AN: So I decided to start writing for the Hunger Games fandom! This is my first ever fanfic for THG, so please take it easy on me. As always, read and review!

"Katniss."

It's the first thing that's come out of his mouth since they began the hijacking process that isn't unintelligible screaming. The first coherent word, the first word tied to the good memories he was clinging onto desperately. Lying on the floor of his cell, his body aching and his throat raw and his mind stuck in delirium, he takes a little strength from her name.

Then the images flash in his mind at the mere mention of her name. They're vague, foggy, confusing, and he doesn't know what to make of them.

Fire. Ash. Death. Blood. There's a little insistent voice in the back of his mind telling him something … He sees District 12 in ruins, the bakery reduced to a pile of char and rubble, corpses of friends and neighbors riddled with bullets or torn up, and the voice murmurs that Katniss was responsible for all of this.

"No," he sobs, his voice choked as he tries to force the images out of his head. "No. No. Nonononono …"

He doesn't know how long this goes, but eventually the images fade away. Everything's quiet except for the faint electric hum emanating from the lights above him.

"Peeta." It takes a moment to realize that someone is calling him, that it's his name. He lifts his head, eyes darting about. The voice calls his name again. "Peeta."

He remembers, and stands as best as he can. His legs feel wobbly, and he almost falls, but he braces his arms against the walls of his tiny cell. "… J-Johanna?" he rasps. His mouth is dry, and he feels like a newborn, as though it's his first time speaking.

"Don't … don't let them break you." she says from her cell. "Hold on. Don't let them take you away."

In that instant, he loses all his strength and topples backwards onto the floor of his cell. The pain that courses through his body is dull and is nothing compared to the misery his mind's in.

"I won't." he murmurs, so softly that he's not sure whether or not Johanna can hear him. "I won't."

Somehow, Johanna has managed to slip him a scrap of paper and a pencil. He thinks one of the guards brought it in, that she managed to bribe the guard somehow.

He doesn't know how long he's been stuck here. He used to scratch the walls with his fingernails to try and keep track, but then time just blurred together when the torture sessions got more frequent.

He stares at the paper and pencil, sitting so neatly on the floor, not sure what to do. As though in answer, he hears Johanna's voice. "Draw … her." She sounds so … weary. He almost thinks that she sounded weak, but that was stupid. Not weak. Johanna Mason could never be truly defined as weak. Not even the Capitol could make her weak.

He'd fought the hijacking sessions as best as he could. He clung onto the memories that the Capitol couldn't touch with their venom and twisted images. He knew he was slipping away, bit by bit, that he couldn't keep up forever, but he would never stop fighting.

He thinks of Katniss, of the memories he has of her that haven't been corrupted by the Capitol. He grips the pencil with pale, emaciated fingers and begins to draw. He forces himself to pour beauty upon the paper and rejects the Capitol's tampering. This is his sign of rebellion, his lifeline, his source of his strength. He draws Katniss as he has always seen her – fiery, radiant, beautiful.

Always.

When he's finished, he curls up in one corner of his cell and holds the drawing to his heart. Sleep never comes easy, but this night, it seems different. "Katniss. Always. Katniss. Always. Katniss …" He falls asleep sometime later, still pressing the drawing tightly against his chest.

Years later, he would recall this night and realize that it was the only time during his imprisonment that he slept with no nightmares plaguing his mind.

AN: Too short? Interesting premise? Or some other comments? Please review!