Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Annie will understand why I’m late getting home this year. She won't begrudge my looping route from the train. Before I can reunite with her, there’s something I have to do first. Before I can attempt to return to the normalcy of the secret, lovely, little life we’ve built in the village, there's someone I need to see.

I brace myself. This never gets easier. But there’s something different in the approach to this specific door. I really believed it could be him. That I’d finally be able to save another one, just one more.

I take one last deep breath and force my chin to rise, lifting the heavy metal knocker of the Mayor’s Mansion. With three resounding thunks, I step back, trying to be ready for whatever reaction will greet me. Anger, disappointment, grief, whatever awaits will be justified, after-all.

The door swings open.

“Mr. Odair.” Caspian Murray states. No accusation in his sea-green eyes. Those eyes. So much like his son’s, tinged red with long shed tears. Even that detail brings a vision of Kai to my mind. The way he had clung to me that first night on the train, overwhelmed with terror and grief. I can still feel the boy shuddering against my chest, as I held him through his weeping well into the dawn.

“Mr. Murray.” I greet, choking down the lump in my throat as I stumble over even those few syllables. “Would you like to take a walk?”

“Yes, old friend.” The man agrees, a feigned casualness in his movements as he grabs a light jacket. “We’ll head to the beach. I think we have much to talk about.”

“I need someone I can trust, Heavensbee. Someone who knows how to keep them in line.” The President snarls. His snake-like eyes made even more unsettling by the library’s flickering firelight.

I should have expected it. When Seneca Crane’s departure after the 73rd was recreated with Persephone Price’s after the 74th. The poster, the threat, was too clear. Another kid from Twelve, a crumbled Cornucopia. That infamous symbol of the Games shattered by his hand.

“Of course, Mr. President. It is my honor to serve to Capitol and the Games.” I answer with practiced, familiar, words.

“Good." Snow raises his glass. "To your return as Head Gamemaker then.”

“To the Games.” I answer, tapping the rim of his heavy tumbler with my own.

As he takes a slow sip of that dark amber drink, I voice the question he's surely been waiting for. “If I may ask, sir, what twists do you already have planned?”

His lips curl up in a terrifying sneer, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Ah, so he’s set on whatever idea he’s come up with. The President leans in, reveling in the chance to share his, surely, genius plan. “The Victors.”

“The Victors?” I question. He can’t mean…

He grins. A spark of perversion in his eye. “They have become too dangerous, Plutarch. You’ve seen it. It’s time for a reset, a reminder, that even they are not above the will and power of the Capitol.”

Of him, he means. Out of his control, above his power.

I can’t help it, I smile. It’s a terrible idea, even worse than I had expected. It will cause anger, uproar — rebellion. It might be time to reach out to some old friends, and I think I know exactly who will be my first call.

Listen, I may be a drunk but even I won’t soon forget the sight of those two kids sprinting across the green to converge on the third: Owen, wailing like a banshee in the grass.

Peeta already dressed, the dawn beginning to break over the horizon. Baker’s hours, he’s always offers as his excuse for being such an early riser. But I doubt all the early hours spent over hot ovens could have prepared him for the sight of Sweetheart, dressed only in her nightgown, bursting out of her front door. Poor lovesick lug. I find my most cynical self teasing him in my mind.

Lenore Dove chastises me immediately, for my unkindness. Reminding me that I was once just as lovestruck. She's right, I remember it all too well.

If only she were really here, she’d adore them all. These lost kids, stumbling around like her geese in the meadow. She’d know what to do. She’d know how to help.

I watch from my window as Sweetheart and the Boy each drop to their knees beside Owen, reaching out with gentle soothing hands and hurried attempts at calming words. Slowly retrieving him from whatever terror his mind has conjured up tonight.

I know the horrors of his Games have already given a few suggestions to the nightmares Katniss and Peeta suffer through. The nightmares I actively drink to escape. And us three were just watching from the sidelines.

After a while, they manage to pull the youngest to his feet and with a hastily thrown blanket to cover his bare shoulders, my trio of young Victors disappear into the house at the end of the green.

Chapter Text

I finally track him down, a sleeping Owen Sparrow, only to discover him hungover on Haymitch’s couch.

His house had been my initial stop. But finding it vacant, I grabbed a clean set of clothes and marched over to my next-best guess, feeling more like the teenage boy's exasperated mother than ever before.

“Get up!” I shout, and receive no response. I try a shove to his shoulder, a light tap to his face, repeatedly calling his name as I raise my voice louder. When I’m met with no sign of movement, I opt for the tried-and-true method: a cup of water dumped over the boy's dark mop of curls.

“Fuck!” Owen yells, leaping to his feet, gray eyes wide and frantic, on high alert. If the small knife in his hand is anything to go on, it seems he’s been learning more than how to drown his sorrows from Haymitch.

“I’m sorry for waking you so suddenly but the more peaceful ways weren’t working.” I state flatly, no regret cracking through my tone. “Shower. Get dressed. We have things to do today.” I command, returning to the mess of a kitchen.

I spend five minutes cleaning as much as I can without gagging. Throwing out leftover food, emptying liquor bottles into the sink and filling the trashcan with nearly everything within reach. Peering my head back into the living room I catch sight of Owen’s black hair still laid against the pillow on the couch. He's fallen back asleep.

Raising my voice I call, “Owen! Get up right now or I’ll give you a second impromptu shower!”

The threat, finally, forces the boy into action. He jumps up once more, face flushing at the scolding.

“Go! Shower! You reek!” I order, tossing the clean clothes I’d retrieved from his house at him, proud to see my aim hasn’t faltered as they hit him right in his befuddled, exhausted, face.

“Ugh! Fine!” He shouts, marching past me and up the stairs, stomping and creating as much noise as possible along the way. Behaving for all the world like the 15-year-old kid we so often forget he is.

I retrieve the bread and butter I picked up from Peeta’s, slicing into it and setting it on a freshly cleaned plate on the counter. While I wait, I busy myself by taking out the trash and tidying what I can in the living room. I doubt anyone has done so in quite some time. I make a mental note to talk to Hazelle and see if she can take on the role of Haymitch’s housekeeper again.

I’m drawn back from my thoughts when I hear the thundering footsteps of a teenage boy once again echoing down the stairs. He greets me with an annoyed huff, but his curls are wet and sticking to his forehead, and he’s now dressed in the clean clothes I snagged for him.

“Come, eat something.” I request, attempting a more gentle approach.

Owen takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping, but he follows me anyway. He dutifully takes a seat at the half-cleared counter and bites into his bread. I'm offered a mumbled 'thanks' when I present him a glass of water and a steaming cup of coffee, with just a splash of cream.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“We need to talk but I’m not doing that here and I’m not doing that until you look a little less like death.” I explain, sipping my own cup of coffee, made just the same.

“What time is it?” He asks while chewing, and I try not to pull an Effie and cringe at his poor manners.

“Eight.” I answer.

“Too early.” He groans.

“No, this is late. Especially for what we need to do.”

“Which is?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re done eating.” I answer, drawing out his annoyance with my vagueness.

“You’re being weird.” He eyes me suspiciously, and when all I offer in response is a shrug, he presses on. “So…did Peeta make this bread?” He asks with feigned casualness, his own attempt at annoying me just as much.

“Yes.” I speak.

“And it's fresh.” He points out.

“It is.” I agree.

“Did you get it this morning?”

“Yes.”

“And how far from your bed did you have to walk to retrieve it.” He questions, face twisting into a cocky, suggestive, smirk.

“Further than your implying.” I answer, chugging the last of my coffee.

“Damn…poor guy.” He looks down at his nearly empty plate with a pitying laugh.

“Owen…” I bristle.

“You woke me up far too early and I’m experiencing my first ever hangover. That means I’m allowed to tease you as revenge, especially when it makes you that embarrassed.”

“Finish your coffee.” I order, turning away from him to put my mug in the sink. Only to put my mug in the sink, definitely not to hide the flush I can already feel blooming on my cheeks.

“Oooh, I’m sure he’d love if you use that tone with him.” Owen jests, laughing as he dodges my attempt to lightly cuff his ear in indignation.

While I begin fixing a few bundles of bread and cheese to tuck into my bag, I watch him wolf down his last few bites. Once he’s finished, I make to grab his plate, not wanting to leave another dirty dish in this wreck of a kitchen. But Owen pulls it from my reach and stands. Without prompting, he walks to the sink and silently cleans the plate and both our coffee mugs.

“Ok.” He speaks, drying his hands on his t-shirt. “What do we need to talk about?”

“Throw some sturdy shoes on.” I tell him. “We’re going for a walk.”

“I…I don’t think I have any.”

“No boots?” I ask. “Not at your house?”

“No.”

“Ok. Let’s see what we have at my house, then.” I offer, grabbing my bag from the table and marching out the front door, knowing Owen will follow behind.

Chapter Text

Peeta

September 21, 74 ADD

It's early, when the Everdeen girls knock. The sun is just beginning its climb into the sky and halos Katniss in a soft orange tint when I open the door.

“You ready?” She asks, as I let her and Prim in the house.

“Think so.” I answer, taking one last look through my pack: water, a change of clothes, my sketchbook and pencils, the bread I baked last night, some leftover cheese from the fridge. “Wanna check?” I tease, holding the open bag out to her.

“I’m sure I can trust you to pack a bag for a hike.” Katniss answers, with an amused smirk. “It's the other one I’m not so sure about.”

“Do you think he’s even awake?” I ask.

“He better be.” Prim snarks. “If I have to be up this early, so does he.”

I chuckle at Prim’s light jab. I’ve never heard her so annoyed. Perhaps, I've been lucky enough to stay on her good side. What has Owen done in just a handful of weeks to tick her off? Or is she simply less of an early riser than her sister? The latter seems the most likely possibility.

Closing my door behind me, I follow Katniss and Prim across the green to the house assigned to our Owen Sparrow. Katniss doesn’t even do him the kindness of knocking, simply marches into the unlocked front door and down the entry hall.

Prim and I wait on the porch. Prim, because she knows her and Owen aren’t quite close enough to storm through each other’s homes, and she’s simply too polite. Me, because I know if anyone is going to earn a swift shoe thrown at their head for waking our Victor it will be me. Katniss will surely get her own frustrated response from the boy but he’s always a little softer with her, a little more willing to let her push and pull and drag him along. Seam Kids Stick Together, I guess.

“What do you think of him?” I find myself asking Prim.

“Owen?” She turns her face to mine.

“Yeah.” I confirm. “I’m just curious.”

She thinks about it for a moment, blue eyes focused as she weighs her opinion in her mind. “Hmmm…I think he’s fine. I think he’s been through a lot, lost a lot, even before his games.”

“Does he remind you of Katniss?”

“I guess a little.” She admits with a shrug. “There both a little blunt, a little rough around the edges. But I think they mean well. If his Games is anything to go by, he’s got a big heart like her too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think he does.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” I answer. “Katniss and I have spent more time with him than you, and I was wondering how he came off to others.”

“I don’t mind him.” She states. “He needs some help, but so does anyone who goes into the Games. And I think he’s got a good group of people, y'know, who want to help him.”

“You’re pretty wise aren’t you Prim.” I confess with a laugh.

“And don’t you forget it!” She shouts.

I ruffle her hair, like my older brothers used to do to me. She dives out of my reach, protecting her twin blonde braids with her hands.

“I’d get mad if you weren’t going to be my brother within a year.” She chuckles.

I hate it. The reminder of the wedding. The source of nearly all the guilt that has burrowed itself into my gut. I never intended this when I gave that first interview to Caesar. I had hoped it would help win her sponsors, help keep her alive long enough to win. And if it didn’t, well, then maybe it would get me some pity: the poor sap who finally confessed his long hidden feelings only to have his crush die tragically. If I won in that scenario surely they would have spun her death as the thing that pushed me onward, pushed me to my Victory. But truly at that time, I never expected to survive the Games, let alone bind her in this fake love story we’re now stuck in. I know Katniss knows that. I think she knows that. Even so, the idea of forcing her into that forever? A future where we’re paraded out every year. Forced to play act at romance and a happy humble life, all thanks to the kindness of the Capitol. It will kill us. Kill her, eventually.

“Sorry.” Prim comments when she catches my sudden change in mood.

And that tugs at a different strand of guilt. It immediately reminds me of another girl. Too young, too observant, too wise for her years. Seam Kids Stick Together. It was Mira who made the declaration first. Another girl with a flower name. Another girl who was once doomed by the reaping bowl.

“You’re alright.” I assure her with soft words of forgiveness. Its not her fault. It's not Katniss’s fault. On some days I even convince myself it's not my fault. “Y’know, it's not the fact that I’ll be your brother that bothers me, right?”

“Yeah, Peeta I know.” She confirms with a shaky laugh.

“Good.” I squeeze her narrow shoulder with my hand. “Cause I’d be quite proud to get to call you my sister.”

“And you my brother.” She declares with a wide, toothy, smile.

Prim and I sit on the porch in easy silence, listening to the early morning birdsong and watching the rapidly rising sun. It only takes a few minutes before we hear muffled voices from the open front door, snarky comments and frustrated grumbling echo out as heavy footfalls stomp pointedly around the house.

When Katniss emerges first, her annoyance is obvious on her face, “Let’s go Owen!” She orders one more time, yelling back into the house. Then she turns on her heel and heads off down the front steps towards the woods.

The frustrated grumbling becomes clearer as Owen Sparrow marches onto the porch, slamming the door closed behind him. Exasperation rolls off him in waves. His hair is a mess, his backpack is only half-zipped, but he follows behind his mentor none-the-less.

“Well, we don’t want to get left behind.” Prim teases, grabbing her bag. Together we begin our trek after Katniss, serenaded once more by Mockingjay song.

It’s a long walk to the lake and my prosthetic is aching by the time we arrive, unused to walking on it for hours like this. The sun has shifted high in the sky, it must be nearing lunchtime. And even if it's not, I’m hungry enough to wait on swimming. It seems I’m not alone, as Prim pulls out a blanket from her bag laying it down on the grass.

“Anyone hungry?” She asks.

“Starving!” Owen answers, plopping down at the young blonde’s side. “Someone dragged me out of bed before I could eat breakfast.”

“I told you we’d be leaving early.” Katniss defends, she opens her bag and hands him a wrapped sandwich. “It’s not my fault you weren’t ready.” 

“It’s beautiful here.” I note, joining them on the ground, pulling my backpack open.

“Yeah, it is.” Katniss murmurs, mostly to herself as she claims a part of the blanket as her own.

“Is this where you get the Katniss roots?” Prim asks.

“Usually they’re around here somewhere, in the shallows and mossy sections.” Katniss answers.

“Katniss roots?” Owen questions.

“Yes, the plant that gave me my name.” She explains. “My father used to say, ‘As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.’”

Something softens in her face when she talks about Mr. Everdeen. The blank scowl she often wears, fades a bit. The silver gray of her eyes sparkle, just a touch, as the corners turn up towards her brow. You probably wouldn’t notice it, if you haven't spent as much time staring at her as I have. If you haven’t spent as much time memorizing her features, sketching, and painting them onto canvas. But I notice it. And for just a moment she looks a bit like the little girl that sang the Valley Song on our first day of school. The little girl that Burdock Everdeen taught to sing that song. The little girl that Burdock Everdeen took to this lake. The little girl that was lost alongside him in that mine explosion.

“Will we be able to find you today?” I ask, bumping her shoulder with mine.

Those gray eyes turn to me. “We should, it's the right time of year.” She states before returning her gaze to the lake.

You can sense Burdock Everdeen all around us. In the birdsong bouncing in the air, the breeze rustling through the trees, the soft ripple on the surface of the water. I only knew him in passing, only met him the few times he came into the bakery while I was there. But from the few things I know of him, this is absolutely a place he would revere. Peaceful. Quiet. Free. It's no wonder Katniss favors it so.

He’s here in each of the people sat at my side too, literally draped over them if I’ve assumed correctly. Katniss and Prim are both dressed in oversized, seemingly, men’s shirts, which surely aren’t part of the casual day-to-day wardrobe Cinna has been slowly building for her with every arrival of the Capitol Train. They may have gotten them secondhand at the Hob, but I doubt it. Gale has younger brothers so nothing he's grown out of would be passed to the Everdeens. I can think of only one man who’s clothes would still be within Katniss’ reach, his daughter’s reach. A simple switch, her father’s hunting jacket for an old shirt with fraying buttons.

Even Owen wears something of Burdock Everdeen’s today: a pair of his boots. Last night as we were preparing to leave the Everdeen’s after dinner, I overheard him approach Asterid, the boots in hand. Shyly, visibly uncomfortable, he’d thanked her for the loan and tried to return them to her. It seems he fully intended to make the short walk back to his house in just his socks. Asterid had pondered it for a moment before speaking. And when she did, she refused to accept them back. Commenting that she’d rather them get some use, a residual sadness evident in her voice. She stated that he would prefer they don’t go to waste. Left only to collect dust in the back of a closet.

Owen had still walked home in just his socks, but he had clutched the gift to his chest the whole time. Clearly he was overwhelmed, grateful, for even that simple hand-me-down.

No one in Twelve would turn down a hand-me-down, let alone one of such personal and emotional significance. Even Prim, despite the Victor winnings Katniss and I receive, wears a second-hand pair of shoes. With thick socks, far too warm for the late summer temperatures. They're probably Katniss’s from a few years ago, maybe even the pair she was squeezing into until the Games. We get the same monthly stipend, it would be very easy to purchase a new pair of boots for Prim. Effie or Cinna would have seen them personally on to the next Capitol train if Katniss had asked, but no.

I understand it. Even with the money and the house and the access to all these new and nice things, it feels odd.

Odd to throw things away or buy new, not when there’s a perfectly good hand-me-down available to grow into. I mean, my pants belonged to Buck a few years back, before he had his last growth spurt. I don’t know how tall Mr. Everdeen was, but knowing what I know about Asterid’s reaction to his death, I’d bet there’s lots more hand-me-downs for Katniss and Prim, and maybe even Owen, to grow into for many years to come.

I may not have been passed anything of Burdock Everdeen’s, nor do I need it, because she invited me here. His lake. I know the practical reason for our trip today, and I don’t factor into it. She didn’t need to include me in this, let me in, let me see this sacred place.

Prim's presence I understand. Katniss is, rightly, still afraid she’ll get reaped into the Games. Ensuring Prim knows how to swim isn’t a bad idea, and it's her father’s lake too. She has a right to be here, to have her father’s memory kept alive in new memories with her sister.

Owen, is well, Owen. He’s surly and lost and Katniss’ newest broken bird to nurse back to health. She’d never admit it but she cares for everything and everyone, and now that she doesn’t need to worry about survival she can let herself take on those feral, broken, creatures without guilt, without worrying about having another mouth to feed. She fears and fusses over our boy much in the way she does Prim, albeit with a bit more snark and annoyance than her sister would ever receive. Owen’s here for some fresh air, to get out of that big empty house, and to find something healthy to occupy his time.

But she has no real need to bring me here. Her and Owen have always had a different understanding, an inherent trust, that him and I don’t. We’re getting there. I think I’m slowly wearing him down a bit, convincing him he can rely me on like he relies on Katniss, but we’re not there yet. She wouldn’t have needed my presence to convince him to join, or to make him feel comfortable. I don't need to learn to swim, it’ll be hard enough with the prosthetic anyway, but still, she invited me. Is willing to share this part of herself with me.

That cynical, childish, jealous, part of my mind breaks loose for just a moment. Raising its voice to ask the question I’ve been trying to avoid all day: Has Gale been here? Has she shared this piece of herself with him? I push the thought aside as soon as it appears. He’s not here. Why bring him into this place, this peaceful day, when I have no reason to?

Owen finishes his food first, wiping his face with his hand as he asks. “You said there was somewhere to change?”

“Yeah, see the cabin?” Katniss points out an overgrown structure hidden among the trees.

“Is that safe?” Owen asks, a dark eyebrow quirks in question. “I’m not trying to have another building collapse on me.”

Katniss’s eyes go wide at the reminder. The Cornucopia. The Dynamite. The horrifying moment where we thought we lost him too. Of course an unstable-looking shack would make him nervous. Even if he’s trying to play it off as a joke, his hands are tense fists and his smirk is the calculated fake one we’ve trained into him.

“We’ll turn around if you need to leave the door open.” I comment, without consideration.

I’ve noticed his new habit in the last few weeks. He always leaves the door open when he’s home and awake. Buttercup has certainly taken advantage of it, surely the bugs do too. But no matter how many pesky intruders it lets into his house, the heavy wood door remains open. The windows too. A visual escape route, I’d guess. Just in case the roof caves in again, or a tribute wanders into his hideaway.

His silver eyes fall on me, not with grateful understanding, but with anger and embarrassment. Well, that will do wonders for our growing friendship. “I’m fine.” He spits, stomping across the grass to the creaking, ancient, shed. Slamming the door closed behind him.

I catch Prim’s eyes without meaning to, and she simply shakes her head in pity at the display of false pride. “I’ll change when he’s done.” I offer, belatedly.

“Ready Katniss?” Prim asks, attempting to move past the tension left in Owen’s wake.

“Yeah.” Katniss answers, finally pulling her gray eyes away from the hut. She reaches down to strip her boots from her feet. Then to my great shock she stands moving to unbutton her shorts.

“Woah!” I shout in warning, whipping my face away. I expect awkward apologies or to be hurriedly shooed off. What I get, however, is laughter. Light, free, laughter. It bounces off the trees until it mixes with the bird calls.

“Peeta.” Katniss chides. “I have a bathing suit on. You can turn around.”

“Oh, sorry.” I can feel the flush on my cheeks as I turn back around, keeping my chin lifted to focus on her face. Avoiding with all my might to trace the lines of the simple black swimming costume that covers her torso and hips. I didn’t know she had a bathing suit, no one has any use for them here in Twelve. How did Cinna slip that into her shipments? How did he even know she might need one?

I just brought a pair of old shorts I used to wear for wresting practice. I’m really hoping they still fit alright, I haven’t worn them since before our Games. Haven’t really worn shorts at all since then.

Owen emerges from the cabin, dressed only in his own loose pair of shorts. The anger is gone, leaving behind slumped shoulders and distant, vacant, eyes.

“Ready?” Katniss speaks before I can.

“I guess.” He grumbles.

“Peeta?” She turns to me.

“Yeah. Go ahead, I’ll change and catch up in a second.” Pulling myself to my feet, I head into the hut to change myself. When I step back into the sun, Owen and Katniss have already made it into the shallows, Katniss moving with ease through the water while Owen stumbles behind her. Prim, however, I find sitting on the blanket.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.” I comment.

“It’s alright.” She answers. “Didn’t want to leave you behind and…WOAH!” He eyes go wide in awe. “Your prosthetic!”

I can feel my entire body flush. So few people have seen it, and those who have tend to look at it with either pity or disinterest. In Katniss’ case, usually with a flash of guilt before pulling her eyes away. But Prim only gazes upon it with curiosity.

“Can I look at it?” She asks, excited, like she's just been told she's about to get a present.

“I guess.” I agree, moving to sit next to her on the blanket.

Prim launches into question after question. As soon as I finish answering the first, a second immediately bursts from her. Her eyes widen with such a childlike curiosity that no one could deny just how young she is. How eager she is to learn, to understand.

They have these fancy schools in the Capitol where people learn to be Doctors. I want to keep Prim as far from the Capitol as anyone but if only there was a way for her to get some of that knowledge, maybe some textbooks on the more practical subjects they teach. She doesn’t need to know how to dye skin or implant whiskers, but Asterid is one of the main healers in the District and Prim is quickly becoming the presumed heir apparent to her mother’s underground practice. Perhaps Portia or Effie would know how to get some of those books.

Most of Prim’s questions are about how the prosthetic works, how it feels to wear it, the different adjustments the Doctors made when they were fitting it to me after the Games. I do my best to explain it all, probably failing horribly, but she’s just so excited, so fascinated by the way it works, and I can’t deny Prim her curiosity.

A loud splash interrupts her interrogation. We both whip around at the sound, only to be greeted by the sight of an annoyed Owen and cackling Katniss. His soaked hair paints quite a picture of who-drenched-who. The boy takes only one second to think about it before sweeping his arms over the surface of the water, enacting his revenge.

“Ready to try swimming?” I ask Prim. “Before they drown each other?”

“I guess.” Her shoulders go stiff again. Is she nervous? “But promise you’ll let me ask more questions later?”

“Deal.” I agree easily, rising to my feet. She holds out a pinky to me. A pinky promise. The District 4 tradition. My eyes flit to Owen in the water, hoping he doesn’t see this. Prim means no harm, but I don’t think Owen would revel in the reminder of the last blonde who offered to seal an agreement in such a way. Kai. No. Don't think about Kai.

I shift myself between her and the lake, hoping to block her from our Victor’s sight.

“Promise?” She asks one more time.

Looping her pinky with mine, I answer. “Promise.” She lets me pull her up from the blanket by our joined fingers, and she stays close to me as we move to the water, her lip pulled taught between her teeth. Yeah, she’s definitely nervous. “Hey, you’ll make sure I don’t drown right?” I ask her, only half teasing.

“Hmm?” She shakes herself out of her head, her face shifting into a wide smile when she registers what I said. “As long as you do the same!”

“Well, if I fail, I’m sure Katniss will swoop in to save you.”

“She’ll save us both.” Prim answers.

“Lets not make her have to though.” I declare, finally taking my first step into the cold water of the lake.

Unsurprisingly, Katniss is a pretty good teacher. Prim and Owen both pick up the basics pretty quick and can at least keep their head above water and float for a few seconds at a time. I, however, am hopeless.

My prosthetic is waterproof, but it's made to be worn in the shower not for swimming. It’s not buoyant in the slightest, and lifting it to try even the simple kicks Katniss teaches us takes more effort from me than it does for everyone else. It’s embarrassing just how much I’m floundering. But hey, at least my struggles mean Katniss stays at my side the whole time. Patient and gentle as she tries, and fails, to help me float, tread water, and even doggy paddle. After a while, I just give up. I’m clearly annoyed enough that when I ask to be done she doesn’t fight me on it much. All she offers is one last, “Are you sure you’re done?” as I reach the shore.

“Oh please, when am I ever going to need to know how to swim!” I call over my shoulder as I make for the blanket.

Prim and Owen get bored soon after I do, and our lesson shifts, now onto plants and tubers and these white arrowheads called ‘Katniss roots.’ How fitting. The girl made famous by her skills with a bow and arrow to be named after these arrowhead plants. The four of us make a game of it, trying to outdo each other as we see who can track down the most; who’s faster at catching the harder to spot ones. Unsurprisingly, Katniss ‘find herself’ more than any of us, but I don’t make a pitiful showing in second place. Prim fills her bag with as many as will fit for us to bring back to Twelve.

The others return to the water but I’ve given up on swimming for the day, much more interested in investigating these so called ‘Katniss Roots’ more closely. I pull a particularly pretty one from the top of our pile, dappled with flecks of yellow in the large green leaf and with a few of those white flowers still attached. Setting it on the blanket to pull my sketchbook out.

I’m only just begun carving the point of the arrow into the page when a soaking wet Owen Sparrow drops himself at my side. Shaking his hair like a feral dog caught in the rain.

“Hey!” I object whipping my arm to keep my book out of the monsoon's reach.

“Oh, sorry.” He answers, with false casualness. I guess I deserve it for my little comment earlier about the open door. I meant nothing malicious by it but clearly it struck a nerve.

We fall back into silence as I return to my drawing and Owen reaches into his bag for a towel and a snack. I’ve moved onto layering the sketch with varying shades of green when Owen finally speaks.

“Katniss is pretty.”

“Do you mean the plant or the girl?” I ask, not pulling my eyes or my hand from the page. Where is he going with this?

“I don’t know, both I guess.”

“Well, the roots taste better when cooked, and the girl has already said she’s a little too old for you.”

“And that she’s happy with you.” He quips. “Her exact words were I’m happy with my Baker’s Boy.”

“Yeah, I remember the note.” I comment. And I remember the night it was sent too. Ada had just been killed by the snake mutts, a clear message for someone. Who? I'm still not sure. But after two weeks of exhaustion and stress, the boys settled down and let themselves find escape in joking with each other. They talked about home, and girls, and somehow the topic drifted to Katniss and I. Finnick got a kick out of the entire thing, cackling like a madman as our tribute screens showed identical angles of the conversation. It was Finnick who encouraged Katniss to include the message with the gift of bread. Him, who helped her to craft the note just so, blustering by all of her embarrassment to convince her to hit send. Him, who coaxed a smile and a laugh from her when we witnessed the boy's reaction to such a gift. It was one of the rare times she truly smiled during the Games. The next time I saw that otherwise unattainable expression was the moment they announced Owen as the Victor. The moment we knew for sure he was getting out of there.

“Don't worry I'll leave the girl for you." Owen interrupts my reminiscing. "But maybe I should start working at the bakery. It clearly worked out for you.”

“I hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to Katniss before the Games, I doubt the Bakery had much to do with our relationship.” I answer, returning to my sketching.

“Yes, your ‘relationship.’” The boy states.

Fuck. So that’s what this is about. “Katniss told you.”

“Yeah she told me.”

“And…”

“And that sucks man.” He offers, and I almost believe the pity in his voice is genuine. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I brush it off, just as I always do. Returning to that old familiar line of denial. “Katniss and I are friends, we protect each other, we keep each other safe, that’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yeah but you’re in love with her aren’t you?”

“I don't know what your talking about.”

“Alright! Fine! I won’t push it.” And he doesn't. We fall into silence for a while, taking in the the lovely late-summer day laid before us.

“Were you serious when you said I could try working at the bakery?” Owen asks.

“Not if you’re going to use it as an opportunity to flirt with girls and goof off.”

“I’m sorry. I was just teasing, I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

“It’s alright.”

“If I promise to take it seriously, can I try working a few shifts?” He suggests. “If I suck though, I’m quitting and we’re never speaking about it again.”

“Sure.” I agree, easily. “But its early mornings so be prepared. And I’m not as pretty of an alarm clock as Katniss is.”

“As long as your quick enough to dodge whatever is in reach when you wake me, I’m sure we’ll be fine.” He taunts. “Maybe it’ll be good to force myself into an actual routine.”

“Probably.” I answer. “And hey, a couple shifts at the bakery would be a great way to earn your keep.”

“My keep?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about for a few weeks and I think you should come live with me.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah being all alone in these big empty houses isn’t good for the mind. Just look at Haymitch.”

“That might be owed to the extra 20 or so games he’s witnessed.” Owen pushes back against my statement, but doesn't outright dismiss the offer of cohabitation.

“48.” The number slips from my lips before I can stop it. Now, I’m the one being cruel.

“Hmm?”

“He’s lost 48 tributes to the games.” I murmur. “Three in his own, and 45 in the games since.”

“48.” Owen starts, choking on the words. He clears his throat and tries again. “48 Mi…”

“Yes, 48 Miras.” I finish for him. That familiar clang of grief rattles in chest at just the mention of her name.

My hand finds Owen's shoulder, squeezing once. He doesn’t push me away. “Thats too many.” Owen states.

“One is too many.” I answer.

We let the truth hang in the air until it disappears on the breeze, replaced with the light, easy laughter of the Everdeen Girls as they splash and stumble their way back to the dock.

Chapter Text

I’m ashamed to say, it took me two weeks before I felt strong enough to face them. Another before I could figure out which house was there’s. I tried asking around, but no one seemed willing to share that information. I had one woman tell me to just, “leave them be.” Another scolded me, swearing and declaring, “You’ve done enough already.”

In the end, it was Prim who discovered which house once belonged to our Mira Belle. Which house still belonged to her father and brothers. And it was Prim who found the flowers, plucked them from the fruit trees near the meadow. I had never seen Mirabelle flowers before, but Prim swore that's what the white blooms were. After she gave me the idea I had her walk me back out there and point out which trees. Retrieving a few of the fallen fruit, I set out on my mission.

Mirabelle flowers, a few ripe golden plums, and a full basket of bread. That’s what I carry with me as I finally force myself to face the Belles on this warm September afternoon. I have no idea what response will wait for me on the other side of the door. Anger, Sadness, a punch to the nose? Disappointment, screaming, scolding? All of it would be deserved. There’s nothing I can do to make this better. Nothing I can do to bring her back. But I can’t sit here and do nothing any longer. Not when there might be a chance I can ease even an ounce of the unfathomable grief I failed to save them from. Just like we failed to save her. For Mira. I declare as I lift my hand to knock three times on the wood.

The face that greets me is young. Younger than I expected. Not even thirty-five I'd best guess. The face of Mr. Tyler Belle. I can read the surprise in his deep brown eyes. The same shade as hers. No, don’t get emotional right now. For Mira. Do it for Mira.

I force my face to twist into a small smile: polite, friendly, non-threatening; shifting my peace offering, I offer out my hand to shake. “Hello sir, my name is Peeta Mellark.” I begin the introductions.

“Yes. I know.” The man answers.

I drop my unshaken hand. “I just wanted to come by, introduce myself, and leave these for you.” I explain. Silence. I’m met with silence, and incisive probing eyes. I press on, “I don't want to intrude or overstep, or make things worse. But I…I had to do something.”

“Mr. Mellark.” The man speaks. “Would you like to come inside?”

“Yes. Yes sir, thank you.”

Fall 74 ADD

That first meeting was the hardest. Full of taut tension, unshed tears, and uncomfortable silences. We didn’t speak about her then. Just the flowers, and the bread. The plums I explained I’d brought because I thought they might plant the cores next to the house. It would take a few years but eventually they’d have a tree, which would bloom with her flowers every single year. That was the only mention of her for quite a while.

I don’t think he expected me to return that next weekend. Or the next. Or the next. But eventually he started expecting my arrival. A pot on the stove brewing hot water for tea, a small plate of whatever fruit they have cut up on the table. I never take any. “Save it for the boys.” I always say.

I don’t meet them until the fifth time I visit. They come running in with a basket full of apples. Stumbling along trying to keep it aloft by the bottom, the basket handle long broken. Wide proud smiles on their faces, cheeks sticky with juice from the few they nabbed for themselves.

“Mr. Mellark!” They chorus. “Look! Look! Look!”

The elder William, Willy, offers the basket to me with a declarative, “For Pastries!”

The younger, Alexander, Alex, adds. “Pa said if we bring you apples you might bring some apple tarts for us!”

“Alex!” Tyler Belle chides. “Apologies, Mr. Mellark. They were curious what you might use the apples for. I told them that the bakery sometimes made pastries with them in the fall.”

“We do!” I answer, looking to the young Belle Boys. “And if you would like some Apple Tarts, then I’ll bring some next week. But, you have to do me a favor!”

An excited, “Yes, sir!” and desperate, “Please” follow.

“I promise to bring Apple Tarts, if you promise to call me Peeta.” I declare. “All of you.” I look to the eldest of the Belle Men. The one I’ve asked every week to do exactly that.

With a resigned sigh, Tyler Belle asks his sons. “What do you say, boys? Is that a deal?”

“Deal! Deal! Deal!” They cheer.

We finally talk about Mira on my sixth visit. With the boys running rampant in the small yard beside their house, high on the sugar from the Apple Tarts they've nabbed. The last three are tucked away, out of reach, for later. It’s a quiet, mournful, interrogation. Tyler mainly asking questions, as I do my best to answer them.

"Was she scared the morning of the Games?" He begins.

"Yes. But brave and strong in the face of that fear." I confirm, still feeling the desperate strength of her arms as she hugged me before parting.

"What was it like for her in the Capitol? What was she like?" Is Tyler's next question.

"Bright, kind, curious. She tried every food they served us and got seconds of all her favorites. She was eager to learn in training, eager to please. She wanted to do well! She wanted to make you proud."

"She did."

"She made me proud too." I confess, not that I have any right to such a feeling.

"Why did…uh…why did she sacrifice herself for him?" He asks, clearing his throat around the grief.

"Because that’s who she was. She fought for others, cared for others, she didn’t leave people behind."

"And did he…Owen?" The name coming out no more than a whisper. "Did he care for her too?"

"Yes. Yes, he did. He was so lost in his grief he was nearly killed by the two from District 1."

"Did you ever think she could win?"

"I knew better than to underestimate her. But I also knew it was a longshot, for either of them." I admit.

"If she had survived would you have given her as much help as you did Owen?"

"Of course." I answer, knowing its true.

"If it came down to the two of them, who do you think would have won?"

I think about it for a moment, but in the end I know had we managed to get them both to the final two, there's only one way it would have ended. "Mira. Owen would not have let her die, even if it meant that he would be the Victor."

"Do you think he’s a good kid?"

"Yes. He’s a good kid, who didn’t deserve any of this. Just like her."

It's only once I'm halfway home that I begin to I wonder how much of Owen’s mourning for Mira was actually shown on the main screen, if Tyler needed to ask if he cared about her? No one could have seen that — the way he fell apart — and not know how much he cared. Surely, they showed the attack from the District 1 tributes. But maybe that was the first thing they showed of Owen after he ran off into the ruins. My father might remember.

The seventh week was a little easier, less stilted, more casual, like old friends chatting. Rather than forced acquaintances, bound by shared tragedy and our grief over that kind, sweet girl. And on my way home, I run into Katniss. When she sees me emerge from the Seam, she naturally asks what I'm doing, and it all spills out. She handles it better than I thought she would: she doesn’t run; she doesn’t cry, or panic like I’ve noticed she sometimes does at the rare mention of our Mira’s name. She just physically closes in on herself, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping her shoulders, refusing to meet my eyes. But, she listens. When I’m done and we’ve reached the Village gate, she finally speaks.

“I…I can’t go there. I can’t see them.” She admits, softly.

“I know Katniss.” I tell her. “That’s why I haven’t asked you to. But, if you ever want to join me you can. If not that’s alright too.”

“If I give you some meat to bring them, will you?” She asks.

“Of course.” I promise. “Anything you’d like to pass to them just give it to me and I’ll bring it over.” With that, we slip through the gate into the neighborhood. Then just before we part ways to reach our respective doors she adds one last thing.

“Thank you.” She states. “For helping them…and…and not making me go with you.”

Before I can even offer a ‘you're welcome’ or anything else she’s gone, marching the last few feet between the green and her front porch, the heavy wood door echoing loud as she slams it closed.

The eighth week is the first time I see Owen. I catch only a glimpse of him, those dark curls peering out from behind a neighboring home, watching from a distance. Just watching. I say nothing, not then, not during our shared shifts at the bakery, not on the walks to and from the Village, or across any of the dinner tables we share that week.

The ninth week I see him again. Lurking, hiding, watching. This time though he beats me there so I come upon him from behind, scaring the kid half a foot into the sky with my simple, “What are you doing?”

“Why do you wanna know?” He snarks out.

Ahh, so it’s going to be like that today. “Because this is the second time I’ve caught you staring at that house. And we both know who lives there.” I toss back. “So tell me, what are you doing?”

“Trying to work up the courage to knock.” He admits. Clearly, I’ve spooked him enough if he’s freely admitting it. Well, probably not me. But the house has spooked him. The people who live there. The girl who once did.

“Alright.” I breathe out. “Well, let’s fix that.” I march forward, grabbing Owen’s arm as I pass, dragging him a half-step behind me all the way to the Belle’s front door. I pause, wait. I’ll give him his chance. If he doesn’t take it, I will. He remains frozen, eyes wide as they take in the wood door of the Belle’s assigned house. Guess I’ll do it then. I lift my hand and wrap on the door three times.

Tyler Belle answers only a moment later. Having come to expect my visit on Sunday afternoons. However, he certainly doesn’t expect my companion. His brown eyes go wide at the sight of the younger man at my side. Immediately, I recognize my mistake. Immediately, I regret my choice to drag him here. I should have waited, should have talked to Tyler first. Talked to Owen first. Found a way to get them both comfortable enough to meet, to have them meet on equal ground, to give them time to prepare. Yeah, I fucked it.

Tyler takes a deep breath, schooling his face into a blank unemotional slate, “Hello, Owen.”

Now it’s Owen’s turn to be shocked, to panic. He is less successful than Mira’s father at hiding his fear, his guilt. “I…” He looks at me, wide-eyed in a silent pleading for help. “I…I…I’m sorry!” Owen manages to stutter out before sprinting off into the heavy coal air and smoke of Seam.

We don’t acknowledge it, Owen’s appearance. Not Tyler and I that afternoon. Not Owen and I that week. But as October turns to November, I see him there more and more. Every week as I approach the Belle’s front door, weighed down by my weekly gift of bread and whatever else I can spare, I see Owen, hiding somewhere in the distance. And every week he gets closer and closer.

Then, first day of December, he beats me there once again. This time he beats me to the front stoop. And this time he finally gets the courage to knock for himself.

I watch from afar as Owen’s spine goes ramrod straight as the door creaks open. I watch as Tyler freezes momentarily in surprise at his guest. I watch as they share a few words. And I watch as Tyler Belle opens his door wide, stepping aside to let the boy his daughter saved, the boy his daughter died for, into his home.

I don't visit the Belles that day, just place the basket of bread and meat on the front stoop, and return to the Village to wait. It’s late, the sun long disappeared into the dark when the gate opens. I’ve had time to form the arguments in my head, to guess at his objections, but I need to gage his reaction first.

When we met Owen, his anger was vibrant, visceral, defensive, pushed outward onto anything it could reach. But overtime it's dulled, bit by bit as he learned to trust us, realized we weren’t the enemy.

Then, the Games cracked open his chest to unleash all the vulnerability he’s been forced to shove down and keep hidden to survive. But no one can hide in the Games. Sure you can play the cameras, you can amp up aspects of your personality, or relationships, but you can’t hide. The horror of the Games brings out truths in all of us, truths we usually would want to keep well-hidden, and the truth of Owen is that he cares. He loves. And he does so big!

Since we got him home, that anger is much quieter. Bubbling just under the surface, but undeniably still there. I know Katniss spoke to him about the Games, how it ended, how the Capitol is angry. He knows the danger he is under. At least, we no longer seem to be the main target of his frustration. But now and then it lashes out and catches us, nonetheless.

So I watch and I wait. Expecting to be met with a very closed off Owen Sparrow, full of the silent rages and snark-laced words.

So he surprises me, he’s made quite a habit of it, when he marches right up to my porch. I’m not greeted with misplaced anger, only sheer unyielding determination. Before I can even get a word in he leaps into his speech.

“I’d like to move in with you. If you’ll still let me. I agree, I think the house is too big and too quiet. We can try it for a few months and if it doesn’t work or I feel ready to be on my own, I’ll move out after the Victory Tour.”

“Ok.” I agree. “And as long as you clean up after yourself, you can stay as long as you want, Owen.”

“I’ll bring my stuff over tomorrow afternoon." He states. "But there’s something else. I’d like to do something for the Belles, I’d like to help them somehow, beyond what you're doing with the bread. I’d like to help them financially. Maybe set up a fund or ensure they get a portion of my winnings.”

I stand quick, too quick, making him jump and step back in surprise. He can’t do that. He’s not allowed to do that. At least I don’t think he’s allowed to. But maybe… “We’re not allowed to give out our winnings like that. The winnings are your stipend for having won the Hunger Games. That’s the deal, you won so you get the monthly Capitol stipend. That money is meant for you and only you.”

“I wouldn’t have won without Mira. I would have died without Mira.” He argues back.

“I know, but its not allowed.” I answer slowly, lifting a hand through my hair, pausing just half-a-moment to tug my ear twice. There are too many bugs here, too many ears listening. His silver eyes go wide, catching my meaning before righting himself.

I’m not sure if what I’m telling him is entirely true. Maybe the problem was that I was trying to give money to a tribute’s family from another district. But I imagine what Owen wants to do is certainly frowned upon. If he does it publicly, it will put a target on the Belles’ back. One more group of people to hold over his head.

“Your right. It was silly.” He states for the benefit of our eavesdroppers.

“It’s been a long day. Let's take a walk and reset.” I suggest.

It takes a few days but we’ve got the plan mostly ironed out when it comes time for my next visit to the Belles. We snag Prim this time, hoping her and the cookies we’re bringing will keep Willy and Alex occupied long enough for us to talk to Tyler.

I know it’ll be a bit of a fight, that we’ll have to win him over. He hated it in the beginning, the bread, the small gifts and offerings, kept trying to pay me. I remember that with Katniss too. The abhorrence to feeling like you owe someone. But Katniss never owed me anything, not for the bread, not for anything after. And the Belles certainly don’t owe us anything. It's us who are trying to repay an impossible debt.

When we arrive, I let Owen take the lead like he requested. Asking if him and I can speak with Tyler for a bit, take a walk out along the fence line and leave Prim to watch the boys. Tyler is unsure at first but Prim quickly charms them all, and Willy and Alex nearly shove their father out the front door when they learn that their new babysitter comes with cookies.

In the end, I’m right about our need to convince Mr. Belle. First, because of the dangerous and probably illegal nature of the plan. But second, and more importantly, because he doesn’t want to take anything, to owe Owen. But our boy has good instincts. He speaks at length of the impact Mira made on him, of how much she grew and bloomed in the Capitol. Of how he knew he wanted to be her ally from that first day on the train, of how he could see from the very beginning just how good, and kind, and genuine she was. He speaks of how great a friend she was to him. Of how their small moments of shared friendship and fear leading up to the Games were a balm to his internal panic. Of how he knew that if he couldn’t win, he wanted it to be her, that he would have done anything to get her to that final two if he could, do anything to get her home. Because she deserved it.

“She deserved it more than I ever did, sir.” Owen declares. “I know nothing can ever replace her, but please sir, please let me ensure that you and your family never go hungry again. It's the least that I can do to attempt to repay the impossible debt that I owe you. And if you can’t do it for you or your sons, do it for her. Because I think we both know that more than anything else, Mira would want you all safe and taken care of.”

“How would it work?” Tyler asks.

Owen turns to me then, tears welling in his eyes. He made his big emotional plea; he needs a moment; he needs me to help him. “So, Owen would collect his winnings at the Justice Building every month, he would take a portion of the stipend and set it aside. Then we’d pass it to you throughout the month when we come by every week.” I explain. “Spreading it out like that would make it less obvious and surely my weekly trips out to the Seam have not gone unnoticed by the people who would care. So this is the easiest way to get it to you without raising additional suspicion. But you would need to be careful too. You can’t just show up and start throwing a bunch of money around, people will question where you got it from. And if this is discovered, all of us could get in trouble.”

“Can I think about it?” The young father requests.

“Of course.” Owen agrees. “Take all the time you need.”

“Do they really just hand you a pile of coin every month?” He asks, confused by the way the winnings work.

“They have lock boxes and safes at the Justice Building that we could leave it in, and then come in and take it out as needed, but…” Owen starts.

“Lets just say we’re not so sure how safe they are. Not sure who else might have a key, or who in the Capitol might scrimp off the top.” I finish.

“I mean how could us poor District barbarians keep track of so much coin, anyway.” Owen adds, that false charming smile on his face.

“Ahh.” Tyler nods. “I see.”

“Should we be heading back?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m sure the boys have probably run the young Miss Everdeen ragged by now.” Tyler speaks, attempting to shake off the weight of the conversation we’ve just shared.

“I’m sure Prim doesn’t mind, she loves little kids.” I tell him. “And if this changes that, well, Katniss would probably be happy. She thinks there’s a boy at school that has his eye on Prim so anything to drive home the dangers of such attachments is a good idea in Katniss’ book.”

“A boy has a crush on Prim?” Owen asks, face lighting up with eagerness, nosy for all the details. “Who? How does Katniss know? Do you think Prim likes him back?”

“I know nothing.” I admit, throwing my hands up in surrender. “Just little mumbled frustrations I’ve half-heard under Katniss’s breath.”

When we make it back to the Belle's house, Prim is, thankfully, entirely in one piece and entirely charmed by the boys. Willy and Alex adore her in equal measure, already asking when she’s going to come see them again, if she’ll bring them more cookies. Prim handles it all with her usual grace, promising to come see them soon and to make me bring them cookies again.

With a final request from Owen for Tyler, to “think about it,” the three of us begin the long walk back to Victor's Village.

It’s my turn to be surprised to find someone on the other side of my front door. Tyler Belle in Victor’s Village.

“Um…hi Peeta?” He speaks. “Is Owen here? He said he lived in the third house on the left.”

“Yeah. He’s staying with me right now. It’s a little easier for him and better for all of us to know he’s alright after everything.” I explain. “He’s upstairs, come on in.”

I leave the door wide open as I exit the entryway to call up the stairs. “Owen! Come on, we’re gonna be late!”

“Fuck! Alright! Give me a second!” He shouts back. His usual tone of response when I “order him around” as he would call it.

When I turn back to the door, I find Tyler hasn’t moved. Still stood on the threshold, looking into the dark looming house. The house of his daughter’s mentor, his daughter’s ally, the house his daughter died to let that ally live in. The house his daughter would live in, that him and his sons would live in, if she had won.

“We can wait on the porch.” I offer, returning to the front door and pulling it half-closed behind me. “Owen’s been helping my family out at the bakery, we’re working the second shift today.”

“I thought Victors didn’t have to work, or if they did, they did those silly Capitol jobs like…”

“Painting.” I finish for him. “Katniss’s talent is technically Fashion Design.”

Tyler’s eyebrow arches in disbelief.

“I know.” I agree with a slight laugh. “But there’s a very specific list we’re allowed to choose from. We still have to find one for Owen. But those ‘talents’ are really only in name. Owen and I help at the Bakery more to keep our hands busy than to work. Gives us something to do, people to talk to, that kind of thing.”

A thundering set of footsteps echoes down the stairs, stomping all the way to the front door. “Do you have a jacket?” I shout back into the open door. “Gloves?”

I hear the steps turn back around and make towards the back mudroom, if I lift my ears enough I swear I can catch some frustrated grumbling coming from the elephant currently storming through my home. When he finally pulls open the front door, he’s at least properly attired for the winter walk into town, a snarky comment prepared on his tongue before the sight of Tyler strikes him silent.

“Hello, Owen.” Tyler speaks first.

“Hu…hi, Mr. Belle.”

“Please, call me Tyler, son.” He requests.

“Hi. Tyler.” Owen corrects.

“I won’t keep you.” He speaks. “I just wanted to say that I’ll agree to what we discussed, for Mira.”

“For Mira.” Owen confirms. Offering his hand to the older man, who takes it and seals their agreement in one quick, sturdy shake.

“I heard you’re heading over to the bakery, do you mind if I walk that way with you?” Tyler asks. “I need to pick up some things.”

“Of course.” Owen agrees for us both, before adding in jest. “I know a guy, can probably get you a good deal on sourdough.”

As we set off, my eyes catch on a shifting curtain across the green. Katniss. She may not know the full details of what Owen is doing for the Belles but she knows we’re taking care of them. All of us, in our own ways. For our Mira.

Chapter Text

Katniss

November 11, 74 ADD

If I want to make up for last year, I need this to go well, Ok, to be fair we weren’t speaking this time last year. For months, I didn’t even know I had missed his birthday. But Peeta went out of his way to make mine nice in May so the least I can do is return the favor.

I’ve spent weeks planning this. I’m actually quite proud of how well I’ve kept the surprise hidden. Usually, Peeta can see straight through me but somehow I’ve pulled this entire thing together without letting a detail slip.

Owen is handing Haymitch. Otho is handling the cake. Prim and Madge are setting up the house. Rye and Buck are bringing bread. Delly is bringing a few of his merchant friends. I helped prep dinner this morning, my mother is finishing it up: fried squirrel and that thick pumpkin soup he likes. Orange, his favorite color. All that’s left to do is keep Peeta away from the village long enough for everyone to get to my house without him noticing.

Originally, I considered bringing him back up to the lake. But it would take all day and I want to make sure I stay close enough in case something goes wrong. So instead, I offer the very lame excuse of an afternoon walk to the meadow, maybe dipping under the fence to collect some of the last fruits on the trees for the season.

He agrees and I try to ignore the clear suspicion he’s eying me with as we begin our stroll. He doesn’t comment on it: my weird nervous behavior or that I pulled a white linen dress from the back of my closet to wear in the middle of November. He just accepts my attempts to make small talk and, as usual, refuses to let me carry the basket.

It's an easy, albeit cold, afternoon where he lets me drag him halfway around Twelve and back. Faces flushed and arms laden with late season fruit when we arrive at the Hob, saving half the fruit for pastries and trading the rest. After purchasing hot water with mint leaves to keep our hands warm, we walk through the stalls. Peeta is fast becoming a more familiar face to the vendors. He’s come with me a handful of times now and he's swung by with Owen on the way home from the bakery. He gets less guarded glares, a few more polite smiles, but he's still almost always charged double what they charge me when I’m alone. Peeta refuses to negotiate, no matter how many times I tell him he’s being overcharged. When I asked him why he doesn’t even try to haggle the prices, he simply said, “I have enough money.”

So I follow behind as he gets scammed at every stall, all too happy to be taken advantage of as long as he gets his wares. When we step out of the warehouse, the sun is just beginning to set, perfect.

“Any other errands you need to run?” Peeta asks.

“Nope.” I confirm. “We can head back.”

“Yeah, I’m sure my brothers will have made it to the village by now.”

“Your brothers?” I ask, looking straight ahead as we start down the quickest path home, trying to feign innocence.

“Yeah. That’s what this has all been about right, your job was to keep me away from the village so they could sneak in and surprise me when I get back?” He laughs. Fuck. Of course, he’s figured it all out. “I’m just surprised they convinced you to take part. Or did they use Owen as their go-between?”

“How’d you know?” I play it off.

“They did the same thing last year, nearly gave me a heart attack when I came in and they jumped out at me. But they brought a cake, so I forgave them once the panic passed.”

“I hadn't thought about that.” I should have thought about that. I hate surprises, always have, but since the Games I’m definitely a bit more jumpy. Of course Peeta wouldn’t want a bunch of people jumping out to surprise him ever, let alone on his birthday. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ve ruined the whole celebration and it hasn't even begun. “I’m sorry I should have warned you.”

“It’s alright, Katniss. They do this kind of thing every year.” He speaks and my eyes find his, that long recognizable understanding radiates from him. "When we were kids, it was always small pranks and things. But, hey, at least now they bring cake with them! Fresh too! Not the leftover pastries or stale cupcakes we used to celebrate with growing up.”

“Are they any good at decorating?” I ask.

“Not in the slightest.” He chuckles to himself.

“So it won’t be a very pretty cake will it?”

“Probably not, but it’ll taste good.” He concedes, his elbow brushing mine as he shifts our basket of remaining fruit and purchases to his other arm. “And that's what really matters.”

“Prim would disagree. All she wanted growing up were those beautiful cakes in the window.” I recall the memory with as much fondness as I can. Choosing to ignore the latent feeling of hunger it's tainted by to focus on the ornate creations I can still conjure up in my mind's eye, and Prim's unhindered delight at their existence.

“I remember. She hadn't even thought about what flavor she wanted when I started making her birthday cake last spring.” He muses.

“Yeah, she conned you into giving her a tasting.” I state. When Peeta had offered to make Prim a birthday cake all she had requested was flowers, lots and lots of flowers. Like the ones he had been expertly doing on the fancy cakes we could only stare at for years.

“Yes, she did. And I remember someone else who enjoyed the tasting too.” He bumps his shoulder into mine. “The lemon was your favorite right?”

“Yeah. I liked the lemon, but Prim liked the vanilla.” Prim’s cake had been a vision of bright, happy, yellow, with delicate iced primroses covering the entire thing. He had even dyed the vanilla batter to match the frosting. The only thing sunnier than the cake that day was Prim, herself. She had nearly cried when he presented it to her. She hugged him so tightly in thanks, that for a moment I was worried she was going to going to squeeze all the breath from his lungs.

“We’ll do another tasting in April for Owen’s birthday too, so you’ll have the chance to reevaluate if you need to.” He states. “Y’know before yours in May.”

“What flavor do you think they’ve made for you?” I ask, brushing past his comment on my birthday cake. He doesn’t need to make me a birthday cake, he made some cheese buns this year, and that was just fine. Even if he was quite apologetic about the lack of something more. Apparently my evasive answers on the exact date of my birthday didn’t give him enough time to plan.

“Chocolate.” He declares immediately, entirely sure of his answer. “I always liked the chocolate cupcakes best. And hey, my birthday weren’t all teasing, Rye even snuck me a fresh chocolate cupcake and hid it in the fridge one year. So I got a good one, not stale.”

“Well, I promise the cake won’t be stale, today.”

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world if it was. Just getting to spend the day with you was sweet enough.”

I can’t help it I laugh, because of course he's flirting now. I know he's joking, just teasing to make me blush. And despite my attempts in vein to avoid it I can feel my cheeks flush, maybe I can blame it on the cold November wind if anyone asks. Before I can think of some lackluster quip to toss back in response, we're walking through the open gates of Victor's Village.

Ok, here we go. Peeta starts making the beeline towards his house. I stop him with a quick hand on his elbow. “Not that way, Peeta.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes flit back and forth between me and his front door, confused.

“Everyone is at my house, not yours.” I explain.

“Everyone?” His shoulders dip an almost unnoticeable amount. “Who else did you all invite?”

“Just a few others." I assure him. But I also can't let him walk in there totally unprepared. He said just his brothers jumping out last year almost sent him into a panic attack, and this year we've got a few more people than waiting to do exactly that. "But I’m sorry I was being silly and didn’t think about it, so prepare yourself, they’re planning to jump out and shout surprise. I should have thought it through but I got too caught up in getting to surprise you, for once.”

“It’s alright, now that I know its coming it won’t be so bad. And you’ll protect me.” He jokes, letting me pull him across the green to my porch.

“That is what we usually do.” I answer. There, at least I got one little jest in to counteract his countless.

If I didn't know exactly what waited inside, I would assume that no one was home. All the lights are off, the house appears silent. Nearly as untouched and unused as the many empty homes we share the Village with.

“Ready?” I ask, reaching for the door handle with one hand, and his empty palm with the other.

He takes a deep breath, his face blooming into a smile “Ready.”

I push open the front door.

It takes our guests only a moment to make themselves known. As soon as I flick the lights in the entryway on, an excited chorus of “Surprise!” Bursts forth. He handles it well, only squeezing my hand for half a moment at the shock and then immediately relaxing. He drops my hold to greet his guests.

Delly Cartwright is the first to move, running forward to throw her arms around Peeta’s neck in a tight hug. “Happy Birthday!” She yells, that cheery voice bouncing off the walls.

“Thanks, Delly.”

One by one all of Peeta’s guests approach with their own calls of ‘Happy Birthday,’ taking him into a series of celebratory embraces. Even Owen hugs Peeta fondly, and receives a pointed ruffling of his hair as he pulls away with a taunting call of “aw, knew you loved me too!” from his Mentor.

It's quickly becomes clear to Peeta he is not done being surprised today. His eyes trace around the dining room, taking in Madge and Prim’s paper banner hanging over the windows that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY PEETA in bright block letters. Haymitch pushes him into his assigned seat at the head of the table. The paper streamers sent by Portia — along with a very large wrapped package — have been taped to the ceiling creating a rainbow canopy that rustles and crinkles as we all squeeze ourselves around the table to eat.

Our dinner ends up a bit more extravagant than originally planned. One of Peeta’s merchant friends, Callum Gardner, brought a large salad made with leafy greens and bright red tomatoes. Usually, fresh vegetables are scarce this time of year, and the good stuff; with no spots or show of age yet always go fast and cost a lot. Though, Callum's family owns the Grocers so maybe it's a little easier to come by. Still, he must have snagged the produce right off the train the other day because the salad is as bright and crisp as the ones they serve in the Capitol.

Rye and Buck took my request to bring bread very seriously, and there’s three bread baskets of varying rolls spread out for people to grab. My mother snagged the basket of fruit from Peeta’s hand upon our arrival, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek with her own, soft-spoken, “‘Happy Birthday, Peeta.” The rich red apples now shine in a bowl next to the aromatic pumpkin soup. It's a feast of color and smells and warmth, and Peeta’s eyes drink it all in with awe. Perfect. It’s perfect.

Dinner is loud and chaotic, so different from the quiet and peaceful meals usually shared around this table. But Peeta enjoys himself, laughing easily as his brothers and friends exchange tales of his childhood. Haymitch and Owen fit in better than I expected among the merchants, letting their own charm shine through as they join in to offer their own commentary or ask teasing questions. But no flush of embarrassment blooms on Peeta’s cheeks, only a wide, joyful smile. Yes, perfect.

“How’d you convince Katniss to let you do this?” Peeta asks, as we clear the main course. I gently swat his hands away as he tries to stop me from taking his empty plate.

“We didn’t!” Buck answers. “She came to us.”

“You did?” Peeta whirls on me, shooting up to his feet. I can't tell if the movement comes from his shock or if he's really just that determined to help with the chores.

“Yeah this was all Katniss’s idea.” Rye confirms, tossing a wink my way.

I take advantage of Peeta’s surprise to push him back down into his chair and snag his plate, stepping out of his reach before he can pull me back. “Time for dessert!” I call, hoping my quick dart to the kitchen will hide my blushing face at his brother’s teasing.

Otho follows only a few moments after. When he pulls the cake out of the fridge, I prepare myself for simple. No one can frost and decorate them like Peeta can and I very well couldn’t ask him to bake his own birthday cake. But when Otho opens the box, the dessert within is anything but simple. Now it's my turn to be shocked. The cake is a vivid burst of color; frosting dyed in varying shades of oranges, yellows, and pinks all swirled together as if a swelling sunset. A soft “wow,” escapes my lips. Who made this?

“Sabina did it.” Otho speaks softly, reading the unspoken question in my eyes. We’re the only two in the kitchen but still he admits it like a secret.

“Oh.” I answer flatly, turning to put the last dirty plates in the sink.

I invited his mother, even if I really didn’t want her here, didn’t want her anywhere near Peeta or his birthday, but I invited her nonetheless. Still I was relieved when Rye told me she would not be coming, then I was angry. How dare she ignore his birthday? Is her disdain for me, my mother, and all things Everdeen so great that she won’t even be there with the rest of her family to celebrate her youngest son turning 18?

Well, it seems like she didn’t ignore his birthday after all; she found a small way to at least acknowledge it, to contribute to the small party. Good. I think. It's just the start of what she owes him.

“Y’know it was Sabina who taught him to decorate the cakes. At least the basics, then he just took it and ran.” Otho continues, trying to fill the awkward silence with chatter

“I didn’t know that.” I admit, grabbing the last few cake plates we’ll need. “He’s an exceptional painter.”

“So I hear.” Otho states, a sadness laces his tone even as he offers me a half-smile.

Owen interrupts, clattering into the kitchen with the last few dirty cups held precariously in his arms. He drops them unceremoniously into the sink letting the soapy water break their fall. “You’re on dish duty!” I call over to him.

He flees back into the dining room with nothing more than a dismissing, “yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Please tell me he’s more helpful at the bakery than he is around here?” I ask Otho, helping him transfer the cake from the box to the large serving plate my mother found.

“He’s a good kid.” Otho compliments. “And a quick learner, his measurements could use some work but with a little help he’s coming along well.”

“Does he clean up after himself?” I nod my head towards the sink full of dishes.

“Yes.” Otho answers with a laugh, “Yes, he always does his chores at the bakery.”

“Well, at least he’s doing them for someone.” I declare. “Ready?”

“Wait candles.” Otho pulls a small paper-wrapped package from his pocket, unfolding it reveals a few matches and one bright orange candle. “Alright, Girl on Fire, do us the honors?” He offers the matches out to me.

Once the candle is lit, I let Otho carry the cake back into the dining room, Haymitch flicks off the lights when he sees us come around the corner and an off-key symphony begins. The single source of light, that orange candle, illuminates Peeta’s face as his father sets the cake before him. Another moment of surprise as he takes in the beautifully crafted dessert, his eyes flick up to mine and I see he knows who made it. A moment of sadness appears before that shy smile shifts into something much more mischievous. His brother tells him to “Make a wish!” Peeta winks one of those blue eyes at me and then blows out the candle, plunging us all into darkness to a chorus of raucous cheering.

As we all get a piece of cake, Delly declares its time for gifts. Despite Peeta’s many protestations, we set a small assortment of packages before him. Some new paintbrushes from his family, an ornately painted deck of cards from Haymitch, a new leather coin purse from Delly, fresh flowers and richly scented herbs from Briar Penn, whose family owns the florist; “To make paints!” Briar explains. Prim and Madge had the same idea, and together present him with a wrapped basket of berries. Berries that are usually only outside the fence. I lock eyes with Madge and she juts her head to Owen, in explanation. Well, that makes more sense than the other Seam boy I know who goes out there.

Our Victor puts the rest of us to shame as he gifts Peeta with a record player of his own, and a few records Peeta enjoyed. Owen's shoulders slump under the weight of Peeta’s very genuine gratitude and he barely chokes out a “Yeah, Happy Birthday man,” in response.

The package from Portia, contains fresh canvases, and a smaller package from Effie and his prep team tucked inside. “A camera!” Peeta reads from the card Effie sent. “And my team sent a way to print the photos!” Pulling the device from the box he points the lens at me and shouts “Smile!”

I whip my head just in time to evade the flash and Peeta gets a good laugh at the image that appears on the screen, my braid a dark blur flying across the photo. His other guests are all a bit more willing to be photographed and Peeta spends the rest of the night enjoying his new toy.

He makes a point to spend a good five minutes with everyone in one-on-one conversation, thanking them and catching up. Owen eventually joins me in the kitchen and actually helps with the dishes for once. Slowly the excited chatter fades off and one by one all of Peeta’s guests head home for the night. Leaving the familiar quiet of Victor’s Village in their wake.

Well, I guess I can finally count that as a success. All the guests have cleared out. Everything’s been put away. My mother and sister have both said their last, “Happy Birthdays” and gone to bed. Haymitch has safely made it home, dropping some of Peeta’s gifts off at his house on the way. All that’s left is Owen, Peeta, myself, and the sudden anticipatory awkwardness that falls over us as we stand in the entryway.

“Ok…so I’ll see you tomorrow, Peeta.” Owen declares, his gift for his mentor tucked under his arm. Not even remotely subtle, he throws a wink my way when he catches my eye. Slipping out the door and slamming it closed pointedly behind him. Leaving us alone.

“You ready for your gift?” I ask.

“A gift?” Peeta chides me, fondly. “Katniss, you didn’t need to get me anything. This whole party was more than enough.”

“Yeah, well, I did.” I declare, opening the drawer on the entry table where I've hidden his present.

I thought long and hard about it. Peeta wouldn’t want something ornamental, some pretty trinket to just sit on a shelf forever. Besides, I’d feel silly giving him something like that. So I was determined in my search trying to find something nice, but still something useful.

The idea finally came to me a few weeks ago. The gift only arrived just in time with the help of Effie and Cinna placing a rush on the package coming from the Capitol. It was expensive, more expensive than I’d ever spent on a birthday gift, but Peeta would appreciate it. He didn’t need to know what it cost. And now I know Owen’s gift to him probably cost more, anyway.

I wrapped the present in some orange fabric bought from the Hob, tied it off with a dark red ribbon of Prim’s, and accepted it was the best I could manage. But if the shocked look of, almost reverence, he eyes the gift with means anything; he doesn’t mind the simple, slightly imperfect, packaging.

“Should I open it now, or do you want me to wait until I get back home?” He asks, still not reaching out to take the gift from my outstretched hand.

“Open it now.”

He sets the last tokens from his friends and family down on the entry table and finally accepts the present. Running his fingers over the soft fabric, he pulls the end of the ribbon, and I reach out to take it from him. Instead of letting me help empty his hands, though, he lifts it high in the air between us, out of my reach. “I like this color.” He comments, blue meets silver. “You wore a dress this color in Six, right? On our tour?”

He's right. It had been long, with a light flowy fabric that moved as I walked. “Yes. Cinna made me wear a bow in my hair.”

“Oh, how could I ever forget the bow?” He teases. “It was a good color against your hair.”

“Open your gift.” I roll my eyes, hating the way my face heats at the compliment.

The proud smirk on his face falls when he pulls the orange fabric away. A thick leather-bound notebook, blank, perfect for sketching. Tucked underneath it a thin travel case, also made of rich, soft, leather and inside a fresh set of vibrant colored pencils. He says nothing but runs his thumb over the paper edges. He hates it. I’ve overstepped. He probably has some specific type of paper he prefers, or too many pencils already.

“I thought you could use it for Owen’s tour!” I rush out, hoping to save it. “It’s so you can bring your pencils for sketching and stuff, so you can travel with them.”

“I…uh. Thank you Katniss.”

“Do you like it?” My voice comes out desperate.

“It’s perfect!” He assures me. “I’ll definitely bring it with me on the train.” He smiles, wide and open. A genuine Peeta smile.

“Promise to draw me something on tour?” I request. “No Games stuff though, something nice.”

“I’ll draw you something whenever you’d like, Katniss.” He promises. He pulls out a dark red pencil. "Maybe I’ll start with you in District 6, the red bow in your hair.”

“Oh, don’t draw me! I said something nice!”

“I think you’re nice and I’m the artist so I get to decide.” He leans in just a touch as he adds my gift to his small pile. I roll my eyes again, but I can’t do anything to stop the small flutter of my heart of the thought of him sketching me.

He really is very talented. He made a sketch of Buttercup sitting proudly on our porch railing to accompany his cake as a gift for Prim’s birthday. The drawing is framed and placed prominently on her dresser.

“Oh your cake! We boxed it up for you to take home!” I recall, moving to flee the odd tension that's forming with his flirting.

“My hands are a little full now!” He declares, halting me in my tracks.

“I can help carry it over for you.” I hear myself offer. “If you want.”

“Or I can leave it here, and just grab it in the morning.” He suggests.

“Sure, come grab it in the morning.”

“Promise not to eat it all before I’m back?” He teases.

“I’m not the one you have to worry about, it's Prim who has the sweet tooth.” I throw my hands up in defense.

“Well then, I’ll just have to count on you to save me a piece for breakfast.”

“I shall do my best.”

“You’ve had no difficulty facing down Buttercup before, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He laughs.

“Thank you Katniss, really.” Peeta repeats, voice dipping soft once more, not wanting to break the quiet peace we’ve built in the entryway. “For all of it, for the party, the gift, everything.”

“Well, I had to make up somehow for last year.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I missed your birthday last year, I absolutely had to go all out this year!” I argue with a laugh of my own. “And expect something big next year too! Nineteen is quite an exciting age to reach in Panem.”

It probably won’t carry quite the relief for Peeta as it will for everyone else; we’re not eligible for the reaping anymore, afterall. But after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve lost, he deserves a celebration worthy of the occasion.

“Well, thank you Katniss.” He says one more time. He steps into my space and for a split second I think he’s going to press a kiss to my lips. He leans in, but his lips don’t find mine, instead pressing a small, quick, almost shy kiss to my cheek.

Something stirs in my chest, something sad, aching, disappointment? I don’t have time to think on it though because he’s jumping back, cheeks flushed, eyes wide in panic, like he’s done something wrong.

“Sorry.” He tries to brush it off, using his free hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

Before I can stop myself, my mouth moves faster than my mind, “It’s your birthday, I’ll allow it.”

I pause, letting the moment hang, letting myself live in the easy companionship, the safety and softness he always offers me. “Good night, Peeta.” I state, rising on my toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Not for any cameras, for him. For his birthday. And maybe just a little bit, for me.

Chapter Text

Owen

January 4, 75 ADD

Six months. It’s been exactly six months since the Reaping, since the Games. Five months since I became a Victor. Four months since I started hunting with Katniss. Three months since I successfully baked my first loaf of bread good enough to sell. Two months since I finally slept through the night without waking from nightmares. Ok, I was in the midst of a pretty intense fever and had some really freaky dreams, but I’ll take any stretches of sleep I can. One month since I moved in with Peeta. Two weeks since I finally killed my first game, a small deer. My shot wasn’t nearly as good at Katniss’s usually are, but the animal didn’t suffer, which is what mattered most to me. We’ve been enjoying the venison since, and I even brought some to the Community Home so the kids could have a decent New Year’s meal.

But today, apparently, is not about hunting. Katniss dragged me out to the woods for something else, and with my Victory Tour only a week away, it surely can’t be anything good.

“We need to talk.” She declares when we reach that familiar rock.

“Ok. What is it now?”

“Last year, before our Tour…” She starts.

“Katniss not to be a dick but I really don’t want to talk about the Tour! I’ve spent every waking moment for the last two weeks being bombarded about the Tour! I’ve started taking hour long walks around the district just to avoid the ringing phone.”

“Effie?”

“Yeah! She’s got all these tours and meetings with chefs set up.” Cooking. They had decided to make my Victor’s talent cooking. Who cares that before the last six months I subsisted on basically bland gruel and tesserae bread for my whole life. Maybe the occasional snagged apple from the fruit tree near the meadow or stolen from the hob, a small portion of meat if the Community Home got lucky around the harvest holidays.

But I guess because I haven’t burned the Mellark’s bakery down yet, Effie and Haymitch decided cooking was the perfect fit. So now I get to be paraded around the country, photographed pretending to be eager and interested in district cuisine and chopping techniques. Choking down rich foods and trying to ignore the fact that half of Panem is starving, Ridiculous. It’s all fucking ridiculous. Effie’s got all these etiquette lessons lined up and seems far too excited to make sure I know how to properly waltz. But I made a promise to Mira, I can’t renege on it now.

“Owen. I know it's annoying and ridiculous.” Katniss speaks, reading my mind, or more likely just my face. “I know Effie can be…a lot…but this is the deal. Remember what we talked about the first time I brought you out here?”

“The Capitol is angry.” I recall. “We’re upsetting their very delicate system with our unwillingness to die violently and brutally for their entertainment.”

“Yes.” She snarks back at my sarcasm. “This is how we prove you’re not a threat. You play along, we all play along. You play the role a charming, humble, young man who's eternally grateful to the Capitol for their kindness.”

“Eternally grateful that they failed to kill me, you mean.”

“Owen.” She scolds. “I mean it. This is serious. Last year, before our Tour, Snow came to see me.”

“In Twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Is that normal?”

“No.” She answers quick, but there's no surety in her eyes. “I don’t know. I know he didn’t speak to Peeta, only me.”

“And…”

“He wanted to talk about the Berries.” She explains. “To warn me of a very special role I had to play on my tour. Apparently, our 'unwillingness to die' inspired some people to speak about…rebellion.”

“Rebelling against the Capitol?” I can't help it, I lean in.

“Yes.” She confirms, voice dipping soft despite our distance from the District and it's many ears. “So on our tour it was my job to convince the country that I didn’t lift those berries to my lips as a message, as some grand statement about the futility of the Games. But because I was so hopelessly in love with Peeta that I would rather die than live without him.”

“And did it work? Did you convince them?”

“Apparently I convinced the people, at least enough to quell some of the unrest. But I didn't convince Snow, not truly.” She declares. “And with the way your Games ended…”

“You think he might come speak to me. Might put that same responsibility on my shoulders?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“You blew up the Cornucopia, talk about a message.”

“Katniss, lets be honest here. If there are sparks of rebellion for the second year in a row, there might be nothing we can do to stop it!” I argue. “No matter how humble and grateful we behave, no matter how perfectly we perform. When a spark catches its hard to burn out.”

“We need to try!” She shouts.

“Why?” I throw back. “You see it just as well as I do, this entire system is unfair. The Games are unfair, they are violent and sick and cruel.”

“Shhhh!”

“Why? No one is out here to hear me Katniss!”

“If we don’t try, we will die! Snow will kill us! He will kill my family! He will kill Peeta’s! He will kill and torture and ruin everyone we’ve ever cared about!” She throws at me. "I’ve spent every single day since my father’s death keeping my family alive! I can’t…I don’t know what I’ll do if…”

At the mention of Burdock Everdeen tears fill her eyes, and my usually strong mentor, my friend, shudders under the weight of his all. Hiding her face in her hands as she lets the first of those tears fall.

“Ok. It’s ok, Katniss. Take a breath.” I try to soothe her, placing a hand on each of her shoulders. Grounding her, like Peeta always says helps a panic attack. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Of course I’ll play along.”

“You’ll listen to Peeta and I?” She asks, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

“I promise.” I answer, and mean it. “I’ll even listen to Haymitch and Effie! No matter how annoying or ridiculous.”

“Thank you.” A sigh worth half her body weight falls past her lips. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t important.”

“Yeah, Kat. You kept me alive.” I remind her. “I owe you this at least.”

Katniss

January 11, 75 ADD

Unfortunately — well, maybe not unfortunately — It’s not Owen that Snow visits before the Tour this year, it's me. Again.

I didn’t go hunting this morning, wanted to be around in case something went wrong or Snow came for Owen. He’d gone back to his assigned house last night. We still haven’t decided if we want people knowing he’s staying with Peeta, so best to have him there in his own home when the cameras arrive. But that just meant I spent the night sitting awake and freezing next to my open window listening for the telltale sound of Owen’s nightmare induced screaming.

My head is just nodding off against the windowsill when the loud buzzing of a hovercraft shatters the peaceful winter’s morning. I leap to my feet, rushing to the entryway to grab my shoes, ready to make a break for Owen’s house if need be. I’m just slipping my arms into my winter coat when a knock sounds on the front door. My front door.

“Good Morning, Miss Everdeen.” The voice of President Snow greets me on the threshold. “Are you going somewhere this morning? A walk perhaps.”

“No, sir.” I state, once I manage to find my voice around the shock. “I was just planning to check in with Peeta before the chaos of the tour starts.”

“It’s quite early, will Mr. Mellark be awake?”

Clearing my throat and steeling my heartbeat I answer, “He’s a baker, sir. He usually wakes before even the sun.”

“Of course. Forgive me, I’ve never paid much attention to the details of baking bread.” He answers. “May I come in Miss Everdeen? There are some things I’d like to speak with you about before the ‘chaos’ descends.”

“Yes, sir.” I step back from the door, letting Panem's President and the three peacekeepers accompanying him into my home.

He moves straight towards the study, recalling the path from his similarly unexpected visit this time last year. He’s just retaken the large leather seat at the desk when a pair of soft steps make themselves known on the stairs. Prim. I feel myself shift even deeper into fight-or-flight mode.

“Katniss?” Her voice calls. I don’t answer. Don’t come this way, don’t come looking for me. “Katniss?” She calls again.

“We’re in here Miss Everdeen.” Snow answers for me. Her steps halt in the hall. We’ve heard his voice blaring from our TV screens our entire lives, surely she recognizes its timbre, knows who’s invaded our home.

“Katniss?” I hear her a third time, softer, hesitant. Yes, she knows who’s here.

I turn on my heel to face her. She, like me, is still dressed in her pjs. Her hair flows free over her shoulders, and she holds Buttercup tightly in her arms. Good. The one thing that blasted cat and I see eye-to-eye on is protecting Prim. Her blue eyes look at me wide with fear. Before I can come up with an excuse to keep her from the room, keep her as far away from him as possible, our Good President Snow speaks once more.

“Miss Everdeen.” He summons her. His tone is polite but there’s a sternness to it, making clear that refusal is not an option. “It is so nice to see you. I apologize for interrupting your morning, your sister and I need to speak for a few moments before the tour begins.”

“That’s alright.” Prim answers with perfect politeness, our mother's merchant manner's shining through. “Would you like some tea, sir? I can put the kettle on.”

“Oh no, I’ll only be here briefly, your sister has a very busy few weeks coming for her.”

“Ok. It was nice to see you, sir.”

“You as well, Primrose.” His eyes find mine as he says her name. His too puffed up lips curling around the syllables with a familiarity that makes me feel sick. That cruel, threatening, smile returns to his face.

With that dismissal, Prim hurries from the room, clutching Buttercup impossibly tighter against her chest.

“Please close the door, Miss Everdeen.”

I follow his command without question, what can one even say in refusal to a man like this. “We have done everything you’ve asked, sir.” I state, trying to keep my voice steady, hoping to hide the fear, the anger that always swells in me when I’m forced into his presence. “We’ve been humble, loyal to the Capitol, we played our part as Mentors in the Games.”

“Yes. And you were quite good at it weren’t you.”

“We got lucky.” I declare. “Owen got lucky.”

“And he got himself home.” Snow states the fact as if it's an accusation, a crime.

“I think that’s owed to the Dynamite he received at the feast. And once again, sheer luck he survived the blast.” I answer, defending Owen.

“Yes, the blast, the spark, the crumbled Cornucopia. It’s all quite a poster he painted.” He eyes me, as if he’s gaging my reaction to the words. A poster? What does he mean a poster?

“A poster, sir?” I ask.

“A message.” He explains.

“Owen wasn’t trying to send any message. He just wanted to survive. He just wanted to come home. That’s all any of us wanted.”

“That may be the case Miss Everdeen, but that's not how others are seeing it.” He states. “Do you remember our conversation last year, before your own tour?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll do well to pass on my advice to your boy, Miss Everdeen.” He orders. “I’d hate for him or anyone else you care about to have an accident. Bakeries, mines, a few misplaced sparks can bring them down after all.”

His threat is immediately clear, and all too familiar: Peeta, Owen, Peeta’s family, Gale.

“Well then, we’ll all just have to be very careful won’t we.”

“Yes, Miss Everdeen. Fire can be very dangerous, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Peeta

January 11, 75 ADD

I pull my coat tighter around me as I hurry across the green. I thought we had more time. But no. I dove into a quick shower and, of course, missed the hovercraft’s arrival. Does Katniss know? How long has he been here? How long has he been alone with Owen? I’m stopped in my tracks when her front door opens and President Snow crosses her threshold.

Katniss. He was visiting Katniss again. Fuck!

“Mr. Mellark.” He greets me with that false smile, stepping off the porch to approach. “I apologize for holding up your fiancee, I’m sure she was just about to come stop by like she planned.”

“Yes. I was getting worried.” I try to laugh it off. “Usually she’s an early riser, I thought maybe she overslept.”

“Well, you have nothing to worry about. I simply stopped by to say hello, pass along my best wishes and congratulations before you set off on the Tour.” His grin is cruel, mocking.

“Oh, were you going to stop by and see Owen as well, sir?” I ask, silently begging to the universe that the answer is, no.

“No. If I recall, him and Katniss have always seen eye-to-eye. I’m sure she’ll pass along my message to Mr. Sparrow.”

“Yes, they are very similar aren’t they sir?”

“Then you best hold on tight, Mr. Mellark, birds have a way of returning to the nest, to familiar.” He quips, a feigned casualness in his tone. “Good Luck, I will see you all in the Capitol.”

When his too tight face leaves my vision, Katniss appears. Her own face is soft, pale, her arms hugging herself far too tightly. Not even trying to play at calm or collected. She’s still in her pjs, her dark green jacket thrown over her in haste, as if she really was about to casually cross the Green to knock on my door.

I see Snow reach the hovercraft out of the corner of my eye and with purposeful strides bridge the remaining distance to Katniss. As I get closer I realize her eyes are glassy, frightened. Knowing we’re surely still being watched I wrap my arm around her waist in a half hug, placing a small kiss on her cheek as I whisper, “You ok?”

She pulls me into a full hug; her trembling hands desperately grip the back of my coat as she nods against my shoulder.

“Owen, ok?” I murmur against her hair.

“He needs to be careful.” She answers, muffled by my t-shirt.

“We’ll keep him safe.” I promise her. I don’t know how, but we will. We cling to each other until the sound of the hovercraft has fully fled, replaced by the trills of the winter cardinals. “Let’s go check on him.” I finally speak.

Any of the limited composure we managed to show for our minders disappears as we take off in a sprint down her steps and up Owen’s. Katniss doesn’t even try to knock, just throws the front door open, letting it bang against the wall as she bursts in. I follow half a step behind as she calls out for him. “Owen?” She shrieks, ducking her head into one room them the next. “Owen? OWEN!”

We find him in the study, in a ball on the floor. His knees pressed against his chest, his hands squeezed over his ears, hiding, beneath the window. Katniss drops before him in a flash, grabbing his wrists to loosen their hold. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he rips his hands from her, throwing himself back against the wall, fingers tugging violently on his hair as he curls up again.

“Owen!” She yells, reaching for him once more, he kicks out a leg trying to keep her back as he descends further into his panic, into his madness. She lets out a startled yelp when he makes contact with her knee.

With no hesitation, I dive for him. Grabbing his arms I stop his self-assault. Breaking through his panic I pull him into a hug, pressing him against my chest. Portia always says, physical touch can be grounding during panic attacks. Usually hands are enough, but I’ve never had a panic attack this bad, never seen a panic attack this bad.

He tries to fight me off for a moment, catching my jaw with a rogue fist, but I refuse to let go. Owen’s not the weak, malnourished boy he once was. Six months of consistent food and shifts at the bakery have let him build up his strength. But I’m stronger.

It takes a few minutes, gently rocking him back and forth, shushing his panicked cries, Katniss’ hand drawing soft circles rhythmically over his shoulder blades. But eventually, he calms. His muscles go limp, his breathing steadies.

“I’m okay.” He speaks against my chest, trying half-heartedly to shove me off. “Really Peeta, you can let go, I’m okay.”

Cautiously, I loosen my hold on him, letting him pull himself free. He immediately looks to Katniss. “You were right. He came to see us.” Owen declares, hinting at a conversation I have yet to be made privy too. Probably from some morning in the woods. “I…I’m sorry. I…I just…” He stutters, breathing rapidly becoming ragged.

Now it’s Katniss’ turn to embrace him. He goes much more willingly into her hold. “It’s ok, Owen. It’s going to be ok.” Our eyes meet over his curls. She’s afraid, doesn’t believe an ounce of what she’s saying. But Owen can’t see her face, doesn’t read her quite like I do. And she schools her face into one of feigned assuredness when he pulls back. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

Katniss pulls him from the floor and he follows her dutifully into the kitchen. We brought over everything he’d need for breakfast last night, so she sits him down at the counter as I pull eggs and bacon from the bridge. Once he’s settled, Katniss comes around to help me. She pulls the wheat loaf from the bread box and then turns to the fancy coffee machine Owen has. She only has to stare at it confused for a few moments before Owen steps up to help.

We silently move around each other preparing breakfast for three. Focusing on the easy, practiced, routine rather than the impending doom awaiting us just outside Owen’s front door.

Unfortunately, our Prep Teams arrive right on schedule. Effie Trinket bursting in with her regular pomp and gusto. Her now familiar, overly cheery declaration of, “It’s a big, big day!”

Octavia, Venia, and Flavius swarm Owen and Katniss talking over each other in their excitement to greet their Victors. My team is a bit more calm as they say their hellos and take turns to each wrap me in a tight hug. Only once the colorful flock of birds have finished, do Cinna and Portia finally step forward to take us each into an embrace of their own.

Katniss and Owen’s prep team handle him first while Effie and the Camera crew set up for the show of his talent. Cooking. Effie has always had a taste for irony, whether or not she’s aware of it. I’m dragged away for my own tortuous series of treatments before I’m allowed to freely wander back over to his house.

When I return, Owen is dressed and painted with that well-known Capitol sheen. Katniss is no where to be found so surely she’s the current victim of Capitol Prep, but Haymitch has joined the festivities. He’s being fussed over by Effie, ridiculing his clothes and his still soaked hair, but at least he pulled himself from his bottle and showered without us having to dumb a bucket of ice water over his head this year.

I find Owen in the living room, showing Cinna his record player and explaining which ones are his favorites. We really ought to move that to my house, when we get back. Cinna’s got a proud smile on his face, and Owen looks comfortable for the first time all day.

Before I can join them, Haymitch pulls me aside. “Heard a hovercraft.” He states. No questions, no pity, no emotion that the many Capitol ears around us can misread or misinterpret.

“Yes.” I confirm.

“Owen?”

I shake my head once. Haymitch points one finger at me in question. I shake my head again. He nods in answer, his spine going straight at the confirmation that it was Katniss who got the unwelcome visitor this morning.

“We’ll talk.” He says and then marches away.

“Ok Owen!” Effie bursts into the room and Owen’s face momentarily falls before he rights his mask of fake charm. “Let’s get this started!”

Katniss returns as we near the end of Owen’s filmed portion. Gone are her pjs, her mussed braid, her heavy warm jacket. Instead, she’s now dressed in a monochromatic outfit of sleek black: her silk skirt, her sweater, her jacket all the same dark shade. Her hair is down, shiny, and flowing in light loose waves. It’s gotten so long. I hadn’t realized, but the ends now nearly reach her waist. I doubt Flavius will let it stay like that for the full length of our trip but I can’t stop myself from lifting one rogue wave and drawing it back over her shoulders.

She smiles softly when I do it so I don’t let myself feel any regret or embarrassment at my momentary lack of forethought. She looks beautiful, as always, with the Capitol makeup and styling, but her discomfort is clear. She’s rocking her weight back and forth in her heeled boots — burgundy, the only splash of color that adorns her — and her camera-ready smile is slightly twitchy at the corners when the camera man spins around to grab a shot of us to cut into the promotional material.

It's Katniss who reaches out for me first, looping her hands in the crook of my arm and tugging me into her side. Snow’s warning from last year.

Last year Snow had challenged her to not only convince the districts of our love story but to “convince him.” I still don’t know how convinced he truly is, especially after his little comment before departing. Was he hinting at Gale or Owen when referencing my supposed, romantic rival? The thought of Owen and Katniss together romantically is a joke, she fusses over him and worries nearly as much as she does over Prim. He’s basically a little brother to her. And sure, Owen’s admiration for Katniss has never been a secret but there’s no romantic tone to it. He trusts her, relies on her, she makes him feel safe. The boy has no family of his own, so I don’t blame him for finding some semblance of that in Katniss. Gale, though?

Well, its Gale. He keeps to his neck of the woods, literally, and I mine. They still go hunting together once a week but she never says much about what they do or talk about out there. I know they’ve kissed, at least once after our Games, but I don’t know if that’s continued. I’d like to think it hasn’t. With the threat hanging over our heads, with our engagement — which I know he was rightfully quite enraged about — but I can’t be sure. I think I’d rather not know, let myself live in ignorance as long as I can.

But Snow likes to pick at us, play at our insecurities. Was that his goal? To make me question? To drive a wedge between Katniss and I? Or does he actually know something about Katniss and Gale that I don’t.

I can’t ask. Not right now. Not with all these cameras and ears around us. And Katniss certainly won’t appreciate my probing.

Sometimes I catch something in her eyes, when she lets her walls down just a little bit, and it gives me hope. Or when she falls easily into my arms in the dark: all those nights on the train, every night of Owen and Mira’s Games, even that one night in Twelve before Owen ever came into our lives. The way she seems to seek me out for comfort, the way she trusts me to help her with Owen, the way she trusts me with Prim.

I mean she threw me a birthday party. That Birthday Party. No one has ever done something like that for me before.

But every time I have that moment of hope, I have to remind myself. She didn’t ask for this. She knows that too. Surely she does, because every time she gets a little too close for her comfort, she suddenly pulls back, puts distance between us. And I let her.

A year ago, we weren’t even speaking. Hadn’t spoken for months. At least now, we’ve found a balance of some kind. A real friendship. We trust each other. We protect each other. You can build a life on that, a marriage. But can you survive, be sustained, on only that? Can Katniss? Can I?

Can I live a life where she’s simultaneously just in reach and yet, I'm forever unable to have her completely? To actually have her look at me and know it's not an act? That she really feels for me what I feel for her? She’s my friend. We protect each other, that’s the truth of it. And there’s no going back now.

“Peeta!” Effie calls, breaking through my thoughts. “Smile, darling!”

Oh. We’re still on camera. I force my face into a smile, feel Katniss squeeze my arm in a show of silent support, and with that it seems we’re all set.

“Alright! Everyone outside!” Effie declares, ushering the cameras and our prep teams towards Owen’s front door. One-by-one she sends us out in procession, making sure every moment is caught on film for the pleasure of the Capitol. A series of large black cars wait at the open Village fence and before I know it we’re on our way to the train station.

When Katniss and I, once again arm in arm, make it to the platform, I find both our families waiting to say their goodbyes. Prim, dressed in a crisp white coat, rushes to us first and I let Katniss step away to catch her sister’s incoming embrace. My family, dressed half in their old reaping clothes and half in the handful of items Portia, ‘accidentally’ sent in the wrong size, approach me to pull me in a hug one by one. Much to my joy, they each say their ‘goodbyes’ and ‘good lucks’ to Owen as well. Even my mother has made the trip. She gives me a quick, somewhat stilted hug, and with one last command of ‘do us proud,' we part.

Prim steals the opportunity to send me off and leaps to throw her arms around my neck. When I lift her off the ground in a hug, I notice just how tall she’s gotten. Still not quite as tall as Katniss, but a year of steady, robust food have certainly spurred on a bit of a growth spurt.

I can’t stop myself from thinking of the other little girl who was with us the last time we stepped on this train, Mira. A girl who will never get the chance to have a growth spurt, a girl who would’ve looked just as lovely in a fancy white coat, and the last little girl who hugged me this tightly. Mira hugged with that desperation out of fear, clinging to me like I might be able to prevent her from having to get in that elevator, like I might be the one who could keep her safe. I couldn’t keep her safe. But maybe I can keep Prim safe.

So I squeeze her one last time, the girl hugging me with genuine fondness, not fear.

With that, there are no more delays. It’s time to go. Effie ushers us onto the train and I can’t stop myself from flinching at the door sealing closed behind us. We are once again on this train. Once again on an unstoppable, inevitable, trek, hurling ourselves towards the Capitol.

Chapter Text

Owen

January 75 ADD

Eleven is up first, and we’re met with a solemn, heavy presentation. Peacekeepers as far as the eye can see, the citizens shoved far back from the stage. Katniss and Peeta are full of hushed, persistent warnings, clinging to my arms as it nears time for me to step out onto the dais.

“Stick entirely to the cards.” Peeta commands. “Don’t go off script.”

“They’re going to show the faces of the fallen tributes. Their families will be there on a dais of their own. This isn’t the time to play charming. Just be respectful and polite!” Katniss warns.

“No snarky comments or jokes. Just stick to the cards.” He repeats. “Promise me!”

I think back to last night, Haymitch pulling Katniss, Peeta, and I out onto snowy train tracks when we stopped to refuel. The Capitol attendants looked at us like we were mad but were brushed off by a gruff “Need some air!” from Haymitch as he wrenched open the back door.

Once we were a safe enough distance from the train, and its many bugs and ears, Katniss began speaking. The truth of her meeting with Snow spilling out in a messy, rambling, rant. She was right, Snow has once again issued us an unachievable challenge: the quelling of rebellion.

I notice Haymitch’s breath catch on the way Snow described my desperate act with the dynamite, a poster. A poster? Does that mean something to him?

Once Katniss is done, Peeta steps in explaining the full story of their Victory Tour stop in Eleven. I had heard bits about it; I knew he tried to give the District 11 Tributes’ families part of their winnings. I knew they were afraid it had killed them. I knew they had since been informed they families were still alive. But the Three-Finger Salute, the execution of the man who started it, that was all news to me.

There was something else odd though, an off-handed comment from Effie that I can’t quite shake. Apparently some of the Tour Organizers hadn’t wanted Katniss and Peeta to join me, only Haymitch. As far as I know, the Victor’s Mentors always accompany them on their Tour. And sure, Haymitch just did this last year, but he wasn’t technically my Mentor.

Beyond that, Effie spent half of last-nights dinner complaining loudly about how much more hands-on the organizers were this year. “I mean this is not my first time doing this after all! I’m the first escort in history to manage Dual Victors!” She guffawed over the fluffy white cake they served for dessert. “It’s just so disrespectful! Just because you’re from an outer district does not mean you need to be micromanaged.”

Is this what they’re afraid of? That Katniss and Peeta will only hurt my attempts at calming unrest? That they themselves are too dangerous? Effie eventually won the argument to let them attend but the Capitol organizers just got more aggressive in their attempts to control the tour. Yes, they are very invested in this going well. In watching my, likely, vain attempts at keeping things calm.

For probably the thousandth time since I set off those sparks, I wish I hadn't…I wish that I had just.… But every time, a voice rises in my head. A soft, shy, feminine voice. The voice I can’t seem to shake lately. Mira, scolding me for my cynicism, my self-degradation. She wouldn’t want me to be dead. That was our deal, one of us would be the Victor. I’m the Victor. It should have been her.

But that was not the hand fate has dealt us. So no, I won’t let myself fall into that trap. I have to live. The longer I live, the longer her family can continue to get my winnings, the longer I can make sure they’re taken care of, make sure they’re kept safe. For Mira. I have to live for Mira.

So I have to trust Katniss and Peeta, Haymitch too. I have to be compliant and humble, and the perfectly charming Victor. I can do this. I have to do this.

“Ok! Ok! I Promise!” Is all I rush out before Effie drags me from them to my place in front of the Justice Building doors.

I do my best to keep all their advice in mind. Lifting my chin, walking with confidence, like Effie always says. I don’t get snarky, not that the atmosphere would allow for it. But even with Katniss’s warning about the highlighting of the fallen tributes and their families, nothing could have prepared me for the actual sight. My eyes catch on the daises immediately, it's nearly impossible to avoid it. Annie, who made it to the Final 3 before slipping off a ledge in that last windstorm, her photo projected large over the left back corner of the square. I hem and haw and stumble over my words, but at least I stick to the cards.

It doesn’t get easier after Eleven. The days become repetitive, draining. Prodded and poked by my prep team, paraded in front of a crowd that does not want to see me, does not want to be there, does not want to remember. Then an evening among the rich and wealthy, the Mayor and their cronies, or the Capitollites who have made the trip. Some travel to check on their investments in the District, others couldn’t snag an invitation to the President’s Ball that waits at the end of this train line. Another evening of ignoring my exhaustion, playing up the charm, trying not to cringe at the fawning, the too familiar touches, all those comments about my brilliance in the Games, my brutality.

The ceremony in Ten goes smooth enough, but Effie chides me for my posture and my 'attitude', ordering me to 'get it together, young man.'

In Nine, I nearly set the kitchens on fire during my demonstration with the baker Effie has selected. Peeta, much to my embarrassment, has to step in and smooth things over. Making jokes about how I’m still learning, before calming the chef’s anger with several earnest questions about grain production and proofing times.

I make mistakes at every single stop and even when they deem my performance half-way acceptable other factors arise. Those breaks in routine bring horror, bring danger.

Eight is angry, rightfully so. They were so close to having a Victor this year. It would have been their first in nearly 15 years. They were so close and to then fall short, through no fault of Reed’s own. Reed. It’s the first time I have to face the family of someone I killed. Katniss, in her ill-effective attempts to make me feel better, argues that it's not technically my fault, that it was the Cornucopia’s destruction that killed him, not me. But, I’m the reason the canaries chased us to the Cornucopia, I’m the one who threw the dynamite.

Effie has added a few lines acknowledging Reed’s success, his historic resilience in making it to the final two. And like the coward I am, I can’t face them, can’t meet the eyes of Reed’s family as I barely choke out the words. Not that they probably would have heard them clearly even if I managed it. The audience spends the entire, thankfully short, ceremony glaring me down, their anger rising like a wave until they are shouting and pushing forward against the peacekeepers and barricades corralling them in. As soon as I’m handed the plaque by the mayor and we take our photo, I’m dragged from the stage, and off to another night of schmoozing and ignoring the tension just beyond the doors.

But the nights offer no respite. Because every night she appears, haunting me, haunting the train, like a ghost. She’s there in my nightmares, as usual, and when I drag myself awake she’s there still. Sitting at my side on the grand couch in the dining suite, just around the corner slipping into her door. But it's not her door. Not anymore. It doesn’t matter, I cannot escape Mira Belle. Not that I deserve to.

I know Katniss is annoyed with the ways Flavius keeps styling her hair down, clearly itching to tie it off in her signature braid, but I’m grateful for the change. Usually I’m able to separate the sight of the dark plait on Katniss from Mira’s last moments. But sometimes, especially here on the train once more, the two Seam girls are harder to differentiate in my mind. For not the first time, I find myself envious of Katniss and Peeta. They have each other. They didn’t have to do this alone. I wish I wasn’t alone.

In Seven, I’m forced to confront the second of my victims. This time I manage better at forcing myself into numbness, well my face anyway. Choking out all the words, thanking the Capitol with the humbleness they’ve trained into me. I only let my eyes fall on Arden’s family for a moment and I refuse to look at Juniper’s. I can’t look at Juniper’s family, can’t scan them for similarities to the girl who killed Mira. I can’t see Juniper’s picture broadcast large behind them because the only way I can see her is approaching Mira as the cannon sounds. And if I think about the cannon then I have to think about why, and I have to picture Mira, and her braid, and those last moments and… So I don’t look at Juniper’s family, and I keep my face blank, my voice steady, as I deliver those now well-rehearsed words. But then apparently I’m too unemotional in my delivery and this time I get chided for my callousness by our escort.

In Six, I spill an entire latrine of soup over Katniss, ruining her silky green gown and nearly burning her skin with the steaming liquid. The look she shoots my way is sharp as her arrows, and I’m suddenly extremely grateful her bow is still tucked in a hollowed tree stump back in the woods outside Twelve. But she can’t be too mad, especially when the disruption results in Peeta throwing his coat over her shoulders and gives them the perfect excuse to depart early for the train. She knocks on my door when we get back, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in hand and a quick ‘Good Night,’ as an offer of forgiveness.

In Five, my "attitude" rears its head again and I yell at Haymitch. He just made some usually gruff comment about me biting my nails and I accidentally unloaded all my frustration on him in a swearing, screaming, effusion. Clearly, he wasn’t too surprised because in response he starts cackling, exclaiming that maybe he should pass me his drink as it seems I need it more.

And then — Four. It’s in Four that I really fuck up. The day starts bad, with a heavy storm canceling our filmed trip to the beach and postponing the Victory Ceremony. But that leaves us stuck waiting in the Justice Building for the rain to stop, and forces me to sit there with my rising panic trying to think about anything and anyone but Kai.

Unfortunately, the odds are not in my favor today. A knock sounds on the door to the room where they have us waiting. It can’t be Haymitch or Effie, they’d have just marched right in. Peacekeepers would have done the same. So Peeta approaches with caution, swinging it open just as the second round of rapping starts.

I see his back go stiff as he chokes out, “Oh, hello.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting, I was just hoping to borrow a moment of your time.” A male voice speaks.

Peeta looks at me over his shoulder, his face an unreadable mix of emotions and turmoil. As soon as he steps aside I understand the reason.

The face of Kai stares back at me. No, not Kai. Kai didn’t have crows feet or smile lines, he didn't live long enough to have the chance. But the eyes are the same, a startling sea-green. That familiar wide, easy smile, though plagued by an extra sadness, a grief. No, this is not Kai. Kai Murray is dead. This can only be one person. Mayor Caspian Murray of District 4, Kai’s father — my friend’s father.

“Mayor Murray.” Katniss speaks stepping between us, a stilted politeness in her tone.

“Hello, Miss Everdeen. It is good to see you again.” The Mayor answers, respecting the boundary my mentor has created. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I just hoped I could speak with Owen for a moment.”

Katniss shifts her gray eyes to mine and a silent question passes between us. She’s letting me decide, leaving it up to me, trusting me to know what I can handle. I knew this moment was coming, might as well get it over with. I nod to her once.

“Do you want us to stay?” She asks.

“Is it alright, if they stay?” I turn to the Mayor, looking at his forehead rather than his eyes, those all too haunting eyes.

“If you’d like Miss Everdeen and Mr. Mellark to stay that is perfectly fine with me.” Mayor Murray answers.

“Ok.” I let out a breath, forcing myself to push my shoulders back and steel my face, trying to portray a strength, a resilience, I do not feel. Katniss shifts out of the way and Mayor Murray takes three slow steps towards me, closing the gap between us.

“I know you have a very busy day, so I’ll only bother you for a moment.” He assures me. “To be honest, Owen — is it alright if I call you Owen?”

“Yes…yes, sir.” I choke out, I can feel my hands shaking and hide them behind my back. His voice is deeper, gruffer, than Kai’s was. That’s at least one similarity they don’t share, thankfully. Kai’s voice already haunts far too many of my nightmares, I don’t need to be taunted by it while awake.

“Well, Owen, to be honest, I just wanted to come by and shake your hand.”

“What?” I did not think this turn of events could further shock me, but that nearly knocks me over. He wants to shake my hand? Why? I…I couldn’t save him. I, basically, got his son killed because he committed the crime of being my friend.

“I want to shake your hand, to thank you, for everything you did for Kai.” The mayor states, offering one weathered hand out to me. No. It has to be a trick, a way to get me closer, to lure me into trusting him, so he can use the other hand to clock me. He can’t want to shake my hand. I feel myself take a step back.

He’s staring at me, waiting, judging, he hates me. He has to hate me. My chest starts to pang. No, not now. Not today.

“I…I don’t understand.” I gasp out. I try to force myself to breathe, try to count off in my head. Deep Breath in, then one, two, three, four. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. But I can’t breathe in, I can’t catch my breath. That pang in my chest throbs, my vision spins, my mouth speaks without my permission, unable to keep the swirling thoughts in my mind any longer. “Why… don’t you hate me? I…I couldn’t save him! It’s my fault he’s…it’s my fault he’s dead.”

The Mayor rears back like I've slapped him, his hand falling limply at his side. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, as I rip off my suit jacket. It’s too hot here. This whole blasted district is too fucking hot! I want to go home, where winters actually exist, where it's freezing, where I don’t have to spend another day pretending. I see Katniss make to move towards me out of the corner of my eye, but Peeta pulls her back with a gentle hand on her wrist.

“Owen.” The mayor states again and we finally lock eyes. His green are welling with tears, shoulders slumping forward. So much like Kai. He takes a deep, steadying breath of his own. “Owen. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have saved him. There was nothing you could have done.”

“But…” I turn to Katniss, begging her to…I don’t know what: help convince Mayor Murray of my guilt? Help soothe what’s clearly quickly becoming a full-blown panic attack?

“Owen, by the time you found him, there was nothing and no one who could have saved him.” The Mayor says, “You did everything you could to help him, to make sure that he wasn’t alone. You were a true friend to him in a place you had no reason to be, and that is something I will be eternally grateful for. So I’d like to shake your hand.”

“But…but it's my fault, all of it, is my fault.” Fuck. And now I’m weeping. “I’m sorry. All the time! I’m so, so sorry.”

“Oh, son. It’s not your fault.” A paternal hand squeezes my shoulder. “You owe me no apologies. You have done nothing that needs my forgiveness but if you need me to say it then, yes, Owen. I forgive you.”

Something loosens in my chest at his words. A weight, a burden, lifts itself from me. I don’t deserve it, his kindness, his forgiveness, not after everything. But just for this moment I let myself feel the freedom that comes flooding into my veins. I feel lighter. I feel taller.

I reach out my hand to the older man and choke down the rest of my tears, “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Owen.” He declares. “Never apologize for surviving, Kai wouldn’t want that for you. If it couldn’t be Kai or Daria, I’m glad it was you. Kai would be very glad it was you.”

“Thank you, sir.” I repeat, voice barely breaking above a whisper, eyes falling to my shoes.

“I will leave you to it, we should proceed with the festivities shortly.” The Mayor speaks, stepping away to turn to my mentors. “Oh, Mr. Mellark. An old friend of mine asked me to pass along his apologies. Unfortunately, Finnick is sick and won’t be at tonight’s dinner. But he asked me to say his ‘hellos’ to you both. Apparently he owes you a drink!”

“Yes. I believe he does.” Peeta clears his throat and answers.

“Good luck to you all. I’ll see you soon.” Mayor Murray departs, closing the door carefully behind him.

I stare at that closed door, unsure what to do now. A gentle hand startles me, and Katniss guides me two steps to sit on one of the room’s large plush couches. She has my discarded suit jacket in hand as she takes her place at my side. Peeta settles himself in a chair facing us. Together we fall into silence, each lost in our own thoughts as we sit in the wake of Mayor Murray’s visit. I stare out the window and watch as defiant traces of sunlight finally break through the storm clouds, illuminating the waves and beach of District 4. And for the first time, I think I catch a glimmer of understanding why Kai loved it here so much.

When it's finally time to begin the Victory Ceremony, the sun is beaming bright over the square. As I approach the front doors of the justice building, Peeta pulls out my note cards from his pocket. He doesn’t tell me to “stick to them” this time though. I decide to take that lapse as permission for the, probably, very idiotic plan I’ve spent the last hour formulating in my mind.

I greet Mayor Murray for the second time that day, shaking his hand once he introduces me to the crowd. I move through my usual spiel, barely needing to look at the cards after so many days of the same useless speech. But when it comes time to speak on the tributes, I let those note cards fall to my side.

I had worried over it for weeks, finding the right words. First it took time to accept the reality of what I’d be facing: that I’d have to go to Kai’s home, have to speak at all, have to face his father, his family. Then onto the impossible task, what words exist to even remotely encapsulate the immense guilt I feel, the unfairness of what I've stolen from them?

Peeta tried. Tried to help me find the words, and when that failed tried to distract me with anything else. On the third day of the tour he dragged me down to the room that stores all his paintings. He sat me in front of a blank canvas and told me to just ‘go for it.’ In the end I reached for the many shades of blue he had brought with him, blue had always been my favorite color, and just swirled them together with my fingers into an ocean of teals and sapphire. It didn’t help me figure out how to verbalize the fear that found a home in my chest as we barrelled closer and closer to District 4, but it was nice to do something just to do it. To do something for no one else, but myself. No one would see it. No one would comment. Not even Peeta who simply looked at it when I was finished, ignoring the paint dripping from my hands onto the rug and said “Great! We can hang that up at home!”

But there are no distractions now, only a microphone, and a waiting crowd expecting me to have the right words. I start with Daria, Daria is easier to speak about. I compare her to Mira — too young, too good — to have been lost to the world. Declaring that I wish I could have met her, that I hope her and Mira were looking out for each other in the place beyond this, wherever that is.

Then it is time to speak about Kai. I acknowledge his strength, his success in the Games, but that’s not what really matters. That’s not what I want to say. It’s idiotic, Katniss and Peeta will certainly be angry at me for it later, but I can’t stop myself. Because this is about Kai. Kai deserves the truth. So I lean into the microphone and let the gnawing unshakeable grief in my chest speak. “The truth is, Kai and I were more than allies, we were friends. If I could not survive the games, I wanted it to be him who won, who got to return home. In another world, we would have had more time. But if all I could have with him were those handful of days, then I will be grateful for them forever. Because true friends are so rare to find, and as I have learned, so easy to lose. I think about Kai every single day. I think of his laugh, his quick wit, his humor. The world is a darker place without him in it. I feel that loss, that grief, every single day. But I find solace in the simple fact that I got the honor of calling him a friend. And I am very proud to have earned that honor. So thank you, District 4, for your time today, for Kai, and for the bread.”

It's dangerous, rebellious, but as the audience erupts into applause, I find I don’t care. Because these so-called rebels might just be right. Maybe I don’t want to calm things down. Maybe the Games should be destroyed — the entire system that upholds the Games should be destroyed. The Games killed Mira, Ada, Kai, and so many others, all for nothing. Without the Games they’d still be here. Tyler Belle would still have his daughter. Willy and Alex would still have their sister. Caspian Murray, standing just over my shoulder, would still have his son. For all of them; the ones we’ve lost, and the ones left behind, I want the entire system to burn.

Peeta gives me the silent treatment after that, and its left to Katniss to remind me, sternly, of what happened in Eleven on their tour, to assure me he’s not angry with me for my honesty but because I’m putting us all in danger, reminding me of our conversation in the woods before we left Twelve and that first night on the train.

Peeta’s anger softens when another panic attack crashes over me. He acts in an instant, pulling me from the grand party and out onto the balcony to help me calm down. With grounding hands on my shoulders, he accepts my agonized, hissing, apologies. We hide out there for a while, standing in contemplative silence, each sipping on the single glass of dark brown liquor we carry around at these parties. They're mainly for show, to try to dissuade anyone from offering us anything else. But tonight, I welcome the burn the drink offers me with each small taste.

It really is beautiful here. The smell of the sea, and the rhythmic crashing of waves. For just a moment I let myself imagine a world where this is all that exists. No tour, no Capitol, no more Districts to visit, or Rebellions to Quell. A world where even District 12 doesn’t exist. Home. I just want to go home.

When I voice this thought to Peeta, sounding far more like a small child than I’m remotely comfortable with, he can’t offer me the answer I really want. All he can do is reach out a hand to squeeze my shoulder as he promises me that ‘we’re close’, that ‘we’re almost done.’ He’s right. We just have to get through a few more days. Just a few more days, then we’ll all be safe at home.

But just as we’ve left Four, we face Three. Three is no better. Not with Ada’s face projected large on the left screen in the District Center. Her father and older brother standing beneath it. I at least get the words out this time, clear, direct as my voice echoes across the silent square. Thankfully, there’s no rebellion to quell in Three. I know Peeta will be mad, Katniss will be mad, Snow will definitely be mad, especially because I just did the same thing in Four, but I can’t stop myself. I can’t leave this stage without offering Ada even a semblance of the sentiment I did for Kai, no matter who it’ll piss off. Ada is owed this. She’s owed more than this, but a few words is all I can do. So, I let myself look at her family for exactly one moment, as I deliver that final line, the one Peeta scratched out of my notes that morning at breakfast, “But in the end, Ada, was more than an ally. She was my friend, and I will always remember her, mourn her, as my friend.”

As I put that fake smile on my face to accept the plaque from the Mayor, Katniss’s warnings echo in my mind. I promised her I’d try to play along, try to play perfect humble Victor. But I’m angry. Every day I’m angry, and when the anger becomes bearable, then guilt comes in to take its place.

I rationalize it in my mind. I’m expected to speak about my allies, after all. The whole of Panem knows they were my allies. Even if they cut it from the recap, they must have seen my mourning over Kai live. Sure, maybe my speeches for Kai and Ada were a little more intense than is standard, but they’re just words. I didn’t blow up another Cornucopia or try to offer their families money. My words aren’t some secret message or grand call for Rebellion. Just an acknowledgment of what my friends meant to me. Just words. What true harm can words do?

In Two, things finally go smoothly. Effie compliments my “confidence” in my speech. I stick to the cards. There’s no further kitchen or food mishaps. Just in and out with no surprises. Haymitch even offers me a begrudging, “You did good, kid,” when we get back to the train.

One greets me coldly, understandably. I’m directly responsible for the death of their tributes and a sea of icy, accusing, stares greet me as I deliver my remarks. Even the Victory Party is laced with an extra awkwardness, a distant formality. Apparently it's so out of character that even Effie comments on their rudeness, clearly offended by their lack of fawning. Unfortunately, my exhaustion gets the better of me and I can’t stop myself from snarking at her in a rather insolent tone “I killed both of their tributes, Effie! Of course they hate us!” I regret it immediately, especially when I see the tears rush to her eyes. I try to hurry out apologies but she throws up a silencing hand.

“We have a very important day tomorrow. I think its time for you to go to bed, Mr. Sparrow.” She dismisses me.

Mr. Sparrow? Yeah, I fucked up. I didn’t mean to make her upset. I definitely didn’t mean to make her cry, it's just been a long two weeks, and I’m tired. Tired of her constant braying about schedules, and my posture, and my attitude. Tired of Haymitch’s constant drinking and complete disinterest in helping us. Tired of Katniss and Peeta’s constant silent, anxious, conversations passed between mooning, lovesick eyes. Katniss swears they aren’t together, that they’re just friends, that she’s a terrible actor, but she’s either lying to herself or a much more believable performer than she thinks she is.

I don’t know. I’m just tired. We’re all tired.

I hated Effie when I first met her. I didn’t believe Peeta when he defended her, claiming she wasn’t so bad. To be fair, I didn’t really like Peeta then either though. But I think I believe him now. Effie’s not a bad person, she just has a lot to unlearn. She’s spent her entire life sold the Capitol’s version of the Games. She doesn’t understand. Could never understand the true terror, the true horror, of the Games, of how it feels to step on that train sure you're going to die. To get back on that train, still in complete disbelief that you're still alive. No she doesn't understand. Could never understand just how it feels to be here again. Another day, another train, speeding straight towards the Capitol.

Chapter Text

Katniss

January 22, 75 ADD

Effie is already well past her breaking point when we catch our first glimpse of the Capitol through the train windows. According to her, the most important day of our lives lays ahead of us. But she said that last year, and she describes our imminent wedding the same way every chance she gets, so the words have lost a lot of weight to me. Her usually chipper tone is fraying and frazzled as she rushes through our schedule at breakfast.

I wish I was only stressed about our schedule, about Peeta and I’s forthcoming interview with Caesar, about Owen’s. If only all I was worried about was the limited time our prep teams have to get us ready for the ball at the President’s mansion tonight. But no. I’m trying to prevent a rebellion, trying to keep us all alive, trying to please an impossible man, our Good President Snow.

Every day on this tour I’m more and more convinced that Owen might be right. There’s nothing we can do to stop this rising rebellion, not with humble words and playacting at love. No. I don’t think any of us have slowed this unrest. Owen certainly hasn’t helped, in fact, he’s probably made it worse.

The kid's heart is too big, too sincere. Peeta laughed when I vented to him about it claiming that I have the exact same problem as we slipped away from the horribly awkward dinner in District 1. But at least I know how to keep my mouth shut. At least I tried not to make things worse. I know its not truly Owen’s fault. I know its not fair for me to put all the blame on him. He didn't ask for this an impossible challenge. But I can’t help it, I’m scared.

All I’ve wanted to do since I was 11 years old was keep people safe, keep my family safe. At 11 that just meant, Prim, my mother, and myself. But now that family has grown. That family now includes Owen, Haymitch, Peeta, his brothers, his father, Gale and the Hawthornes. Heck even Cinna and Effie and our prep teams. I know they could be punished too. I just want to keep everyone safe. But, I have no idea how to do that. None of us do.

So we press forth with what’s worked in the past. We smile and wave to the adoring crowds at the train station. We play up our relationship, announcing the date of our wedding on the one year anniversary of our engagement. We managed to delay it as long as possible, but it cannot be avoided any longer. Peeta raves to Caesar about the fall foliage of Twelve, explaining our reason for the September date. It’s been decided that we’ll have a grand ceremony in the Capitol first, courtesy of our beloved President, and then we’ll return to Twelve for a traditional Toasting. I dread the entire thing already.

I brush off Caesar’s suggestion that I’ll be making my wedding gown, explaining that I’m far too much of a novice. “No, Cinna is the only person I trust to dress me for this most special day.”

Once we’ve given Caesar as many of the vague details we can, Peeta and I are sent back to the Tribute Center with our prep teams. Forced to leave Owen in the capable hands of Effie and Haymitch for his own interview.

It seems Haymitch and Effie gave Cinna a heads up as to the main subject of our interview. This year, he dresses me in a long flowing gown of pale green, with gold detailing on the bodice and it's own veil attached. Flavius pins it expertly against the crown of my head. Venia and Octavia gush dramatically over the detail, fluttering about how beautiful of a bride I’ll be as they paint gold vines on my skin and my nails. The entire thing perfectly compliments my engagement ring: the thin gold band, the central diamond, and the two emerald stones that bracket it. I try not to think about how exposed I feel in the gown, the cool air of the suite drawing gooseflesh along the bared skin of my side.

They’ve just finished with me when Owen returns. Haymitch assures me everything went smoothly, he played the perfect charming Victor. I want to believe him, I really do, but after the last two weeks I need to hear it from Owen directly.

I corner him in his room, where it is now his turn to be held hostage by our team, leaving him no choice but to answer my questions. "

"What did you talk about?" I ask first.

"How honored I am to be a Victor. The wonderful life of health and wealth and happiness that I have only because of the mercy of the Capitol." He drones.

"Did you talk about the Tour?" Is my next question.

"Yes, I spoke for like five minutes on the beauty of Panem." He replies.

"And you didn’t get snarky or rude?" I state, peering around the bright hair of Venia forcing him to meet my eye.

"Don't worry Kat! I was perfectly behaved!" He practically shouts. The comment accompanied by an overdramatic rolling of his eyes.

Resigned, I step back. Though, I don’t escape without an interrogation of my own. Just before I depart, he tosses out a snide question about how soon I’m going to drag Peeta down the aisle by his apron strings.

“She’s gonna drag me by my what?” Peeta shouts from the hall, following the sound of our heated exchange to join us in Owen’s room. Portia and Cinna have coordinated as always, and Peeta appears dressed in a deep green suit, gold detailing of his own on his lapel, and the same golden vines growing up his neck and over his temples from under the crisp white shirt.

“So Kat, what do you think of your groom?” Owen taunts once more.

“Owen.” Peeta shuts him down with that singular word. The face he greets me with is much softer than the one Owen receives. A sweet smile sent my way as he offers me his elbow. “Shall we leave him to his bitterness?” Peeta jokes.

“Gladly!” I agree, looping my arm through Peeta’s and letting the prep team get back to their work.

Much to Effie’s chagrin we are right on time, rather than the apparently unspoken 10 minutes early she requires. Regardless, us Victors are ushered into the back of a large car, Effie, our Stylists, and the Prep teams following in a string of cars behind. Now alone, though certainly being overheard, we finally have a chance to run Owen through the many rules we are begging him to follow tonight.

“Don’t drift off! Stay in sight of one of us at all times!” Peeta declares.

“Don’t go anywhere with anyone!” I add. “Stay with one of us if you can!”

“People are going to be watching everything you do! It's like when you’re doing your interviews with Caesar.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Lean into the charm.” Owen snarks, slouching against the cars leather seats in a way that is sure to wrinkle his delicate bronze and gold suit jacket.

“But remember you are just a kid! Don’t let them forget that either!” I beg. “And no drinking! In fact don’t drink anything you aren’t handed by one of us or seen poured specifically in front of you.” I think back to the drinks that apparently make you vomit last year, we don’t need him to accidentally make himself sick just because he doesn't know what he’s doing.

“What can I do?” He groans.

“Eat food, really good food.” Peeta suggests. “And you can dance with Katniss.”

“Hey!” I shout, desperately hoping to avoid having to dance again this year. Last year, I had no choice. But, thankfully, Peeta played the role of possessive partner well enough so that I only had to dance with him.

“Or Effie! Or Portia!” Peeta adds, ignoring my objections. “Probably Haymitch if he has enough liquor in him.”

“I’m an excellent partner, kid.” Haymitch joins in on the joke. “But the Boy and Sweetheart are right. We’re entering the Snake's Den. You have be on alert and be very careful.”

“So what are the rules?” Peeta asks him one more time.

“Stay close, don’t drink any mysterious liquids, and be my perfectly charming self.”

“Nailed it, kid.” Haymitch declares as the car pulls to a stop in front of the ornate home of President Snow.

Peeta offers his hand to help me out of the car and for the first time I notice a large gold ring on his pinky finger, an emerald molded into the signet. The perfect complement to my engagement ring. When he realizes what I’m looking at he blushes beet red, quickly trying to hide the jewelry behind his back. I catch his hand in mine, squeezing his fingers in my awkward hold.

“Portia and Cinna do always like us to match.” Is his only explanation.

“Of course.” I answer. With my right hand in his left, I can feel the metal against my skin. As we walk up the grand front steps, I immediately understand his tendency to fiddle with my engagement ring when he’s nervous. With every inch closer, my anxiety rises, and I find myself pressing my knuckle into the sharp ring. The repeated knocking against the bone, the warmth of his hand in mine — no matter how clammy both our palms are — is grounding. We’re not alone, we have each other. We can keep Owen safe, together.

Effie stops us when we reach the open front doors, pulling us into the order of our standard procession: the prep teams, Effie, the stylists, Haymitch, Peeta and I, and then Owen brings up the rear. One by one we enter the mansion and despite the forty-foot ceilings I feel like the whole place is going to collapse on me at any moment.

The whole banquet room erupts as they herald our arrival. And no one gets a greater applause than the last three of our little group: Peeta, myself, and Owen. Well at least we haven’t lost the support of these people. At least we’ve won them over.

I see Snow standing on a balcony on the other side of the room, overlooking the entire scene. He didn't deign to attend our ball last year, but I knew it was too much to hope he'd be absent again.

The grand ballroom has been completely transformed. Last year they had turned the ceiling into the night sky, constellations glimmering overheard. White fluffy clouds hanging down as floating stages, exotic fish swimming in manmade ponds. It had been beautiful, yes, but this year is even better.

The designers have leaned into a completely different tale. It’s like an ethereal dream. The ceiling is hidden by a canopy of leaves and flowers, as if we’ve entered some hideaway in the woods. Flittering lights are woven through the trees, bathing the entire party in a radiant golden glow. The servers float by in a rainbow of pastels, monochromatic from their hair to their toes, ribbons braided into their hair in elegant up-dos, skin painted and sparkly, dainty wings pinned to their backs. “Fairies” Effie calls them, entirely enamored.

Its lush, warm, full of life and chatter. A stark contrast to the simple, almost utilitarian, slate gray scene that was Owen’s arena. Well at least that’s one worry we can avoid, Snow is not going that route in his cruelty. I understand Cinna and Portia’s choice in our wardrobe, Peeta and I fit the theme perfectly. And Owen literally glows. The swirling bronze and gold of his jacket sparkling, in the light, his Victor’s Laurel a perfect crown to highlight his importance, the guest of honor. No one could miss him. No one wants to.

Haymitch and Cinna take Owen to explore and greet his many adoring fans. Knowing they’ll be able to keep him safe, or at least keep an eye on him, I turn to Peeta. My plan for the night must be clear on my face because he smiles wide and asks, “So which table do you want to start with?”

My appetite is still small, too uneasy with the threats hanging over our heads, but Peeta and I try as much as we can, staying on the edge of the room and letting people come to us. Faces appear, names are exchanged, pictures taken, kisses brushed on cheeks. My mockingjay pin has only become more fashionable with Owen’s victory. To my surprise, several of the accessories proudly shoved in our faces now also depict Sparrows in their designs. That certainly cannot be making Snow happy. But the last two Games were such a hit here, the drama of the berries, the explosion of the cornucopia. In the Capitol those weren’t acts of rebellion, the berries were only a symbol of a desperate girl trying to save her lover, the dynamite simply a last ditch effort at Victory from a quick-thinking tribute.

We keep our eyes peeled for our Victor, always trying to make sure we know his whereabouts. Just like us last year, he is the star of the night. What no one wants to miss at the party. From a distance he’s doing a decent job acting delighted and charming but that spark isn’t in his eyes. He’s exhausted. We all are.

“Hey, can you go over there and help him?” I request of Peeta.

He sees where I’m indicating, Owen visibly uncomfortable with a drunken man — thankfully not Haymitch — who has his arm thrown over Owen’s shoulder. A tight smile on our Victor’s face as he fake laughs along with the rest of the group at whatever story the man is telling.

“Yeah.” Peeta confirms, handing me his glass of champagne. The single one he’s been essentially fake sipping all night. “You sure you’ll be alright.”

“Yeah. I’ll find Cinna.” I assure him.

The dark green of Peeta's jacket has just disappeared from my sight when I hear the voice, over my shoulder. I don't even try to hide the shiver it sends up my spine. “Hello Miss Everdeen.”

“Mr. President.” I state, turning to face him.

“I am glad you were able to set a date for the wedding.”

“And you didn’t even need to pass a new law.” I answer in jest.

“Yes, I’m glad your mother came around. I hear your family has grown quite fond of Peeta.”

“We all have, I think.”

“Hmmm…” He muses, a snide smile crossing his too tight features. “You best be very careful, Girl on Fire. I hear it’s very easy to stumble in shoes like that, and I’d hate for your veil to tear.”

As if to punctuate his statement, his hand drifts up to adjust the veil. But with all the pins Flavius has laid into it, it would take a miracle for it to have moved even a hairsbreadth. No, not a polite offer of aid. A pointed reminder of the wedding he has forced me into, forced Peeta into. But he doesn’t drop his hand from me, instead his finger finds my chin, forcing my face up to meet his snake-like eyes once more.

“Yes. I’ll be sure to step very carefully.” I choke out, using all my self-restraint to avoid blatantly pulling back from his cold callous touch. It’s certainly not helping the chill of terror that is settling itself further into my bones every moment I’m in his presence.

Finally, he drops my chin from his hold, and steps away. A feigned smile of pride on his face for all the people who are certainly watching us, eavesdropping, desperate to hear the conversation between the President and one of his most beloved of Victors. "Well, enjoy your evening Miss Everdeen." He speaks moving to leave.

“President Snow?” I call him back. I need to be sure. He turns to me and I know he can read the silent questions in my eyes: Did we do it? Have we sold enough of ourselves to please you? Have we played your game well enough to be left safe? To be left alone?

In answer, he offers me a sickeningly gleeful smile and an almost imperceptible shake of his head. My stomach drops. We failed. Owen failed. In that one slight motion, I see the end of hope, the beginning of the destruction of everything I hold dear in the world. Who could guess how he will punish us? Punish Owen? Punish everyone we love? The only surety is that he will destroy it all. I know it. He will make sure we have nothing and no one and then he will do the thing he’s wanted since the moment I pulled out those berries. He will see it as delayed justice, as simply the way it was always supposed to be. It was always going to happen like this. Peeta and I broken, shattered beyond recognition. Peeta and I dead.

I can’t cry. Not now, not here. I force my eyes up to the ceiling hoping that I can force the tears back into my eyes before they slip down my cheeks, ruining my makeup and any semblance of belief that Snow and I are just a normal Victor and President, not tortured and tormentor.

The leaves, the flowers. Willow Leaves. That’s why they look familiar. It’s willow leaves covering the ceiling. And the flowers? The violet, and yellow, and white flowers. Wildflowers. The ones I laid down for Rue. My crimes, my song — the song Owen mimicked — hanging like a blade over our heads this entire time.

I down the entirety of Peeta’s champagne in one fell swoop, burning my throat like acid until the very last drop.

I need to go. I need to get out of here. I need to be anywhere but this room: with the searing eyes of the Capitol on me, and Rue’s flowers over my head. A hand finds my wrist and I jump, startled by the bold act of familiarity. It takes a moment for the scent of cinnamon and wood to register. Peeta. It’s just Peeta, once again coming to my rescue.

“You feeling ok?” He murmurs against my hair.

I paint that familiar fake smile on my face and shake my head as subtly as possible in response.

“Had a bit too much champagne, love?” He questions, raising his voice for the pleasure of the many ears that perked up at the sight of their favorite Star-Crossed Lovers entwined in a close embrace. “Why don’t we get some air?” He adds belatedly, a suggestive tone slipped in to sell the story, always to sell the story.

Looping an arm protectively around my shoulders he moves me through the room, making for the first door he spots with determined steps.

“Owen?” I hear myself ask through my daze just before he pulls me through the exit, out into a grand hallway of marble, closed balcony doors await at the end of the hall.

“Passed to Effie.” He assures me. “He’ll be alright for a few minutes.”

I cling to him with every step, only finally able to take a deep breath once I feel the balcony railing pressing against my stomach. “There you go, Katniss.” He encourages. “Take a few deep breaths.”

“I failed.” I confess, and his hand immediately settles on his back, ensuring his touch remains over the fabric. I can't catch my breath, can't stop my mind from racing to every horrible end it can conjure: Prim dead, my mother dead, Owen dead, Peeta dead.

"Ok, Katniss. It's ok." His voice tries to cut through the panic. But it's not quite enough, I need more. I need to know he's safe. He's real. My limbs feel like they are moving through mud as I desperately reach for him. It's only once I feel him wrapped around me that I'm finally able to calm. Only the feeling of his arms warm and steady even through his suit jacket, the roughness of his calloused fingers against the exposed skin of my side, the brush of his lips against my temple pulls me back to the balcony — back to him.

“Venia owes you her thanks.” I comment, once my heart rate has returned to something resembling normal. “I think you saved her makeup job.”

“Nah it was entirely selfish. I like you painted in gold vines.” He teases, pressing one last kiss to my brow, a final encouragement, a final reminder that he's here for me. “Are you alright to head back?”

“I guess. I don’t want to leave Owen alone in there any longer.”

“He’s not alone, our whole team is there, they’ll all keep an eye on him.”

“I know, but…” I start.

“But its not you.” He finishes for me.

“Or you.” I add. “Even Haymitch, he’s seen Owen throughout this entire thing, he was there with his Games, he’s been there in the after. He pretends not to but he pays attention. He cares. About all of us.”

“He cares like we care.” Peeta states.

“Yeah.”

“Well, Owen isn’t helping himself much.” Peeta tells me. “He keeps wandering, getting distracted and caught up by the pomp of it all.”

“I know, he needs to be more careful but I can’t blame him. I mean, this is entirely beyond anything he could have imagined even six months ago.” I try to defend our Victor. I don't know why I am though. Peeta of all people, understands.

We start our walk down the long hall back to the ballroom, as Peeta answers, “Yes, but it's not all beautiful decor and extravagant food, its the people who are just as in awe that make me nervous. I had to make up some excuse about him and I speaking to the chef to pull him away from one group. It wasn’t like this last year, they weren’t quite as forward.”

“We had each other as a shield. He doesn’t.”

“No. No he doesn’t.”

“So we’ll just have to be his shield then.” I suggest.

“Yes, yes we will.” He agrees.

Right before we step back through the ballroom doors, I pull Peeta to a stop. I can’t tell him the details of my conversation with Snow. Not now, not here. But maybe I can hint at it enough that he’ll be able to reach the right conclusion.

“Peeta?” I ask, pulling on that soft voice I used in the cave, overexaggerating it for our eavesdroppers, a bastardization of the voice my mother used to use with my father. “Darling, did you notice the leaves they’ve decorated the party with?”

“No, dear. You’ve always been more knowledgeable of wildlife than I.” He quips, catching on to my play immediately.

“They are willow branches, don’t you recognize the leaves, from the meadow?”

“Of course, how could I ever forget the meadow.” He dips down to place a kiss to my cheek, squeezing me in another quick hug, much to the amusement of the many eyes on us.

When Peeta drops me from his embrace, I catch sight of Owen’s gold suit jacket across the room. A babbling flock of Capitol women nearly block him from my view, rapacious in their chatter and greedy hands to get closer, to steal more.

I nearly shove Peeta in my haste to leap around him, charging with all the limited grace I can muster as I weave through the crowds dodging their attempts at conversation in a manner that would surely exasperate Effie to no end. But I don’t care. I need to get to him. I need to save him. I need to help him.

“Excuse me ladies, I’m so sorry to interrupt. But, my Victor here promised me a dance!” I cut in, wrapping my hand protectively around Owen’s arm, and stepping between him and the dark purple draped older woman leaning in to fiddle with his Victor’s Laurel.

A chorus of “Oh of course!” and “Yes!” and “How sweet!” answers in response.

“Apologies, ladies, I know better than to deny the Girl of Fire.” Owen croons. The pecking birds step away, looking over us with a rabid eagerness, yes, time to go. I slip my hand into his elbow, giving him no chance for refusal, dragging him away from the all-too-friendly strangers and through the party.

“Thank you.” He murmurs through fake, arrogant, smiles as we make our way to the open dance floor.

“I told you to stay close!” I chide him, my own face plastered with a false smile of its own.

“And this is my punishment?”

“You think I want to do this anymore than you do?”

He laughs, a genuine laugh for once. “No Kat, No I don’t think you do.”

Nevertheless, we shift into the proper positioning for the waltz the band is beginning to play. “So what do you think?” I ask.

“It’s pretty, the food is good.” He answers, but there’s something else. Something he’s not saying, no something he doesn’t think he’s allowed to say.

“You didn’t drink any of those clear drinks that Octavia likes, did you?” I state, as casually as I can. The momentary widening of his eyes tells me I’ve guessed correctly.

“I was starving a year ago. While all these people were stuffing their faces at your Victory Ball, throwing it up so they could go on eating. All the while I was starving.” His bluntness is unsurprising. “Every kid in the home was starving. Even with the extra rations, last winter was hard. More kids than usual, not enough food to go around, the winter came on fast remember? Killed a bunch of the apple trees early.”

“Yeah, Owen I remember.”

“These people. They make me sick.” He practically spits in his anger. “How dare they, how dare they sit here in their mansions and watch us starve, watch us fight and kill each other for their fucking entertainment.”

“Owen…”

“No, Kat. You know I’m right. It’s them who are wrong. Maybe we were wrong to try to keep things calm, I said it before we left. There’s probably nothing we could have done anyway. That’s what Snow was talking to you about right, that's why Peeta pulled you away for a while. Not some secret rendezvous or quickie in a bathroom but because Snow told you we failed that we’re all as good as dead, and you needed Peeta to keep you calm.”

“Owen.” I try again, pulling us to a stop. “Not now. Not here.”

He seethes.

“Take a deep breath.” Slowly we return to our dance, finding the rhythm once more after a few moments. “Peeta said the same thing last year. About the food, about everything. We’ll talk at home.”

His hand loosens in mine a little, no longer the desperate angry bone crushing grip he fell into in the midst of his ranting. They really are similar, Peeta and Owen. More than either of them would probably be willing to admit. But they are both so observant, so quick to catch on. So good at playing things up, just so. But Owen’s got a bit less self-restraint than Peeta. He’ll have to learn, or maybe not if we’re all dead anyway.

Just as the song is nearing its end, Cinna appears with a large man who looks vaguely familiar. “Katniss, Owen, this is Plutarch Heavensbee. He’s the newest head Gamemaker.”

“Hmm…lot of turnover in that job, eh.” Owen quips, that false smile less believable than before.

He’s not supposed to know about that. That Seneca Crane died soon after our games, that Persephone Price didn’t even make it to the autumn after Owen’s. Cinna’s usually casual demeanor falters for just a moment, but Mr. Heavensbee doesn’t appear offended. Instead he’s amused, letting out a shocked chuckle from somewhere deep in his protruding gut.

“I heard you had quite the gift for cleverness, Mr. Sparrow. I’m glad to see the stories are true.”

“Oh I’m sure not all of them are.” Owen tosses back. “Only most." He offers that practiced laugh again, the one from his interviews, the one that's already charmed most of the Capitol.

“Heavensbee.” Haymitch appears over the Gamemaker’s shoulder, no amusement appears on his face. “Are you accosting my tributes?”

“Victors, Mr. Abernathy. They are Victors now.” Mr. Heavensbee answers, turning to face my Mentor. “It’s good to see you, it’s been a while.”

“That was intentional.” Haymitch states.

“You haven’t been answering my calls.”

“Wrecked that phone years ago.”

He did, but Effie had it replaced after our Games. He still rarely answered the thing, preferring to let it hang off the hook so all you got was a screeching busy signal if you tried to call him. But he has a phone. What would Plutarch Heavensbee be calling him about?

“Miss Everdeen, I may not be quite as clever and charming as our newest Victor here but would you allow me to steal you for a dance?”

Owen shifts himself subtly in front of me. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the Gamemaker. “Don’t worry Mr. Sparrow, I’ll return her to you entirely unharmed.”

“It’s alright Owen.” I tell him, a reassuring hand on his arm.

Much to his annoyance, Owen steps aside and leaves the dance floor with Cinna. Haymitch however doesn’t move, not until we lock eyes and he sees enough resignation in mine to prevent him from putting up a fight. I see him settle on the side with Owen, and Peeta joins them a moment later, all watching, waiting, ready to jump in should I need. But no, Plutarch Heavensbee will not harm me, not here. Not in front of everyone.

I don’t want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don’t want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on the gathered fabric at my hip. I’m not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. But he seems to sense this and holds me almost at arm’s length as we turn on the floor.

We speak about the party, the music, the food. How it all compares to last year’s event. Then he makes a joke about avoiding punch since my training. I don’t get it, and then I realize he’s the man who tripped backward into the punch bowl when I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers during the training session. Well, not really. I was shooting an apple out of their roast pig’s mouth. But I made them jump.

“Oh, you’re the one who —” I laugh, the memory making it's vivid return to the forefront of my mind.

“Yes. And you’ll be pleased to know I’ve never recovered,” says Plutarch.

I want to point out that forty-five dead tributes will never recover from the Games he helped create, either. But I only say, “Good. So, you’re the Head Gamemaker this year? That must be a big honor.”

“Well as Owen suggested, there weren’t many takers for the job. And I was asked specifically by President Snow himself. He’s a hard man to refuse.”

“Are you planning the Quarter Quell Games already?” I say.

“Oh, yes. Well, they’ve been in the works for years, of course. Arenas aren’t built in a day. But the, shall we say, flavor of the Games is being determined now. Believe it or not, I’ve got a strategy meeting tonight,” he says.

Plutarch steps back and pulls out a gold watch on a chain from a vest pocket. He flips open the lid, sees the time, and frowns. “I’ll have to be going soon.” He turns the watch so I can see the face. “It starts at midnight.”

“That seems late for —” I say, but then something distracts me. Plutarch has run his thumb across the crystal face of the watch and for just a moment an image appears, glowing as if lit by candlelight. It’s another mockingjay. Exactly like my now infamous pin. Only this one disappears. He snaps the watch closed.

“That’s very pretty.” I say.

“Oh, it’s more than pretty. It’s one of a kind,” he says. “If anyone asks about me, say I’ve gone home to bed. The meetings are supposed to be kept secret. But I thought it’d be safe to tell you.”

“Yes. Your secret’s safe with me,” I say.

We shake hands, our dance concluded. “Well, I’ll see you in July at the Games, Katniss. Best wishes on your engagement, and good luck with your Victor there.”

“I’ll need it,” I quip.

“Yes, fifteen year old boys can be quite a handful.” He gives a small bow, a common gesture here in the Capitol, and disappears into the crowd.