"I want to request individual training."

This short, stumbling burst of speech tumbles out so fast it can only have been rehearsed. It startles me: until now, I'd been sure I was the only one in the dining room, pouring over tribute profiles that I'd hastily constructed the day before from what little information I'd managed to glean from gossip, observation and good old fashioned eavesdropping. Intent on my pencil scribbles, I must not have heard Peeta enter the room. This troubles me. I'm not one for letting down my guard. I let this information occupy the front of my mind before I realise what Peeta has said. I frown. "What?"

"I want to request individual training." Again, something about this seems forced, rehearsed. Peeta's face gives little away but his eyes, a little too steely and – is that moisture welling up in the corner? I narrow my eyes, scrutinising him. A few hours ago he'd been more than happy to play the sick little happy families game we'd constructed. He shifts under my gaze uncomfortably. I don't let up.

"Why?"

Peeta takes a deep breath. He manages to turn it into a bored sigh but something about the way it shudders is reminiscent of someone trying to steady himself. This self-betrayal is not like Peeta, the king of body language deceit – you'd never know from watching he and Katniss together that they weren't the best of friends. It's almost too convincing, sometimes, and I have to remind myself that my two little tributes have never been friends. It's easier that way, I suppose, to accept that at least one of them could die at the other's hands.

"I don't want to train with Katniss any more. I'll just end up hesitating to kill her in the arena because I feel guilty."

Peeta's response, although reasonable, smacks of rehearsal once again. It's not like him, this cold, brutal language – it's almost as if he's trying to convince me. And talk of his killing Katniss doesn't feel… right.

It's almost too convincing, the way he acts around her.

My eyes widen as I realise really why Peeta Mellark had found it so easy to adopt his fellow tribute as his new best friend and training partner. The mixture of emotions that this prompts disgusts me: a pang of pity for this poor, innocent boy, and hope – because maybe, just maybe, we can use this to our advantage.

"Sit down, son."

Peeta frowns slightly at the unfamiliar term of endearment but sits opposite me at the dining table, the resigned look on his face telling me he knows I've figured him out. He's watching me cautiously. Is he waiting for me to shout, I wonder? I open my mouth uncertainly and my eyes involuntarily flicker to the decanter of wine on the board behind him. He follows my gaze and half smiles – he reaches for it but I put up a hand to stop him. Not now. "Peeta, I know how you must be feeling, but - "

"No, you don't." The words shoot out of his mouth as though he is no longer in control of them – a thousand miles away from the well rehearsed, repeated phrase that tumbled from him just minutes ago. " You have no idea. Think you know what it's like to wonder if you're going to end up watching her die? The girl - " he gulps and the speech ends as suddenly as it began. I finish it for him.

"The girl you love." I say gently. He swallows again, nods. All the fire is gone from him and he slumps onto the table, his head in his hands. I'd had my suspicions before, but now it seems all too clear. His eagerness to accept my plan that they keep as close as possible. His efforts to promote her abilities at dinner the day before.

The way he looks at her, sometimes, when he thinks nobody is looking.

Katniss might be the girl on fire, but it is clear from those looks that Peeta is the one with fire burning inside of him.

I take a deep breath and immediately regret not taking the wine that Peeta had offered to pour. I push this thought from my head. He's not looking at me. His face is still buried in his hands. Is this out of shame, or simply a gesture of despair? When he raises his head, though, I see exactly why: tears are streaming down his face. I admire him for this. The strength to cry, the strength to admit it, the strength to love even though he knows he can never have her.

Maysilee Donner's face flashes before my eyes.

"Are you alright, Haymitch?"

Peeta's looking at me in concern. Again, a pang of admiration hits me for this remarkable boy who has the strength to care, even now. I half smile and ignore the question, getting up to pour the glass of wine that I'd almost managed to resist.

"First of all, between you and me, you could do a lot better," I say, recalling Katniss's scowls, threats and the knife she'd stuck between my fingers. I sigh and shake my head. "Secondly, what do you want to do about this?"

Peeta closes his eye. Another tear seeps between his eyelids. "I don't know." Then, in a whisper, "I can't kill her, Haymitch. And it would kill me to see her die."

I sigh. A plan, already half formed, swims to the front of my mind, dances tantalisingly in front of me so tangible I can almost see it. A way, as I'd imagined before, to take advantage of this. "I have a plan, but you're not going to like it."