up paintings: one of Paten, Paine and I standing in front of the bakery, and one of Katniss smiling with a cheese bun in her hand. I don’t look at them yet.

Upstairs, I grab a pair of pajama pants, two shirts, my favorite flannel, the green sweater I can tell Katniss likes, and the only pair of jeans I ever wear. I survey the room. I don’t know if I’ll ever be back here, but I don’t have any feelings about that right now. I hear Buttercup meow loudly from the bag. I reach inside and pull him up to my chest.

“It’s okay little man, we’re going to go see Prim.”

I bring Haymitch into the house and have him sit at my table while I heat up a pot of water. Buttercup lies lazily on the table next to him, occasionally swiping and hissing at him. Haymitch hisses right back. I bite back my laughter.

I have to get creative with what’s left unspoiled in my abandoned kitchen, but we end up eating a meal of oats, honey, and hardtack. I’ve definitely had worse. I clean up in the kitchen, and by the time I return to the table, Haymitch is gone. I stow Buttercup back in the bag and head outside.

Haymitch is still nowhere to be seen. We’re going to be late if I can’t find him. I head up his front steps, and just as I put my hand on the door, it opens. Haymitch jumps a foot and I step back.

“Fuck! What’re you doing?” he yells at me.

“What’re you doing? We’re going to be late.”

“Untwist your panties, my flask was empty.”

I roll my eyes. I pick one of the purple coneflowers by the gate as we leave. Haymitch looks at me.

“For Prim,” I explain, “her favorite flower.”

“Currying favor with the sister?” he teases.

“ No , of course not,” I smile, “but I don’t think it hurts that she likes me.”

He laughs. The rest of our walk back to the hovercraft is much more solemn. We push through the wreckage as fast as possible. When we arrive, only the pilot and a soldier are present, but we don’t have to wait too long for Gale and company to return from the woods.

“How’d it go?” I ask the group at large.

“Really good,” Cressida replies, “Gale was a natural, just like you.”

 I’m not sure I know how to respond to this, and Gale doesn’t say anything either, but luckily Plutarch breaks the tension.

“I think it’s going to make excellent footage,” he says, “especially in tandem with the ‘We Remember’ series that Fulvia and I have been working on. We’re creating memorial videos for the fallen tributes of each district. Our hope is that it’ll have a productive, more personal emotional impact.”

I don’t point out the fact that I find this particularly cruel because right at this moment, my bag hisses. I try to cover it up with a cough, but it doesn’t feel successful. Thankfully, only Haymitch, Gale, Castor and Pollux seem to notice. Gale eyes me suspiciously.

I give my bag to Haymitch with a warning glare, and we round the street corner to the bakery. My heart pounds out of my chest. I start to sweat anew for reasons that have nothing to do with the heat.

The only thing left of my childhood is a charred, melted oven.

Cressida has the cameras rolling on me before we even reach the site. She asks about my life growing up in District 12, about my family, about my experience working in the bakery. She asks me how I felt when I heard the news of the loss of my family. To this I have no answer.

In front of the space where the building should be, I tell Panem about life in District 12 before the reaping and after. I describe how it felt knowing I was coming home after my Games, as well as how it felt knowing I never would again after the firebombing.

Cressida says I do great.

The ride back to 13 is short. Haymitch and I head back to our living compartments, and I take Buttercup and my things out of the sack on my shoulder. I hang my paintings on the wall and then take them right back down because I can’t bear to look at them yet. Upon a second thought, I take Katniss’ clothes out of the bag too. I pick up the sweater and smell it. It's just like her.

I put her dad’s jacket and Buttercup back in the bag and head down a floor. When Prim answers the door, I give her a big smile and present the purple coneflower.

“I have a surprise.”

She takes the flower and lets me in, smiling. Once the door is shut, I let the cat out of the bag.

She’s crying and hugging him and laughing all at once. Buttercup seems just as happy to be reunited with his best friend. He purrs affectionately at her, rubbing his teeth into her palm and kneading her legs.

“Oh thank you, Peeta!” she says for the third time, once again bursting into tears.

I give her a small laugh. “Don’t cry, it’s okay.”

I take the rest of the things out of the bag, and Mrs. Everdeen immediately clutches the wedding photo to her chest. She pulls it back and stares at it for a long time. I avert my eyes, watching Buttercup love on Prim just as much as she is him.

“Thank you, Peeta. This was awfully thoughtful.” Mrs. Everdeen says quietly. I turn to her and she’s also watching Prim affectionately play with her cat.

“Of course,” I say, “it was no trouble at all.”

I bid them my goodbyes and head back to my floor. Against my better judgement, instead of going back to my compartment, I knock on Haymitch’s door. I hear him groan on the other side. The door is swung open by the angry, swaying man.

“Don’t you ever have anything better to do than bother me?”

“Cool it, I just came to tell you to pace yourself. Don’t do anything stupid, and make sure you don’t reek during the day.”

He rolls his eyes at me and assures me he’s a big boy who can handle himself.

“A year of knowing you disproved that pretty quickly.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he waives, “Now go away, I have plans to be a bad neighbor tonight.”

With that, he slams the door in my face.

Chapter Text

Haymitch

I don’t go down to dinner. 

I don’t get off the couch.

I don’t fall asleep.

I don’t answer the door for Peeta the next morning.

Time moves forward, I move back.

I’m in that comfortable, warm place again between here and there. Nothing can touch me. Nothing can make me remember.

It never lasts long, but oh, is it sweet.

Just me and this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore.

This ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.

I leave the couch to expel yesterday’s lunch and then promptly pass out on the bathroom floor. I wake up when the clock reads 14:34. I missed lunch. Peeta didn’t come for me.

Or maybe I didn’t hear him.

It doesn’t matter. I take off my shirt and clean the vomit out of my hair in the sink. I make it to my bed and curl up under the blanket with my flask.

No one can leave me if no one can reach me.

No one can hurt me here.

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Katniss

We sleep most of the next day away. Yesterday, we ate one meal. Today, they’ve brought none. The hunger pains are nothing new. If anything, it’s only the part of captivity that reminds me a bit of home.

We get water from the sinks, and at least there's that. When we’re awake, we play games to distract ourselves: riddles, cuckoo in the crow’s nest, thirteen questions, seek and find. We sing songs, tell jokes. We find anything to keep the hunger at bay. This is a game Prim and I play well.

We tell each other more stories. 

“Annie.”

That’s her name, Finnick tells us quietly. The brilliant, kind, brave, mad woman he loves. Annie.

The lights still turn on and off at random, and without meals, it’s much harder to tell what time it is—almost completely impossible considering Wiress is having one of her bad days. She’s our most reliable source of information on… most things, actually. She has moments here where she’s sharper than I’ve ever seen her. It’s almost like her survival instincts are kicking in, providing her more clarity. Other times, like today, she is overcome by a stillness so severe I fear she may never move again. I’ve only ever seen it in my mother.

The lights are on, but we’re all tired. Finnick thinks it’s the end of the day and I’m not inclined to argue. We bid each other goodnight, but it’s not even a minute later when we hear the metal doors slide open at the end of the hall. My heart pounds out of my chest.

There are four guards tonight. They take Finnick first, then me. We ride the elevator in silence, my fellow prisoner giving me one worried glance before our heads are bagged.

We’re put in a car for a long while. We drive for what feels like an hour. When the car stops, we're ushered into a building, and I hear two of the guards hauling Finnick in the opposite direction as me. My stomach twists; I don’t have a good feeling about being separated.

I hear a door open, we walk through it, and then I hear it close. The bag is pulled off my head.

I’m in a large bathroom. Only one guard is with me; the balding man with the keys from the other night. 

“Change,” he orders. I look at the black bag hanging on the hook by the sink.

“Will I be doing another interview tonight?”

“Change,” he repeats. I take a deep breath, walk over to the bag and unzip it.

It’s worse than my first interview dress. The bodice is sheer. The shimmery golden threads are cool under my fingertips. I detach myself from the comfort of my prison clothes and slip the thing over my head. I take a glance at myself in the mirror. Thin sleeves drape over my shoulders, shiny fabric gathering at a point on my left hip and cascading to the floor on either side of the slit up my thigh.

It is beautiful. I just wish I wasn’t wearing it. It reminds me of Glimmer’s interview dress in a way. Less of it is sheer, thankfully. I fleetingly think that it’s something Johanna Mason would look stunning in. She’d certainly fill it out better than me. It’s clearly designed for curves I don’t have.

I turn to the guard expectantly, but instead of leading me out, he knocks on the door behind him. In a few moments, the stylist from District 4, Stheno, walks in. She’s carrying a makeup bag and a hairbrush, looking at me apprehensively. I’m fairly certain I know the answer, but I ask anyway.

“Am I giving another interview this evening?”

She looks at me with way too much tenderness and shakes her head. She can’t tell me more, but she doesn’t have to. I think of my family.

She curls my hair, paints my face expertly. She shadows my eyes in a way that makes me look… intimidating. She leans in close to my ear under the pretense of pinning a piece of hair and whispers.

“Look scary. Look mean. It’s our best defense. Whatever you do… don’t make it easy for them.”

I stare at the glittery snake wrapping its tail around her collar bone. The endless rows of spiked jewelry adorning her ears. The sharp black lines like bat wings framing her eyes. Look scary.

“I can do that,” I whisper. Stheno squeezes my arm.

“I think I’m about done,” she murmurs, “you ready?”

“Not at all,” I tell her. I think of my family.

“I don’t think it’ll be a long night,” she assures me. She’s wrong.

Outside the bathroom door, we part ways with Stheno and head down an ill-lit hallway. It feels endless; we take seven turns and descend four flights of stairs before I’m ushered through a set of tall oak double doors.

We’re in a somewhat small room. Tables, chairs, and a few doors line two of the walls. A small stage sits on the right side of the room, a bar to my left. Three long, purple couches and a low oval table occupy the center of the room.  The couch is home to three women and two men engaged in quiet conversation. The stage is empty, although music plays from somewhere above us. A few men sit at the tables on the far side of the room.

Look mean.

I straighten up to my full height and lift my head up high. One man in a fitted black suit sits alone at the bar. He’s staring directly at me with a burning intensity. I walk briskly toward him without permission, but the guards remain by the door.

Finnick stands as I approach, sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me close in greeting. I return the embrace and barely hear his whisper into my hair.

“Stick close by me.”

I nod imperceptibly. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I eye his drink, the open bottle next to it, and he pours me one. I take it hesitantly. I don’t necessarily want to be inhibited in this environment, but I also don’t want to be fully present. Would this make things easier? It did after the Quarter Quell was announced, but it didn’t on the train.

I see one of the older men at the corner table eyeing me up and down.

Fuck it. I throw the drink back and have Finnick pour me another. I drain the second one just as easily. He denies me a third. I glare at him.

“Not till we know…” he hesitates.

“Tell me,” I demand.

“They might give you something else,” he mumbles, “I hope not though. We’ll see.”

I eye him, taking in the protruding vein in his neck and his dark eyes. He doesn’t return my gaze. “Are you on something?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure I will be soon,” he responds grimly.

We sit at the bar and turn to face the room. I make another assessment of the crowd. Most of them look very drunk. After a minute, the man from the corner table approaches us. I stiffen immediately, and Finnick nudges me with his shoulder. I think of my family. Peeta.

“Finnick,” he nods, “and hello there, girl on fire,” the man purrs. His wrinkly fingers reach for mine on my lap. He pulls my hand up to his lips and places a wet kiss on my knuckles.

Look scary.

I raise an eyebrow at him but otherwise remain stoic.

“Who might you be?” I ask, not bothering to hide my disdain. His lips curl into nothing that resembles a smile.

“You don’t remember me?”

I do. I recognize him as soon as the words are out of his lips. We were introduced on the Victory Tour, but I don’t remember his name. All I remember are his wandering, grabby hands when he hugged me in greeting. Peeta’s flushed, angry glare.

“Forgive me. I meet a lot of people,” I reply coolly. Something flashes through his eyes that I don’t understand, but in an instant it’s gone.

“I’m sure, I’m sure you do… My name is Cronus. We met at the Capitol, on your Victory Tour.”

I feign remembrance. “Yes, of course. How good to see you again, Cronus.”

“Likewise, sweetheart.” 

I don’t even kill him when he calls me that, but Finnick’s smart enough to wrap a firm arm around my waist just in case.

“And of course you remember Aegeus?” He points to the man he was sitting with, who is now walking toward us briskly.

“Yes,” I lie. I greet the short, plump man. Aegeus and Cronus lead Finnick and I to the group on the couch. I sit beside Finnick, and Cronus is immediately seated next to me. I tuck myself into Finnick’s side to avoid touching the other man; he throws an arm around me protectively. 

Cronus makes a round of introductions. The names pass by me in a blur, but I do recognize one of the women and one of the men as previous victors. I don’t think either of them could be much older than Finnick. The woman looks completely at ease, but the man has a rigidness to his posture that I wouldn’t have noticed had I not been looking for it.

Finnick knows several of the people on the circle of couches already. I drown out most of the conversation, but a few things stick out to me.

“You wouldn’t believe how few options we were left with; half of the fruit fillings on the catering menu were unavailable. Between that and the fireworks, we almost cancelled the whole thing!”

“You’re telling me! I haven’t been able to get fresh halibut in weeks! For our garden party-”

Despite the Districts’ suffering, despite the war in Panem, the richest of the rich in the Capitol still live in a bubble, insulated from the horrors of the wider world. The things lacking most from their lives right now are fruit, fresh fish and fireworks.

But things are changing.

It was just like Beetee and I had talked about during training. Production in rebelling Districts slowing. Labor strikes. Fighting. In 4 now too, apparently. The first I’ve heard of residents in a career district joining the rebellion. I sneak a look at Finnick, but he doesn’t give any indication that this news affects him.

The Capitol vultures are talking about a ‘leather party’ they were invited to, whatever that means, when I feel Cronus’ hand snake up my thigh. The slit in my dress allows for his hand to make contact with my bare skin. I tense under his touch, and Finnick feels it. Cronus’ hand doesn’t leave; it slides up and down my thigh casually. He’s not even looking at me, but he’s got the trace of a lustful smile that makes me want to gouge his eyes out.

Look mean.

I give him my best scowl, but when he catches it, his smile only deepens.

“I think I need another drink,”  I turn to Finnick. He hesitates, but nods after his eyes flicker to Cronus’ hand on my thigh.

“If it pleases the lady,” he says affectionately. The woman on the couch next to him swoons. He stands, offering his hand to me, and we make our way to the bar.

Finnick pours himself a drink but looks at me before picking up a second glass. I give him a scowl that would rival the one I threw at Cronus. I get the drink.

Another man follows us. I curse my luck under my breath.

“I have to say,” the stranger says, leaning in way too close on my right side, “I think this is my favorite dress of  yours… and I remember them all .”

He’s young. Maybe ten years older than Finnick. His dark hair is slicked back in a way that reminds me of Buttercup’s wet fur after a bath. It glistens. I scrunch up my nose.

“I’m ambivalent,” I say flatly. 

“Stunning,” he whispers, staring down my neckline. He brushes a lock of my hair off my shoulder and runs a finger along my collarbone.

“I agree. Gold really is your color,” Finnick says, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me into him, out of the man’s reach. The man drops his hand and flexes his jaw before forcing it into a smile.

“It’s been a while, Finnick,” he says, “it’s good to see you looking so… healthy.”

Alive, is the implication, I think.

“Likewise, Alecto. Say, did you ever get that rash cleared up?”

“Funny,” he replies dryly, “Katniss, I was wondering if you’d like to dance with me.”

Despite the stage and music, this isn’t a space built for dancing. There’s room back here by the bar, but that’s about it. The large circle of couches takes up too much room on the floor.

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t mind.”

I’m not sure if I can refuse. I really don’t know what to do, but before I get the opportunity to do anything, Alecto is pulling me out of Finnick’s arms and toward the front of the room. I think of my family.

We sway slowly just behind one of the couches. His hands roam, his breath reeks of alcohol, and he whispers words that would make me vomit if I had any food left in me. It may happen anyway with the way I’ve been drinking.

I make it through one song, and then I pull myself away from him. I look to the bar, but Finnick is back on the couch. A strikingly beautiful older woman sits on one side of him, rubbing his chest and whispering in his ear. She moves her hands to his tie and begins loosening it.

I take stock of the rest of the room. Another couple is dancing, and several people on the couches are already in various states of undress. Out of nowhere, the female victor walks up to me and leans down until her eyes are even with mine.

“Open up,” she says.

“Wha-”

She grabs my jaw tightly and places something small and red inside my mouth before I can pull away. I try to spit it out, but whatever it was has already dissolved. My breathing quickens and the woman laughs in amusement.

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later,” she says, eyes twinkling. I feel Alecto’s arms wrap around my waist. I spring out of his grasp and practically run to the couch.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say pointedly to the woman sucking on Finnick’s neck. She lifts her head slightly to look at me through hooded eyes.

“I don’t mind sharing.”

Finnick places a hand on my knee and shakes his head.

“You should eat something,” he points to the table, “before that kicks in. Quickly.”

I do as he says, nibbling on crackers. I should be hungrier considering how long it’s been since we’ve eaten, but I’m still too nauseous. I don’t even feel like I’m in my own body. I crumble a cracker between my thumbs. It falls to the floor like snow.

“Drink water,” Finnick mumbles. I look back at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting on the couch, his body still. The woman has his suit jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned. She whispers something in his ear and he nods, opening his eyes. She pulls a small, red square out of her bag. Finnick opens his mouth and she places it on his tongue. When he looks at me, the green in his eyes begins to shimmer.

“Water,” he mouths to me before she pulls his lips down on hers. I snag one of the clear bottles from the table and drink it quickly. When I set it down, a hand wraps around my wrist.

Alecto.

He sits beside me, forcing me to squeeze even closer to Finnick. Alecto is trying to talk to me, but my eyes are too heavy and all I can hear is the music. He’s leaning in, sliding his hand up from my wrist to touch my hair, my ribs, my hips, my legs, and before he can touch me anywhere else, before I start to scream, I do the only other thing I can think of.

I turn around, slide a leg over Finnick’s waist, and kiss him.

The woman is forced back, but I feel her hands lingering around the places where Finnick and I touch. Out of the corner of my eye, Alecto just watches. A small victory.

Finnick’s lips are frozen against mine for several seconds before he begins to respond. His hands come to rest lightly on the small of my back. I rest a hand on his shoulder and cup his cheek with the other. I feel something funny bubbling up inside me. It’s not natural.

The feeling of his lips against mine is far from unpleasant. He kisses me gently, hesitantly, and I can’t understand why I want him to do it harder.

I wonder how long we can keep this up. I wasn’t thinking ahead much farther than getting out of Alecto’s grasp. It wasn’t the worst solution though. If I have to… attach myself to someone in this room, I’d rather it be Finnick. Our audience doesn’t seem to mind. I can feel more sets of eyes trained on us somewhere behind me. 

“Kiss her like you mean it,” Alecto breathes, and I jump, pulling away, wiping the wetness from my lips with my thumb. He’s much, much closer than he was before.  Finnick’s eyes meet mine. I flush with shame, the reality of what I just did hitting me with full force through the growing haze overtaking my mind.

He pulls me back into him and gently presses his lips to my jaw, kissing a path up to my ear.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, and I shake my head slightly because he has no reason to be sorry, because it’s my fault for sitting on his lap, because there doesn’t seem to be a way out of this other than through. I feel his breath on my neck and I tingle again. I wish I had taken better heed of Finnick’s warning with the alcohol.

He kisses me this time, a little less gently than before, and I don’t hesitate like he did. It’s not long before I start to forget where I’m at. Who I’m with. Who is watching. The bubbling is back.

I press myself closer to him and tangle my hands in his hair. He freezes but I’m not deterred. I close my eyes and lean down to place lazy kisses along his collarbone. He sighs, relaxing a little again. Somewhere behind me, I hear the sound of a buckle and a zipper.

Finnick grabs my jaw and pulls me back up to him, his mouth crashing down on mine with force. A deep moan is muffled by our joined lips. I think it comes from both of us. His hands squeeze my hips tightly. I sink my fingernails into his shoulders, sliding my fingers down to reach over to trace his scar-

I jump.

I look under my hand: bare, tan skin where there should be white flesh and little blonde hairs.  Smoothness where a curved white line should be. I’m about to ask Peeta where his boomerang scar has gone when I feel a hand on my breast.

I look at the woman on my left in confusion. She gropes me enthusiastically, running her other hand along the side of my ribs. I turn my head back to where Peeta should be, but instead I see Finnick.

I remember it all over again. Reality is coming and going in waves. The colors feel brighter, the noises sharper, the sensations in my body far stronger.

Finnick avoids my eyes, his jaw set in a hard line. Embarrassed at how obvious my enthusiasm was, I start to move off his lap, but I’m stopped by the sight of the man on my right. He’s red in the face, shaking and sweating as he stares at us, his hand moving rapidly under his undone pants. He speeds up his pace when we make eye contact.

I look back to Finnick with panic in my eyes and he finally looks at me again with furrowed brows. He seems just as out of it as I feel. I dig my nails into his chest and he starts. He looks to the man on my right, looks back at me, and then wraps his arms underneath my legs. He stands up, carrying me with him, and we practically fall onto the only unoccupied couch left. I breathe a sigh of relief. Finnick’s landed on  top of me. He shifts so he’s beside me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Don’t stop.”

The voice is sharp. Commanding. Loud. I look over, and it’s the first man we spoke to. The one from the Victory Tour. I’ve already forgotten his name. The rest of the room watches on in anticipatory silence. Finnick looks at me, and I nod. He turns, shifting a little of his weight onto me.

“It’ll be over soon,” he whispers, and then he’s kissing me again.

I allow myself to get lost in how good it feels. I don’t have much of a choice anyway. Whatever’s running through my system is doing its job. My hands find his hair again, and his trace soft lines along my ribs. I shiver at the delicate touch. I take his bottom lip between my teeth and pull. He groans.

Encouraged by the noise, I wrap my arms around his waist and try to pull him closer, but he doesn’t let me. I rock my hips into his instead and he gasps. I do it again, and he breaks our kiss to bury his head into my neck.

“You need to try to stop that,” he breathes, but I don’t understand what he means.

“It’s not your fault,” he kisses my neck, “but don’t forget about Peeta.”

Peeta. I’m a monster.

Finnick sucks on a spot on my collarbone and I let out a shuddery breath. Shame burns through me like fire because—despite the audience, despite Finnick’s warning, and despite how much of a betrayal to Peeta this is—I’m still enjoying it. I wish I could make myself stop.

Finnick shifts his legs a little, and I realize he’s not as unaffected by the drug as I thought. I feel one of his hands slide slowly up to cradle my breast. I freeze, trying not to betray my body’s reaction to the touch.

“Okay?” he breathes against my skin.

“Yes,” I whisper, just as quiet.

“I’m gonna end this, but you have to trust me.”

I do. I’ve already trusted Finnick with my life once before. I don’t think there’s anything he could do to hurt me now.

When I don’t respond to him, he brings his head up to rest against mine, eyes searching. He’s asking permission. When I get a handle on my breathing, I capture his lips in a gentle kiss. He shifts a little more of his weight onto me and I try not to moan.

Finnick’s hands are roaming a little more freely, and I allow mine too as well, scratching lightly along the lines in his chest and stomach. When his thumb skims over my nipple, I try to pry his lips open with my tongue, but he doesn’t allow me to deepen the kiss. I bring a hand to his jaw and stroke it with one finger. I trace a line down his chest, grazing a nipple. He relaxes and parts his lips, allowing my tongue entry. I explore curiously.

I’ve only ever kissed Peeta this deeply a few times. It’s still a new feeling, and it’s different with Finnick. It’s not bad, but his mouth doesn’t feel like home.

His palms come down to rest on my thighs. When he slips them under my dress, I rock into him. He slowly slides his strong hands up to my hips, hooks his fingers around the waistband of my underwear, and pulls.

I feel myself clench, and my hips roll into him involuntarily. He gives me another look that either means ‘trust me’ or ‘stop enjoying yourself so much’ before unbuckling his belt.

I stare at him with wide eyes. Does he really mean to say that we have to do this?

Does he know I’ve never done this before?

He kisses me again, tenderly, before resting his forehead against mine. He looks at me for a long moment, then leans down to nibble on my earlobe. I gasp.

“Relax. Make it look real.”

He kisses me again, gently nudging my legs open a little with one of his. I blush when he shoves his pants down to his thighs, baring himself to me completely. I try not to look at it… but my curiosity is too strong. I’ve only ever seen one other.

It’s fascinating. I reach my hand out to touch it.

He grabs my hand, pins it above my head and slides my dress up just enough to settle his own hips against mine. He releases my hand and pulls the fabric back down as far as it will allow. I start to understand.

We’re faking it.

He lets his weight settle onto me again. I feel him hard against my middle. He looks down and away, cheeks aflame, and begins rocking into me slowly.

“Is this okay?” he asks, not bothering to whisper. It’s for the audience, I realize.

“Yes,” I breathe.

The sex might be fake, but the friction certainly isn’t. Every now and then, his movements will graze me in just the right spot and I can’t help but gasp or push into it. It’s mortifyingly obvious that he knows what it’s doing to me because he loses his rhythm every time I react this way. He’s making his own sounds now too, though.

Thankfully, Finnick doesn’t lie. He ends it as soon as possible. His thrusts become faster, more powerful, and it’s impossible for him to avoid that part of me completely. I try not to think about how good it feels. The tension in my core continues to build and build as I rock my hips in time with his. It doesn’t go away.

I’m worried it’s about to become a little too real on my end when Finnick’s movements become tense and erratic for several long seconds before he stills on top of me.

I think of my family.

__________________

We’re back in our cells less than two hours later. I’m not sure about Finnick, but I’d be falling over without the guard’s tight grip on my arm. The haze hasn’t completely worn off yet, nor the shock. Neither of us speak until Journey asks if we’re okay. Finnick doesn’t answer.

“Not really,” I whisper.

“I’m so sorry, Katniss.”

I look over to Finnick’s tear stained face in the dark. I can’t handle him blaming himself for this.

“Don’t.”

He lets out a shuddery breath. “I hate to say it, but that was probably the best case scenario. The bigger rooms like that are usually much easier. I don’t know if… I’m not sure we’ll get away with that again.”

Again. I hadn’t considered it, but of course Finnick had. His voice cracks on his last words. He’s looking down; I don’t think he’s looked me in the eyes since he told me to relax.

Make it look real.

“Do you want to shower first?” Finnick asks when I don’t respond. I do, but saying so feels inconsiderate.

“We can take one at the same time, just don’t look over.”

Not the easiest thing considering the placement of the showerhead, but it ends up being fine. I scrub the night off my skin, and then I scrub the skin off my skin. I’ve never had the water turn cold on me, but it does tonight.

I shiver and wrap the towel around myself tightly and sit on my bed until I hear Journey cough on the other side of our wall.

“Hey, did you guys eat while we were gone?” I ask as I finally stand to dress myself. Now that some of the fog has cleared up, I’m starting to feel my hunger again.

“Nothing,” Journey says.

I quickly regret not eating anything other than crackers.

I think about my handful of crackers guiltily. I didn’t even see Finnick eat anything. He’d said earlier in the day that he was doing fine with the stomach pains, but I don’t know if I believe him. He’s not as well practiced in hunger as Journey and I am. I didn’t voice this.

Journey hums a soft lullaby for us, but it’s hours before I eventually drift to sleep. I dream of humanoid mutts with big meaty hands.

Grabbing.

They never stop grabbing.

Peeta

Back in my room, I bring Katniss’ sweater to my face and inhale. I lay on my bed with it, savoring the scent. Bunching it up and laying it on my shoulder where her head should be. I almost fall asleep this way.

Haymitch didn’t answer his door for dinner last night, but I didn’t expect him to. When he doesn’t answer it the next morning for breakfast, I’m pissed. We had a meeting in Command scheduled directly after, which he was predictably absent from. It didn’t go unnoticed. I’m so angry I don’t even try to wake him for lunch.

“For you.”

I take a break from fuming at the words. Across the table, Mags places the grass necklace around Prim’s neck. She looks at the silvery pink pearl nestled in the center, then back up at the older woman in awe.

“I couldn’t-”

She shushes her.

“A pretty necklace for a pretty young lady.”

Prim’s eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them away quickly. She thanks Mags and hugs her tightly before putting her tray away and heading back to school. Annie places a gentle hand on Mags’ shoulder.

“That was really sweet of you,” I say, smiling softly at her. Annie nods in agreement, but Mags shakes her head.

“It belongs with her.”

The three of us finish lunch in a comfortable silence. I ask them to join me on a walk, and both women accept.

“Will Haymitch meet us there?” Mags asks.

I hesitate. “Probably not… I doubt he’s fit for public society right now, but I’ll check in on him after the hour’s up.”

She nods but gives me a concerned look.

“I’ll come with you. I’d like to see him,” she says as we clear our trays. I nod. I’m a little concerned for him, but he’ll just have to deal with the consequences of however badly he decides to fuck up this time. I have bigger things to worry about.

The fresh air is wonderful. I unzip the top of my jumpsuit and tuck the sleeves in at my hips. It’s a little cooler than it has been in recent weeks, and it’s a wonderful change. Annie fidgets with her hair and hums: two tells that she’s somewhere else right now.

“How do you like school?” I ask Mags. Due to her age, she isn’t required to fulfill any work duties, but she likes to spend most of her time helping the younger kids with reading and writing. She’s a much loved presence among both the students and teachers there.

“It’s wonderful,” she says earnestly, “I just adore those ones. They keep me from getting lonely.”

“You’ve always got us for that too, you know,” I smile at her. She nods, but sighs. By the look on her face, I know she’s thinking about Finnick.

“Maybe we can play a card game later. Drag Haymitch over to my room, force him to sit upright for a while.”

Mags laughs and nods. “Sure, but I’m no good at cards.”

“Perfect, me neither. That’ll make it even easier to convince Haymitch to play. Unless Annie over there’s a card shark.”

She doesn’t indicate that she’s heard me at all. Mags places a hand on her arm and she jumps.

“Annie? Would you like to play cards with us in my compartment after this?”

She stops walking and stares at me for several seconds. We stop with her.

“No,” she says, shaking her head slowly.

“Okay,” I smile sadly, “I’m in 416 if you change your mind.”

She’s already somewhere else again though. Mags wraps an arm around her and we resume walking.

The hour passes quickly, Mags and I making more small talk that we no longer try to rope Annie into. As our last lap comes to a close, she gives Annie a warm hug in parting before we make our way to Haymitch’s room.

It takes five tries to get him to answer his door. I’m trying to figure out ways to break it down when it finally swings open.

“What?”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting,” I wrinkle my nose and look around the room, “is that vomit? How does this happen so fast?”

“Did you come here just to insult me?”

“No, we came to get you to come play cards, but you need a shower first.”

At the word ‘we,’ he gives a glance behind me to Mags, clearly not having noticed her till now. He looks down guiltily.

“No thank you to both of those things,” he mutters.

“Wasn’t asking. Come on, grab some clothes and shower in my room. Mine’s ten minutes.”

His head snaps up.

“What? Why do you get a longer shower?”

I knock on my leg. “Perks.”

He shakes his head, muttering around the room angrily but does as I say.  I’m hoping I won’t regret telling him about it later.

Mags teaches me ‘Go Fish’ while Haymitch showers. I like it. It’s easier than the games we usually play. Despite my better judgment, I snuck into the bathroom once I heard the shower start. I slipped the flask out of his breast pocket, stealing a few sips before I decided to just bring it to the table. The burn is wonderful. I trace circles around the lid until Haymitch storms out of the bathroom and snatches it from my hand. I’m sufficiently buzzed already though. Haymitch is still in a towel, apparently not bothering to get dressed once he realized his most prized possession was missing.

He mutters a few choice words about my ill intentions, but I raise my eyebrows.

“I hardly think taking any amount of liquor away from you is ill-intentioned.”

When he returns dressed, he refuses to play cards with us, despite Mags’ sweet pleas.

“Chicken shit,” I challenge.

“Nice try,” Haymitch says, stretching himself out on my couch. I pester him with quips about his card skills. In the end, we get him to play a few games of Deceit. He wipes the floor with us every round. By dinner time, he’s sobered up enough to convincingly walk to the dining hall and back, so we decide to risk it. The smell lingers despite his shower, but if people notice, no one comments on it. Annie’s missing from dinner tonight, but that doesn’t surprise me much.

“I hate it here. I miss fish,” Mags frowns at the unappetizing dinner in front of us. It’s such an inconsequential complaint about District 13 in comparison to everything else going on that it gets a genuine laugh out of me.

“I miss food that tastes. Good or bad, at this point. I’m not picky,” Haymitch says, slurring his words a little. We pretend not to notice.

“I know what you mean. I’d give my right leg for a decent loaf of bread right now,” I say.

They laugh and keep up the gag. Haymitch misses a reliable black market. Mags misses crocheting and staying out till three in the morning. I tell her I don’t believe her about the crochet. Haymitch misses out on having 23 hours of fresh air a day, he says.

Bullshit. I tell him as much.

“You’ll stay in your house for a week without touching a window. How is this any different?”

“I have the option to open a window,” he says seriously, “or the option to open my front door.”

“The option to sleep naked in the yard, if you like,” I offer. Katniss and I’ve both seen him do it way too many times.

“Exactly,” he nods seriously.

It goes on like this. Eventually I look to the Hawthorne’s unofficial table where Prim and Rory are speaking in hushed tones, heads close together, neither touching their food. I swear I see a blush on Prim’s face. Finally, something I can tease her about.

Gale’s propo airs an hour after dinner, and I plan on watching it alone or with Haymitch, but Beetee finds us in the dining hall. He doesn’t have a tray, and he doesn’t stay long.

“Come to Special Weaponry with me for the propo,” he says to us quietly, “I have something to show you.”

Chapter Text

Haymitch

I want to tell Beetee to fuck off, that I’ll watch the propo tomorrow, even though I have no intention of doing that either. I know this is the wrong thing to do, so I try to ignore the pounding in my head and shovel my soup down my throat moodily.

As much as I want to crawl back into bed with my flask, I’m secretly grateful that I’m having a meal today. The shower was nice, too. I could’ve done without the card game, but who am I to deny Mags’ sweet, pleading eyes? The little manipulator she is. At least I won every round.

We don’t talk much, especially after I tell the pair I’m not interested in having an intervention right now. Mags looks at me with concern, but Peeta’s having none of it.

“What’s your schedule like tomorrow then?”

I tell him I’m busy writing a eulogy for some asshole who should’ve died during the Hunger Games. This gets me a disapproving stare from Mags and a short laugh from Peeta.

“Make sure you tell everyone how witty and sexy and charming I was. Tell ‘em you loved me like a son.”

I roll my eyes and Mags’ gives us both an amused smile. The brat doesn’t let me go back to my compartment after dinner. We wait impatiently in his until it’s time to meet Beetee by the eastern elevators. The older man gestures toward the doors and enters after us. He hands his key to me and has me stick it in button S41 .

My ears pop as we descend, and I feel Peeta’s heavy hand on my shoulder to keep me from swaying. Beetee is looking at me out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t comment. When the doors open, the crowd around Beetee’s computers is much smaller. Boggs, Plutarch, Fulvia, and three other soldiers are the only ones that join us today. I’m not even a little surprised that Gale is absent for the airing of his own propo.

It goes off without a hitch. Beetee replaces the Capitol broadcast with our own footage just as he did before, blacking out the screen for several seconds afterward.

“Nice work,” Boggs tells him, and Beetee nods in thanks.

Plutarch and Fulvia try to talk with us about the propo, their ideas for the ‘We Remember’ series, but I think we both tune them out. They eventually leave, and the other soldiers also filter out, but Boggs lingers when he sees that Peeta and I haven’t left.

“Haymitch,” Beetee turns his chair to me, “how is Mags doing? I’ve been worried about her.”

“She’s fairing okay,” I say, “but sometimes I worry about her health. I know that Finnick’s well-being is weighing on her heavily right now.”

Beetee nods, then asks about Annie. We keep talking until I heard the elevator doors shut behind us. When we look back, Boggs is gone.

“We can speak freely here,” Beetee says, “for about twenty minutes.”

He immediately turns back to the computer screens and closes out of the propo and the program monitoring the Capitol network. He begins typing onto a screen that I don’t recognize and doesn’t address us again.

“What’s going on?” Peeta asks with only mildly disguised frustration. Beetee doesn’t respond. It’s about twenty more seconds before he speaks.

“Here,” he says, studying a video that has appeared. We look at the screen, but it’s hard to make out everything we’re seeing. It’s a video of a room from a high, awkward angle: like a security camera. I take in the scene and realize that’s exactly what this is. There are long, curved purple couches in the center of a relatively small room, and I can make out an empty bar at the back.

On the couch, between Bellona, the winner of the 62nd Hunger Games, and a man I don’t recognize… is Katniss.

She’s dressed up in a dark red dress; the other eight or so people in the room watch her with fascination. Bellona and Katniss speak briefly before the younger girl opens her mouth and tilts her head back. Bellona places a red tab on her tongue.

I’ve seen that stuff before. I  shudder at the ensuing memory. I hear Peeta’s sharp intake of breath beside me.

The man on her other side is rubbing Katniss’ thigh dangerously. She just ignores him.

“What is this?” Peeta demands.

“Security footage,” Beetee replies, “from The Cornucopia.”

“What’s that?” Peeta’s glaring, but his voice breaks.

“A club for Capitol elites. The highest. It’s not a very… well known place.”

“Is it live?” I ask Beetee. He nods.

Peeta grinds his teeth. His eyes are glued to the screen in fear. When I look back, Bellona is grabbing Katniss by the jaw and kissing her. It goes on for an uncomfortably long amount of time before they start…

I can’t watch it. I turn away.

“I’ve been looking for a way into the security feeds for a while,” Beetee explains in a tense voice, “I was actually looking for access to where they’re being held, but it’s not at this location or anywhere near it. I was about to move on last night, when…”

“When what? ” Peeta asks.

“When I saw Katniss and Finnick. Here, last night, at the same time,” Beetee says, looking away.

There’s a long silence.

“I don’t see him now,” Peeta says, and I chance a look back at the screen. The unknown man has his hands all over her. I see red.

Peeta’s right though. No Finnick.

The man slides his hand between Katniss’ thighs, and Peeta kicks a table. I’m tempted to do much, much worse.

“I’ll have to show Command tomorrow,” Beetee says quietly, “they’ll want to monitor this feed at all hours. I’m just not sure if they’d let me show it to you, and I’d rather ask forgiveness than permission if necessary. I thought, as horrible as it is… it’s real-time confirmation of them living and breathing. I didn’t think it’d be right to keep it from you. I have no idea when we’d be able to talk about it again.”

He’s right. It’s horrible, but it helps for that reason alone. It also shows us what we’re dealing with. Prepares us for how hard things might still be, even once they’re home. I worry Peeta might do something stupid. He looks more like a victor right now than I’ve ever seen him.

“We need to get them out,” his voice is a low, deadly whisper.

On screen, things get worse.

If I thought my nightmares were bad before…

I lose my dinner.

Katniss

We go back the next night. 

That morning, Wiress tells us we slept in. I’m still not exactly sure how she’s able to tell, but it seems likely that she’s right considering our next meal comes pretty soon after. Since we got nothing yesterday, I’m assuming it will be our only one. I warn the others not to scarf it down, try to ration, but I don’t do a great job of it myself.

I cry the whole day. I think of Peeta’s arms. I try to imagine them wrapped tightly around me as I pull the blanket taut across my body. My ribs ache from sobbing. I am inconsolable, and not for a lack of trying on everyone else’s part. Journey tries to distract me with stories, Finnick sings, badly as always, and Wiress, alert as ever, tells me about what Haymitch was like as a boy. To this, I listen.

She says he was funny; he had a wit entirely unique to him. Clever beyond reason, intuitive. Above all, he was a protector of the innocent. He always has been. I guess this doesn’t surprise me much. She tells us about the children he tried to save before he even became a mentor. I learn some of their names, and I know I won’t forget a single one. Now Haymitch’s ghosts will walk with me too. 

Wiress’ words grab my interest more than anything else, but I think of my mentor’s young face on that tape of his Games, his grief, the sounds of screaming children coming from the jabberjays, and I just cry harder.

When the tapes begin to play again, we hear the sounds of our Games. Violent deaths, quiet crying, panicked begging. Finnick kills ruthlessly. Even without seeing it, that much is clear. He doesn’t make a sound in his cell, but tears stream silently down his face. The sounds get to Wiress more than anyone else, and she ends up shutting down once again after her most lucid day yet.

I’m right about our meal being the only one. When they come for us, I’m not ready. No one’s been taken two nights in a row like this.

The routine is the same. Bagged heads, a long drive, Stheno’s gentle hands on my face and hair, and everyone else’s greedy ones everywhere else. My body is no longer mine, so I leave it. 

I think of my family. I think of Peeta.

Haymitch. Gale. Madge. Mags.

But when the doors open, I forget all my reasons for being brave.

Finnick makes every attempt to keep the hands off of me, including his own, but it’s impossible. We’re not as lucky tonight as we were last.

I dance with men and women alike. I’m groped by both. I grit my teeth and try not to close my hands around anyone’s throat. They feel like worms trying to take root under my skin.

At one point, I see Finnick disappear into a room with two women. He doesn’t return for half an hour.

It’s the longest half hour of the night. I don’t know if I’m more afraid for him in there or myself out here. I’m led to the couch by the victor that drugged me last night. She places another red square into my mouth, but this time I stick my tongue out, accepting it readily. It dissolves quickly.

“Having more fun tonight?” she purrs in my ear.

“I don’t think ‘fun’ is the word I’d use.”

“Mmm,” she brushes my hair back, “that’s okay, I think you’ll start to enjoy yourself soon.”

I doubt it very much, but the drug made it less unbearable the last time. I don’t know if I would’ve gotten through it without getting myself killed otherwise. I hope Finnick comes back soon.

Alecto from last night is having a grand time stroking the strip of skin exposed by the thigh high slit in my dress. I cross my legs and turn my body toward the other woman.

“So,” I ask her, “what brings you here? Wherever we are.”

“Same thing as you,” she answers easily, “but I’ve learned how to enjoy it.”

I wonder if that’ll be me one day.

Look mean.

I eye her questioningly. She just shrugs and throws back the rest of the wine in her glass. She turns to face me squarely on the couch, and before I know it, her lips are on mine.

I try to relax, but I don’t like the way she kisses me. It’s more forceful than Finnick, who seemed like he would quite literally rather be doing anything else. The way this woman sticks her tongue down my throat makes me squirm.

Alecto slides his hand between my thighs and I clench them together. He snakes his other hand behind me and trails his fingers along my spine. 

The victor breaks our kiss and makes me lean forward. She meets Alecto’s hand on my back and together they unzip my dress. I let them. The woman slides the straps of my dress down my shoulders, and the dress pools at my waist. She has my bra off before I even get a chance to breathe a word of protest. She leans me back against the couch.

Look scary.

But I can’t. Of course, this is the exact moment that Finnick and the women return. He takes in my state of undress, then our eyes meet and my face flushes hot with shame. A couple on the couch in front of me watches on in intense fascination.

The victor leans down to take one of my nipples between her teeth and I gasp. Something flutters in my stomach. The drugs are starting to kick in.

The man massages my other breast with his left hand, his right never having left its place between my thighs. Finnick walks swiftly toward us and pushes the man harshly back into the couch.  My whole body freezes in anticipation, and I think he’s going to hit him, but instead, he kisses him. Hard.

Finnick pushes Alecto back enough to leave a gap between the two of us, and I make room for him by leaning into the woman still attending to my breasts. He slides his knee between Alecto and myself.

“You really want her all to yourself, don’t you?” I hear Alecto ask Finnick, “Don’t think I can’t tell what you’re trying to do.”

He sits up, pulling himself  out from under Finnick’s embrace. The woman finally releases me as well, sitting back to watch. He makes room for Finnick.

“Go on,” he nods at me, “take what you wanted.”

Finnick looks at me, and I nod. He sits, back turned to the man, and pulls my face up for a tender kiss.

“More,” Alecto breathes after a minute of this. Finnick brings a hand to my breast and circles his thumb across my nipple, still wet from the woman’s tongue. I gasp into his mouth. 

This isn’t how he touched me last night. He was doing everything he could to avoid bringing either of us pleasure. He could’ve just palmed at me sloppily like Alecto did, but he’s being… precise.

Maybe I’m imagining it.

I feel lightheaded. It feels too good. I rest one of my hands on Finnick’s hip and grip it tight, more for support than anything. I feel a hand snake down to my thighs again, and I’m shocked until I realize it belongs to the woman. She slips it under my dress and inches upwards.

I pull back from Finnick and stare at him. Is there a way out of this? I try to ask the question with my eyes but I get no answer. He looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, then he sits back and pulls me onto his lap. My vision sways a little with the abrupt movement.

Okay. This is better. Just one person touching me, and it’s Finnick. I can handle that.

I kiss him again, gently prodding his lips apart with my tongue. He allows me entry with less hesitation than he did last night. I run my fingertips along the silky expanse of his shirt. The texture is mesmerizing. I feel like I’m floating. Finnick’s hands don’t stray far from my waist at first, but they start to slip lower and lower the longer we sit here. I clench my thighs together around him.

We dance like this for a while, and I wonder vaguely where it’s going from here. Are we about to have sex on this couch? We’d hardly be able to fake it with people sitting right next to us, and my dress wouldn’t provide the same cover that the flowy one from last night did. I can’t even ask him, prepare myself, because Alecto and the victor woman are far too close for me to whisper.

What can I do right now?

“I could really use another drink,” I breathe, pulling back from Finnick abruptly. I could use anything but: I’m already a stone’s throw away from toppling over. He nods though, and I readily pull the straps of my dress back up. Alecto makes a noise of disapproval, but I’m already letting Finnick guide me by the hand to the bar, my fist closed around the front of my open dress.

“Here,” Finnick says when we reach the bar. He gently turns me around and zips me back up. I survey the room as he does this; only one man watches us take our break by the bar. The rest are otherwise engaged in talking, drinking, or… intimacy.

“Thanks,” I say, turning around and accepting the glass he hands me.

“Don’t drink that,” he mumbles, bringing his own glass to his lips. I do the same but I don’t swallow anything.

“They want you in a room tonight, but I have an idea. How good of an actress are you?” he asks. He’s smiling at me sweetly, leaning in to brush his lips against my temple. From where everyone else is sitting, it should just look like he’s whispering sweet nothings.

“Horrible.”

“Shit,” he breathes, placing a kiss on my cheek, “We can still try. Just like yesterday. You did fine.”

I don’t point out that with the drugs, I was hardly acting. I wonder if you can take two of these.

“How are we going to do that again?”

There’s no slit in my dress, and it’s too tight to hide anything we may or may not be doing under it. Finnick’s about to answer me, but I can see Alecto creeping up behind him. I pull him down for a kiss before he can say anything incriminating.

“How about you bring that show back to the couch?”

Finnick jumps at his words but collects himself quickly.

“If you insist.”

He gestures for Alecto to lead the way, taking me by the hand. Once Alecto is seated, Finnick guides me to the couch opposite him. A woman who wasn’t here last night is the only other occupant. I sit as far away from her as possible, but Finnick doesn’t sit next to me.

He stands directly in front of me and then drops to his knees.

My heart pounds. He reaches out to caress my jaw, and I bring my lips down to his. He trails his fingertips down the length of my neck, where he begins to trace little circles on my collarbone.

I jump.

I pull back from the kiss quickly and yank his head closer so that my lips are touching his ear.

“Don’t do that.”

He looks confused at first, because he really hasn't done anything yet. My words came out too harsh though so he drops both of his hands and leans back, looking at me nervously.

He just can’t touch me like that, not in that spot, not in those gentle circles. That's what Peeta does. It’s not fair.

I bring Finnick back in for a kiss, guiding one of his hands to my waist. He's more hesitant, his kisses are lighter, and his muscles are tense under my touch. I hate that I've made him this way, made him feel like he's doing something wrong when this is the only thing protecting us. When he's clearly doing everything he can to preserve my innocence and protect my body. I feel ashamed.

I reach around and slowly knead at the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades. He instantly relaxes, a small noise of contentment bubbling up from the back of his throat.

He breaks away from our kiss and leaves a trail of kisses from my jaw to the valley between my breasts. My heart beats faster when he doesn't stop there, sliding his hands down to my thighs and dropping his head.

It disappears under my dress. He kisses the inside of my thighs, spreading them slightly to bring his face closer to my center.

I feel mortified. Not even Peeta’s face has been this close to… there. He stops when his face is planted firmly between my upper thighs.

This is why he asked if I was a good actor, I realize. It was easier to perform last night, most of the burden there being on him, but now I'm the one that must carry the show. I place my hands on his shoulders, arch my back, and fake it as best I can.

Finnick moves his head below me, mimicking the movements of the act we're trying to pull off. I try my best to move with him convincingly. All of the sudden, I feel a pair of hands snake down my back and unzip my dress again. The female victor. She slides my dress down and reaches around to take my breasts in her hands, ghosting her fingers over my nipples. I gasp and accidentally roll my hips, causing my center to connect with Finnick’s nose. I accidentally do it again.

Finnick squeezes my thighs hard, and I think it’s a warning. Knock it off. I instantly feel new shame that has nothing to do with my state of undress.

I make it quick, just like Finnick did, and all I can do is hope it was convincing.

When it’s done, we don’t leave right away. Last night, after the act, it was almost immediate. I take the opportunity to eat more. The night has progressed, the guests in the room turning back to polite conversation. Finnick and I sit far enough away from the chatter that we can talk freely under the cover of the loud music. We’re tense and incredibly awkward with each other. I can’t even look him in the eye.

“Do you think this’ll go on every night?”

Finnick looks grim.

“I really hope not. I hope… I’m really hoping we won’t be here much longer.”

These words are still a whisper on his lips despite our relative privacy. Hope. Bravery. I’m glad he has it. I think of my family.

I’m about to respond when movement at the bar catches my eye. A tall ginger man adorned in the red Avox uniform stands behind the bar that, up until this point, has remained empty. I know who it is before he turns around.

Darius.

It’s a punch in the gut to see him here: worse than it was to see him in the training center. Our eyes meet briefly before he looks down solemnly to wipe the counter.

I wonder if he was here for the show. My cheeks burn. Finnick follows my gaze curiously.

“Something wrong?”

“Friend of mine,” I murmur. He nods, frowning.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a minute, “for…”

I shake my head, “stop apologizing.”

He looks to the ceiling, his face coloring bright pink. “I just mean… Specifically, I wouldn’t have- I was worried you’d- we’d have to… That things would go further tonight. I didn’t- I wanted- I was worried you’d get hurt.”

I knit my brows together in confusion, trying to decipher his words, but it’s not until his eyes flicker down again awkwardly for the briefest of moments that I realize what he’s talking about.

Oh. He means… So I wasn’t imagining it.

“It’s okay,” I say, my face just as red as Finnick’s now, “I didn’t- it was fine.”

I didn’t mind it, I’d almost said. My own face flushes with shame. I will my brain to work through the fog.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “for…”

He shakes his head, his cheeks burning. He doesn’t look at my face the rest of the night. It makes me feel awful. Alone.

When the guards bring me back to the car, Finnick isn’t the only one waiting. Darius joins us for the ride back. He joins us in the elevator.

He joins us again in the cell next to Finnick.

Peeta

“I’ve been looking for a way into the security feeds for a while,” Beetee explains, “I was actually looking for the ones where they’re being held, but it’s not at this location or anywhere near it. I was about to move on last night, when…”

“When what? ” I demand.

I wish I wouldn’t have asked.

Katniss sits on the couch, trapped between a man and a woman I don’t recognize, touching her in places that make Katniss squirm. Places that make my blood boil. It takes all I have to restrain myself from punching the screen.

“We need to get them out.” Before I kill someone.

Then her dress is unzipped. Haymitch abruptly turns away and vomits, almost making it to the trash. Beetee turns his chair away and closes his eyes, bowing his head.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the horrors on screen. It’s like a bad accident. Or a particularly gruesome death during the Hunger Games. 

Finnick walks into frame and stops when he sees Katniss. I expect him to stop them, to save her, but instead he kisses the man that’s assaulting the woman I love.

The rational part of my brain tells me that he’s helping, I’m sure he’s protecting her, but I’m also positive that if it was me, there wouldn’t be a soul left alive in that building save me and Katniss.

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not there.

They stop. The men speak, and then Finnick turns to Katniss.

Watching him kiss her fills me with something between disgust and despair. The woman on her other side enthusiastically manipulates her exposed breasts. I don’t know if I can handle watching much longer, watching Finnick kiss her, watching these people touch her in the way only I should be allowed to.

That’s not true though, I think. Katniss and I aren’t technically… anything. If this were a normal situation, if she were free, she’d have the right to kiss and touch whomever she pleases. Including Finnick. I try to push that thought down.

I had the same one when I was watching them openly flirt on the beach, during their Games. It hadn’t actually bothered me—not that much—but that doesn’t mean I was about to sit on my hands while Panem’s most admired womanizer made a move on my fiancée.

Fake fiancée.

That chocolate might’ve gone down bitter for them, but I found the moment deliciously sweet.

When Finnick’s fucking thumb starts circling her nipple, I bite my lip so hard I think I draw blood. I could kill him. When he pulls her onto his lap, I kick a table and almost lose my balance.

When I see the signs that, without a doubt, part of Katniss is enjoying it, I nearly break down and cry.

Her back arches, her eyes flutter close, she pushes her hips into… I can’t handle it. Even though I know she has no choice, no agency in this moment, I can’t help but feel the nasty twinge of jealousy that arises knowing that someone else is making her squirm like that. Someone it was already clear she likes being around. I feel shame overtake me.

What a pathetic little thing you are, I think to myself. My mother’s favorite words of endearment.

When she pulls away and they head to the bar, I can tell they’re speaking about something serious, despite the intimacy of their stance.

“I’m not sure if we should keep watching,” Beetee says quietly, even though I’m the only one watching.

“They’re talking,” I say instead of acknowledging his suggestion, “it looks like they’re planning something.”

Haymitch risks a glance at the screen at my words. A little bit of color has returned to his face now that he’s sitting down. Beetee’s flicker to the screen and away again quickly. I find myself wondering with morbid curiosity what it was he saw last night when he discovered the security feed.

Katniss pulls Finnick in for a kiss, and I have to swallow a lump in my throat because there really doesn’t seem to be a need for this one. Haymitch turns back around abruptly when Finnick leads her by the hand back to the center of the room. Like he knows what’s coming. I suppose I should too.

It’s not long before his head is bobbing between her legs under her dress. Her dress is unzipped again by the woman from before. I can tell she’s afraid, until the woman’s hands close around her breasts. She thrusts into Finnick’s face. Finnick’s face where mine should be. It happens again. Then again. Then again.

Eventually, Katniss arches her back and gasps, her eyelids fluttering, but I think it’s fake. Her face looks all wrong. Or maybe… I think with a sinking feeling in my gut, maybe she fakes it with me.

I shake the pathetic, shameful thought out of my head. It’s then that I notice Darius. Behind the bar at the far side of the room, watching what’s unfolding before him as he chops up something obstructed from view. I point him out to Haymitch, but he smacks me on the side of the head for making him open his eyes when he sees Katniss’ state of undress. I take the well deserved hit.

We stay until Finnick and Katniss are taken away. Nothing else too awful happens. I wonder how many times they’ve had to do that. I wonder how many others they’ve done it with.

“We need to get them out,” I whisper again, dangerously, “ now. ”

__________________

The elevator ride back to our floor is solemn. Neither of us know what to say. There’s no way to console each other over the things we’ve seen tonight. There’s no unseeing that.

Before we left Weaponry, Haymitch had solemnly told me that it’s not an uncommon thing for victors to be abused that way. It’s not even close to the first time it’s happened to Finnick. I’m mad he didn’t say something, but deep down I know that the warning wouldn’t have helped.

“Has that… ever happened to you?” I had asked him tentatively.

“No,” he shook his head, “no, they never got to me like that.”

I wonder how they did.

I lie on my bed with Katniss’ sweater for all of five minutes before I’m outside my compartment again, knocking on Haymitch’s door, sweater clutched in one hand like a kid with a blanket. I don’t even have to ask.

He lets me in and I curl up with the sweater on his couch. His television is on, glowing in front of me. Haymitch drinks, watching from the bed, neither of us really taking in the images flickering by. I’m sure that we’re seeing the same thing when we close our eyes.

Eventually, I fall into a restless sleep. I’m not sure if Haymitch does, but he’s already awake when I open my eyes in the morning.

I’m thankful we don’t see Prim at breakfast. I’m not sure if I’d be able to hide how horrible the thoughts running through my mind are.

Annie is also absent, and I’m glad that Beetee at least had the good sense not to tip her off to what we saw last night. It wouldn’t help. I’ll find a way to explain how we know that Finnick is alright. Alive, at least.

The idea of bringing them home unharmed was squashed like a bug. How could we possibly help them now? What’ll be left of them when they return?

If they return.

I try to shake the thoughts away. Mags notices the change in our disposition, but doesn’t push when we tell her we’re alright.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be alright again.