Chapter 11

I don't bother hiding the details of my day when I return to the District 12 floor that evening. Peeta embraces me the moment I step out of the elevator, gently kissing away every bruise and scratch, rubbing my shoulders to encourage my muscles to unwind. Haymitch even gives me a high five; apparently Johanna's mentors are very pleased with our partnership. Effie gives me a fleeting hug before leading us all into dinner.

Cinna and Portia join us when the soup and salads are being served. Portia, despite not having a male tribute to dress and style this year, has stuck around to help Cinna with his designs and touch up Peeta for his public appearances. She is visibly more at ease than last year, when she had the task of prettying up a young boy just to have him murdered days later. Cinna, however, doesn't give any indication that he is going to crack under the pressure. He graciously kisses Effie's hand and my cheek, makes chit chat with Haymitch and slaps Peeta companionably on the back. We are all in good spirits.

As each course is brought out and we devour all the food in sight, Cinna describes the outfit he is finishing up for my interview with Caesar Flickerman. His unifying idea is also his primary goal: to send me out with a bang. I am more than willing to make this happen, and Cinna knows it.

"What will you do for your little performance tomorrow?" Haymitch asks me over chocolate fondue. "Shoot some more apples? Or will you be moving on to the Gamemakers themselves?"

"Haymitch!" Effie cries, but even she doesn't sound at all serious.

I shrug, skewering a perfect strawberry from the fruit platter and swirling it around in the melted chocolate. "They all know I can shoot. I want to surprise them."

"Good plan, sweetheart. Make them remember you."

Peeta looks contemplative as he chews. I reach out and take hold of his hand under the table. He gives it a reassuring squeeze.

"Just...don't do something too rebellious," he says, choosing his words with care. "You don't want to leave Johanna ally-less before the games even begin!" He lets out a tense laugh that no one at the table echoes but Effie. And even hers is too hollow to fool anyone.

Now it's my turn to squeeze his hand. "Don't worry."

"You can always brainstorm with Johanna tomorrow morning," Cinna points out, and his suggestion is met with assent form Portia and Effie. Haymitch seems neutral on the matter, but Peeta puts his foot down.

"Don't tell her what you're going to do in there," he says forcefully. "Trust her when it's to your benefit, but Katniss...just remember what game you're playing."

I think everyone's words over while practically sipping fondue from the ladle. No one seems to care. I polish off the pot and Effie orders another one, sans fruit.

"I'll be off to bed then," Portia says, placing her napkin on her plate and pushing back in her chair. Cinna stands with her.

"Good night," he says to the group at large, and then to me, "I'm sure you'll do fantastic tomorrow, whatever you choose to do. I'd be willing to bet on it." He winks to drive his point home, but the implied meaning of his words isn't lost on me. If I could bet, I'd bet on you.

During the time it takes me to drain the second pot, Effie clears out too. Now it is just us victors. I try to ignore the 'covert' glances they keep shooting each other over my head. Instead, I hold the pot to my lips and drink the rest of the stuff. When I put it back down on the table, Peeta takes one look at me and starts killing himself laughing.

"What?"

Haymitch takes my chin in his hand and snorts. "Looking good, sweetheart."

Confused, I lift a hand to my lips, and it comes away covered in chocolate. I check my nose, chin and lower cheeks. All covered. I can feel the heat rushing to my cheeks.

"I'm going to bed," I say quickly. "Night."

Peeta stands up abruptly and bends down to kiss me full on the lips. "Mmm. Don't go just yet. You ate all the fondue before I had a chance to take a crack at it, so I'd like seconds, please." I can't help but laughing a little myself as he kisses (and, I suppose, licks) the chocolate off my face. At some point during this time, Haymitch excuses himself rather rudely and disappears into his room.

"You taste good," Peeta tells me with a grin.

"You don't taste too bad yourself," I reply playfully.

Our gazes remain locked on each other long after, and slowly I can see the mischievous look in Peeta's eyes transform into something more serious: raw fire. Passion. I don't need to grant him permission to do what he does next because, honestly, I'm just as invested in it as he is.

Peeta sweeps me off my feet, muffling my cry of shock with his lips as I wrap my hands tightly around his neck. When we reach my bedroom door and he tries to pull away, probably to ask me a question that I already know the answer to, I just press myself more firmly into him. This, it seems, is answer enough. And before I know it, he has pushed open the door, kicked it shut behind us and lain me down on my own bed.

His weight presses down on me almost immediately after. I relish in the security it brings, locked like I am in Peeta's strong grasp. We have never shared a moment quite like this before.

I relish in that too.

His fingers run up and down my sides, tantalizing, inviting. He kisses my neck and I have to find it within myself to breath. I tangle one hand in his shirt and the other in his hair.

"Katniss," he gasps, his voice hoarse and choked with emotion. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." The word sound almost like a growl coming from my parched lips. Anything to bring his own back over mine.

This is all Peeta needs to here. But after a moment, I think of something disturbing that I hadn't thought of before:

The Capitol probably has my room bugged. Someone can most likely hear – maybe even see – what is going on between Peeta and me. This is our moment. The thought of President Snow taking ownership of this, too, makes me want to vomit.

"Peeta," I pant, trying to pull away. "Peeta, stop."

He pushes himself up above me, and the hunger I see in his eyes is undeniable. "What-"

"The roof," I manage to say, even as every one of my muscles reaches out towards him in a longing so painful that I can hardly draw breath.

Peeta understands immediately. The roof – that is the one place where the sound of the wind in the chimes and the darkness of the sky will conceal us, and we will be nothing more than two shadows against a black horizon. I pull up my comforter around my body and curl up in Peeta's arms for the journey upstairs.

The roof is empty, like usual. The chimes clang loudly, but in a sort of harmony, when struck by the cool nighttime breeze. Peeta brings us into the very middle of the little garden where I can smell the intoxicating scent of so many flowers blooming at once and sets me down – comforter and all – carefully on the ground.

"Peeta," I whisper, and every thought, every emotion running through my veins makes itself clear to him.

We wake up to the most beautiful sunrise imaginable.

Effie throws herself into a fit when she finally stumbles upon me and Peeta on the roof.

"You're going to be late!" She cries. "I've been looking for you everywhere!"

"Sorry," I say, and am about to get up when Peeta tightens his hold on my wrist. I look over at him, at the warning look in his eyes, and realize that the only thing shielding my body from Effie is the comforter. And if I take that with me, there will be nothing to cover Peeta.

Uh oh.

"Uh, I'll be down in a minute. Just wait with Haymitch-"

And then Haymitch bursts onto the roof, coffee sloshing out of his mug.

"C'mon, sweetheart. We need to talk about your session."

"You need to be in the elevator in five minutes!" Effie says shrilly.

"And have you two given any thought to what you're going to show them in there?" Haymitch adds.

"We don't have time for this, Katniss!" Effie shouts. "Just stand up already!"

"I-" I look at Peeta for support. Maybe he can use his gift with words to spin this into something more appropriate and less mortifying than it is. But he is trying desperately to keep a smile off his rosy face. I shoot daggers at him and turn back to Haymitch.

"Yeah, I'm not going to be doing that until you both vacate this premise."

"Why ever-" Effie stops as it dawns on her. Colour floods her made-up cheeks. "Come along, Haymitch," she says, grabbing his arm and manually dragging him towards the door. "Let's give these two some privacy."

Haymitch shrugs and sips from his mug as he follows her out. "Whatever. As long as I see you at the elevator in two minutes, Katniss."

"Okay!" I promise.

The door clicks behind them and I finally take a breath. I hadn't even noticed I'd been holding my breath.

"Well," says Peeta.

"Thanks for the help." I sit up with the comforter pulled to my chest, not caring in the least that it exposes Peeta's bare chest. "Where is my stuff?"

Peeta reaches beside him and holds up his sweats. "Allow me." Once he's pulled them on and planted a kiss on my cheek, he gets up and starts searching the roof.

I want to die.

"I can't find them," he says. Now even he has the good sense to look embarrassed. "You can wear my shirt. It's big enough."

I stalk up to him, comforter wrapped around me like a toga, and snatch his shirt from his hands.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly.

"Hold this," I tell him, holding out the comforter like a divider between me and the public. He does as I ask, and I quickly slip his shirt over my head.

"Katniss!" Haymitch yells. "Now!"

"Bye," I say awkwardly without making eye contact with Peeta. Then I rush off the roof, down to my bedroom and into the bathroom. Like yesterday, my training outfit is hung from the shower rod in pristine condition. I yank of Peeta's shirt, carefully set it aside, and don the sweat suit. I don't have time to brush my teeth, so I rinse my mouth with water and race to the elevator, braiding my hair as I go.

Effie looks like she's about to have a meltdown. When she sees me, she slaps Haymitch's shoulder and calls up the elevator.

"Go go go go!" She cries. Then, as the doors are about to shut, she adds a peppy, "Good luck!"

"Where's the boy?" Haymitch asks as the elevator starts to move down.

I glare at him and he raises his hands in front of his chest. "Alright, sweetheart. Not my problem."

The moment passes, and I realize that I have no plan, no inclination as to what direction I'll take. So I start with the most obvious question. "Do I go for a high or low score?"

"I don't think it matters what you aim for." Suddenly, Haymitch looks exhausted, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. "It doesn't even matter what you do. The Gamemakers will take one of two paths: either they'll give you a super low score to hopefully cause the Capitol to lose interest in you, which isn't likely, or they'll give you a high one so that the other tributes will be forced to target you."

I sigh. "You think they'll give me a perfect 12, don't you?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. I do."

The car comes to a stop on the Training floor without any other tributes joining us in the elevator. Haymitch grasps my shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes.

"Make them remember you," he urges me. "That's the only thing you have control over."

I nod. "Thanks." I don't bother to watch the doors shut behind me, instead turning towards the eleven tributes already sitting at the lunch tables. A mechanical voice comes over the loudspeakers, informing us that the sessions will get underway in five minutes.

"Morning, sleepy," Johanna says, tossing me a muffin. "Hungry?"

She scoots over on her bench and I sit down next to her. "Very. Didn't have a chance to eat before I came here."

"It looks like you didn't get a wink of sleep," Johanna says observantly. "You look terrible. Feel free to take offense."

I laugh. She smiles.

And then Starr stalks over, ruining this strange bonding moment me and Johanna are having.

"You do look awful," she remarks with a smirk, coming to a stop in front of us. "Let me guess: fooling around with Lover Boy all night?"

At the use of the name the Career's had for Peeta during last year's games, a fist clenches around my heart. Glimmer would have called him that. And now here is her sister, even more threatening outside of the arena. I briefly wonder if there's any way she can get to him.

No. That isn't possible. Plus, Peeta is never alone here. Either he's strategizing with Haymitch or getting made up by Portia. He's probably safer here than anywhere, despite the irony.

"It's none of your business," I tell her coldly.

"Maybe not," Starr shrugs, "but that doesn't change the fact that I'm going to see to it that he'll be sleeping alone for the rest of his pathetic life."

Johanna stands up, getting right in Starr's face. She flinches but doesn't back down.

"Have fun trying to make it past the bloodbath!" Johanna says with fake enthusiasm. I envy her confidence.

"DISTRICT 1: STARR SKYE"

"That's me," Starr says arrogantly. "Wish me luck."

And then she's gone, disappearing through the formidable door leading to the Gamemakers.

My turn rolls around far more quickly than it did last year. I don't say anything after Johanna goes in, and instead take to observing the other tributes.

District 8 is a mess. She sits on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest, her entire body visibly trembling. She only gets worse when "DISTRICT 8: MELEA MARKS" is announced over the speakers. She can't hold herself together long enough to prevent a strangled cry from escaping her chapped lips.

Do I help her up? She's still curled in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth.

Her name is announced again with the additional words: last call.

"Get up!" I urge her, suddenly frantic on behalf of this little girl. Melea looks up at me in shock. "Get up!" I repeat, louder this time. "They won't like it if you don't show!"

All the other tributes are staring at me now, especially Liz from 11. Is she thinking of Rue?

Still in obvious shock, Melea gets to her feet and, with one last glance in my direction, staggers through the door.

I make a point of focussing on my lap after that.

When District 11 – Liz Fawn – is called, I watch her get to her spindly legs and stride across the room. I don't say anything; this girl needs no prompting. But just as she's about to push through the door, she looks over her shoulder at me.

And gives me the signal of utmost respect – three fingers pressed to her lips and then out towards me – that I used to send off Rue. She's gone before I can even react.

Liz's fifteen minutes pass quickly, and then my name is being called and I'm walking towards the door, wiping my hands on my pants. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

The room is the same as the one I remember from last year. I'm surrounded by every sort of weapon imaginable, and targets and dummies to aim at. This year, however, a sort of shield has been placed between me and my friends, the Gamemakers. I know it's there because of the strange ripple that passes through it when I announce myself.

They can hear me loud and clear, for a moment later, Plutarch – a large man introduced to me as this year's Head Gamemaker on the Victory Tour – nods and asks me to begin.

Pushing down my feeling of revulsion at having to once again perform for these animals, I take a quick survey of the room. They all know I can shoot; I made that perfectly clear when I almost nailed one of these men to the wall last year. I didn't practice knife throwing, and I'm not in the mood to pick up Johanna's weapon of choice. My best bet is that she ran around wielding an axe, so it would be counter-productive for me to do the same.

Make them remember you.

I walk over to the table bearing the paintbrushes and paints in all the colours of a rainbow. Yellow, purple, red...I make little puddles of each applicable shade, then begin touching brush to paint. My hand, so inferior to Peeta's, sweeps across the floor, creating a ring of delicate flowers. I risk a glance up at the Gamemakers: they're riveted, some leaning forwards in their seats.

Taking a deep breath to center myself, I sit down in the middle of my circle of flowers. The Gamemakers have all fallen silent now. They watch me like a group of spellbound hawks.

And then I sing.