Chapter Text
Where: District One
When: The Victory Tour
Who: Peeta
The hum-buzz of the cameras and the party and the people swirl around us in a blur. Folks here in One are an awful lot more highfaluting than the last stretch of districts. They’re as close to Capitol as anyone outside can get, I reckon. The food has been wonderful so far, but the cameras are swarming like flies and even though her arms are around me, Katniss seems thousands of miles away.
I keep trying to angle myself between her and the flashing lenses. Behind clouded makeup her eyes hold a wild animal quality. They flitter about, never settling in one place. They dart across me, hone in for a moment, before darting off again.
“Let’s dance,” I say, trying to sound upbeat.
The dance floor is even more choked with people than the banquet tables are. I watch Katniss’ eyes flash wider for a second, dead panic shooting across her face. I put one hand on her hip, withering at the way she tenses beneath me, and gently guide her to the dance floor. As antsy as she looks, as horrible as the pressing crowd is for her, the cameras have a harder time focusing on us here. It gives us a good excuse to get out of their line of sight, without seeming as though we’re avoiding them.
Katniss’ eyes don’t relax for even a moment.
She’s done up fancy tonight. Extra fancy, especially for Cinna’s usually tasteful sensibilities. Her hair’s been all let down around her shoulders, spilling in soft waves over the low-cut blouse of her shimmering dress. It’s revealing in a way neither of us are comfortable with. According to Katniss’ panicked, half-tipsy ramblings in our train car a few nights ago, the Capitol wanted her augmented. Blown up like a doll for, what? Sex appeal? She’s hardly sixteen, it don’t seem right. But this is what Cinna had to pull to keep them off of her. I figure she’s been using her hair to cover as much of herself as she can get away with.
I draw her in close. As close as I can get her. That’s what they want of us, either way. I’ll take it to cover her. She laces her fingers with my free hand, and I swallow down against the flurry of butterflies in my stomach. I keep telling myself they’ll fade with time. The more the Capitol breathes down the back of my neck, the more the idea of a relationship, a real relationship with Katniss will lose its charm, right?
So far, that’s not proven true.
Her hand is smaller than mine, but it hardly looks it. My fingers feel wide and stumpy compared to hers. They’re thin, long and delicate, shaped perfect for drawing back her bow string. Tonight, her prep team has her in dainty, cherry-flower pink nails that match the semi-sheer fabric of her dress. Pink contrasts the warm, deep tones of her skin somewhat well, though if I had a say, I’d have veered more wine rich colors. These pale ones lighten her up to a degree that almost reads unhealthy, if they hadn’t brought it back with makeup. Of course, I don't have a say in this. My constructions of Katniss stick to the canvas, tucked away in my house where they don't have to be seen.
I lean in, press my lips to her ear, hidden as best I can in her hair. My voice is barely above a murmur when I speak.
“I spotted an empty room just down the way,” I say. “Past the dance floor, near about the folks with the instruments. If you want, we can get out of here.”
If I word it right we don’t have to worry completely about cameras catching it. Teenagers madly in love want to sneak off whenever they get the chance, don’t they?
To my relief, when I pull back, I see Katniss has understood. Her wild eyes find mine, and for just a single, precious moment, she looks grateful. The corners of her mouth twitch up for the first time the entire night. She gives me a little nod in agreement.
She’s no good at this acting business, but she gives it her all when she slings her arms around my neck. The brush of her skin against mine sends a spark of heat to my face, my hands fumbling just a moment as I decide between her ribs or her waist. Unfortunately, I know what the cameras would want to see. What they would devour like starving animals. I set my hands low on her hips. She tenses again, her eyes jump up to my face. There’s a warning look there. The kind she gave me in the arena when she thought I’d been eating without her. It says to watch myself. To tread lightly.
Still, she steps up on her toes, pulls me down, and gives me a terse kiss. It’s sticky with lip gloss. Her panicked breath is hot on my skin. I’m the one who guides us back, twisting and weaving through the other dancing drunks.
When we make it to the door, I know Katniss won’t be able to put on the show the cameras are looking for. It falls on my shoulders.
I brace a hand on her head, thread my fingers in her hair, and shoot a look around the dance floor, as if I’m scanning for anyone who might notice us. I see all of them. The camera-man buzzards trained on us, their lenses pulsing in and out as they zoom. There’s the district higher-ups, the well-to-do’s all sneaking their glances over. Trying to gauge what we’ll do next. I’m certain there’s more cameras, nestled in the walls of the building, trying to steal sneaky little snatches of our every movement.
Despite it all, I pretend I don’t see them. Let out a sigh, shoot Katniss a grin so fake it makes my stomach curdle, and sweep her into another kiss. She gives a little, exhausted noise against my mouth. One of those ones I’ve come to know means she’s at her wit’s end. She’s tired. So am I.
I fumble with the doorknob. I’m not certain where this place leads, all I know is that I’ve seen no one going in or out the entire night.
The second I pull us inside, slam the door shut, we break apart. I fumble with the knob for a lock, but it seems there isn’t one. Instead, I lean all my weight against it. If anyone asks, I’ll say Katniss had me pressed up—not that she’s got the bite in her to do anything like that. But what do the Capitolites know about her?
Katniss steps back from me, her face crumpling into something tragically scared. I don’t know if she knows I can see. She stumbles back on her dangerously pointed heels, wrapping herself in a faux-hug. One arm comes up to cover her chest, protective over where her hair doesn’t quite fall.
“Hey,” I say. I shrug my suit jacket off. For a moment I allow myself to leave the door unprotected.
Katniss gives me a sharp, wary look, taking another step back. Then she catches sight of the blazer, my outstretched offering, and eases up. I slip the jacket over her shoulders, pulling it close across her front, my fingers fumbling with the buttons.
Once I’m certain she’s secure, covered and hidden, I take up my spot at the door again, leaning as heavily back as possible. Katniss runs her shaking hands through her hair, then drops to the dusty ground. She tucks her knees to her chest. She’s still wrapped in her own arms, but now she’s swallowed up in swimming currant red fabric. Portia had the idea to keep my outfit coloring darker than hers. Something about it offsetting the paleness of my skin, and the browns of Katniss’.
Katniss buries her chin in my collar, her face hidden in her hair.
I’m not sure if it’s safe to talk in here. The closer we get to the Capitol, the more and more it feels as though we’re being watched. I scan the room, trying to pick out any spots they might have hidden cameras or microphones. The place appears to be storage. There’s stands for sheet music, stacks of extra chairs, dusty folding tables scrunched together. The room is cramped and musty, without so much as a window, or a lick of wallpaper.
I try to catch Katniss’ eye. I want to convey how sorry I am.
Her lipgloss is smeared across my mouth. I feel like one of the dog mutts, my face coated in her strawberry scented blood as I snap at any part of her left exposed. It’s what the Capitol wants of us. And I hear-tell from Haymitch, it’s something we’ll have to do. Snow’s orders. If the Capitol finds a victor attractive…well, there’s no two ways about it.
No one in the Capitol goes hungry.
I ease my weight off my prosthetic. Night after night of wearing it endlessly, constantly on my feet, moving and walking and dancing, it’s all left it painfully sore. The wound hasn’t hardly healed any. Not in any way that matters.
I slide down the door, huddling down on the floor myself.
“We’re almost home,” I tell her.
Katniss looks up at me through a curtain of hair. All I can see of her is a single, exhausted gray eye, rimmed in ill-fitting makeup. She nods. All shrouded in my jacket, her makeup smudged, her hair falling around her—she finally looks her age. Young. Younger than me, but not by much.
“But we have to go to the Capitol first,” she says. It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice this entire night. It’s tired, rough from lack of sleep.
“And then we’re through,” I try to sound reassuring, but I don’t feel much like it.
Katniss looks conflicted, her expression shifting. She twists away from me, hiding in her hair again. This is that wound-up look she adopts, now. One I’d never seen in her before the Games, whenever I spotted her around school, or town. But ever since our victory (her victory, really, I just got lucky), she’s retreated within herself.
“We won’t be,” she says.
I frown. Has Haymitch told her about the Capitol’s hunger for victors, too? I wouldn’t think that would be something she’d ask about, and it certainly wasn’t information Haymitch offered up to me freely.
Her tone turns hollow. “We’re never going to be through it. They love us.”
I huddle my damaged leg up, running my fingers along the tender scar tissue. It’s hidden under a sleeve, tucked beneath my pants, but even through all of that it thrums with leftover pain. My prosthetic is just a hair too tight, chaffing painfully with each step. I’m not certain what I’ll do about it.
“We’re going to be mentors,” she says. Her voice drops too a low murmur. “Forever. They’ll never let Haymitch have the job again. Not when they can have us.”
She buries her face in her knees, hiking my jacket up to cover her head. She looks so small. None of that charm from the interviews, none of that fire from the Games. You can really see how matchstick thin she is beneath the gossamer of her dress. Her heeled shoes wrap around knobbly ankles. Her knees bow inward as she tries to keep herself covered.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, though I’m…doubtful. It’s ruined Haymitch, sending those fresh faces off to slaughter. Katniss denies it up and down, but I know the deaths in the Games cut straight down to her core. Having to be the one to haul off family and friends to the Games won’t do her any favors, will it?
Someone pounds on the door. We scramble to our feet, and Katniss practically flies into my arms. She rakes her hair back, but I shake my head. It looks natural when it’s a disaster like this, as if my hands have been all over her. The cameras will love it. The thought makes me sick. Katniss looks up at me, an amount of trust in her eyes that I don’t know what to do with. And then, because the door is opening, I smother that trust and yank her into an empty kiss. Sticky. Tacky. Her mouth on mine is wet and uncomfortable, the kiss disjointed. This is all wrong. She digs her fingers into my dress shirt, pulling us backward just as the door is thrown open. We’re pressed up against the dusty wall when someone gasps.
“The both of you!” Effie’s chirpy voice scolds. “My goodness, have some manners, won’t you!? We are in public!”
An ounce of tension releases from my spine. Under my hands, I can feel Katniss relax as well.
“Sorry, Effie,” I sling my arm around Katniss’ shoulders, shooting our escort a casual smile. “These parties last an awful long time.”
“Hard to wait for the train,” Katniss says. She wipes her smeared lip gloss with the back of her hand. I take her chin in my hand, swiping my thumb around her lips. She stiffens imperceptibly, then she slowly unwinds. The animal look in her eyes has faded with our short breather in the storage room.
“There. Now you’re good,” I say with a smile. My face aches with the strain.
I know none of it is real. None of this has ever been real, according to Katniss and Haymitch. But that rare little smile that plays across her lips is so sweet that I could almost be fooled. It’s tender, like pressing your thumb into a blue-black bruise, when she gives me those looks. She snuggles down into my jacket for a brief moment. Then she catches sight of the rest of the party, and her expression steels into something much more Katniss. Her shoulders drop, her face hardening.
“The mayor has been looking high and low for you two!” Effie claps her hands demandingly. “Come on, chop chop! You’ve got interviews to get to!”
Katniss tenses again. She moves to unbutton my jacket, reluctantly handing it back to me. Again, I’m painfully struck at how revealing her outfit is, my heart sinking. It looks out of place on her, wrong in every way. She’s a kid. She’s not a seductive person. None of this is right.
I reach out, pulling her hair back over her shoulders, carefully arranging it to cover her up.
“Thanks,” Katniss says. She touches the ends of her hair. The parts singed off in our Games.
Then, as if she’s still debating internally, she reaches up and wipes her lipgloss from my mouth. Her fingers are so smooth, callouses shorn off by the Capitol. Their full body polish, Katniss had called it. Her hand still feels foreign against my face, no matter how much they have us crawl all over each other.
“How do I look?” I ask.
“Disheveled,” Katniss answers. She straightens the front of my shirt out, smoothing the wrinkles from her desperate grabbing. “But nice.”
“Disheveled but nice,” I echo her with a playful smile. “You really know how to craft a compliment.”
Katniss finally shows a hint of the girl I see around town, rolling her eyes at me. “Yeah. It took a lot of brainpower.”
“A real masterpiece,” I offer her my hand. “Let’s get this over with.”