Chapter Six: Frosting

Hercutio's back, but there's something wrong with him. Besides being bald and silver, I mean. He's subdued, observant. Obedient and respectful in his dealings with others. It makes him seem almost intelligent, which I know to be untrue, unless his ridiculous remake included a lobotomy.

Others passing on their way elsewhere notice and ask him what's wrong, but he just gruffly mumbles that he's disappointed with his remake. I fight the cruel smile that threatens to further twist my lips, I really do. Everyone accepts this as an understandable blow to his self confidence and moves on with their day. When he finally approaches me, he is oddly silent, save for the heavy footfalls undoubtedly intended to catch my attention. I'm stretched out on my bed reading, leaning against the headboard, and he pulls a chair over, far closer than he'd willingly come before.

I wonder if perhaps he foolishly thinks he can empathize with me, now that he doesn't like his own looks. Everything he's done is fixable once an appropriate amount of time has elapsed. I don't know what all the fuss is about. I can only be glad that I spared some poor patient who was blindsided by their disfigurement the pain of dealing with Hercutio's insensitivity.

When he sits and fails to speak, I roll my eyes and look up from my reading expectantly. He's looking straight at me. I pause, unsettled. Hercutio never looks directly at me. His eyes are indeed a garish yellow, and it looks like he's had some plastic surgery done, his features are subtly different.

He reaches out his silver hand and takes my own. He's never touched me before. Something is seriously wrong here, and I'm on instant alert. He draws my hand in his direction, and I don't immediately fight it, perplexed about his intentions, until I realize that it's headed for his lower body.

No. No. I didn't live in terror, disfigure myself, and give up Peeta to be taken advantage of here. I start thrashing, prepared to raise hell if this goes any further, but our hands quickly move to rest on his left leg, just above his knee. I stop, thinking he's wisely given up, before I register the firmness beneath my hand. There's no give, it feels like my hand is resting on a hard surface, not supple flesh.

It doesn't feel real.

I slowly look up into the lemon irises regarding me. The shape of his eyes look similar to Hercutio's, but the gentleness within them is nothing like him. My mouth drops open slightly as wild hope surges through my chest.

As ever, his efforts are the final word in camouflage.

His lips stretch into a slow, warm smile as he watches the realization set in on my face. He turns our hands on his knee, twining our fingers. I grip them tighter. Now that he's here, miraculously, impossibly, I know I can never let him go again. "Stay," I say.

"Always," Peeta replies, and I recognize the timbre of his unchanged voice. I delight in the audible repetition of his closing words from my letters.

I realize this must be the first time he's seeing the effects of our ploy, but the momentary worry of what he must think is swept away when I see total acceptance and total adoration in his eyes. He repeats the actions of that night so long ago, tracing his fingers gently across my forehead, down around my cheeks to my lips. He has to move his fingers differently to trace their new shape, but he looks happy to do so, and continues down the line of my crooked nose before stroking my eyebrows and eyelids.

I have endless questions to ask him, how this is all possible, how much danger he's put himself in to be here, and even where Hercutio is, not that I particularly care. It will have to wait. I often take walks around the grounds at dusk; we can talk then. Peeta's restraint indicates his awareness of the constant presence of Capitol surveillance.

To help him through his new occupation without making his unfamiliarity obvious, I make imperious demands of him that illustrate what function Hercutio played. Everything Hercutio would insist I do - take meals in the cafeteria or check in with various nurses, I whine about doing roughly ten minutes before we're anticpated to arrive so he knows what to expect. When Peeta's not being a convincing enough imbecile, which is often, I complain loudly to 'Hercutio' about the aspects of his personality that I hate most, communicating to Peeta what he needs to emulate. The rest of the day, we trade giddy smiles, covert glances, and heated stares.

...

When evening finally arrives, I lead Peeta out onto the grounds to watch the sunset. Hercutio usually hangs back, attention on his personal communication device, but Peeta is right beside me, content in my presence.

I whisper to him, "Well?"

He instantly smiles and I notice he hasn't lost his dimples in spite of his cosmetic surgery.

"It's actually pretty simple. Remember Plutarch Heavensbee, the Gamemaker?"

I do, and I want to raise my brows in disbelief that he's played some role in Peeta's appearance, but they don't move. "Yes," I hedge instead.

"Well, he always seemed like he was trying to get at something when he spoke to me after our Victory Tour. It turns out, he's a major player in the resistance. Apparently, there are lots of people who want to escape the Capitol and Snow. The only place to go is District Thirteen, which apparently still exists."

I'm blown away by this news, but Peeta's already continuing his story.

"He helps people escape to the district, which is underground. They used to have to run on their own, but now there's a support system with hovercrafts to aid them."

I think back to the girl and boy in the forest of Twelve, running from the Capitol, and I feel like I finally know where they were running to. I always wondered why they'd want to come to Twelve of all places. After my brief lapse of attention, I'm quickly drawn back into his story.

"Plutarch's got a son who thinks that just because his father's involved in the resistance, he's going to be the future prince of Panem or something equally ridiculous when Snow is overthrown in the coming rebellion. He won't keep quiet about it though, apparently he spouts off to anyone who will listen about how important he'll be and how much smarter he is than Snow or the rest of the Capitol!"

Peeta looks at me incredulously, as if asking whether I can believe such an idiot exists. Oh, I can. His father must have told him not to use his last name, for fear of association with the biggest loudmouth in Panem. Hercutio Heavensbee's idiocy could easily cause the death of his father.

"So Plutarch used his influence to send him here, a place far removed from the Capitol, where, despite the presence of monitoring devices, Snow's surveillance has slackened. He sees everyone here as an invalid patient or medical professional, certainly not potential revolutionaries."

Peeta smiles at his next words.

"I'm pretty sure he wanted you to rub off on his son, as someone who not only knows how to kindle the beginnings of a rebellion and thwart the Capitol, but also knows how to stay quiet about it. Plutarch admires you greatly, you know," Peeta added.

I snort at the thought. "No wonder Hercutio hated me. He could probably tell his father thinks he's a liability, and didn't like that I had Plutarch's respect."

"Unfortunately for Plutarch, apparently you didn't rub off on Hercutio. He was so worried about his son's safety, he removed him from the Capitol altogether. Plutarch didn't want anyone to notice Hercutio was gone and start searching for his whereabouts, because if he was found before he reached Thirteen, he would be killed, Plutarch would be exposed, and the disappearance of your attendant would put you in a bad light. So he needed someone to stand in as Hercutio, and correctly assumed that I'd do anything for the chance to be with you."

I want to embrace him so badly, but we can't risk it. I was shocked when I thought Hercutio had touched my hand, because he never had before, not voluntarily. Luckily, our contact earlier today, with Peeta touching my face, could be explained as some sort of diagnostic test for returning sensation, if anyone questioned it. Anything but the most fleeting contact between Peeta and I will be noticed, and I can't put him in danger.

"All Hercutio had to do was schedule a bogus remake, with a doctor sympathetic to the resistance, and then he was off to Thirteen to be a part of the rebellion."

I guess I'm happy for him. He's doing 'bigger things' now, but I doubt he understands the danger that goes with it.

"I had to find a way to get to Hercutio's appointment unseen," Peeta continues. That's easier said than done, considering his every move was watched by the press.

"I shaved my head, since that was part of Hercutio's remake anyways, and I'd be a lot less recognizable without my hair. Then I painted a bunch of tattoos all over my face, head, arms, anywhere visible really. Portia gave me some colored contacts and fake fangs, and a ridiculously garish getup, and no one recognized me when I walked out the ground level door of our high-rise." He shrugs, as if he hardly believes it himself.

"The beauty of the remake process is that if everyone can change their entire appearance at will easily and regularly, there's nothing stopping you from just becoming someone else, as long no one knows you're having something done, no one involved in the procedure talks, and you have a place waiting for you when you come out. There's no record I was ever slated for a procedure, just Hercutio. No facial recognition technology would identify me after the plastic surgery, and the doctor even removed and destroyed the old tracker from my arm. As long as I'm not forced to take any DNA tests and no one sees beneath my pant leg, I've disappeared forever."

And he has. It's hard to even describe the frantic confusion apparent on all the broadcasts. We're not the newest victors, we haven't been for two years, but he's still the most beloved in my absence. No one can figure out how the most watched victor in the Capitol fell off the face of the earth overnight. Snow must be beside himself, I think with glee. I'm questioned, but foolishly, Snow has sent someone else to do it, as he hasn't seen me as a threat for a long time. The high ranking Peacekeeper who questions me can't tell when I'm lying like Snow can. And despite my being a terrible liar, my limited range of facial movement helps disguise my deception. The alteration to my face has saved my life once again, and now it's helped Peeta too. Since there is no record of the true Hercutio's disappearance, no one thinks to question the man at my side, as he appears to be exactly who he ought to be. After only two days of making inquiries, the Peacekeeper leaves, passing Peeta in the hallway on the way out

Life is so different now. I feel very little fear or apprehension here, and I'm mostly happy with Peeta at my side. I still can't communicate with Prim or my Mother. Peeta could, as Hercutio, but it would be too suspicious if it was found out. I know they're alive and safe. In Panem, that's more than a lot of people can expect, so I'll have to be content with that.

The hardest thing is maintaining distance and a feigned disinterest in Peeta. People here believe that Hercutio has grown into a more mature individual and that we've become more friendly, but it can only be to a believable extent. We still can't touch in any obvious way, and we can only really talk for a half hour's walk at sunset. But considering our past separation, even this limited time is an indescribably luxury.

When learning the daily therapy methods from me, Peeta quickly discerns that we need to make him irreplaceable to my health, and I start complaining of recurrent pain and tics that subside with our therapy but never fully disappear. He establishes himself as a capable caretaker, uniquely skilled at relieving my concocted facial pain. We've learned not to leave things to chance or grow complacent. Anything could change at a moment's notice . This is still Panem.

...

Then, one winter day, Effie is standing before me- tears of joy in her eyes, and a sparkling smile quickly covering the moue of distaste at the sight of me.

"Why Katniss my dear, how I've missed you!"

"Effie" I acknowledge, proud, as I often am, of my hard-won articulation. Peeta stands at my side, waiting apprehensively for her to somehow recognize him. She won't. Effie sees what she wants to see, the ride in Snow's town car taught me that. I introduce her to 'Hercutio' and she graciously bobs her head in greeting before turning back to me.

"How I've longed to come and visit you all these years! It's been quite impossible, I'm afraid. You know how hectic the life of a District Escort is!"

I don't, actually. I thought the Escorts were the ones that made other people's lives hectic.

"What are you here for?"

"Why to visit of course!" When that gets no response, she adds, "And to escort you back to District Twelve."

That's news. "Why?" I ask suspiciously.

"Katniss, darling, it's Haymitch. He's died." she says softly. "How could you not know?"

I don't know because no one bothered to report it on the stupid Capitol news stations. Haymitch is generally seen as an embarrassment to the Capitol because of his alcoholism, and there haven't been any victors in Twelve since the 74th Games. After my sequestration and Peeta's disappearing act, I imagine he was seen as an utter failure.

Peeta is visibly shaken, but Effie is too obtuse to notice that my attendant mourns the death of Twelve's mentor. She's bustling about as she natters on, rearranging books and swiping furniture ledges, inspecting them for dust.

"You're expected to replace him, of course, as the last remaining victor from Twelve. Snow would never ask this of you if those barbaric rebels hadn't killed Peeta" she bemoans, sniffling.

It was inevitable that Peeta's disappearance was eventually blamed on the growing resistance, but rumors that he escaped to Thirteen, which has now become a folk legend of a district, ran so rampant that I even hear nurses whispering about it here. The three-fingered air kiss has become a tribute to him as well. Now it's a symbol of solidarity and goodbye again, a farewell to a person's presence but not their memory. The unwitting return to its original meaning was inspired by Peeta's disappearance from Panem's sight but not its mind. He is often talked of, thought of. I've seen nurses tearfully blowing each other the kiss when one is leaving permanently. Gone but not forgotten.

I collect my suitcases, grieving the loss of Haymitch and thinking of Prim, my mother, and Gale, but before I start packing, I speak. "I'll need Hercutio to accompany me. He dispenses my medication and administers my therapy." I'm older now, and my tone brokers no argument. She'll have to get this approved, or she'll have to bodily drag me from the building.

And just like that, we're going home. On the train ride, I'm consumed with thoughts of Haymitch. I know Peeta feels guilty for leaving him behind to mentor, as do I. But after our Games, we were never given the option to assume the role of mentor. It was thrust upon Haymitch so we could stay in the Capitol.

I think that had he known the full story, he would have forgiven us, been proud even. He'd been so pleased when I shot that apple, flustering the Gamemakers. I think he would have liked the stunts we pulled and tricks we played on Snow. Haymitch did what no other mentor ever managed. He brought twochildren back from the Hunger Games. Two children who were able to escape to relative freedom together, right under the Capitol's nose, all because of him.

I find myself hoping emphatically that he's not really gone, that he's just an new bit of legend, run off to District 13 to help start the rebellion. I suppose I'm just like all the girls speculating over Peeta's whereabouts, unwilling to let him go. And who knows? Peeta is still here, maybe Haymitch really did escape. If he wasn't already involved in the resistance, I feel sure he'd want to be.

Effie makes it clear on our way home that my role as a mentor is their last resort and the veil is to be a permanent fixture at future Reapings and in the Capitol. I say nothing, and focus on seeing Prim. Mentoring will be awful, maybe even worse than the games, but I'll do it to see my sister again.

When we arrive, it's like nothing's changed. People I recognize look older, but the district looks the same. Effie is quick to leave, and I can tell she's not looking forward to coming back in a few months' time. I stuff the veil into my luggage and start towards the Seam from the train station before remembering that I live in Victor's Village.

As Peeta and I make our way there, people stare unabashedly. Everyone seems very curious, but no one talks to us. I've been buffered from this somewhat at the Refuge, but I remind myself that they'd be staring no matter what-we're unfamiliar arrivals, and Peeta is silver, after all.

But my reunion with Prim sweeps everything else away. She's grown so much, but my Little Duck's kind nature and love of life are still there. And after all, keeping her safe, protected, and herself has been the motivation for all I've gone through from the very beginning. All my choices and actions feel justified and worthwhile when I look at her smiling face.

During my first month back, I barely let her out of my sight. She is everything I could wish for her to be, self-possessed, generous, warm, funny, and miraculously upbeat. My only regret is that she's forced to live in a world that does not deserve her yet. It's a long shot, but perhaps in time it can become more worthy of her.

My mother seems much improved, and even suggests taking over as my attendant so we can send Hercutio home. I firmly decline, and I can see Prim and my mother seem uncomfortable with the idea of his constant presence. We'll have to figure out a way to tell them.

Gale works in the mines, and when I see him again, he seems distant. He expresses regret at what happened to my face, and I pretend it still weighs on me. But when I look in his eyes, I see disdain, and it has nothing to do with how my appearance has changed. He sees me as a Capitol pawn, a traitor because I've gone where they wanted and did what they told me. I've been away so long, and have the gall to come back with a Capitol attendant to follow me around like a puppy. I can tell he finds me completely unrecognizable from who I used to be - inside as well as outside.

Strangely, I'm fine with this. He can't know the circumstances that have brought me here and doesn't care to. I could try to explain, in utmost secrecy, exactly what occurred, but I don't feel the need to risk our safety merely to justify my actions. I have no interest in his erroneous summation of me. When I think back on our friendship, his attitude is disappointing, but I am not deeply wounded. Peeta has long been my best friend and more. But perhaps, in time, if he can look past his assumptions, Gale could once again become a hunting partner and friend. I have every intention of utilizing the forest again.

Peeta and I decide that as a Capitol employee, 'Hercutio' would insist on a place of his own in Town, which he purchases with the wages he's saved as my attendant and some of my Victor's winnings, since he no longer has access to his own. It gives us a place to go where we don't have to worry about surveillance, like we do in Victor's Village. I go there daily under the pretense of physical therapy for tics and pains, and if anyone surmises differently from the length of my visits, we don't hear about it. People assume, correctly, that since the rest of Twelve generally avoids us-I'm a victor and he looks Capitol-that we find friendly companionship together.

I suppose that eventually I could publicly acknowledge 'Hercutio' as a romantic interest. To anyone monitoring us in the Capitol, it may not seem completely far-fetched. He's trapped out here, and as a victor, I still have a high social standing. Keeping a continual stream of lovers is completely normal in the Capitol.

Luckily though, that's not something I need to worry about now, and I'm content with the way things are. I'm understandably an intensely private person, and a secret relationship suits me fine. Peeta has always been a much more public person, and I suspect he'll start charming people into warming up to him as Hercutio.

I get Capitol shipments of supplies and bogus medication, but 'Hercutio' has ordered contraceptives. It's unrealistic that any Capitol citizen would remain celibate for long, even in Twelve, so we feel safe having them sent. We'll probably always live separately, but I never wanted to be married anyways.

After he's settled into his Merchant Quarter house, we feel brave enough to pursue what we've been denied for ages one lazy afternoon. It's been so long, it's like we're rediscovering each other's bodies. We both look so different, but together we still ignite and blaze with desire. The heat between us quickly builds to an inferno.

Naked, he sits on the bed with me in his lap, my legs wound around him tightly. For a while, we just keep our embrace, kissing languidly and breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of the other. Peeta traces the line of my spine slowly down until his hands reach the indentations in my lower back. They rest there, his fingers cradling the swells of my buttocks, squeezing when I do something he particularly likes.

Trailing my fingertips lightly up his arms, I map their stunning contours from wrist to shoulder. I nuzzle the spot where his neck meets his jaw, then place small loving kisses all the way to his chin. My fingers follow my lips, the pads grazing along his jawline as I pull away. Peeta's hands tighten around my backside, preventing me from moving too far. He needn't worry, though, I have no intention of leaving his arms.

As I lean back toward him, he tilts his head to receive my kiss. It's not what he expected though, because when I playfully bite his lower lip, holding it between my teeth as I pull away with a little growl, I can feel him gasp, the intake of breath expanding his chest against my pebbling nipples. I'm urging him on, challenging him, and he takes the hint. Grasping my hips in his large hands, he draws me down onto him, stretching me, joining us after so long. I relish the feeling of heavy fullness he gives me.

With Peeta inside me, I am replete. Our foreheads meet and we just look at each other. I smile down at him. Now we're truly home. This is where we belong. He smiles back.

"You're so lovely," he whispers. I give him a sharp pinch. Now is not the time for insincere flattery. He continues anyway as he begins to rock against me with slow, teasing movements. "I have an eye for beauty Katniss, and every time your personality and emotions radiate from you features, how can I see you as anything but resplendent?"

I'm losing my breath already, panting at the feel of him moving even just that little bit inside me, when I realize that it's the same for me.

I know that silver skin and lemon eyes are ridiculous, but somehow, knowing it's Peeta's silver skin I'm touching, Peeta's nerves I'm stimulating, makes me unbearably hungry for this new incarnation of my boy with the bread. I knead the muscles of his back in response, hoping he interprets it as a reciprocation of his sentiment - I'm far too caught up in sensation to form a coherent response.

Before, I truly enjoyed my physical relationship with him, but our calculated romance and forced marriage tainted the connection we shared, making it feel less real to me. Now though, anything fettering my regard for him is gone. Peeta's love is completely welcome to me. I'm not sure when, but sometime long ago I began to share his feelings. I don't have to define or categorize it further. It's beyond all that.

I want to celebrate him, us, in the most emphatic manner possible. I start rolling my hips against him in counterpoint to his minor thrusts, seeking maximum friction where we're joined. This draws a distressed moan from him, and his forehead drops to my shoulder. I squeeze my knees against the sides of his torso to urge him to go faster, and he moves against me deliciously, turning his head to nip and kiss all along my lower neck. Peeta rises into me, I thrash against him, and we both moan in unison. As our movements become more frenetic and intent upon completion, I lean down to whisper my disjointed words of love in his ear.

He jerks against me in reaction, and, growling, pushes me down onto the mattress. His teeth scrape at my shoulder and drag along the line of my clavicle, until his lips find the swells and peaks of my breasts. Desperate sounds issue from my throat. I can no longer tangle my hands in his curls, but I draw his head closer to me and he responds as always, vigorously swirling his tongue around each nipple and suckling until I'm trembling from his efforts. I whimper helplessly and claw at his back and shoulders as he resumes his relentless pace. When we crest in ecstasy, I can't imagine a more blissful state. I'm drained of negative feeling, suffused in contentment.

...

At first, Peeta was afraid that if he tried to reveal his identity to his family, someone wouldn't believe him and would instead draw attention to his claim. Finally, Peeta got the courage to ice two cookies, painting a portrait on each in frosting. One showed the youngest Mellark as they knew him, and the other showed him as he is now. Peeta put them in a brown paper bag, which I dropped off when I next had a squirrel for trade. I handed it to his father. He got the message, because he personally delivered a loaf of bread to Peeta's doorstep later that day as a belated 'welcome to Twelve' for Hercutio. Now Peeta goes to the bakery often.

Slowly but surely, the slow burn of discontent around us flares into talk of rebellion. I hunt again. Peeta paints. We grow into our life here. The silver coloration will take years to leach from his body and his scalp has been treated to never again grow hair. I will always get awkward looks and rude stares. We wear shrouds and veils when Snow might be watching, but in our hours together in his home, we are free and ourselves, Katniss and Peeta.

fin

There you have it folks, my first story. I hope it was enjoyable and remained fairly true to the characters. Comments and constructive criticism would be wildly helpful, as I am a novice fiction writer and have plans to write more Everlark stories in the future.

I've always been nervous about reception to this fic, in that it deals with some pretty sensitive issues. In no way do I mean to make light of disfigurement or self-harm. My intent with this story is to explore Katniss' fierce determination to remain a free and complete person, and the lengths to which she will go to thwart Snow's attempts to make her otherwise.

My other aim was to portray Katniss' realistic, unflaggable self-image. Katniss is never fooled by the superficial, and she remains true to herself throughout the books. She never tries to deny the effects her life has taken on her body. Her knowledge and acceptance of herself, flaws included, is something I've always loved about her, and something that I don't think can be emphasized enough to female readers of the series.

With the painting Les Amants, I wanted to explore how the rejection and exclusion of the unsightly in the Capitol, along with subterfuge and anonymity, could actually benefit Katniss and Peeta, providing an escape route out of the Capitol and the means of staying together. When I look at that painting, I get a sense of well-being and safety arising from the fact that since they are completely unknown to the world, they have disappeared from it. Hopefully that got across in some small way.

If anyone wants to talk about THG or see my fanart, come visit me on Tumblr: ghtlovesthg

I would love to talk to you!

Thank you so much for reading!