#twhha

It’s not that surprising, half the kids their age are probably worse off than him, it’s the night of the Reaping after all. With her sister’s first reaping safely behind them, even she had stopped by the celebration, though she hadn’t had more than a sip of white liquor.

She and Peeta aren’t friends, they don’t even know each other really, but she still feels a twinge of disappointment at his current state. She’s always held him in higher regard than the other boys at school.

In the next step he stumbles; Unable to correct his footing in time, he tumbles to the ground, grunting as he lands. He rolls to his back and sits up, cursing under his breath as he inspects his knee.

“You alright?” she says, emerging from her hiding spot.

He startles at her voice, eyes widening as he spots her. “oh, Katniss, hey. I didn’t know you were there.” He pulls himself to his feet, wincing when he puts weight on his left leg.

“You okay?” She repeats, looking him over as she approaches; there’s a tear in his pants just below the knee, but she doesn’t see blood and he was able to stand on his own: all good signs.

“Ah, yeah, nothing hurt but my pride.”

“Good thing no one saw you.”

“You saw me.”

The usually confident boy looks bashful, and she wonders why he would care: She is no one, at least to him. “I won’t tell,” she says in reassurance. His lips upturn in a poor imitation of a smile and she scowls. “Promise,” she adds defensively.

At this, he shakes his head and laughs; unlike the smile, it’s genuine, “I believe you, Katniss.”

Her stomach swoops at the sound and she turns her head to conceal her own smile. “Well if you’re okay...” she trails off, not really wanting to leave, but not knowing what else to say.

“Could I walk with you for a bit? Make sure you get home safe?”

“Seems like you might be the one in need of an escort.”

He chuckles, “maybe so, but I can’t go home just yet… not like this.”

She frowns. Her parents would be none too pleased to see her in his state, but their lecture would be nothing compared to the back of Mrs. Mellark's hand. She shrugs her assent before turning towards the path, looking back to ensure that he follows.

It takes him a moment to register her response, when he does he jogs a few paces to catch up, “I don’t usually do this, you know?”

She doesn’t know: It must be written on her face because he continues, “Drink too much... or at all really,

She shrugs despite feeling a small bit relieved.

“Today was my brother’s last reaping; he wanted to celebrate and was feeling generous... I don’t know, I think he thought he was doing me a favor.”

“By giving you a hangover?” she raises a brow.

“Nah, he wanted me to loosen up. Relax enough so I’d talk to someone.”

She snorts.

“Hey, are you laughing at me?”

“I didn’t suppose you’d need help talking to anyone.”

“It’s a girl.”

Her heart sinks, “You talk to plenty a girls.”

“Not like this.”

She looks down at the plumes of dust her boots kick up as she walks. “So, did you? Talk to her?”

He hums an affirmation.

“And how did it go?”

“Not very well I think. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a drunk… or an oaf, or a clod… probably all three.”

She frowns. A very small part of her thrills at this; Had he succeeded, he might be off with this girl right now rather than here with her. But the greater part of her feels his disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

He grimaces, “and now she pities me, so definitely not good.”

Her eyes go wide and snap to his as realization dawns.

“I should have known the first time we spoke I’d make a fool of myself,” he adds as if in confirmation.

“Me?” Giddy laughter bubbles up, until a breathy giggle escapes.

He groans, “you’re laughing at me? This keeps getting better.”

“Not at you. I’m just… surprised?”

“You know what; Nevermind. Can we just… forget it?”

But she doesn’t want to forget…

Back when she was eleven, her father had been terribly ill but determined to return to work, her mother disagreed. Her parents had argued that night; they never did that. The fight ended with her mother conceding and making their evening tea. But what her father hadn’t known was that she’d added a double dose of sleep syrup to his cup. He slept straight through his shift, only waking when the siren’s had sounded all across town. A section of the mine had collapsed and a number of his crew had been lost along with it, but thanks to her mother’s deception, her father had not been among them.

She’d watched the families that hadn’t been as lucky as hers struggle that winter: some driven to the bottle, others to Cray, and worse still were the children sent to the community home; their neighbors unable or unwilling to help.

She had been among the helpless crowd until the day she noticed the baker’s youngest son sneaking rolls to the starving children that begged at the merchants’ back doors, despite his mother’s ire.

His kindness had taught her that even at eleven she was not powerless to help. As someone who could depend on two meals at home, she had begun forfeiting her lunches to the children at school who had none. Her father too had taken notice, offering guidance and foraging knowledge to any who dared venture past the fence. It was imperfect but it wasn’t nothing.

Ever since that day, she’s kept an eye on Peeta Mellark with a growing fondness she never imagined he could return.

But he does. She doesn’t doubt his sincerity; those years of watching have only strengthened her certainty of his goodness.

They walk in silence for half a minute as she gathers her courage, “So what was your plan? Before your brother decided to help?”

He sighs, “I don’t know. Offer to walk you home, minus falling on my face. Talk about something other than what a fool I am; like our favorite colors or the best time of year to visit the meadow. And by the time we made it to your door, if all had gone well, ask if you’d want to do it again sometime…”

“That sounds nice.”

“What would you have said?”

“Hmm?”

“What if I had asked you out? If things had gone… better than this, do you think you might have considered it?”

They’ve stopped in front of her porch and she stares up at the house to find it quiet and dark: same as the rest of the street. “One minute. Wait here,” she bids instead of answering his question. Ducking in the house, she silently sorts through her mother’s jars until she finds what she’s looking for, measuring and parceling the herbs with practiced hands, the familiarity helping to steady her nerves.

Reemerging, she’s relieved to find him still there. “Make a tea with this tomorrow,” she says as she hands him the packet, “in the meantime drink plenty of water. It should help the headache that’s coming.”

“Sure thing Doctor Everdeen,” he gives a half hearted smile, “thank you.”

He turns to walk away, but her hand shoots out to stop him, landing on his arm, firm and warm under her fingers. His eyes flit from her hand to her face, holding her stare. Her heart flutters, “What if you ask me tomorrow?”

His brows knit together before shooting to his hairline, “yeah?”

She nods, and because the odds have been in her favor so far today, she pops up to her toes, kissing his cheek, “see ya tomorrow Peeta.”

Peeta's Proposal

I’m not sure how long it takes for my reality to sink in. The loss of natural daylight and knowledge I am underground makes me feel like an animal trapped in a Capitol laboratory.

Despite everyone around me telling me I am safe, I continue to feel watched. I look for hidden cameras in the ceilings and the walls; wondering if I am being broadcast on to District Thirteen’s version of Capitol TV.

The first thing I remember was the hospital ward. I found out later from Prim that it took the doctors over a week to wake me up properly. I spent much of that time under the influence of large doses of morphling.

Each day I get a small white capsule of morphling with my breakfast. Prim tells me there are small lines if you look closely to indicate the dose. She says they are weaning me off it slowly because that is the safest thing to do. I tried to stop suddenly a few days ago on my own and felt terrible – it felt like my skull was being split open, my joints were aching and my eyes and nose kept watering. So I take the pill and squeeze my eyes closed swallowing it with a gulp of recycled water.

Even on the morphling, I continue to have pain. Some days, it’s my head that aches where Johanna knocked me out, other days it’s everywhere all at once. One of the doctors here is a specialist in the mind; he tried explaining to me that pain is a signal and sometimes there is no clear physical cause. I guess that is why I am wearing this bracelet to signify I am “mentally unstable”.

The only thing that truly calms me down is Peeta. I have to wait until very late at night when there are only a few people left in the hospital ward and tread silently to his room. Most of the time he is already asleep, his blond curls softly heaped up on his forehead. He is exhausted more than the rest of us, and they have him on special monitors that watch his heart. Apparently, the doctors have never known anyone to survive touching a forcefield, and Prim says they sit around and talk about the shapes of the lines, and how quick his heart beats. As good natured as ever, Peeta doesn’t mind much and asks the doctors questions every now and then. I take it upon myself to be suspicious of them, so I do not speak to the doctors unless absolutely necessary.

Peeta is already asleep tonight to the melody of the soft beeps of the monitors when I peek behind the door. He is curled up on his side with the blanket rolled down, anticipating my arrival. Seeing him prepared like this makes me want to laugh at how well he knows me, but that thought is quickly overcome by tears that spring up into my eyes over this boy that is so good, and that I have already almost lost so many times. I crawl in next to him, pressing my back against his stomach and pulling the blanket up over both of us. The warmth from his belly travels right up my spine and settles around my heart. The beeps slow, a heaviness settles into my body, and before I know it, I am pulled into a dreamless sleep.  

***

As soon as we are all discharged from the hospital, we receive summons from Plutarch to join a meeting in Command to discuss the next phase of the Revolution. I have yet to see the full extent of District Thirteen. I have only seen the inside of the hospital, our family’s assigned compartment, the dining hall, and a few supply closets big enough to hide in until today. I don’t know how deep they have buried into the rock here, but I did have to squeeze Peeta’s hand in the elevator ride down here, the air feeling like it was being squeezed out of my chest as we descended deeper under the earth.

It turns out there are far more people involved in the Revolution than I would have guessed. I am impressed by the acting skills. It makes me a little annoyed to think of Haymitch being right to keep me in the dark about all this – my ability to keep a straight face in a lie is, after-all, non-existent.

We are sat around a long rectangular table in the Command Room of District Thirteen – a combination of Victors, Rebels and District Thirteen leaders. Each of us is dressed in the utilitarian grey shirt and trousers, but the groupings remain distinct. The Victors are weary, suspicious; the Rebels hopeful, fiery; the District Thirteen personnel silent and soldier-like in their mannerisms.

While I am told they are grateful for the new arrivals, the original District Thirteen residents keep to themselves. This is the first time I have been in a room with many of them up close. Prim told me there was a poxvirus that wiped out large numbers of their original population. Here in the dark room, the light from the screens on the walls reflects off old scars on some of their faces.

At the head of the table is President Coin, a middle-aged woman with copper eyes and straight, grey hair that falls to her shoulders in a sheet. Her hands are folded on top of the table, her lips pursed. To her right, sits Plutarch Heavensbee, his belly pulling at the buttons of his shirt, leaning back in his chair behind a pile of papers scattered across the desk in front of him.

Trying to be the model of democracy, after standing up and waving us in and telling us how wonderful it is to see us all – I think how pleased Effie would be at his manners, and quickly discard the thought before I start thinking about what has become of her –, Plutarch asks us for ideas about how to stir up loyalty in the districts.

For all their soldiers, personnel and intelligence gathering, District Thirteen have not had a Head Gamemaker here to figure out how to play with all the pieces in this new arena.  

Plutarch’s question is met with silence.

I turn to look at each of the Victors seated at the table.

Finnick, looking slightly unhinged, ties knots over and over in a short length of rope without making eye contact with anyone.

Johanna clenches her jaw, her fists balled up, intermittently smacking them into her thighs, eyes angrily darting around.

Beetee taps away on a small electronic machine, muttering to himself and seemingly oblivious to the presence of anyone else.

Haymitch may look the worst of all of us, as he has spent up until now drying out in a padded cell. He barely registers a hint of recognition when I look at him, his eyes bloodshot.

Finally, I come to Peeta who is immediately to my left. He is already looking at me with soft eyes. When our eyes lock glances, his gaze sharpens and becomes questioning. I feel my brow furrow a little, but the corners of my lips pull upwards.

Once upon a time, we talked about the same solution under very different circumstances.

Peeta feels out for my hand under the table, taking it in his and rubbing small circles across the back of it. He has always known how to play the games without being told, so for once, I trust his instincts, and squeeze his hand gently to tell him so.   

“Katniss and I can get married” Peeta announces.

Knowing what was coming doesn’t stop my tongue from becoming paper dry, my hands from starting to shake and my heart from thumping away in my chest as if I was trying to outrun a wild dog. I look down at the table, tracing the woodgrain with my eyes to try and calm myself.  

Plutarch claps his hands with delight, “Yes, I love it! In fact…” he rustles through the haphazard pile of papers, “I think our friend had just the same idea.”

He pulls out a drawing, ragged along one edge where it has been ripped from its journal and hands it to me. Drawn in Cinna’s hand are two figures – one in a long, white gown, with a glittering gold sash across the shoulder, and a sheer gold cape that falls to the ends of the fingers; the other in a white shirt and formal jacket with black trousers that have what looks like a gold sash around the top. This is me and Peeta. The tears in my eyes threaten to spill over onto the paper, but I swallow them back so as not to destroy this final piece of Cinna. I clutch it to my chest as if to quiet the palpitations, wishing my friend was here with me too.

When I look back up at the faces around the table, I am met by a mix of expressions. While Plutarch is clearly delighted at the prospect of a party, there are dark looks on the faces of many of the District Thirteen delegates.

It dawns on me that here, underground, they may have not seen the “star-crossed lovers of District Twelve”.

A thought that is confirmed when President Coin clears her throat and speaks: “Perhaps there is a more military strategy we can explore.” Plutarch waves her concern away, “Nonsense, Madam President, if we are to defeat the Capitol, we must beat them at their own game.”

“But how exactly will a marriage unite the districts?” asks one of the District Thirteen soldiers I don’t know the name of yet.

Plutarch turns to the solider and asks: “What is the antidote to fear?”

He stops to think for a few seconds, and replies “I don’t know, sir.”

“Anyone?”

“Hope,” comes a voice from the other end of the table – Gale’s voice. I try to catch his eye, but he stares straight ahead at Plutarch unwaveringly.

“Indeed! The districts know only fear from the Capitol, they do not know there is hope that the Captiol’s reign can be overturned. Much less that one can escape the Capitol like these two lovebirds have! If we give people in the districts hope, we can light a fire under this revolution which has until now only been smouldering quietly in the background.” Plutarch looks pleased at this monologue and mimes to the scribe to write it down.

“Well that’s all well and good, sir, but how exactly does a wedding nobody knows about do that?” asks the District Thirteen solider.

“Ah, well that’s an excellent question! One that our dear friend Beetee here can help answer.” He gestures to Beetee who continues tapping away, muttering to himself.

Plutarch clears his throat again, “Beetee”.

Beetee looks up, lifting his fingers off the machine and holding them in mid-air, before pushing his glasses back up his nose. “The broadcasts from the Capitol are secured through a system that was designed not to be breached…However, if someone could indeed break through that encoding, alternative messages could be broadcast to the Districts…Seeing I helped designed this system, I believe I can get through, it will just take some time…” he trails off and looks at his screen once again, beginning to tap on the keys.  

“So there you have it, we will have a wedding broadcast to all!” Plutarch claps his hands with finality.

President Coin clears her throat, “Thank you Mister Heavensbee. It’s now noon, we will reconvene at thirteen hundred hours for our next meeting as scheduled. Dismissed all.”

I watch as the District Thirteen soldiers and Gale file out instantly without a look in our direction.

I turn back to Peeta who is waiting to ask, “So do you want to kiss me, kick me, or kill me?”

I pause for a second before I answer.