subsist. [verb] continue in existence.

Despite it all, despite her torn feelings about Cinna, a smile came on her lips. Even now, even through all the torture, all the trauma, she still loved him. She didn't know if that made her pathetic, stupid or both. But she was just young, and in love. And the heart wants what the heart wants. Even if that is going to end up getting her killed.

"Cinna is my partner." She supposed that was a little ambiguous. It was clear they were partners. They were styling partners. But she meant more than that. So much more than that. And she supposed she should not have been saying it. Not here, not when someone could use her words against her. But if Snow and his thugs hadn't worked it out yet, then they were stupid too. "We were....are... together." She still hadn't decided what she thought about that yet, nor if they'd ever get a chance to figure it out. "I.... he.... he's very important to me."

It's all Peeta needs to understand, even though it's ambiguous. It's clear to him what kind of partner even before she explains. They're together. He's important to her.

Peeta's eyes soften and, for the first time in days, he feels calm again. "So love brought us both here," he says with a raise of his brows. The Games might've caused him to become a tribute, but only his love story had helped him survive.

Only the truth of it caused him to have a target on his back.

Sarah believed that if she was a good citizen and focussed on being proper and good and just it would all be returned to her one day in the form of her greatest wish. She was pretty, her father would say, she'd find a husband sooner or later. But it was love she was after. A romance like theirs.

"I'm skilled at some things," he agrees kindly. "But my wife is the one who kept me alive." The truth, even though he might be laying it on a bit thick for his company's sake. "I wouldn't be here without her, in more ways than one. I owe her my life."

the suspicion of his treatment worsens at the manner peeta almost flies at the water bottle, like one of the crazied beasts she used to see at the zoo when she was a child. domitila does little to hide the distaste in her face at the thought that this is what these kids from the district are, no matter how prim they disguise themselves (with the capitol's aid): animals. "oh dear." at least she stops herself from commenting anymore, though she does reach for the contents of the fridge once more, taking another bottle. "you'd think you've been in an arena for thirty days, darling. take it easy." how ironic her words are, yet she can not know their true weight. she can only guess, and domitila doesn't like letting her mind wander towards those kind of thoughts, in which the capitol are no more civilized than the districts. to prove that is not the case for her, peeta receives a second bottle, though she holds it just out of grasp, giving him a warning look, silently pleading for him to remember his manners.

"lamb stew." she repeats. the stylist would have rather steak, but one look at the guard and they receive another nod. it seems it can be done. domitila gives the guard a nod for a response, accompanied by a smile that means to ask sweetly for the food, but her nose turns as she looks at peeta's haggard body again. her gaze is clinical, trying to assess what bits of him would appear when she puts him in his suit; once more, she is overcome with the wish that all of him is covered in make up, if only so she won't have to see the brutality inflicted on him — don't think of that, domitila. "undershirt and underpants." she allows him, also offering him a seat. she takes one of hers as well, pulling the jacket of his suit with her so she can begin sewing in the shoulder pads.

as she looks at his leg, she can notice it seems red — chaffed, perhaps? she thinks belinda would know, if she has worked with him before. "take off your leg. belinda can put some lotion on your body before the make up. make sure you cover the…" the woman looks at the eldest between the three, and domitila pats with a finger at her own hand; there are some bruises on peeta's, probably from the injection of whatever he is using to numb himself. he could hide his hands in the broadcast and the camera may not even focus on such detail, but she is (and she thinks caesar would too, when he certainly comes to hold the boy's hand).

"yes?" she tilts her chin, waiting for him to blurt out what he means. when he does, it's her turn to laugh — not boisterous, but decisively less sincere than usual, perhaps even a little nervous. "is there even any place better than the capitol, dear? i'm from here. this city is my home." the notion of a homeland seems to be at the center of the riots, so she'd think. the districts think the capitol takes from them, and that they shouldn't be linked, or something silly like that — as if they could ever govern themselves with such mastery as the capitol does! "hmm, i do not know belinda other than in passing. nor do i know our companion," she looks back at where the peacekeeper stood. it has only been a small moment since he has left, and it won't be for long, but domitila wouldn't be able to discern him from any other armed man around the city.

"but i'm a friendly person." she takes another beat, humming as she slides the thread into a needle. "i'm friends with caesar, whom you shall meet soon. and you're friends with him. so, in a way, it all rounds back together, doesn't it? we can be friends too, if you'd like. i know you are in shortage of those." considering most of them have betrayed him or are dead.

Fuck off, he wants to say. "Please," he says instead as she holds the water bottle out of his reach. It's less easy, less charming, than he once was, but he's still showing his manners and, when he finally gets the bottle, he drinks more slowly as the guard goes to retrieve his food. So easy for her to request it. Never with a want in the world. Has this woman ever known hunger or thirst?

Peeta thinks he might hate her and, ironically, he thinks of Gale Hawthorne right now. The anger at which he'd always directed to those from town, how he'd glare at Peeta, seething words thrown in his direction. Peeta thinks he might understand now, the misdirected rage at someone who has more.

But he has to be nice. Or, at the very least, try. He's not sure he's capable of that same kindness he always used to show without a second thought. He remembers he used to be warm, once. He must be nice so his food isn't taken away, as though he's a child being sent to his room without dinner.

He's allowed clothing and he puts on what she tells him before gratefully sitting down. He's been standing much too long, his leg painful, and he falls backwards as she assesses his prosthetic. He complies with her demand to take it off, wincing at the feeling of skin rubbing against metal as he does. He hasn't been taking care of it, but he also can't. It's dented and partially broken, but he can walk on it and that would matter if he ever got to escape. If he ever even tried. It feels laughable most days.

Belinda has to get closer to work on his leg and his hands and arms. The lotion stings, but he sits patiently to let her work, holding out limbs whenever she quietly asks. He's not focused on her, anyway. He can't be - he shouldn't even look at her if he wants her to live. Instead, he keeps his attention on Domitila and directs his question towards her.

There's part of him that isn't expecting an answer, but she does tell him and it seems honest. The Capitol is the best place in the world, she doesn't know Belinda, but she's friendly. His eyes flash at the word. Friendly.

She offers friendship, talking about Caesar, and he can't be nice. He can't. "He's not my friend," he says, his voice quiet and dark. "And nor do I need you to be." He stares at her for a long moment after that until the door opens again and his eyes snap to it, back straightening.

The guard with the stew. It smells so could that Peeta could cry. He reaches for it gratefully and the guard is less-than-careful, letting it fall over the sides, drip onto Peeta's hands. He relishes in the burn and he bends forward to eat, holding the bowl up to his mouth so the women can work on his body.

He eats too fast, but does use a spoon even if he wants to just tip it back into his mouth and drink it. It makes him think of her and he can't help the leaking from the corners of his eyes. Hate, love, there's barely a line between. "Thank you," he finally says, his voice quiet and calm again. Almost like the old Peeta. He holds out the empty bowl back to the guard and then wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

It wasn't as if Finnick disliked Katniss (quite the opposite, actually), but the man standing before him was so likable, so easy to engage with. It was a curious thing. He almost wondered how it could be that two people who were such opposites could find that balance, but who was he to judge when the same could be said about his own relationship?

"A healthy dose of skepticism never hurt anybody," Finnick said in return. Another gentle warning. Peeta, it seems, was fully capable of playing the game. With his measured tone and careful words, the elder decides in that moment that he likes him. Trusts him, even.

And then he poses the question of an alliance and it takes some determination to keep from looking surprised. Of course, Finnick was well aware of the things stirring around them and how integral the newest victors were to it all. He had committed himself to the cause long ago, and as such, knew that forging an alliance would be in line with the greater mission, but he still hadn't been expecting his acquaintance to so readily make the ask.

Finnick made a face with an expression somewhere between surprised and impressed.

"I guess it is," he answers with a particular certainty. "Four has the connections and experience, but something tells me twelve won't be lacking any resources this year, either. May not be the most conventional alliance," not by a long shot, "but I think it could do us both some good."

Cael, unfortunately, had never quite figured out the latter.

Finnick is good, though, and Peeta only notices the barest of changes, a little uptick of his gaze. Surprised? Impressed? Thinking Peeta is an idiot boy who knows little of the Games? That part is hard to tell. He doesn't know Finnick well enough, but there is hope when the District Four mentor doesn't shut down the possibility of an alliance.

"Is this a promise?" Peeta asks as they speculate resources. "Or jus' a potential? It's not just my call here." His wife, his team. The statement is clear - no mentor at District Twelve works alone.

her eyes open wide, a shaky breath that is more a whimper escaping her lips as her gaze meets darkness. not that of the cave, but it's a bedroom, somewhere. katniss can't really focus on her location (something she would chastise herself for if she had any sense, but the dread leaves her with none), or on the woman still standing in the room, or anything other than the faint light that emanates from the person who holds her. "y-you!" a sob slips out of her bubblering lips as her eyes stay on blue ones. caring, worried, tired but blinking, alive. "you're alive?" it's more of a question than anything, when she struggles to come down to earth, her head still heavy with dreams of girls with daggers and broken necks, and boys with warm lips and a bad leg. 

her trembling hand comes up to cup at his cheeks and katniss grounds herself on him, on the warmth underneath her fingers, on his hands pulling her to him. "you're real." he is. not the dead peeta in the cave, but the one that holds her now. "you're here." the relief is so big that she can feel her chest bursting. it erupts in sobs, tears that blurry her view until her hands are slipping from his face to his neck, and she buries her face in his chest. 

one more proof of him is underneath her fingers, against her cheek: the only lullaby that seems to work on her, his heart, reminding her they've done it. they're alive and they're together. does anything else matter? certainly not the way her mother hesitates in mild confusion before walking out of the bedroom, giving them a privacy that only half matters because it's not like katniss can see or hear or care about anyone else but the man she clings to, cries desperately about and against. "i'm not leaving you again," is buried into his chest, the headstrong words between dream and reality, seemingly fitting to both.

He repeats the words because he understands nightmares. Understands how the deepest, darkest parts of a mind can haunt a person. How many times has he dreamed of her death? How many times has he needed to see her, real and alive, to know she was safe?

He loosens his grip on her slightly as Katniss begins to cry more, hard, ugly sobs wracking her chest. He changes his position to let her bury herself in him, keeping her safe as she comes down from the trauma from the nightmare. He rubs her back, her hair, whispering comforts into her ear even as her mother watches on, Prim venturing back to the doorway.

"I'm not hurt," he tells her softly as she pulls back just slightly, looking him over. "It was just a dream. It wasn't real." He doesn't know what she'd seen, but it also doesn't matter. He doesn't need to see to understand. "Go get her a glass of water," he requests of Prim quietly, glancing over Katniss' head, a demand in the nicest of ways.

She listens, trailing away quickly, but it's Lillian that Peeta's gaze lingers on as she watches the scene in front of her. She doesn't step in, doesn't even try, and Peeta's not sure whether to be glad for it. He'll bear the brunt of anything for Katniss Everdeen, but it's almost sad that it's not a mother's comfort being forced in right now.

He knows the feeling.

"I don't know." It's an admission that Thea's uncomfortable sharing, that she doesn't know the details of this thing that has caused her such an immense amount of anguish — but she knows it must be real. If nothing else, she knows Ezra's voice. Hearing him in pain has been so debilitating that she doesn't think it could possibly be falsely generated. She knows him, and she knows it's real. "They've got recordings, somehow. Recordings of them being tortured." Recordings of them in pain, on what she thinks must be the brink of death, but Thea doesn't elaborate that much. "I haven't heard your wife." Not that she'd really know Katniss Everdeen's screams from anyone else's, but from what Thea's heard, the Girl on Fire seems to be District Thirteen royalty while the rest of them are being battered and bruised.

He seems confused, and for a moment Thea feels sorry for this boy. Whatever drugs they're injecting Peeta with have clearly disoriented him to a point that Thea thinks she might be able to understand, given the amount of antidepressants she's been pumped with in her own life. This is different, though — he isn't sluggish and dazed, like she often would be. At least, not in the same way. "Clove died a bit after that. When you were in your cave," she reminds him, and it's almost shocking to Thea that she remembers that at all. But the memory of wishing death upon the very boy that stands in front of her, on the other side of locked doors, is not one she thinks she could forget. "Maybe you're thinking of the girl from One." Or maybe they've shown him something else entirely, her mind tells her, but that seems almost preposterous.

They're making her listen to recordings of the torture. It makes him shiver, thinking about each of the screams they hear every day in these cells, but just like before, he can't fully trust it. There's not much he can trust in these days.

He gives her a look when she tells him about Katniss, but says nothing in return. What was he supposed to say back to that? That he's glad she isn't being tortured? That he loves her? That he hates her? That she's probably in on it? Nothing makes sense, so he just flatly tells her, "You should talk to Cecilia. She's convinced they've got her son here 'cause of recordings."

He doesn't realize that Cecilia can probably hear him down the hall - if she's even in her cell, he doesn't know - and that it might hurt her feelings. Everything feels like too much and too little at once. Numb and painful at the same time.

But Thea is gentle with him in a way he hasn't heard much from her and her soft reminder that Clove died later makes his head hurt. He presses his eyes shut tightly, pushing the heels of his hands against the lids as he shakes his head - remembering, remembering, remembering.

Trying to remember.

He can't. Everything is jumbled until she says what he's probably thinking of. The girl from One. His breathing, which had started to get heavy without him even noticing, begins to even out. "Y-yeah," he says shakily. "Her name was... her name..."

The intensity of the anger that comes with him forgetting is almost shocking and, where he'd been grateful a moment before, he's suddenly glare. "Her name was... Glimmer! Was that her name? Was it Glimmer? You have to - you-you-you have to tell me!"

He can hear a few whispers of comfort coming from the sides of him - Annie or Amara or Cecilia or someone - but he just steadfastly looks at Thea. "Tell me!"

it’s what makes her bold, clearly. no walls, no worries, just the two of them, and the question she holds along with the hair tie. “you would, ‘cus you’re a fool.” she clicks her tongue, a small sound of false displeasure that is not directed at him, but herself; a silly frustration because a tiny thing doesn’t quite fit in how it should. she wants it to be better for him, because it’s what he deserves it. “it should be red. or at least pink, when i’m askin’ you to be my valentine.” another silly thing that holds so much more. it wasn’t a lot of people who did it anymore, a tradition more fitting to their grandparents, people who seemed to know something better before the dark days, but some people still did it — her parents. how her heart fluttered, stupidly, whenever her father would arrive some day in february with a brand new ribbon he’s exchanged good meat for, only to make her mother smile. despite the warmth in her chest, katniss hadn’t understood why it mattered, when there was so much more to worry about. she hadn’t the time nor the emotional capacity to think about people buying their sweethearts a ribbon — or why she’d never get one, which was for the best anyways — when all she could think of is why that coin would be best used to buy grain or cotton, things to keep them alive. now, she wants the silly things, with her boy with the bread (and, somehow, even through the flush that spreads throughout her face, she can’t find it in her to be miffed about it). 

She's the one with flames.

Peeta lets out a soft laugh at her displeasure for this not being the real deal. "I like this color," he says. "It's a bit like your hair." Not quite - hers is darker, untamed unlike the tie on his wrist, but it's the memory of her that matters more than anything else anyway. "It's not even February," he continues. "So I'll let ya slide on it. You can make it up to me then."

As though she would ever have to. There's little Katniss Everdeen could do that he wouldn't forgive - or even love. Even the worst bits of her, the ones that threaten to tear him apart, limb by limb. He knows he's pathetic because he'd likely just put himself back together and offer himself up for her to do it all again.

"Will I what?" he asks, a bit confused, his brows knitting together to show it. But realization dawns on her and he almost laughs, though manages to hold it back, knowing how it would offend her. "Sometimes, Katniss," he says, the spreading spreading on his face again. "You really are surprisin'. You think you need to ask me somethin' like that? As though I would say no to being your valentine?" Surprising might not be the right word - obtuse, clueless, perhaps - but he's smart enough to use the lesser descriptor. He almost died for her and would do it again and she's asking him if he'll commit? What about the marriage? What about everything else between them?

"Yes, darlin'," he continues softly, to answer the question she never had to ask. "I'll be your valentine."

She wants to hear the story and he kisses her hand one more time before beginning. "They wanted somethin' to match that red stone on your engagement ring - the ruby, ya know? Brought me all sorts of things and none of 'em were righ'. Too big, too expensive, would swallow your finger whole. I said I wanted somethin' simple and they brought me more, but even those were nothin' like Twelve. Capitol simple means somethin' completely different."

Hadn't this year's Games been an absolute dream? Sarah had been watching in awe. Had she wept when her own tributes perished? Yes. Did they stand a chance in this year's selection of tributes? None. Was Sarah Kline too occupied for deep rooted grievance this time? Yes. The romance had put her on the edge of her seat. Peeta Mellark's interview with Caesar had already broken her heart; that poor boy. And then the cave. That holy place of romance if you could have any. The injuries. The worries. The conflicting emotions. The sympathy. That kiss! Oh, it was of the heavens. All sorts of emotions ran through her petite body; awe, anxiety, adoration, relief and even a bit of envy.

They would quite literally die for one another. Wasn't that precious?! Oh, to have a romance like that. It was all Sarah could really dream of. Somehow she found herself drawn to Peeta. It was one of the perks of being an escort; you got to attend all the parties and buffets and tours.

"Congratulations, Mr. Mellark! I have to say; you are very brave. I was rooting for you. And you cannot believe how I insisted my father would sponsor you. Which is, of course, highly unprofessional considering my profession but heavens.." she sighed, the air of romance dripping from her painted lips.

Be desperately in love, comfort the girl who broke your heart, stay charming, keep the smile on your face, make sure the girl stays in line.

At least he's good at most those things (Peeta isn't sure anyone can truly keep Katniss Everdeen in line).

He smiles at a Capitolite when she pulls him aside. She's pretty, with less modifications to her body than some others he's seen here. Blond hair that is piled high on her head, reminding him of Effie except this is no wig, and pretty make up that dotes her face in a way that could make it hard to truly see her expression if she wasn't so outright with it.

This Capitolite is a fan.

Peeta smiles politely at her. She looks familiar, but of course so many people here change their appearance so often that he can't place the name to the face. "That's very kind of you," he says warmly, playing the part. "I'll have to mention to Katniss you found out story inspiring. She always loves to hear from our supporters." Haymitch would choke on his alcohol from laughter if he were here.

"Initially yes. No offence but literally nobody wanted 12." People got put there to prove them selves. A lot of her fellow stylists and friends in the Capitol had thought it was just a fluke that 12 had won. They'd been excited for the quell and for things to return to normal. There was never going to be a normal now.

"Maybe...." She murmured, biting on her lip as she looked at him. "Even without our friendship I'd still be here...." She mused, glancing behind her shoulder and out of the window on the door of her cell. "My connection to Cinna is also a reason why I'm here." She added, as she turned back to Peeta. "And I won't ever regret that." Even if it made her look guilty.

She says that she might regret it, but would've been here no matter what. Cinna. It makes Peeta's eyebrows raise. He doesn't really know much about the personal life of Katniss' stylist or the connection to his own. He's never asked. They've all just been part of the same team.

His lips quirk up wirily. So she might regret their friendship for leading her here, but will never regret whatever-it-is with Cinna for doing the same. In his current state of disillusionment, it's easy to see that he's the common denominator when it comes to not being enough for people.

"And what connection is tha'?" he asks, his twang slipping in the longer he stays here, the exhaustion and the weariness making the mask he usually wears suddenly no longer important.

belinda approaches then, because she has to. domitila doesn't bother looking at the two of them, as if she could allow them the privacy, though it is a self-serving kindness; if there are words exchanged, let them be between and belinda the one to be denounced for her inability to detach from the situation (nevermind that domitila had felt something inside her crumble the last she's seen her own victors!). the stylist, done with the measurements, adds distance between the pair, as belinda begins to search for the right tone of concealer; domitila searches for her own right colored thread so she can give the boy's suit a few pinches. she almost wants to grumble about the president's insistence on the design, how tight it must be — she loathes it now, when she knows it will only pronounce the blond's decay further. it is almost cruel, she thinks, and regrets the musing almost right away.

He shrugs, as though it doesn't matter at all. "A lot of people worked on me," he says dismissively. Domitila saying he doesn't look well makes him laugh, however. He can't hold it in - it's just a burst of energy at the understatement of the century. How long has it been since he's laughed? He's fairly certain Annie has made him chuckle a time or two in the cells. He thinks. Everything feels blurry. "Yeah, do whatever you gotta do," he tells Belinda, barely looking at her, when his laughter stops.

Belinda responds by squeaking and moving over to the corner of the room to pull out her supplies, farther away from him than she might've been before he'd been locked away. It doesn't matter, anyway. He's not looking at her anymore - too focused on Domitila grabbing him a water from a locked fridge, offering food. He chokes, as though he might cry, and has to blink several times to push it all back. He's been too emotional lately.

To try and keep himself quiet, he opens the water and brings it to his lips, intent on drinking slowly. But the first drop of the cool liquid against his tongue is too much to resist and he ends up tilting his head back, chugging over half the bottle without stopping, a little stream moving from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek. It lands on his bare chest and he rubs it away with the back of his hand, breathing heavily, before looking at her.

"Uh," he starts, trying to think of something to eat and failing. Like there are too many ideas and not enough all at once. "L-Lamb stew?" A question more than a demand and the simplicity of it physically hurts him. He knows where it comes from and he can't get away from her. Katniss Fucking Everdeen. He's dying for her, a little at a time.

with scuffed knees pulled tight to her chest, dark brown hues bore holes into the wall with aimless intensity. time drags… or does it fly? it passes all the same as enobaria imagines being able to claw her way out of this hellscape through that very wall. through the hole she’s made from her mean glare. it’s an expression that goes unchanged as the familiar commotion unfolds behind her, prompting embarrassment to rise in her chest and its bruised skin to crawl in subsequence. they’ve dumped somebody inside. a visitor… but despite the blonde hair she’ll glimpse in her peripheries, enobaria knows it’s not thea here with her again and if it’s not her mentor…? well, enobaria barely cares to know who it is at all — conveying as much with an exasperated huff until the door of her cage suddenly swings open once more.

it’s only then that the victor turns, albeit begrudgingly, on her side to see peeta mellark rushing to retreat. a frantic, fearful mess and his presence here draws enobaria’s brows together in bemusement. she doesn’t know him nor did she ever care to. still the capitol’s golden boy, he’s been taken away and spruced up just as thea had. was that it then? another twist of the metaphorical knife. confuse him and throw the treatment of the more susceptible in her face as she’s forced to linger in filthy containment? with the cage open, it feels like purposeful provocation and his stuttering questions only aggravate her further and thusly, go ignored.

did they want her to hurt him? the thought crosses her mind. killing him. it’d be so easy too! like putting some poor, hurt creature out of its misery ( was she no longer the animal here? peeta certainly looks at her as though that’s not changed. ) sure, the boy has a metal leg and a year ago, one might have considered him the stronger of the two but in his current state? dazed and confused and cowering at the mere sight of her… it’s as though they’re goading her with the idea. put there by her very own mentor no less. for, isn’t that what brutus was telling her during the quell — about twelve being the real enemy in all this? had enobaria been suffering the same lapse in mental stability that others in the block were, she could well have still believed that too. welcoming the opportunity to kill their beloved baker’s boy with open arms and bared teeth. every bit the willing, wrathful pawn she’d always been. only now, as static from the collar around her neck so violently reminds her, things had changed.

He sticks to the ground even as Enobaria raises to her feet, his eyes wide as he suspects she might be getting ready to kill him. Would that be the worst thing? He doesn't necessarily want to die, though he can't help admit that sometimes it would be better than the torture they're putting him through, the befuddled memories that confuse him even in his nightmares.

Instead of baring down on him, however, Enobaria's voice is quiet. Did he upset them? Peeta immediately shakes his head, wary of the cameras in the cells, but then he blinks several times, clearing his mind. Telling the truth is what they've wanted this whole time anyway and it's not like anything will help them now. The Capitol knows everything - they will very clearly know he's lying.

"Yes," he says, his voice breathless, almost hoarse as he spits out the answer. He hadn't given them exactly what they wanted on screen, refusing to denounce Katniss even if his body is screaming at him to do it. She's bad, she's good. Enemy, friend. Too many things. The next question is harder to decipher, however. He doesn't understand the Capitol motivations anymore. "I don't know," he tells her honestly. "Are you goin' to punish me? Kill me?"

drip, drop goes the crimson down closed fists. it's red like the anger that shines in blue eyes. has his jaw always been so tight ? annie isn't sure. things kind of melt together nowadays. the cells means they're all trapped like animals, but it also makes it like the most unfortunate zoo. they have to watch each other. does annie look as unhinged as many of her month-long neighbors ? probably, she'd have to assume.

his torture must be getting more intense. the aftermath she'd witness in the adjacent window has been equal parts fright and recently an intense rage. he's sometimes violent. sometimes she wonders would would happen if those bloody fists broke through the glass. would his wish come true, and would she go down with him ? she's had that nightmare sleeping on the cot in the back of the room. annie has tried uplifting him afterwards time and time again, as well as others in the cellblock. she is starting to have a difficult time believing her own words.

It's easy to see - clear on her face as Annie touches the window where trails of his own blood drip down. He hadn't meant to fly off the handle, but the track marks in his arm from the needle are still fresh. The effect of the venom is wearing off now, but he still feels the twitchy aftermath, like he could go in any direction at any moment.

We're alive. What was it that he'd said that caused her to respond that way? He's breathing heavily and he's not sure why - full minutes seem to have slipped out of his brain as he comes down from the violent outburst. The blood on the windows, his knuckles, Annie's comment... it all clicks into place and there are a few flashes of memory but, mostly, he's void of it all. He must've been talking about death.

"'M sorry," he finally chokes out and moves to the window to wipe the blood with his palm, transferring it to the dirty hospital gown. It spreads on the glass of the window and takes several moments before he can clearly see through it again. His throat feels dry- had he been screaming? "I didn't mean to... to scare anyone."

He falls forward, rests his forehead against the glass. His arm itches where they'd attached the tube and he scratches it, almost raw now. "You're too nice, Annie," he mumbles honestly. "You can hate me if you wan'." His hand twitches against his skin and he squeezes his eyes shut as something begins to whisper in his ear.

it's only been three days but already her body is beginning to wilt; how very dramatic, she wants to say, if she wasn't feeling so shit. months of sharing a bed with peeta in the best and the worst of nights have, obviously, spoiled her, and the proof is in the crabbiness that accompanies her all day (increased quite a bit when she realizes peeta's not there to take notice), the heavy bags under her eyes and, of course, the fucking nightmares. they're the reason she doesn't like to try to sleep alone, knowing they will only bring her further humiliation, dread and, worse, worry from her mother and sister — who is, apparently, a stubborn little thing (who did she get it from?!) because prim insists katniss can just sleep with her (even if whatever happened between peeta and her can be worked out, she says). she gives in to prim's proposal, if only because they've had hot chocolate on the porch, prim has wrapped the both of them with their old quilt, and even the ugly cat is purring loudly.

it doesn't last. buttercup runs away when she begins to thrash, kicking the quilts and prim in the process. the dream follows reality: she drugs peeta to go to the feast, clove gets her, thresh gets clove. she runs until her legs ache, and a little more, because peeta needs the medicine and they've made it this far. they're the last team, they can win this. they can go home together. she hears the cannon when she gets to the river bank; horror replaces relief and all she sees is red, pouring from her head wound as she makes her way to the cave, only to find that the cannon was peeta's because she's too late. no kiss, no medicine, no crying out loud for him brings him back, and she can feel arms trying to hold her outside of the dream, stop her from losing it, but they're the wrong ones. 

He tries not to sulk about it. It’s the same open wound from before the Victory Tour, having scabbed over until she picked at it. Brooding hadn’t helped then and it won’t help now, so he mostly sticks to the corners of the house, giving half-hearted smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes whenever he stumbles upon Lilian or Prim. It’s their home, he’s just living in it. The whole thing makes him miss his old bed with Cael. At least then he knew exactly where he belonged.

Still, his heart aches for her. He’s never been able to stop it, like his body is in control where his mind isn’t whenever it comes to Katniss Everdeen. Because despite sleeping in his studio the last several days, he can’t help but want to protect her the moment he hears her crying from the other room. Even the thicker walls of a Victor’s Village home don’t drown out the sound and, as though being pulled by an invisible string, he’s out the door in a second.

He hadn’t been sleeping, the proof of it in the leg that never had to be reattached and the dried paint littering his fingers. Whereas she wakes up screaming, he just doesn’t go to sleep until his body is aching from the pain of exhaustion. They both need one another to keep the nightmares at bay, but three days ago she’d taken that from them as well. Or maybe he had. Hadn’t he been the one to progress their kiss past comfort? Hadn’t he started this mess between them in the first place by professing his love on national television?

In the hallway is Prim, her eyes red-rimmed, tears streaming down her face. “Go,” he says and his voice is kind, but firm. Katniss would want to protect her from this. She doesn’t, hesitating at the door, arms crossed over her chest, looking in at her thrashing sister still in the bed. “I’ve got this, Prim.” He doesn’t wait to see if she listens to him because he’s got a job to do, just pushes past Lilian without a second glance.

The shift in his behavior and moods had started out slowly, but lately, she had noticed the way that he was moodier, angrier, and more frustrated. The Peeta that she had met the first day in the cells was slowly changing and it scared her. It scared her for him, for this young kid who didn't deserve to be locked in here with the rest of them. "I bet you need all of the colors for your painting," she mused. Cecelia ran a hand through her hair, hating the feel of it. She missed the everyday luxury of showering and washing her hair. "Yellow. My favorite color is yellow. Like a sunflower or the sun."

The anger aimed at Haymitch Abernathy took her by surprise. Cecelia didn't imagine that there was anything easy about Haymitch, he had been doing this far longer than her, had lost more tributes than her, but she had thought that things were okay among the District Twelve team. Had she been wrong?

"Haymitch has been through a lot," she told him. "We all have." Cecelia had always wondered what drove the man from Twelve to take up the bottle. "But he's not an easy person to be around, I'm sure." She didn't want to fight with Peeta. Not when he was so clearly suffering. "No. None of us did."

Cecelia rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. She wished that she could escape to sleep, to see her kids in her dreams. But even then...her dreams skewed towards nightmares and she didn't want to see her kids in her nightmares. She hadn't expected Peeta to talk up again, and when he did he sounded much more like the Peeta from the early days. "Me too. He was a good man. My father died in an accident a few weeks after I married Sterling. He stepped up for me when I needed him. He tried to protect me from the Capitol." It didn't work, but he tried.

Ironically, it sears into brain, sticking there. After forgetting things more and more frequently lately - both past and present - it's almost humorous that this insignificant thing doesn't float away. He thinks he'll forever remember this moment when he'd dragged his finger through his own blood, his knuckles torn open from when he'd punched the floor earlier, and she'd asked him about it.

She's being kind, but Cecilia rarely isn't. He used to be like that. He remembers that, too. He prefers that version of himself over the one he's becoming. He's not angry all the time, but it certainly feels like it. It gotten harder to determine his own reality and he feels powerless to it, defeated. "Yeah, I guess," he says rather apathetically. He can't think about painting right now. Not when the only thing he has in here is the blood and his own finger.

He misses the brush, the way it had felt in his hand. He misses spending hours in his studio, time flying because he'd had a task. One where he could either paint the Games or forget about them all together, for just a bit of time. But even this feeling is fleeting. He can't quite hold onto it.

His eyelids flutter shut when she talks about her own favorite color. Yellow, like flowers, like the sun. He can picture that now and it's suddenly so vivid he almost gasps. "You think we'll ever see it again?" he asks, softer this time. "The sun, I mean. Though sunflowers, too, if you wanna talk 'bout that. I used to like pickin' flowers. Had 'em fresh on my table back home." Wait, did he or is that someone else? He remembers them at home, the only warm thing about the kitchen table. Had he brought them in? "I think," he adds almost absently, not realizing he'd said it out loud.

He hasn't talked a whole lot about the memory loss that has started, though he has shared with the group that he now knows it's Tracker Jacker venom they've been giving him.

It's not until she defends Haymitch that his old anger arises again, back and forth, back and forth. It's exhausting, letting his emotions take control of him like this. He used to be so good at hiding them. He's about to shout that they've all been through a lot when Cecilia practically reads his mind and pulls the words from him.

Is she actually reading his mind? Can they do that here? Amara has a messed up arm, controlled by the Capitol, who's to say they haven't put something in Cecilia's brain? He squints, looking at the window that she's near, but still unable to see her from his place on the ground. "No," Peeta agrees about his mentor. "He ain't. I never went around lovin' him like you did Woof."

It's a lie. Even his fucked up brain knows that. That's what makes it all so hard.

He blinks rapidly, suddenly feeling like he might cry and desperate not to. He takes a deep breath and listens to her speak about her mentor with a tenderness that someone might a family. "He sounds kind," Peeta says and, finally, painfully, drags himself to his feet. His leg is dented on the side and he's pretty sure there's an infection forming at the joint where metal meets skin, but it's the only way to walk. He moves to the window to see her. "Are you alrigh'?" She's not, but the old Peeta would've asked anyway.

But if he hadn't figured it out by now, Finnick was in no position to divulge more. He'd let it be for now, choosing to answer his questions at face value. It was safer that way, for both of them.

Finnick raised his eyebrows at the request for advice, which was simultaneously the best and worst question he had ever been asked. Regardless of how he answered, it would never be right. There was no way of knowing what to prepare for, what you might face.

"Oh, they're putting on a show for Quarter Quell," he began, a slight dismissive wave of his hand. "The Games are usually busy and loud, but this? This is special." Finnick wanted to roll his eyes, but he remained pleasant. "Being a mentor...You'll do fine. Just be adaptable, keep your mind clear, and be ready for when it all goes to hell." He paused for a moment as if to consider something. "Look, Peeta, it's not an easy gig. You'll make it through, you just have to know who you can count on when it gets tough. I can't promise I'll always be easy to get in touch with during the Games, but if you ever need someone, I'll be around."

What's more surprising is the old mentor's advice. It's actual advice and not the half-assed, joking remarks that Peeta had expected. Adaptable, mind clear, be ready. All things Peeta thinks he can do - all things he has done, especially in his own Games.

Even if his idea of be ready during last year's Hunger Games was simply be ready to die. He'd overcome those odds, anyway.

Finnick promises to be around when he can, that Peeta can go to him if he needs support, and there's a moment of quiet that passes between them while Peeta tries to decipher the sincerity of it. Haymitch had vouched for the man from Four, though, so there must be something there, even if Peeta isn't sure what yet.

"You can't really count on anyone in the Games, though, can ya?" he says, making sure to keep his voice even, as though talking about the weather and not murder. "Unless, of course," he adds for any passerbys trying to listen in. "You're me and Katniss." It's only halfway true. He and Katniss might've gone into their Games with the same goal in mind - that she comes out alive - but that doesn't mean he could've relied on her in there. Not until the announcement for the rule change.

"Is this you sayin' you're open to an alliance?" he says with a little laugh. Not likely - not with District Twelve.