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Chapter Text

I’ve been lying still on my bed for an hour, trying to catch some sleep, but I know that won’t happen and given that I do manage to black out, I’ll be woken up by nasty nightmares. I don’t think I want that.

A nurse drugged me before leaving me in here for the night, so that I don’t cause any trouble. Haymitch had seen them push the clear liquid into my veins before, said it keeps me from ‘going cuckoo’. 

I know the doctors use it too, mostly it’s to keep me mild, I don’t ever feel angry, hateful. In fact, I don’t really feel much. But my thoughts are to some degree, entirely my own.

The lighting has been dimmed till the point of blackness, but my door is not latched. I think they trust me a little, or maybe they forgot again.

I’m starting to drift off when I hear sniffling coming from outside. Whoever is doing it goes quiet for a few minutes and I strain my ears to catch any sound of the person who might still be outside.

I think it’s stopped and I start to relax and close my eyes when there is the sound of a stifled sob, someone outside is ugly crying.

It doesn’t matter and anyways it’s none of my business, but I trust nothing about this place, so against better judgement I swing my legs off of the bed and stand.

Walking over to the door is a simple task but I feel a sense of dread that settles somewhere near the base of my spine. I take a breath to steady myself and twist the knob.

No one.

I look down to my left and I have to abort the shocked gasp that makes its way out of my mouth, there’s a frail girl with her head in her hands, lank brown hair are spread over like snakes over her shoulders. I can’t see her face but it’s clear she’s crying.

I don’t think she heard me, because any sane person would run away from the boy who strangled the Mockingjay half to death. What am I supposed to feel when I think of that?

“Are you okay, miss?” I ask. I slip my hands into my pockets as I’m not quite sure what to do with them. 

She looks up and my heart nearly stops. There she is, the mutt—I mean, Katniss. 

Katniss takes maybe a second to register who I am, she leaps to her feet before letting out a shrill shriek, on instinct, I lunge towards her and clamp a hand over her mouth, in the process, I make her slam into the wall.

She thrashes wildly and scratches me, trying to get my palm off of her mouth, or at least tries to, with her chipped nails. 

“Shut up. Shut up, before I snap your neck, Mockingjay.” I hiss at her, almost immediately she stills.

The last thing I want is for anyone to come here and find me pinning Miss. Everdeen against a wall, looking like I want to kill her, which I do, but not so much at the moment.

“Don’t run, and I’ll let you go.” I tell her, keeping my voice level and calm. “No screaming or calling for somebody either. Will you do that, Katniss?”

She narrows her eyes at me, probably thinking of all the ways she wants to hurt me. It takes a few more moments before she nods in agreement and I pull my hand away. 

I take a few steps back and watch her closely. I like my freedom from that stupid hospital room, I don’t want it to end. I also love this power I seem to have over her. It’s good to be the one in control.

I expect her to try to run from me, attack or scream. She doesn’t do any of that, instead she sinks to the floor and pulls her knees up to her chest. And the tears start again.

”You really are gone then.” Katniss mumbles, I think she’s talking to me.

”Why are you crying?” I shoot back, this time, I want answers not lies.

She gives me an incredulous look, like I’m stupid for not knowing. I suddenly feel like this is somehow related to me, oddly enough, if it is true then I do feel a little sorry for it.

”Because of you.” She quips back, and her voice breaks on the last word. My suspicions have been confirmed.

I open my mouth to ask if it’s because I strangled her, but she looks so heartbroken I feel like an asshole for thinking of asking that. So, instead, I give a hopefully more comforting response.

”Don’t worry, I’m drugged, so I probably won’t try to murder you.”

That sounded better in my head. Katniss does not seem to like what I just said and weakly shakes her head from side to side, and that’s when I notice she doesn’t look like a very fierce, unbreakable, glowing person those propos make her out to be.

She looks broken. Apparently, this is my fault.

”It’s not that, Peeta. This is different.” She says after a few minutes of silence. She scowls, “And why the hell would the fact you have to be drugged to not kill me make me feel better?”

“I don’t know, you aren’t very easy to understand.” I snap back, this woman gets on my nerves in more ways than one.

She holds my gaze for a few seconds and she looks so hurt, I want to take back my words, at the same time, I don’t feel that I did anything wrong. And then she drops her head down and lets out this low sound of unhappiness. 

“Where have you gone?” She asks me, and I don’t know what to tell her since I don't know myself. 

I can’t think of anything comforting as I have no idea what she is referencing to. And so, I sink down to the floor beside Katniss and her press the back of my head against the cool wall. 

“What do you want me to say, Katniss?” I mutter, and I hate how tired and worn out my voice sounds.

I try not to think about how close we are to each other, I’m maybe a few inches away from the broken girl next to me. I know that she realizes it too because she stiffens slightly. For all her greatness and being a symbol of the revolution, she’s so readable, to the extent it’s a bit funnier than it is supposed to be.

”I wish it was me instead of you.” She says suddenly. I turn to her face her and find her staring at me, my confused face makes her hastily clarify. “Captured and taken to the Capitol after the Quell, I mean.”

Her serious, honest eyes make me laugh and I grin at her dumbfounded face.

”Trust me, it’s not as fun as it seems.” I say in between wheezes.

”I know that.” There’s a tone of irritation in her voice, I can’t quite place the reason why “I saw your interviews, you looked worse each time. And I could tell they were hurting you—“ 

At this point she’s overcome with emotion and hides her face, this sobers me up, and for a few minutes there is only the sound of distant machinery humming and Katniss crying, to her credit, she tries to hide it.

”Don’t feel too bad for me. I mean, I am expendable after all.” I say with a smile.

The doctors here showed me those interviews, how I looked so deathly pale and terrified, makeup piled high, sweat beading. The horrors of what I was enduring shown clearly on my face. It was bad, I’m lying to her face. The part of me being expendable is the truth though.

“I hate it when you lie to make me feel better. Please don’t.” 

I can’t deny this request. But I also don’t like how the person who wasn’t even tortured, beaten, maimed, burned or shocked is telling me she would have liked to take my place. For a moment I wish for her to endure what I did, along with that, there is this resentment towards her for saying that, even though she manipulated me into loving her, people tell me it's a lie as well. I confided in Johanna and she told me that the Mockingjay was 'too fucking stupid to do that'. 

In any case, it’s nice to know that at least someone cares about me.

”Okay, I won’t.” I wait a few moments for a reply, and when none comes forth I have to take the conversation forward. “I’m here if you want to tell me something.”

Katniss presses her lips together, no longer sobbing her heart out. That is a very fair improvement. Her eyes are grey, like a hazy mist of wintertime, or storm grey clouds. It's unique, I can't say I like them though, these are the same pair of eyes that haunt my nightmares. Right now, they are very, very red-rimmed and swollen. It's difficult to not feel pity for her.

"I miss my Peeta."

"I am right here. Anything else?" I say in a deadpan, monotone voice.

"The one that doesn't hate me. Not you, I don't like you." She glares at me like I have done her some personal wrong.

"We are the same person, better get used to it." I sigh and look up at the ceiling and think of something better to say. "But, I suppose I understand why that is—wait a minute, did you say my Peeta."

"No! I didn't. Shut up." She looks at me so viciously. With a finality that brooks no argument she says, "You must have misheard."

"For some reason, I don't believe I did." I let out a chuckle before mimicking her tone, except I make it sound high-pitched and annoying. "I miss my Peeta."

My metal foot taps a beat against the floor. Clack-clack. Katniss is looking at the chairs in the hospital ward, the lights, tiles. anywhere but at me, her ears are a little pink, further proof that I am not deaf. I clear my throat and try to modulate my voice to sound professional and caring, the way the therapists here do.

"That is understandable, why do you miss your Peeta." Referring to myself in second person is making me want to crawl under a chair and stay there until the absurdity of this wears itself dry.

Katniss gives me an unimpressed stare. Maybe she knows what I am doing. I don't know why I can't feel the heart crushing fear and hatred. It is the drugs along with the common sense that nobody could be scared of her, with her dull hair, chipped fingernails and dead eyes. Believing that she is a mutt is even more stupid— but the nagging that she is, just won't leave me.

"Because, he—you are such a good person. And I miss your arms, some of your kisses as well." She exhales through her mouth. "Nobody understands, Peeta."

“That sounds like someone else entirely,” I say, staring straight ahead at the blank wall. “I don’t think I know him.”

"I know what I see, you haven't hurt me yet, Haymitch said you're getting better." She says quickly, like it is an inbuilt reflex.

I shake my head and laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You can see what you want to see, Katniss. You’ve always been good at that.”

Her eyes flash, wet and angry all at once. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is what they did to me,” I shoot back before I can stop myself. My voice is sharp, bitter, and it echoes down the empty hall. I feel like the most horrible person in the world when there is a full body flinch from her.

The silence between us is heavy. She curls her arms tighter around her knees, and I can tell she’s fighting the urge to scream at me or bolt. Instead, she whispers, “I want you back. And I know nothing can fix you, that you won't be the same.”

That… disarms me. I’m not sure what I expected—anger, accusations, more sobbing—but not that. My head falls back against the wall, and I close my eyes.

“Maybe you won't be okay,” she says finally, her voice raw, “but if you’re really gone, why are you sitting here with me? Why didn’t you just walk away? Or kill me? That's what you want, right? I know you do.”

I don’t have an answer. I want to say it’s because I’m drugged, because I’m tired, because I don’t trust her to not scream her head off if I leave her here. But none of those feel like the right thing to say to this strange girl who I simply cannot figure out no matter how much I try to.

Instead, I mutter, mostly to myself, “I have some decency left.”

She laughs. What. The. Fuck.

I stare at her, completely lost for words. "What's so amusing?"

"Nothing, just the way you said it." She finally meets me squarely in the eyes and they look so puffy, it's a little sad to think about. "How's your treatment going?"

I have no idea what to do with this enigmatic creature. 

"Just the usual. Drugs, watching you and me, flipping my shit out at the world." I study her profile and bite my lip nervously, I'm not sure where it came from. "Please don't cry over me of all people."

"But I care about you, a lot, even though I don't want to." 

"I did too, I just don't remember" She scoots a bit closer to me, and my heart  jumps to my throat, panic surges through me and I clench my hands into a fist, my fingernails dig into my palms and I remind myself that Katniss Everdeen is not a mutt, she is just a girl, I have been lied to by the Capitol. 

"If you try to get better, then I won't be so hurt." She lays her palms out flat, so trusting and open, "Will you try?"

I glance at her thin body, the searching eyes, pink lips, cheeks wet from tears that are now drying.

"I will. If that's what you want." I whisper. As if I haven't been trying to already.

Her face lights up like the sun, I didn't know she smiled. So far, I only thought she scowled or cried.

"Thank you. I guess I'll go now." She jumps to her feet, this girl is a bit dim, too trusting as well.

"Wait, don't tell anyone the door wasn't locked. I like my freedom." I say suddenly at her retreating form, I get up from my spot on and open my door. She doesn't respond but her step looks a little light. Johanna might come by tomorrow, and then I get to know what the Mockingjay has been doing.  

Chapter Text

Peeta found me breaking down last night. My heart feels so light but I still feel like I’m drowning. All it did was make me want him more, it’s okay, I’ll wait. Because he promised to come back to me. I don’t know how many people here know, Johanna does, she swore she wouldn’t tell. I realised too late that there were cameras in the hospital ward. 

Oh no.

I don’t want to be seen sitting near that deranged—hijacked, Peeta. It’s a mercy he didn’t kill me on sight. I huddle closer into the pipes, it’s warm and cozy, I don’t want to leave. I want to meld myself into it. Tears surface again, I want him back. But I don’t think he wants me anymore.

Now that he sees me for what I am.

I think at some point I pass out, because when I wake up, I’m in my room again.

My head doctor is reviewing something on a tab. I watch closely as his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The nurse beside him cranes her neck and watches the screen, their faces illuminated by the light of it.

He shakes his head and shuts it off, placing it face down on my bed. He picks up his clipboard from my bedside table.

"We saw the security footage from last night. Around two or three. Do you remember this?"

The doctor asks, and I feel a strange sort of acidic anger in my stomach. It is none of this man's business. Nor does anyone have a right to question who I talk to, where I go, and what I do.

"Yes, doctor," I say, gritting my teeth slightly.

"And you were in control?"

I roll my eyes so hard that it hurts a little. Why do people care whether I remember? Isn't the only important fact about all this that I didn't flip my shit and murder her? Everybody on this medical team knows that I was drugged and not particularly homicidal.

"Yes, doctor," I repeat, with emphasis.

"What do you think of this? Did you feel any emotion of love towards her? Any affection?" he presses, clipboard in hand, looking so eager that I am tempted to let out a string of expletives just to watch the shock on his face.

I really don't see the point of origin of this strange obsession with the fact that every time, no matter the circumstances, every time I act like a human being—sane and showing basic manners (such as not leaving a person having a complete breakdown on their own) doing this apparently makes it seem I'm either so in love with Katniss that it overrides my ability to kill her, hurt her, and make her scream.

"I didn't think much, actually," I lie to his face. Clearing my throat, I continue, "And I was drugged. I think you remember, doctor."

He sighs and sets his clipboard onto my bedside table. He rolls his neck, closes his eyes, probably trying to figure out what to do with me, the insolent, hijacked, violent patient he is stuck treating. I am not very good at helping people stay patient as of late. But no one can blame me.

In any case, my short and clipped answers are not helping my recovery or the plan for treatment they have decided on for me.

"I suppose we should give you morphling now," he says. It's so obvious that he is uninterested in this.

"No, don't!" I shout suddenly. I'm a little caught off guard by my own behavior. But I so badly want to feel something real, without the pink gauzy haze of morphling and whatever else is mixed in that.

The doctor exchanges a glance with the nurse, who simply shrugs and puts the syringe away. I feel myself relax a little and some of the tension leaves my body. He then inserts a cassette of sorts into the slit of the television. The nurse secures straps around my chest and then binds my hands to the bedposts. Wow, so much restraint and precaution for one delirious boy.

On screen, I see myself roll off of Finnick. My mouth is open and gasping, strange spasms rack my body. The mutt—no, Katniss—is faring just as badly as me. I watch myself gesture upwards, and I think the video of us running through the fog, which I saw yesterday, has ruined my ability to speak coherently.

—I couldn't speak because she mutilated my tongue to shreds before stitching it back together, just to do it again. Of course she did. Vicious, filthy, dirty mutt. I hope she dies. Blood pours freely and the world tilts and swims.—

Fuck, I hate this so much.

"Mon-hees." The garbled sound comes out of me from where I lie on the ground. Katniss follows my signal and squints up at them. I can tell they are mutts of some sort. They have orange fur and are quite large in size. I see myself get up weakly and crawl down the slope towards the beach, presumably. Katniss, who was the first to reach the water, gingerly touches the water and jerks her hand back, making such a pained face that I feel concerned.

—the mutt runs towards me, sharp teeth glinting, while her face morphs into a thousand different horrifying faces. I want to vomit. She's going to hurt me again, claws bared and her face pulled back into a terrifying grin. She cuts me open while I bleed and writhe on the ground. Help, help, help. It hurts so, so much. She digs her nails into my face and uses inhuman strength to drag me into the water, where she holds my head down while I gasp and choke on the water and betrayal and pain—

No, no, no!

That never happened, I tell myself. Jaw clenched, I force myself to inhale, exhale. And then I repeat the motions. I let my hands free from the tight fist cage I have kept them in. I look down for a moment and see that my nails have left crescent-shaped indents on my palms. The nurse hovers nearby, waiting for me to lose it completely. Today, I refuse to do that. I instead turn my attention back to the scene playing.

A little distance from her, there I am again. I have let myself fall into the water, half-way submerged. Even my features are contorted while a strange milky substance flows out of my wounds. Slowly, I watch myself relax. The boy on the screen looks over to Katniss, who is doing the same.

The screen cuts to black.

Finally, after a very long silence, the nurse slowly claps his hands and the joy of fighting off an attack of insanity drains out of me instantly. Instead, I find myself exhausted and done with this back and forth of clarity and cluelessness.

"You did very well, Mr. Mellark," he says with a hint of praise in his tone. "There has been general improvement in your condition."

Despite myself, I feel a warm glow of pride in my chest that coils around my ribs, and I feel a small smile crawl up to my face.

Johanna visits me in the afternoon. She looks a little better, her hair is growing back in fuzzy patches, the dark circles under her eyes have gotten worse.

I don't think her eyes will ever lose the haunted, broken look that keeps a pedestal no matter how much she tries to push it away. I probably look the same, even though I have gained back some of my weight. My mind is still plagued by nightmares, along with the unwanted addition of being deranged.

Even when she grins at me and gives a cyanide-sweet greeting from the door, I can see the way it does not reach her eyes, and my heart breaks a little more.

"Hey, lover boy," she drawls and struts over to my bed. From the few times I have spoken to her, I recognize this as a sign that she has gotten to know something good. Gossip, maybe?

"Hi, Johanna. You look well."

That is a very safe and neutral answer.

”I didn’t sleep much yesterday,” She yawns to stress on her point. “You?”

”I didn’t sleep much either.” 

"Heard you had a great session with Katniss." Her smile is all teeth and makes me feel like a child who has been caught in the act of stealing something not meant for them.

"You are very funny." I give her an unamused look, which makes her burst into peals of laughter. I wait for her to come down from her high of happiness, silently wishing for her relentless teasing to end. That is a good thing about Johanna—nothing ever stops her from being a pain in the ass. "Who told you anyways? Haymitch? Your therapist? A doctor?"

"Katniss."

"What?!" I yell indignantly, which makes her lose composure and double down with laughter. "I told her not to tell anyone!"

"Yeah, that part ain't really her fault. I might have caught her sneaking back into our room and interrogated her."

She pauses and smirks at me. I take the opportunity to slide my own questions in.

" What did she say? What did you ask her?"

"Let me think…" She taps her temple with her index finger and looks upward, as if recalling something that has slipped. Even though we both know perfectly well that it hasn’t.

"She started with the excuse of needing air, then changed her answer completely to ‘being thirsty’," Johanna finishes the last two words with sarcastic quotation marks. "Bullshit excuses, by the way."

"She didn’t come off as very bright to me," I comment. This makes her brighten up a little.

"To her credit, she lasted fifteen fucking minutes before giving up and telling me how 'nice' and 'like yourself' you had been."

"Umm...I'm not sure what to say to that," I admit, a little shyer than I thought I would be.

"Well, the girl was practically high, skipping out of her skin. Didn't seem half as unbearable today. You better not fuck this up, she wants her Peeta back." She glances at the glass where I know the doctors are. I see Johanna and her bone-like body, now regaining some weight, and myself, chained down like a wild animal.

"She does a lot of weird things with that pearl you gave her," Johanna mutters. Even though it sounds like she's mocking Katniss, her face doesn't show that.

"Like what?"

"Fingers it—" Johanna says, and I choke on my spit. She gives me an incredulous look and adds, "Not like that, dumbass. She also kisses that tiny thing and keeps whispering your name. You had better come back to her, understand?"

"She asked me to come back to her as well." My voice has a reminiscing quality to it.

"Unfortunately, I'm not asking. So get your head out of that shithole."

"Tough love.” I say jokingly.

"Your medics said they might let you out today, you can be a normal person for once." Johanna drops this bombshell of a revelation like it is the most casual thing in the world. "Seeing you didn't murder our darling Mockingjay and didn't lose it while watching her."

I laugh, sounding bitter.

"You're a nice boy, and she's—"

"Not always the nicest?" I offer.

“Haha, you are very amusing,” she says dryly. “What I meant to say is Katniss sees you as her special person. So be good to her, or I break your fingers. God, I need to sit down.”

Johanna leans back in the chair by my bed, arms crossed, her grin as sharp as ever. It strikes me how someone so broken can still find the strength to act like the world hasn’t stripped her raw. That’s her weapon...bitterness, sarcasm, the illusion of control. For me, the illusion cracks every time I close my eyes.

“You know,” she says after a beat of silence, her tone uncharacteristically low, “they all expect you to go back to who you were. The baker’s boy with the sunshine smile. The one who could charm a crowd with a wave. But I don’t think that boy exists anymore.”

Her words are blunt, but there’s no malice in them. They hang heavy in the sterile room, and I find myself staring at the ceiling.

Johanna snorts softly. “Well, you’re still you enough to be annoying, so that’s something.”

Instead of an equally vicious and deserved response, I focus on her face, her expression—humor, exhaustion, pain, all in the space of a second. I wonder if she sees the same kaleidoscope of fractures when she looks at me. My eyes are tearing up. I don't deserve this. I just want to be myself again. Without all this horror inside me and around me.

Johanna notices. “Hey. If you lose it, just bite someone. Works for me.”

This time I do laugh, though it comes out strained. “That’s your solution to everything.”

“Damn right it is,” she says, leaning back like she’s won something. “That’s why I’m still alive.”

Silence again.

Her words pierce into me deeper than I want to admit. I picture Katniss with a pearl cupped in her palm, whispering my name into its smooth surface as though it might carry her voice to me. She is the image of my reason for insanity, and I walk the fine line between sanity and crazed urges to murder.

Johanna winks, the old spark of defiance in her gaze. She scrapes her chair as loudly as possible when she stands, and then she’s gone.

Despite myself, I feel a little excited. Even though there is a certain sense of foreboding and the apprehension that is sprinkled in like salt. My eagerness to get the fuck out of the hospital area knows no bounds. They do have to drug me, again. And I find myself wondering if I will ever be free of these endless sedatives and mind-numbing medication that seems to come in a relentless loop.

The doctor fills a syringe with a blue-ish liquid and pushes it into the veins of my left wrist. I wait and count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He tells me that this is just so I can stay in a calm and hazy state. Though I do need to put in effort to in order to stay in control of my senses. My world is a little faded, I can see people and objects only if they are close to me. Ugh.

He—my doctor— tells a guard standing at attention, waiting to escort me, to cuff my hands. Just so that I don't pose a threat to their precious glorified tunnel system of a District.

“We have to restrain you first,” my guard tells me nonchalantly, ”Just for precaution.”

I open my mouth to say something, anything really but he’s walking over to me and clicking the cuffs over my hands before I can even get a word in. 

I sigh and roll my wrists, an edge of the left handcuff is a little sharp, it makes a pink scratch on my wrist. I had better be careful or I might end up slitting my wrists. The guard steps back and watches me for a moment, like I might bite him. He then jerks his head sharply to the door. Move, the motion seems to say.

I push myself off my bed and walk the short distance to the exit. The guard is practically breathing down my neck, I want to whirl around and tell him to stop being a creep, but I don’t say anything. Any kind of disturbance caused by me could revoke this privilege I have gotten.

I feel like a prisoner in the Capitol again. I have no say in what happens to me, no one cares about what happens to me. I am just a prisoner. Here and there, the difference is none.

I look at the glass again and see my reflection, deep sunken eyes, still too underweight and weak. My skin looks pale even in glass, I haven’t seen the sun for weeks.

”Well, this is awkward.” I say with a note of humour, hoping to get a laugh out of the stoic man.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. I have a very hazy memory of my father laughing. It’s in the bakery, snow falls outside, it turns grey from ash and coal, the staple of what used to be my district. I remember, my mother wasn’t around when he laughed. It was a warm sound. I will always remember it.

The garud unlocks the door and gestures to move out. When I do he doesn’t even bother to close the door behind me. 

“Start walking.” Truly, a man of few words, more often than not, none.

”Of course, sir.” I mutter with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

As it turns out, the people here eat in a dining hall. The first thought I have when I walk in is about how ugly and colorless this place looks. Silently, I thank my luck of not being born in this place. In the sea of grey, brown and black hair (sometimes even peppered with a few blonde heads), a flame sticks out, red hair. Annie.

Squinting, I see that she’s sitting with Finnick. She looks so happy and dreamy with him, her happiness is mine. I heard her crying for weeks on end. It’s good to see Annie somewhere where she can feel safe and loved. My thoughts on Finnick, though, are…confusing.

Would it have been better if I was mad like Annie? Instead of this.

Turning away, I fill my tray with whatever food is given to us with grace. And, it’s actually not that bad. Some kind of oily gravy, meat—is that deer, or beef? And crackers, there is an option for bread but I don’t think I will manage to finish it without being reminded that my home is literally ash, my family bakery is gone, my family is gone too. So are half my friends along with every. Single. Person. I have ever cared about.

Now, a place to sit. Another challenging task.

My best bet would be Annie and Finnick. When he came to see me, he was actually nice to me. He has the charm, yes. What surprised me the most was his ability to not be a pain in the ass.

I take quick steps over to their table and by sheer good fate today, Finnick catches my eye and waves me over. I think there is another person with them. Fuck, no, not again. I can’t deal with this again.

I think she catches Finnick looking past her shoulder and she whips her head around. At this point I am maybe a foot away from her, Katniss’s face cycles through twelve levels of shock, fleeting sadness before finally setting on resignation.

”Hi, Peeta.” Katniss grimaces like my name is poison on her tongue. “They let you out. That’s…nice.”

Her tone is making it very clear that this is not in fact nice for her. Nevertheless, I have always been doomed to be the orator, dissipating tension. 

“Let out? No, actually, I broke out.” I jerk my head sharply to where the guard stands behind me. “This guy is just here to put me back in my cage, he was chasing me y'know.”

“Really?” Her eyes go wide and I laugh in her face. All emotion drops away like a veil and she gives me her resting bitch face.

I take a seat right next to her, even though my heart goes a mile a minute, I will not show fear, I must remind myself that Katniss is mostly just a harmless girl. There is nothing vicious or filthy or murderous about her. She is harmless.

”Hey Finnick.” When he nods at me curtly I look over to Annie and give her what is hopefully a warm smile. She beams back at me and I realize the last time I got anybody to look at me so sweetly was long, long ago. Except maybe Delly...and Prim.

Annie’s smile lingers on me, soft as a summer breeze. It almost feels dangerous, like holding something too fragile. I don’t deserve it, but I let it sit on me for a second, let it warm me before the weight of Katniss’s stare drags me back down.

She doesn’t say anything. Just pokes at her food with that same tight mouth, eyes cutting sideways at me like I’m some stranger intruding on her private grief. Maybe I am?

Finnick clears his throat, a deliberate sound, and gestures toward the bread. “You’ll eat, right? Or is cuisine beneath you now?” He smirks, Annie looks up at him with adoring eyes.

“I’ll eat,” I mutter. And I do. The gravy’s salty. The meat is chewy, I can't place which animal it comes from. Jogging my memory I recall that Haymitch told me about Katniss being allowed to hunt with Gale. In the forests near District Thirteen, I also remember cursing her because I had a hijacked memory surface, something about her ripping a person to pieces.  

Silence grows heavy between us, thick as smoke. Annie hums under her breath, some broken tune, and Finnick keeps watching me the way a fisherman watches his line—waiting for the jerk, the snap, the inevitable pull.

“Food’s good today,” Finnick says casually, spearing a chunk of meat and chewing like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He throws me a half-smile, the kind that says I’m watching you, but I’m also giving you space. It’s a skill I have, or used to have, according to some reliable sources.

Annie giggles at something he whispers, and her fingers curl around his wrist. They look so painfully intact, even with all the wreckage behind them. I should feel glad. I do feel glad. But I also feel like I’m sitting outside a window, pressing my hands to the glass while the warmth stays on the other side.

Katniss finally speaks, her voice low.“You shouldn’t sit here.”

It’s a knife in the chest, but I smile anyway. “Why not? Afraid I’ll bite?”

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and blazing.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, this is the only table with decent company.” I shrug, poke at the food on my tray. “What do you mean then? O noble Mockingjay?"

"What if you snap? I don't want to die." Her voice is flat. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… flat.

My chest tightens, but I force myself to chew and swallow, I think of an answer that won't set her off, even though she should be the one doing this for me. "I'm drugged, there's a guard behind me ready to knock me out if I try anything funny.”

"Okay...okay, but what if you stab me?" Her face looks so serious and clueless that I can't stop my lips from twitching and the wave of amusement feels completely and entirely my own.

I cackle like a madman. 

"What-why are you thinking about this?!" I ask her and she looks furious, I think she's mouthing words at Finnick, probably about how I am much more of a problem than I'm worth. I couldn't care less. "Is this what your thoughts are?"

She stiffens, fork frozen halfway to her mouth. For a second, I almost think she’ll throw it at me. Instead, she sets it down carefully, like too much force will break the shining metal. Her control is terrifying.

"No! Stop bullying me!" Her voice is an octave too high.

”If he’s being mean, Katniss, just fuck it out of him.” Finnick says with a laugh. I can’t stop the look of complete and utter disgust at the thought of procreating with—her.

“That’s gross, Finn.” Annie says lightly. Finnick(or Finn in Annie’s case) mutters that it’s a joke and Annie nods unseriously,

I set down my fork, still grinning. I shift in my chair so that I face her completely. The guard shifts uncomfortably, probably expecting me to fly into a rage again. Instead I start to mimic what she supposedly thinks about me. I try to make it seem like harmless teasing, but every nerve in me burns with rage that is supposed to be numbed out.

“Oh, dear! What if Peeta decides to come for my throat?” I mock her openly without shame. “Whatever shall I do?”

“Why are you like this?” she hisses.

The question lingers longer than it should. My grin falters. Why am I like this? Because if I stop joking, stop mocking, stop filling the air with noise, the silence will crush me. Because if I sit still, all the jagged, hijacked memories come crawling back, and then I really will be dangerous. Katniss seems to have lost interest in me, but then I lean towards her and she flinches away. Hard.

Then her fork clatters down onto her tray. And I’m reminded, with a gut-sick lurch, that everyone is watching for the moment I finally crack open like a rotten shell.

The guard behind me stiffens.

Katniss doesn’t look at him, though. Doesn’t look at anyone but me. Her voice is loud, she's shouting at me. Fuck, I should get out of here before she attacks. No, no, no!

She is just angry because I overstepped. Just angry. She will not attack. Stop being so fucking weak!

“Stop making a joke out of this! You think any of this is funny?” She screams and doesn’t even suck in a breath ”I’ve lived through too much to laugh at the thought of you losing control.”

”Take a joke, Katniss. I was joking. I can’t do anything even if I wanted to.” I raise my bound hands in a placating gesture, hoping to calm the fiery rage.

She slaps my hands away and collapses back, all of the fire draining from her from an instant.

”Why can’t you just be good again?” The agitation in her voice is clear, and I am not naive, I know that she is intentionally trying to provoke me. Hoping to get a rise out of me.

For a heartbeat, the air between us feels carved from ice. I should let it drop. I know I should.

But my mouth has a mind of its own.

“If you do want that then maybe stop treating me like a live bomb and more like… I don’t know. A person?”

That’s all it takes. I know in my heart there was a kinder way to speak the truth. 

Katniss freezes up completely. I turn back 

Finnick lets out a low whistle. “Well, this is cozy. Just like old times.”

Annie giggles, but it’s a hollow sound, like glass clinking in an empty room.

I risk another glance at Katniss. Her jaw is set, her eyes distant. Her shoulders have drooped. I feel that this is also my fault, maybe this was a bad idea.

I inch myself away from her slightly, lest I trigger her into screaming at me. Finnick coughs awkwardly and leans down to whisper something to Annie, she looks at Katniss with wary eyes, the latter looks a little mortified.

”Katniss talks about me like I’m the scary one.” I nod towards her and continue. “It’s a bit ironic since she is the dangerous one, she starts revolutions, blows up an arena and shoots arrows.”

”C’mon, Katniss, he’s not exactly wrong,” Finnick says to the girl in question and she grumbles something incoherently.

Her face is set in a scowl, she has shoulders angled away from me, like I might disappear and dissolve into thin air if she keeps her distance from me.

”You should be kinder to him, Katniss.” Annie has snapped out of her reverie, her words are carefully spoken, like she has been picking them out herself. “We should all be kinder to each other.”

”Yes, Annie. But he’s not being very nice to me.” Katniss shoots back and I’m a little surprised that she argued with this fragile wisp of a person.

”Still, still—be good to each other.” She sighs and leans her head on Finnick’s shoulder, who tightens his grip on her hand and watches  me and Katniss.

Katniss has finished her food with surprising speed. She throws her hands up slightly and makes a huff of unhappiness.

”Fine, I’ll be good to him.”

”Thank you, Mockingjay.”

Katniss rolls her eyes and I mimic her motion, good God, I love teasing her so much.

”You have bad memories of me, right?” She asks, when I nod, she ploughs on, “Maybe I could tell which ones are fake? Would that help?”

”I guess it should,” I ponder for a moment. “I’ll ask you one, is that okay?”

“Of course,” she leans forward slightly, I am myself surprised by the fact that she seems almost eager to do this. 

“You fucked me on the train during the Victory Tour?” I cringe inwardly at the bluntness of my question, I should not have said that.

”No! That never, ever happened,” She looks at our company for a moment, deciding whether it’s okay to tell them about something this intimate. “I mean yeah, we did sleep together, because we had nightmares after the Games.”

Finnick’s eyebrows had shot up at my words and now they go down slightly.

”I figured it wouldn’t make sense. Seemed a bit strange for you to be doing all that.” I scoop up the remains of my lunch, shovel it into my mouth and allow the guard to pick up my tray.

”Any more questions?” And it’s when she asks that, is also the moment I notice how red she’s turned, the very likeness of a tomato. She doesn't want to discuss this.

”Could you—could you maybe come by to my cell—I mean, room.” As if to clarify, I add, “I’d like some visitors.”

”Yes, of course, I can do that.”  

I have a million words at the tip of my tongue and a half-smile is all I can manage before I whirl around and walk away.

Katniss visits me much, much later than I would have expected her to. I had given up any hope of her coming around to meet, yet there she was, standing at the door like a phantom.

 I had been painting my bedpost, first I had layered the wood with a light purple. Then with some white and a very thin brush, something akin to a needle’s tip. Beautiful, thin stemmed and delicate petaled flowers. White on purple like silver on a much grander shade.

”Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there,” I will have to get someone to restrain me. I press the buzzer next to my bed and on cue a nurse pushes Katniss aside to strap my hands down. She takes my left hand and ties it down firmly to the bed with some sort of dark leather. My right hand is still free so that I can continue painting without hindrance.

”Hey,” Her voice is emotionless. I’m not sure what to make of it,

“I’m painting flowers.” I beckon her to come closer and when she steps inside and directly behind me she says something too low for me to catch. She coughs and clears her throat.

”That’s pretty, Peeta.”

”Thanks. You can sit down, if you want.” 

Katniss stares at me dumbfounded, perhaps a little surprised that I want her even remotely near me. She gives me this odd look and sits down cross-legged next to me. She’s not even looking at what I’m drawing, well, she did, for maybe two minutes. I run a line lightly over the post and try to ignore the fact that she is shamelessly staring at my face, my eyes, I think.

”Do you want to try?” I hand her the paintbrush and she stares at it dumbly for a good ten seconds, then:

”I don’t know how to. Painting is your skill.”

”I will teach you, then.” When she shoots me another confused look and is opening her mouth to question or protest against whatever I am planning on doing, I steel myself and take a hold of her hand.

The change in her is instant. Her entire body is rigid in a millisecond. But, she doesn’t pull away. I gently guide her hand and start guiding her strokes. My dumb ass notices a little later that it’s her left hand she is drawing with, cursing myself I drop her hand.

”I don’t think you draw with your left hand.” I explain.

”Yeah, I don’t.”

She moves slightly in front of me and picks up the paintbrush again. Following her lead I grasp her hand again. 

By the time I—and Katniss, finish the flower we’ve talked about bread, buns and even clothes. I remember that wanted to see the sun again, I want to feel the burning heat that comes from being under the sky, when I tell her this she tells me she’ll try to take me to the surface of Thirteen for a walk. 

She is smiling a lot more, probably because I stayed far, far away from any triggering topics. Seeing her smile is maybe a sort of reflex built by staying around, that I smile as well.

I feel good, happy, even.

Chapter Text

I had a strange dream.

"Pushups, now. I want at least fifity." The boy says, "No slacking off allowed. Haymitch!"

He yells in experstation and pinches his forehead. Sighing loudly he turns to face the mutt, very, very dramatically.

She's giving him such vicious dirty looks, I want to scream at him. To tell him to run away. Hide. Escape.

The mutt bares her teeth at him and he simply scolds her some more. Slinking off she does as she is told. 

Her face so strange, so repulsive. My heart beats so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Wait, my mind tells me, wait and watch how you treated this bitch like a person. And she hurt you, she always will.

Again and again. No point in kindness for something so ugly and evil. I want to kill this horrible fiend.

So I move, somehow, I get to her in seconds, she claws at me and my hands are around her throat before I realise what I'm doing.

All evil must die, starting with this filthy creature.

The boy—me, I think?—shoves me off. Hard.

The ground has turned to glass and my vision is swimming, tears, pain, blood and God knows what else.

"Mutt!" I scream, "I'll kill you!"

The boy looks so angry. Katniss looks...hurt?

But it seems that this younger Peeta doesn't feel like me anymore and I must be crazy for wanting to be that boy again.

I've been looking at my five points for the past ten, maybe fifteen minutes. It's not exactly motivating me. Given that it's literally just super short sentences listed neatly, one below the other.

•  My name is Peeta Mellark.

Yes, that's for sure, I have no doubts about that.

•  I am from District Twelve

Or what's left of it anyways, my home is dust and ash now.

•  I am eighteen years old.

I feel so much older.

•  I was taken by the Capitol.

I remember this very well. It's strange looking at myself change over the course of three interviews.

•  I was hijacked? and tortured.

Some days, this fact changes based on my mental stability status.

I drop the pen onto the pad. It clacks, bounces once then twice before going still. What else? What else do I remember? Memories float around the edges of my mind. Don't leave, I beg, I don't want to forget.

I see my brother flirting with a girl. All charm and smiles. It slips away.

I remember very vividly frosting something onto a pastry, it's rosettes made with a star shaped frosting tip.

I see Katniss sneaking over the fence, into the woods. 

No! Don't think about Katniss, it's not worth the mental break.

"Done yet?" The doctor asks.

I shake my head, my eyes drop back onto the paper, it's pointless. I keep hitting a block. 

Drugs don't help, it makes everything hazy and clouded. The doctors here have never worked on anything like me. 

The man crosses the room and leans strangely to the read through my list, my very pathetic, very short list.

"Try to make it more positive if you can, Mr. Mellark." He tells me and I choke up a little hearing him.

"Excuse me?" I ask incredulously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sighs and looks like he's got something to say, looks like it's right on the tip of his tongue too. 

"But this is acceptable too." 

He takes the pad away from me, and I'm hoping he doesn't come back again. I don't want to meet anyone today, tommorow or ever. I'm gaining some weight back although the last time I looked in a mirror, the look of life had left my eyes.

A chair is brought in and the doctor takes a seat much too close to me. I don't like it. I want him staying farther away from me in comparison to the distance he is at right now.

"So, Mr. Mellark, we've made some progress in the last couple days."

I laugh, sharp but not bitter.

"And what exactly is progress?" I ask, unable to keep the smile out of my voice.

"No episodes, no violent mental breaks and you are not as nearly as sedated."

I'm grinning for no reason at all and he returns a weak smile even though it looks forced and a little too serious.

"We've been thinking of integrating you into the district's system." He hastily adds, as if I couldn't guess already. "Nothing too stressful or work that might make you dangerous for others, of course."

"Oh, will I have to get one of those fancy tattoos then?" I motion towards the neat text on the doctor's wrist from where his sleeve has dragged upwards.

"That's where tasks go, it's not a tattoo. It's mostly different for everyone. Not permanent."

I knew this would happen at some point. Everyone has a role in this ant hill. I'd known long before this doctor told me this.

I've been more trouble than I'm worth. This is their way of taking back from what I took from them. Medicine, food and good brainpower.

I open my mouth to say something and close it abruptly, the doctor catches me and gestures for me to continue.

"I can bake and cook decently." 

Why the fuck do I sound so unsure? What's happened to me?

But he laughs, a short sound that rolls over the room.

"Yes, we're aware of your decent cooking, Mr. Mellark."

There's a twinkle in his eye I've never seen before. It's nice to make someone laugh like that. It feels a little like before.

"Hey." 

That's a great start. No one can get mad at that. Ankles strapped to the bed, a thick strap around my chest and both my hands because of course her safety comes first.

"Hi, Peeta." She breathes deeply and takes quick, silent steps towards me. "You're looking better."

"I can say that you're the first to say that."

I expect her to nod in assent or react but she furrows her brows and aborts a groan. She presses a finger to her ear for some unknown reason.

"You wanted to go to the surface, right?"

Before I can say anything, her upper lip twitches slightly and she turns a few degrees to look at the one-way glass.

"I thought you would have forgotten by now, Mockingjay." I tell her.

She turns around fast as lightning. She had been glaring at the one-way glass, I wonder if Haymitch is on the other end.

There's a look of pride in her eyes and she squints like she's trying to read through me and my skin crawls a little but I force myself to push my thoughts away.

"I don't forget, Peeta." Katniss says. 

Raising my eyebrows I smile at her and it's nice to see her turn a little pink.

"As you say, Mockingjay." I leer.

"Fuck off Peeta, do you want to stay chained to that bed?" 

I'm a little surprised regarding exactly where the rude tone came from all of a sudden. Maybe she doesn't like being called Mockingjay.

But it's her title, for being the symbol of the Revolution. I'll test this theory sometime later.

"Fine, fine." I tease her and her eyes keep darting to the glass. She rolls her eyes and says nothing.

"I'm sorry, Katniss."  I say softly, hoping to calm her.

It's the first time I called her by her real name during our whole conversation.

Shock hits me like a train when her face quite literally softens, there's a small uptick of the corner of her mouth. Could that count as a smile?

"I've been talking to some people. You can go aboveground for a little while."

"No strings attached, I hope."

Katniss purses her lips, I know that she doesn't know the answer to this.

"I'm not sure." She says. So I was right about one thing at least.

"That's okay." I tell her. "When can I go?"

I sound so eager even to my own ears. It makes me cringe ever so slightly. 

"I'll have to ask." 

"Thanks, Katniss."

It's silent. Neither of us knows what to say. I think I should apolgise for almost killing her, then again, I have no idea how she'll react. 

I don't want to make her fly off of the handle. It's unpleasant to say the least.

She takes a step backward, then another and finally does this fast shuffle to the door like she wants to get away from me, like I'm the mutt. 

Fuck, not again. She's not the enemy, not a mutt, more specifically. Don't forget that.

I'm sketching but it's just not coming out the way I want it to. It feels foreign. Wrong.

I used to paint. This is part of me. I should know how to do this.

I draw, I paint, I bake. That's who I am. I swear I can feel the lump in my throat. I'm going to start crying

Then someone enters, I dismiss any forming tears in three rapid blinks. My eyes flick upwards. Just Haymitch. He's not saying anything, yet. Simply standing there like some kind of poorly aged statue and watching my hand move across the paper.

His eyes are definitely gazing at the charcoal pencil clutched between my fingers. His way of silently measuring my threat level, I guess.

I don't blame him.

He doesn't speak so I figure that I have to be the one to say something, anything.

"I'm not a rabid dog, Haymitch."

"You sure? You've bitten enough people." He snaps at me but makes no move to initiate a conversation.

“You going to say something or are you just here to loiter?” I ask without looking up.

“I thought it might be smart to let you finish whatever… thing you’ve got going on there,” he replies dryly, finally stepping in and letting the door click shut behind him.

“It’s my family's bakery” I mutter. “Or at least, how it was supposed to be.”

Haymitch snorts. “Well, if I squint and pretend I’ve lost all brain function, I almost see it.”

He pulls up a chair without asking and slouches into it with the kind of ease that only comes from decades of having no respect for authority or personal space.

“You look less like you want to kill someone today,” he notes.

“Small victories,” I reply.

Haymitch nods, as if that counts for something big.

“Katniss asked if you could go up. Get some fresh air. These people finally caved. You’re cleared for a short supervised walk. Half an hour”

I blink. “That’s all I get? Just half an hour”

He opens his mouth to give me a piece of mind maybe and the words are halfway to his lips, then he seems to remember he’s trying to be a better person at least by District Thirteen standards—and tucks his wise thoughts away.

"Okay, so you get to leave in the evening, Katniss will be there and you two—"

"No, I don't want her." I continue. "It's not right."

"I wasn't asking, boy."

I glare at him and he raised both eyebrows I surprise.

"Still, I thought you'd want to see your sweetheart." He grins at me. Fucking asshole.

I narrow my eyes. “Who exactly do you think I am? Some lovesick idiot?”

He gives me a long look, one eyebrow creeping upward. “Would you like a list?”

He's just the nicest man ever isn't he. Ignoring the comment I proceed onwards to the actual question that's been bugging me:

"What's the catch?" I ask, "Obviously, I'm not getting this privelege for free. Am I?"

A smile creeps up his lips and the answer is clear to me.

"There is, you caught on fast enough." He grins, "Maybe your brain isn't as fried as I thought."

I hate my life.

"I'm not stupid Haymitch, of course I caught on. What's the catch?" I ask impatiently. "Tell me."

"They want to film you and your girl, together, it'll look cute." 

Nevermind, I think I hate Haymitch's smirk more than my life.

I groan "The Mockingjay is not my girl, Haymitch." 

"I'll get someone to get you out of those clothes." Haymitch says as he stands, waving a hand towards me.

"I'm going out now?" My face must look so perplexed. "And why do I need to change?"

"For the cameras, you idiot."

The nurse with the brown hair is the one to hand me some casual clothing. She seems to be from the Seam, all the people from there have brown hair and grey eyes. I remember that atleast, they're miner's eyes.

I change as quickly as I can before I can start second guessing myself.

A guard drags me out, not roughly, not like the Peacekeepers in the Capitol. It's more through a sense of urgency than plain cruelty.

We meet a man somewhere along the second turn down the maze called District Thirteen. He's large, and there's a twinkle of happiness and a sort of predatory glee. He's fat, which is uncommon in any district so he must be from the Capitol.

"Hello Peeta, I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, previously Head Gamemaker. Good to see you."

I know this man, it's a party at the Capitol, I was with Katniss and he asked to steal her away from me or someting along the lines of that. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything.

"It's good to see you too." I respond.

"Alright, there's a script you must follow. Then you can have her all to yourself. Just give us what we want and you get what you want."

"A script." I repeat slowly. "Is that why my hands aren't bound."

"Yes, what do you say?"

He winks at me and I feel bile rising in my throat, knowing that the who caused some of my suffering maybe not directly, but he did. And I hate him for it.

I don't respect him enough to reply. Instead, I walk briskly ahead of him with the guard, but not before he shoves a paper into my hands and falls into step behind me.

Against better judgement I skim through it and as expected, it's fucking disgusting. Though I can't be one to pass remarks, knowing I used to speak to her like this once, a lifetime ago.

The upper corridors or levels, as I could say, is cold, the walls are ominous in that same dull shade that seems to stretch across the whole of District Thirteen.

There are no windows, but the air smells different here—less sterile, less recycled, more like metal and maybe, if I concentrate hard enough, rain.

Katniss is already waiting, her back against the wall, one booted foot pressed against it casually. Her braid is as long as always.

I remember it from the Victory Tour, standing behind her, she was wearing orange. Somehow, this colour is important for me.

I remember her braid falling down her shoulder like a rope she’s trying not to climb. Right now, she’s in her standard uniform— dark gray pants, fitted shirt, her Mockingjay pin is most notably present.

I wonder why. She doesn’t need it here. Everyone knows who she is.

Oh, look a camera. How pleasant. I think as the man operating it shifts from one foot to the other, begging us silently through his eyes to give him something to work with.

When she sees me, she straightens. There’s no smile, but her face doesn’t shut down either. That counts as progress.

“You good?” she asks.

I nod. “Are you?”

She shrugs. That’s the best I’ll get.

I'm nervous for some damn reason, the paper has long since been crumpled in my fist. It's easy enough.

Compliment her. Stay close. Laugh at something she says. 

It's not golden, romantic, starry material but it's something. We start walking in silence. The guard and cameraman trail behind us, keeping a respectful distance, but I can feel their eyes like spotlights on the back of my neck. I try not to fidget. My hands stay at my sides.

"You should...follow the script." She whispers.

"Story of my life, sweetheart."

She snorts softly. It’s not quite a laugh, but it makes something unclench in my chest.

We turn a corner and reach a steel door. One of the guards steps forward, unlocks it, and pulls it open. I don't know what to do.

It's blue.

Bright, blinding blue.

Light pours in—real light, filtered through clouds but still bright enough to sting my eyes.

We step out onto a platform that overlooks part of the ruined forest above Thirteen. The wind rushes at us instantly, and I breathe it in like I’ve been drowning for weeks. It smells like pine and rain and cold dirt. I want to sink into it.

Katniss watches me closely, she’s not sure how I’ll react.

“It’s still here,” I say quietly. “The world. I never thought District Thirteen could survive the Capitol."

She nods. “Parts of it did.”

We stand side by side. Trees stretch out in front of us, bent but not broken. There’s a bird singing somewhere in the distance, high-pitched and desperate. I close my eyes.

“Do you ever think about going back?” I ask. "After all of this?"

“To Twelve?” Her voice is flat.

“Yeah.”

She exhales, slow and controlled. “Sometimes. It's home, but there’s nothing left."

My mind doesn't have the words to respond right away. Her fingers tighten on the railing of something.

I can tell she’s trying to imagine it—streets that aren’t rubble, homes rebuilt, people laughing in a newer, happier world.

A gust of wind blows her braid against her shoulder. I’m struck suddenly by how fragile she looks in the light, like a person sculpted out of grief and half-finished promises.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She glances at me. “For what?"

"I think you know." I say darkly, my gaze over her neck.

Silence again.

The wind howls through the landscape.

“I still have nightmares,” she admits, so softly I almost don’t hear. “About the arena. About you. About everything.”

I nod. “Me too.”

We stand there for a long time, not speaking, not needing to. The silence between us isn’t sharp anymore. It’s something gentler now. Like ash settling over old coals.

After a while, she breaks the silence.

"We have a script to follow. I know it doesn't mean anything to you but..."

"But it does to you?" I ask, finishing for her.

Her eyes go distant for a second and I believe for just a second that she's thinking of just one moment between us that was real.

"No, it doesn't." She says with finality.

I shrug, take a breath, put on a strained smile and turn to face my lover. Whatever I can do to stay in these people's good books.

"You look beautiful out here, my love." 

"You are just the sweetest, darling." She responds to

There's an echo in my voice that seems to scream adoration. I try to bring the look of love into my eyes but I can't seem to.

Everything about this is just so, so wrong. I strangled her, I hate her. No, I was made to hate her. She hates me, thought in truth I have no idea how she feels for me.

I hesitate. 

Then, I lean closer to her and smile for no reason at all. Just so that it seems that I am whispering sweet nothings into her ear. 

"Can I hold your hand?"

Her eyebrows shoot upwards, she didn't expect me to ask to do that. In a way, I didn't think those would be the words coming out of my mouths.

"Katniss, come on, that's what they want." I insist again when she doesn't answer.

I'm pulling back when she grabs both my hands in her and pulls me close. Instinctively, she braces against me. I count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

On five, she abruptly lets go, her cheeks are flushed. I'm lost at why they would be.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have pushed."

"Stop being so damn nice, Peeta!"

I smile wryly. 

"So you hate me?"

“I didn’t hate you then and I don't hate you now,” she says. “I just wish... forget it."

Her mouth twitches. Please don't cry, I plead through my eyes and she glares at me.

That makes me laugh. A real one this time, not forced or bitter. Just a soft, startled kind of joy. It feels foreign in my throat.

The guard clears his throat. Time’s up.

Katniss doesn’t move.

“I’ll see you again soon,” she says.

“You promise?” I don’t mean for it to sound so small, so needy. But it does.

“I promise.”

Back in my room/cell, I sit down on the bed and pull out a new sheet of paper. The pencil feels heavier in my hand now. Like it knows it’s about to be used for something important.

Then with my heart fully into it. For the first time in days, I remember exactly how I draw.

Chapter Text

I meet Johanna, or rather, she comes to meet me . I see a little of myself in her, the tortured, hollow that obscures any other emotion that can be felt. It’s better the nightmarish haze that’s come to be comforting, knowing drugs cause it stings a little, especially the fact that the world hurts less due to chemicals. They numb both types of pain. The one in my body and the one in my head.

It’s shocking, thinking I spent six weeks in that hell. But if I could, I would gladly take her place, take six more weeks just so she wouldn’t have to go through that ever. A hateful part of me wishes it was Katniss. I don’t owe her anything, a part of me rebels, saying that I do. But how could I owe her, if any good deed I was the receiver was an act. It was never real.

I hate the Hunger Games, I hate the Capitol. I fucking hate everyone responsible for this, for what was done to me. I hate Katniss, even though none of this is her fault, some part of me knows this, I’ve started to accept it. Always an orator, I was always the one who was naive for wanting something truly mine. Her love.

My life, always drowning, was saved and then endangered just to keep the Mockingjay safe, her face was kept perfect and pure while I was beaten, shocked, lacerated. She’s always been this way. The starry—no, fiery tribute, quite literally too. The (not-so) perfect victor. 

And now a revolutionary, a figurehead. The Mockingjay, the star of this twisted game. I want no part to play in it anymore. I had a role and I fucked it.

It’s ironic really, for all the rebellion claims, Katniss is a symbol of the masses. But she’s also the Mockingjay, a part of her wild. And the other part is the Capitol. But not her voice. She is fearless. She is violent, unstable. She has a wildfire burning in her heart. Rage, hate, loathing and all of the other horrible things. She kills, she hurts.

No!

Don’t go down that path, she never meant to be that way. Both of you were used. Used and discarded. You were now, and soon she will be too. Every time I study her —like she’s a specimen— I see a girl, disappointing. she’s just a girl.

The fire in her eyes is ebbing out in the cold of the world. The world turned out crueler than we both expected it to be.

I’m making a cake. It's the first thing I'm doing to repay all that's been wasted on me—food, medicines, human resource and brainpower. It's a wedding cake, if I want to be more specific. It's Annie’s wedding cake. I want to give this my best. Just for her, the person who survived horrors alongside me. Fragile, sweet Annie.

I open the oven door.

The smell of sugar, vanilla and flavor hits me before the heat does.

Warm, thick air curls around my neck as I pull out the largest bottom tier of the cake, and for the first time in weeks, it’s not the sterile bite of disinfectant or the metal tang of the underground air, recycled and always filled with the air of absence, instead the air that fills my lungs…it’s vanilla. Real vanilla.

It shouldn’t make me feel this dizzy.

The kitchen they’ve given me isn’t large. It’s half laboratory, half memorial. Every surface polished to military precision, every tool labeled and catalogued it’s a far cry from the chaos of my family’s bakery, whatever I remember of it at least, where flour floated through the air like snow and the feeling of being present echoed even when times were hard. Here, it’s quiet. The hum of vents replaces the chatter of customers, the thump of kneading replaced by my own breathing.

Still, I’m grateful.

They said I could start helping with preparation, under supervision, of course. No knives unsupervised. No prolonged access to the ovens without a guard stationed nearby. I don’t blame them. After all, who wouldn’t be cautious of a former Capitol experiment that could snap at any moment?

The guard posted at the door a thin woman with cropped black hair doesn’t even glance up from her clipboard. She doesn’t have to. I’m not a threat when I’m working. I can’t be. Besides, how could I try anything with the hefty automatic weapon she’s holding quite passive-aggressively, the other man who was here left maybe an hour ago.

On the counter, the other tiers are lying there, cooling. It’s nothing fancy yet, I think just as the three layers are stacked neatly—by my hands, the ones that have lost the slight nervous tremor, the moment I started on this project.

It lies there, half-taunt, half-memory filled with pale cream, edges crumb-coated and waiting. Waiting for decoration.

I stare at it longer than I should.

Because this one isn’t just any cake.

This one’s for Finnick and Annie.

Their wedding is tomorrow if you can call it that, in a world that barely exists anymore. There’ll be no grand cathedral, no crowd, just a handful of people who survived too much. But they deserve something good. Something sweet. Something that doesn’t taste like loss. Their happiness is going to be waved around as propaganda. But they will be happy, it's a gift.

And maybe, if I do this right, I can give them this one small thing.

I pick up a piping bag. The motion feels familiar, like sliding into an old rhythm I’d forgotten. My fingers curl around the cloth instinctively, pressing down until the frosting flows. White rosettes form along the rim a perfect spiral, then another, then another. My breath steadies with each one.

The smell of butter and sugar mixes with something else — a memory, faint but sharp-edged. My mother’s voice, instructing me harshly, and my father’s quiet hum from the front of the bakery. I hear laughter, maybe mine, maybe my brother’s, and for a flicker of a moment, it feels like before. Before everything burned. Before hijacking. Before torture. Before losing myself.

Then my hand slips.

The frosting spills unevenly, a harsh streak breaking the line of pale turquoise wave-like rosettes, it leaves an imperfect mark over the starry ridges. My chest tightens. It’s fine, I tell myself. Just scrape it off. Redo it. But the perfectionist inside me, the part that used to crave precision, that used to think art could fix anything broken, flares up like an old wound.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

I grab a spatula, smooth the edge again, and force my breathing to slow. It’s not about the cake. It’s not about control. It’s about making something good. Something whole.

“You’re doing fine.”

The voice startles me. I look up, half-expecting to see Haymitch or maybe the guard breaking their vow of silence. But it’s not either of them.

It’s Katniss.

She’s standing by the doorway, her hair pulled back in that usual braid, a tray in her hands that she sets down carefully near the sink. Her eyes are cautious, scanning the room as if she’s unsure whether she’s allowed to be here.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says softly.

My pulse spikes, though I can’t tell if it’s fear or something else.

“You’re not interrupting,” I manage, surprised my voice isn't shaking.

She nods once and moves closer, her boots quiet against the tile. There’s a smudge of soot on her sleeve — probably from the training level or wherever she’s been. She always smells faintly of smoke, like she’s never quite left the arena behind. Or maybe it’s the fire in her. Fire that I used to love. 

I stop the bile at the thought just in time.

“I heard you were baking something,” she says. “For the wedding.”

I want to know which asshole let her in here, I tilt my head sideways to glance at her wrist. Just so I can look at her schedule. She's not supposed to be here, I don't want her here. She could cause a setback. She's dangerous. I don't like her. I think she let herself in. Typical Mockingjay behaviour. Maybe she notices me staring and breaks her vow of silence.

"Can I help in decorating?"

I glance back up at her, skeptical. “You? Decorating?”

She shrugs, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I can shoot an arrow through a squirrel’s eye. How hard can frosting be?”

That earns her the smallest laugh from me, quiet but real. “You’d be surprised.”

I feel a memory surge up to the forefront of my mind. I have to fight back tears, it's my father's face that swims in front of my eyes. He's telling me something. Pointing at some kind of small animal. It's a squirrel. That lets another memory burst forth from the mental dam. Katniss used to sell squirrels to use, it was a barter of sorts. She used to get them—as she just said—right in the eye. Every. Single. Time. So, what she just said is not a lie. It's real, it's the truth.  

She moves to the counter beside me, examining the layers with an odd mix of curiosity and caution, as if the cake might bite. Her hands hover near the tools but don’t touch anything.

We lapse into silence again. It's uncomfortable, I want to ask her to leave, but a part of my heart clenches knowing she (most likely) chose to come here herself. This is the kind of silence where every word feels like it should be chosen carefully. I pipe another ring of rosettes, each one smaller than the last, until the pattern begins to take shape again.

When I finally step back, I notice she’s watching me, really watching. Her expression is unreadable — part fascination, part sadness.

“You still remember how to do all that,” she murmurs.

“It’s muscle memory,” I reply. “Some things don’t leave.”

“Some things shouldn’t.”

She says it almost under her breath, but it hits me anyway.

I force a smile, trying to keep my tone light. “Want to try one?”

Her eyes widen. “You mean—?”

“Frosting.” I motion toward the second piping bag on the counter. “Here. Just follow the motion. Press, twist, release.”

She hesitates. “You trust me with this?”

Not with the cake, for sure. I think to myself, And not for a lot of other things either. I don't want to seem like a rude asshole but I also don't want her ruining my work. Instead, I grab hold of a bit of parchment paper and slide it across the counter towards her.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve trusted you with something dangerous.”

That earns me a sharp look, the kind that says don’t push it, Mellark. But she still takes the bag. Her fingers brush the edge of my hand as she does, just for a fraction of a second, and then she steps away, positioning herself awkwardly beside the cake.

Her first attempt is… not good.

The frosting blobs out unevenly, forming something that looks more like a splatter than a rosette. She frowns at it, muttering something under her breath.

“Okay,” I say carefully, trying not to laugh. “That’s… one way to do it.”

She narrows her eyes. “I told you, I’m not built for delicate work.”

"You never said that Katniss. Try again"

She does. This time, the swirl almost holds. It leans slightly to the left, like it’s tired, but it’s closer. I nod approvingly. “Better.”

She smirks faintly. “You sound like Haymitch when he’s pretending to be proud.”

“That’s probably the worst insult I’ve had all day.”

Her mouth twitches again, and I realize she’s fighting a smile. For some reason, that small detail makes my chest ache.

She stops after a while. I don't notice for maybe half an hour. Then I feel the weight of her gaze.

Fuck.

My heart is racing. She's staring at me. She's been staring at me.

I try to focus on the cake. It's slow, meticulous work, and for once, while I do this, my mind doesn’t feel like a storm. There are no flashbacks clawing at the edges of my vision, no sudden panic or intrusive memories. Just the rhythm of the piping, the faint hiss of the vents, and the quiet breathing beside me.

“It’s nice.” She says. And I start violently, thankfully missing the cake.

I nod, unsure what to say. Compliments from her always sound like small victories — rare, precious, and easily misunderstood.

When the base layer is done, I start melting chocolate for the drizzle. The scent fills the air, rich and dark. Katniss leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching.

“Finnick will like that,” she says. “He’s been complaining about the rations. Says everything tastes like shit.”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”

She looks at me then, properly. “You’re different when you work.”

I pause. “Different how?”

“Calmer. Like you forget the rest of the world exists.” She pauses like she's searching for the words. "And you get this look. It's a very focused look"

"How would you know that unless you've been staring at me, Everdeen." I say lightly, I can feel my face forming a smirk.

And she turns red.

Not a garish red but softer. A humiliated blush. I wonder if she'll lose it and berate but she does no such thing and avoids my eyes completely.

The chocolate drips in thin ribbons down the sides of the cake, pooling slightly at the base before hardening. It gleams under the kitchen light, almost too beautiful for a world like this.

Katniss shifts beside me, her arms loosening from their defensive cross. “Do you ever think about… what it’ll be like after?”

“After?”

“When this is all over.”

I don’t answer right away. The truth is, I’ve stopped letting myself think too far ahead. Every time I do, it feels like tempting fate.

“I think about surviving today,” I say finally. “That’s enough.”

She nods, as if that’s the only answer that makes sense.

Outside, the clock chimes softly — a reminder of curfew approaching. The guard shifts near the door but doesn’t interrupt. For once, the air feels almost peaceful.

When the last rosette is in place and the chocolate drizzle has set, I step back and wipe my hands on a towel. The cake looks… good. Better than good. It looks real. A piece of something that belongs in a world untouched by war.

Katniss lets out a slow breath beside me. “It’s beautiful.”

I almost say so are you, but the words catch somewhere between my chest and throat. Instead, I settle for, “Thanks.”

She glances at me, her expression softening. “They’ll love it.”

“I hope so.”

Her gaze lingers on me longer than usual — not studying, not wary, just there. Present. It feels strange, being seen without judgment.

I look down at the cake again, tracing the smooth ocean like surface with my eyes. “They deserve something that lasts.”

When I look back up, she’s still watching me — a strange, unreadable look in her eyes. Something between gratitude and guilt.

“Peeta,” she says softly.

“Yeah?”

She hesitates, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “I’m glad you’re here.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe. My throat feels tight, my hands suddenly still. She means it — or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe it’s just something she feels she has to say. But I’ll take it.

“Thanks, Katniss,” I say. “That means more than you think.”

And then she’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind her, leaving only the faint hum of the vents and the smell of sugar lingering in the air.

I stare at the cake again, then at my hands — steady, clean, covered in traces of frosting.

For the first time in a long time, I feel… normal. Not whole, not healed, but human.

The door shuts behind her, and the silence folds around me like a blanket that’s both comforting and suffocating.
The kitchen light flickers once, then steadies. The hum of the vents seems louder now that she’s gone.

I stare at the cake again — the clean symmetry, the even layers, the glint of hardened chocolate — and it feels like a fragile peace offering to the world. A promise that maybe things can still be beautiful, even in the ruins.

I take up the piping bag again, the one with the thinnest nozzle, and begin the lettering. The chocolate’s cooled to the perfect consistency. My hand trembles slightly, but I force the motion steady.

Finnick and Annie — two people the world had no right to let live through so much pain and still find each other again. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe love like theirs isn’t meant to be gentle. Maybe it’s something fierce enough to claw its way through salt and blood and madness just to exist.

My breath catches a little at the thought, and I find myself wondering what that kind of love would feel like — if it would be anything like the hazy, shifting memories of Katniss that still flicker through my mind.

Katniss Everdeen. The girl who volunteered for her sister.

The girl on fire.

The girl who sang to Rue.

The girl I tried to kill.

The frosting blurs. I blink fast, wiping at my eyes with the back of my wrist. I set the piping bag down carefully, clean the counter, and start wrapping the cake for storage. Every motion is methodical, deliberate — the kind of routine that doesn’t allow for spiraling. I think that’s why I like baking: there are rules. Measurements. Predictable results. You follow the steps, and something good comes out of it. The world outside doesn’t work that way, but here, inside this small circle of sugar and heat, it does. When the cake’s done, I stand still for a moment, breathing in the fading sweetness. Then I turn off the lights, wipe my hands on my apron, and leave the kitchen.I'm escorted back to my room. The corridors of Thirteen are the same as always — too clean, too uniform, too empty. Every footstep echoes. Every door looks like the next. It’s the kind of place where time folds in on itself, where you can’t tell if it’s morning or night without a clock.

On my way back to my room, I pass by a group of younger soldiers huddled together, whispering. They fall silent when they see me. Their eyes dart away, but not before I catch the flicker of fear there. It doesn’t sting as much as it used to. Fear, I can live with. Hate, I can handle it. It’s the pity that kills me. In my room — my “quarters,” as they call it — the air smells faintly of disinfectant and cold metal. The bed is made too neatly, the sheets tucked like a hospital corner. On the desk sits my notebook, still open to the list the doctor made me write.

Five sentences. The first feels like a truth now.

My name is Peeta Mellark. I am from District Twelve.

I close it gently, slide it into the drawer, and turn off the light. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it does come eventually — soft, heavy, dreamless.By morning, the District feels different. Livelier. Someone’s turned on the overhead lights, and a faint buzz of conversation filters in from the corridor. It must be the preparations for the ceremony.

The guard from last night nods curtly towards me. “Morning, Mellark. They said you’re cleared to go to Twelve. You've been allowed to pick a suit for the wedding.”That startles me.

 “Alone?”

“Mr. Abernathy will be there. Miss. Everdeen will be going as well,”

Of course. Haymitch. The ever-watchful hawk disguised as a drunk.

She approaches me cautiously and pricks my arm with a needle. It sinks in and the calming effect of the drug washes over me instantly.  The guard turns and leaves before I can ask any more questions. I stand there a little longer, listening to the faint hum of the air vents. My stomach twists uneasily. Twelve. I haven’t been back since before the war. Since before the hijacking. Since before everything that made me—me—was rewritten.

The shuttle is smaller than I expect, its metal hull dulled by years of use. Haymitch is already inside, slouched against the seat with his arms folded. Katniss sits across from him, her gaze fixed on the narrow window.

Neither of them speak when I climb aboard. I settle into the empty seat beside Haymitch, feeling the hum of the engines vibrate through the floor. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil.

“First trip back,” Haymitch mutters without looking at me. “Try not to lose your head. Or what’s left of it.”

I offer a thin smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Katniss turns slightly, her eyes meeting mine for just a heartbeat. “It’s not the same,” she says quietly. “You should know that before we land.”

I nod. “I figured.”

Then the shuttle jerks, the world blurring outside the window, and conversation dies in the hum of acceleration.From above, District Twelve looks like a scar.

A blackened wound carved into the earth, rimmed with gray ash and the ghostly outlines of streets that used to mean something. The forest still stands in places — stubborn pockets of green clinging to the edges — but the town itself is a graveyard.

When the shuttle touches down, the smell hits first. Smoke and soil and something metallic that’s never really gone away. I breathe through my mouth, stepping out into the cold air. The wind stirs up dust that coats my boots and clings to my clothes. Haymitch lumbers off ahead of us, muttering something about getting it over with. Katniss lingers near the tree line, her face unreadable. I don’t ask what she’s thinking. I don’t have to.

We make our way down what used to be Main Street. The cobblestones are cracked, half buried in ash. Shop signs lie twisted on the ground, their letters scorched beyond recognition. A few skeletal structures still stand — the shells of homes, the faint outlines of doorways. I know this place better than I know my own reflection, yet I keep losing my bearings. Every corner looks wrong. When we reach the square, I stop walking. The bakery once stood there. Nothing remains. A lump of metal does though.

I want to feel something, anything, that fucking shot won't let me freak out. So I am forced to stare at what used to be my life, the dull ache ebbing through me.

It’s ridiculous, but my throat tightens. I remember standing here as a boy, flour up to my elbows, trying to copy my father’s even strokes as he kneaded dough. I remember the smell of yeast, the heat of the ovens, the sound of customers laughing. For a heartbeat, the ghosts are everywhere — the echo of his low whistle, the creak of the counter as my mother leaned on it, scolding me for burning another batch of rolls.

“I used to think this place would outlive me,” I say, voice rough. “That no matter what happened, there’d always be bread baking here.”

She looks around slowly. “It almost smells like it should,” she murmurs. “If you close your eyes.”

Haymitch calls out from outside. “You two planning to camp there or what?”

Katniss steps back into the sunlight. I follow, brushing my hands on my pants. The air feels colder now. We walk further down the street toward what used to be the merchant district. Most of the shops are gutted, their walls half-collapsed, but one — a tailor’s storefront — still stands. The windows are shattered, all that remains is a countertop, sure it's looking like shit but beams of the structure itself remains upright, defiant.

“This’ll do,” Haymitch grunts. “They said you could salvage what you need. Just don’t go sentimental.”

Victor's Village steals my breath away, it's just as it was from what I can remember. Standing intact, ghostly but solid. The bombs missed it. Maybe deliberately.  I step over the threshold. The air inside is thick with silence. The counters are gone, the ovens gutted. But near the back, under a pile of rubble, I spot something — a fragment of a mixing bowl, still streaked with soot. I crouch, brush the ash away, and it shines faintly beneath.

I run my hand along a dark gray suit jacket draped across one of them. The fabric is rough with soot, but when I shake it out, a faint shimmer of the original weave shows through — good craftsmanship, sturdy seams. It might even fit. I take the jacket down, searching for a matching pair of trousers. It’s strange the simple act of choosing feels almost ceremonial, like picking out a piece of the person I used to be. My fingers remember things before my mind does: how to measure a hem, how to check a seam for wear.

When I find what I need, I lay it out on the counter. The light filtering through the broken window falls in thin gold lines across the fabric. I fold the suit carefully, tucking it under my arm. “That’s it,” I tell Haymitch when I step back outside. “Found what I need.”

He eyes me up and down, then grunts approval. “Good. Let’s get out of here before I start feeling nostalgic.”

We make our way back toward the shuttle. I can’t help glancing back once — at the blackened bakery, at the hollow streets, at the stubborn sliver of smoke rising from somewhere deep in the ruins. It feels wrong to leave, but also wrong to stay.

She nods, gaze distant. “Maybe that’s all we can ask for right now.”

The shuttle’s engines start up behind us, kicking up clouds of dust. I take one last look at the remains of home — the place that made me, and unmade me — and then step aboard. Inside, the air smells of oil and metal again, sterile and contained. I hold the suit in my lap, fingers tracing the seams. Outside, Twelve shrinks to a gray smudge, then nothing at all.

For the first time in a long while, the ache in my chest feels clean. Not healed, not gone just something I can finally breathe around.

When we land back in Thirteen, the guard takes our names and waves us through. Haymitch disappears down the corridor, muttering about needing something to drink. Katniss lingers a moment longer.

“Did you get what you came for?” she asks.

I glance down at the folded fabric in my arms. “I think so.”

She studies me for a second, then gives a small nod.

“See you at the ceremony.” I say as a goodbye, when she doesn't leave.

"Peeta, I'm sorry for…well..." She trails off and before I can ask her what she's apologizing for, a pair of arms—her arms—are thrown around my neck. They drag me down, leveling me with her face. Her eyes are burning with something, but I can't study them as her lips crash into mine.

I'm too shocked to respond. 

But I welcome it, I would love to hold her by her waist, I would give anything to pull her closer. To feel the heat of her skin beneath her clothes where my fingers would skim.

 I can't. 

Her breasts are pressing against my chest. I can feel them rise and fall in time with her breath. 

Holy shit, I think I'm getting hard.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, digging into my scalp, pulling my hair and me simultaneously. We are tightly pressed against each other, we might be one being. I can feel her tongue skim the edge of my lips, tracing a deliberate path along the line between them before pushing through and into my mouth.

Katniss is a goddess when it comes to kissing, I decide then and there.

I shiver when she pushes me closer. My hand moves from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling in the soft, silky strands of her dark hair. I hold her there, not forcefully, but with an unspoken plea to not let this end. A sound escapes her throat, a tiny gasp that's swallowed by my mouth, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. It’s a surrender.

That sound breaks something open in me. I deepen the kiss, slanting my mouth over hers, and my tongue traces the seam of her lips. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, that fighter's instinct still warring with her desire, and then she opens for me.

The moment our tongues touch, a jolt of pure, electric heat shoots straight through me, pooling low in my gut. It’s a dizzying, intoxicating rush. I explore the wet heat of her mouth, learning her, memorizing the texture and taste of her. Her tongue meets mine, shyly at first, then with a growing, bold curiosity that makes my own breath catch.

Her hands, which had been limp at her sides, come up to clutch the front of my shirt. The fabric bunches in her fists, pulling me closer, erasing any last sliver of space between our bodies. I can feel the frantic, shallow beat of her heart against my chest, a frantic drum that mirrors my own.

I press into her, wanting to feel every line and curve of her body against mine. The soft press of her breasts, the narrow plane of her stomach, the way her thighs tense as I shift my weight.

My other hand slides down her back, tracing the delicate line of her spine until I reach the curve of her hip. I grip her there, my fingers digging into the firm flesh, and pull her flush against me. A soft, broken moan vibrates in her throat this time, and she kisses me back with a sudden, ferocious intensity.

It's no longer just me claiming her; she's claiming me right back. Her teeth scrape gently against my bottom lip, a sharp, thrilling sting that sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through my veins. I'm lost, completely consumed by the feel of her, the taste of her, the scent of her that fills my lungs.

The kiss becomes messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and ragged breaths. It’s not pretty or perfect; it’s real. It’s the taste of survival and the promise of something more. It's the catharsis of years of unspoken words and buried feelings finally breaking the surface. I bite her lip, just enough to make her gasp, and then soothe the sting with my tongue. She shudders in my arms, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with fear.

When we finally break apart, it's not a clean separation. Our lips are swollen and wet, connected by a single, glistening thread of saliva that breaks in the air between us. We're both panting, our chests heaving. Her grey eyes are now dark and hazy, blown wide with a desire so potent it makes my own head spin. Her lips are red and bruised, glistening in the low light. She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful.

Then I realize what the fuck I'm doing and push her away lightly—maybe it was too sudden because tears rise to her eyes. I want to pull her back towards me. But I don't dare to move or speak. The look she gives makes my heart ache and I want to call out to her so badly. But she's already turning away. I watch her walk away, her footsteps fading into the sterile hum of the underground base. Then I turn and head for my room.

When I lay the suit out on the bed, the ash clings to my fingers, staining the sheets faintly gray. I don’t brush it off. It’s part of it — part of home, part of me. Tomorrow, I’ll wear it to the wedding. Not as a reminder of the past, but as proof that something can still be salvaged, even from the fire.