This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Hunger Games world, which is trademarked by Suzanne Collins. This story is for entertainment only, the author has no intention to profit financially from its creation and publication.

To Ellenka, editor-in-chief and "dirty enabler", who said yes, when it was most important.

There's truth that lives

And truth that dies

- Leonard Cohen

Apocrypha

I

It was a bad idea. All this celebration paraphernalia when the scars are so fresh and nothing is past them, no matter how hard they try to pretend. The country is regenerating, creating itself anew, but there are still embers glowing underneath. Nothing is working as it should, the government debates about every little thing, being afraid to repeat the previous mistakes and instead accomplishing pretty little. Poverty is strong, criminal statistics high, half of the Capitol in ruins and communication between the districts miserable. Last month District 3 again raised the question about secession. They managed to pacify them, but for how long?

And so this anniversary assembly seems so unnecessary. The victors. Are they really? Do all the victors have nightmares and regrets? Do they feel miserable half of the time between pretending to go on and striving to forget? If so, then it's probably right that only the dead saw the end of the war. And they are not victors, just survivors. Yesterday's kids, living in scarred bodies of old men. Yesterday's revolutionaries, making cynical jokes and avoiding each other's eyes.

It was so simple in the beginning – there was this great evil and the greater good, and you had to fight for this good, for the future where your kids would have a chance to live past the age of twelve. It started so easily, so quickly – a girl with the berries and a will to fight, and they followed her, they believed in her. After so many years, suddenly there was something ahead, something better. Yes, they knew about the sacrifice, the struggle, the losses, but it didn't matter. Nothing seemed worse than the way they lived. Nothing was.

They won. Well, they killed Snow. And Coin. They killed so many. They lost count. Still can't find the exact number, they are still digging the graves. And still looking for absolution, for this new life that was supposed to begin and for some reason didn't. Where did it go wrong? What did they miss? Snow laughed in the end. He probably knew, foresaw all this mess and confusion and misery. He was old enough to know one thing they didn't – that no revolution ever changed anything really, it just made new rich and new poor. Because fire doesn't create anything – only emptiness.

Peeta is looking from the window of the train onto the fields they are passing. These are good. At least something is growing. Before that there were miles of burnt soil that is still untouched after five years, because there is not enough people and not enough money. And the government, they still have more important concerns than hunger. Revolutions…

Katniss is asleep. Or probably pretending. He can't know because she won't tell anyway, if she is nervous or in pain. Katniss doesn't like to talk, she made that clear from the start. It's ok, he got used to it. He isn't much of a talker himself these days.

Her nose twitches and he smiles.

Katniss.

Everything in his life begins and ends with Katniss. All began and ended with Katniss. And five years later, she's still an enigma to him. Yes, he understands a lot, he knows when to leave her alone and how to make her smile, but there is something lurking deep inside her that he will probably never see or get. Another man could… No, he won't go there now.

Peeta looks at his watch and tries to calculate the remaining time until they arrive in the Capitol. The trains are scarce this time of year because it's winter in District 8 and the rails are still under construction, but of course they found a car for them. The star-crossed lovers. The victors.

Fuck.

The day they received the invitation, he finally got a word from Eleven, the guy was ready to accept his price and they talked about a long-term contract. Flour. There is no good flour in District 12. There is nothing of worth in Twelve, Haymitch would probably say. Just coal. And ashes. And ghosts.

And Katniss.

She was surprisingly alright reading the letter. Calm. Paylor kept her word – there were no interviews, no reporters, no publicity. The Capitol left them alone. Peeta threw out the TV they had, and radio is only on when Katniss is asleep and he's finishing some chores in the kitchen. It is peaceful, quiet. They both like it that way.

So at first he was hesitant to show the letter to her. Of course she wouldn't have said anything, just spoke even less for the next several days. But he would have known that the balance was disturbed. And the balance is all they really have. But then he just left the letter in the kitchen and that night she said ok, they would go. No comment. She slept like a baby that night. And he was miserable.

Damn, his leg is hurting. It's difficult to sit still for so long. He hopes he didn't forget to pack his meds.

'You ok?'

Peeta looks at her and finds that she is awake and probably was for some time. Her eyes are clear, attentive. Totally unreadable.

'Just my leg.'

'Massage?'

He chuckles and refuses. 'We'll arrive soon. Don't bother.'

'Where are we staying?'

He told her already. Several times. He shouldn't overthink it, shouldn't panic. But he doesn't like it. Suddenly he is so full of worry and questions. What are you thinking about? Are you afraid? Why? How can I help? Can I? Please don't…

It's so tiring sometimes.

'They built something not far from… the centre. It has living quarters.' After some pause he adds, 'Everybody will be staying there.' She stiffens and he turns away.

'I can ask for some water. Your pills are in my bag, I can...'

'Kat, really, I don't need it.'

He'd found cigarettes in her coat one day. No brainer, Haymitch knows about it, they probably smoke together when she visits him. Peeta can bet they speak only in his presence, for his sake. These two can be silent like no one he knows, and it unnerves him.

Is she drinking? If so, she is very good at it because he never suspected anything. It's not in his nature to suspect because it's not in her nature to lie.

But she smokes.

And she agreed to go.

He remembers, later that night, after they decided to accept, he came downstairs and listened to the radio. Weather. Fashion. Cooking. News. Great anniversary assembly to celebrate the victory in the Great War. Representatives from all the districts. Victors. Veterans. Names, names, names.

He was listening for one name but it wasn't mentioned. Was he hoping for something else? He was being ridiculous. Five years have passed.

She will choose the one she can't survive without.

She did.

He was being ridiculous. And he couldn't sleep.

'The graffiti is still there,' she says unexpectedly. He didn't notice they were emerging from the tunnel and entering the Capitol.

'I missed it.' He takes her hand and squeezes. She squeezes back.

'It was so brave to do it. I wonder sometimes who did it. It was such a risk.'

He knows that she is touching her pin even without looking. This guilt is enormous for one person. So many lives.

'Come here.'

She does. Her eyes are closed. He keeps her close, so close. She is more important than his heart, his blood, his air. Katniss.

'I love you, Kat.'

It's always a bet – will she say 'I know', or will she make him a bit happy again. He never heard 'I know' from her. And he's still afraid of these awful words.

He is being ridiculous.

'I love you too.' And a kiss. Gentle. Familiar. Loving.

Promise. Hope. Happiness.

Platform.

II

Their room is spacious and quite cozy. He's never stayed in a hotel in his life. Only in a palace, he thinks ruefully. Outside, the city is bright and restless. The destroyed part is still gray and ominous, but the trees they planted all these years ago started to grow and partially concealed the horror. There is no palace. It has no place in a republic. New Panem is democratic. Trees are better than concrete. He hopes these trees will outlive the glass and steel.

Someday, children will be shown this place, and told that this is the way of every tyranny – it rots in the end. New footage will be shot. New banners will fly. Probably his name will be mentioned. Of course it will be, and these new children will be bored like he was in his time, not paying attention and not really caring about some guys long gone. The way of all flesh.

He detaches the prosthetic. The leg is throbbing and he massages the limb, then reattaches the device and starts walking. It will be better soon.

Katniss is in the bathroom, probably unpacking the toiletries. What are they to do now? There was a car waiting when they arrived. No Paylor, likely she didn't have time to meet them personally. And it's for the best. He actually always liked Paylor, but he is glad that they have a bit more time to prepare.

How will they do it? Some pretentious gala and speeches. Champagne. Congratulations. Back patting. Smiles. They better not ask him to talk. He guesses they understand that Katniss is completely out of the question. Then who? Generals, probably. Some officials from Thirteen. Brave rats who were bidding their time when the rest of the country was dying. Johanna? Yes, that would be interesting.

Gale.

He sighs. It's still possible he will come. There wasn't much talk about him lately. Right after the war, the public was told about some honorable assignment. No one would dare say that it was exile, that it was the best way to get rid of him. They couldn't shoot him because he was useful, and they didn't want to talk about him because he was an embarrassment. Because in this new world, there was no place for men who 'slaughtered kids'.

They fought against such men.

And still they couldn't just kill him.

Katniss knows nothing about what was going on after Coin was dead. The trials. The interrogations. Dozens of committees to separate right from wrong. It was difficult to find a place for her madness at the time. But they liked this 'temporary insanity' thing. At least it had a name and it was temporary.

Her doctor spoke for her. Advised maximum isolation and tranquility, explained that she couldn't possibly be responsible for her actions. And surely won't take the stand. Well, he was right in that case. Katniss at the time couldn't really answer a question about her dinner, not to mention being able to present her case in front of the committee.

So it was easy with Katniss. Nobody needed her anymore, and so nobody asked questions when she was transported quietly back to Twelve.

But Gale was sane. Perfectly calm. And it scared them more than anything. He didn't ask for forgiveness and didn't make excuses. Peeta remembers how he explained the blueprints that they made with Beetee in Thirteen. They were outrageous, and they had seven signatures of approval underneath. Signatures of the people who were asking him questions now, who wanted to know what had made him so 'inhuman'.

They said they wanted to understand, to prevent anything like this in the future. They said many beautiful things about freedom and kindness. Civilized warfare, they said. Gale smiled. They gave him fifteen years. On probation.

They kept the blueprints, though.

Katniss knows nothing about it. About Haymitch being drunk out of his mind. About Annie shaving her head. About Johanna fucking every guard on her floor.

She doesn't know about the brain surgery that Peeta had. About the coma. And recovery. She doesn't know that these headaches will never stop.

He saw Gale just once after this. He was in a military uniform, and they didn't have anything to tell each other. And when the officer came to take him to Two, they shook hands and he was gone. Empty room and bloody bandages in his waste basket. Haymitch later told him that when Gale was rescued, he was in a bad shape. No public beaches for Gale now. But at least he survived.

When he hears the phone ringing, he has to take a second to remember what's going on. Katniss comes from the bathroom and picks up. She listens and agrees to something.

Preparation time over.

'Paylor is on her way,' she says. Peeta nods.

'Any details about the evening?'

'I didn't ask.'

He wants to know what she expects. What is she going to wear? Should they leave now?

Was she smoking in the bathroom?

'It will be ok,' she says. 'It's a meeting. With drinks.' Smile. 'Hope they still have that stew.'

It's not funny, and they don't laugh.

'What are we doing here, Kat?'

She comes to him, sits on his lap. 'We are saying goodbye. Closure. My shrink was all for it. To leave it behind. To be free.' She kisses his cheeks, his forehead. 'We are saying goodbye.'

And it makes sense. Closure. But maybe there are doors that should never be reopened? Things never touched?

They weren't hiding in 12, he tells himself. Weren't running. They already left it all behind. He did. They built a quiet life, stable. They have everything they need. And even with nightmares and pain, it's still manageable. He has his bakery. Katniss has her forest and garden and reparation projects. Isn't it enough? She never said it wasn't enough.

'Peeta...'

He looks at her and knows that his eyes must betray him.

'We have nothing to worry about. We leave tomorrow. We'll never come back.'

'Oh, Kat. I just… This is the one place I never wanted to see again. This city. It's toxic.'

And like always – you fall, I catch you. She is here, she is kind and understanding and perfect.

'I know. We'll leave tomorrow.'

When Paylor arrives, they are seemingly alright again. It's just one day. They can do one day. He squishes his paranoia and doesn't think about the past. Katniss returns to his lap after greeting Paylor, and the president smiles politely. It's like they are happy to see each other.

'I'm glad you accepted, kids.' She is genuine and doesn't notice how inadequate this 'kids' sounds. Katniss smiles bitterly, Peeta unconsciously looks for the mirror. To Paylor they probably are kids, she is over forty and looks weary and intense at the same time. He can't imagine the amount of work and responsibility she deals with every day.

She tells them about the evening. Yes, it's just dinner among so called veterans. She decided to avoid any public celebrations, the budget is tough, the new parliament is still under construction, the results are few and the Capitol is all military and politicians, there are no real people to celebrate with. Of course they made some movie to broadcast nation-wide and working shifts will be shortened, but again it's too early to celebrate for real.

'Then why do it at all?' he asks. 'Why gather everyone?'

'Well, the Capitol needs its parties.' Paylor is sad suddenly, sad and… disappointed. 'If you want to be reelected you have to please your electorate.'

'You were trying to give them bread and they demanded the circus too.' Katniss looks at her unkindly.

'Basically. But you can't change the system just by changing the leader. To break the rules I first have to know them well. It's not war, Katniss. You don't smash and burn – you flex and adapt.'

'We get it,' he says. 'And what's our role, then?'

Paylor is grateful to him, and Katniss keeps quiet, quietly aggressive.

'It's just a party, really. You sit, dance, smile, mingle. There will be some presentations. Officials from all the districts will speak. We have a new hymn and it will be played for the first time. Nothing awful.' She smiles.

She tries so hard, he sees it. How many times did she have to tell the same thing to people hating the Capitol? To cheer them up?

'And the victors? Who will be there?' he can't stop himself, it's the only thing that is really important in all this conversation for him.

'Oh, we invited everybody. Of course we don't expect them all to come. My secretary was in charge, she has the guest list. Sent the letters, asked for confirmation. Johanna agreed, as far as I remember. I'm sorry I was paying more attention to the district officials. There are some matters to discuss and… well, you should know.'

Peeta nods and looks at Katniss, it's all clear then. The talk is over.

Paylor thanks them again, asks if they need anything, and tells that their clothes will be brought soon. They smile, and she leaves.

He steps out on the balcony. It's 3 o'clock and they are expected at 7. Four hours. If Gale comes, he is likely here right now, in this same building, maybe even on this floor. Peeta could call the reception and ask.

Is she thinking the same thing?

He turns and looks at her through the glass – she is reading something, not a care in the world. And in his hysteria, it seems most suspicious of all. When Katniss is calm, you can never tell what she is planning, what goes on inside her head. This calmness can cover anything. This silence can be deception in itself.

In five years they never talked about Gale. Never even mentioned him, like he didn't exist. His family moved away from 12, apparently to 2. His former house is destroyed. The Hob crowd is gone.

Peeta can remember just a couple of times when Katniss talked about her mother. They don't exchange letters or calls. And Katniss is alright with it, she spoke about her without anger, bitterness or regret. She doesn't hate her, he knows, and for the first time he thinks: maybe it's even worse, this complete indifference? More cruel?

It would be so easy to come inside and just say his name. Gale.

And then what?

'I'm an idiot. Such a damn idiot,' he whispers. His eyes wander, and down on the street he sees an ad with a shirtless man on it. And there is something… The image comes in a minute. Gale in the kitchen, on that table they still have (why?), his back mutilated after the whipping.

'Stop, stop, stop.' But it's no use, everything comes back at once then. Katniss in hysterics, Mrs. Everdeen with her herbs, Prim preparing the bandages, Haymitch swearing and drinking.

He remembers feeling useless.

Horrified.

Weak.

Jealous.

And amidst it all Katniss, screaming and crying. Katniss with her eyes blazing. Absolutely mad with anger and… love.

That night was lost in everything that came after. Only Gale's scars and that table remained to tell that it even happened.

Then he thought she would never be his.

Was he right?

III

And it's exactly like Paylor said – nothing awful. Speeches. Drinks. Videos. Ovation.

Katniss is in blue, he is in black. They even dance a couple of times. Of course people recognize them, but they are extremely polite and don't mention anything unpleasant. Some are simply indifferent and others are probably too afraid to ask. This girl killed Coin, you don't want to aggravate her.

Katniss is smiling as much as she can. She never leaves his side, and her eyes aren't wandering.

Strangely, he is disappointed. All this worry and waiting seem to have been for nothing. Gale isn't even here. They are leaving tomorrow, and he still doesn't have his answer. He starts thinking about the bakery, about trying out the recipe he'd found recently in his father's books. It calls for squirrel meat, but Katniss doesn't hunt anymore, and so the squirrels are a problem. He could ask her, of course, but she told him once that her targeting is all messed up now – hands shaking, knees going weak. She can't make a decent shot. The woods are a park for her now, not a survival source. So the squirrels will wait.

He missed the announcement, and looking on the stage, sees the orchestra coming out. The new hymn. It means that the official part is finished, and the real party will start and go on until morning. He doesn't have to stay and see it to know that it will be exactly like it was with Snow. How many guests here remember that wild luxurious parties of the former president? Many, perhaps. It's not a surprise that a lot of people don't care about the regime – be it democracy or tyranny – as long as it feeds them. And they betray their masters as soon as the champagne starts winding down. Paylor understands it well, Snow did too.

His memories of Snow are hazy, mixed with pain and terror. Every time the door to his room was opened, he expected it to be the invitation to his own execution. But one time is clear – Snow came to talk to him. He was not menacing or outright evil. Just an old man playing games. He promised to break Peeta not because it would give him pleasure, but to break Katniss. And Peeta asked to be killed already. He asked for it a lot. The palace was destroyed with all the archives, so the footage of his interrogations was lost. What would everyone think if they saw it?

He imagines the horrified and disgusted faces, people listening to him betraying everyone, telling all the secrets he knew, promising anything if they only stopped. But they didn't want his secrets, they knew them all. They wanted Katniss to suffer across the country, underground in Thirteen.

This bit on television that was later considered a heroic act was just a last desperate attempt at suicide. It almost worked, but Snow suddenly changed his mind and let him live. It was the cruelest thing, most effective.

He remembers Gale dragging him from that cell. It wasn't a rescue mission, really – Snow left him to be picked up. Damaged goods. He'd served his purpose.

In these hours when they were flying back to 13, how many times did Gale think about killing him? He must have known that Katniss is very prone to care for weak men. With every mile he was losing her a bit more. It was his chance, and he didn't do it.

Was it nobleness or just pity on his part? Likely both.

And how did it end? Peeta is an acclaimed victor and Gale is an unpleasant secret of the Revolution. Tonight almost everyone mentioned the Mockingjay and her famous partner, praising them for their bravery and resilience. No one mentioned Gale.

Snow would. Snow knew about Gale, and he recognized the predator, being one himself. He didn't particularly care about Katniss, actually. He thought her weak, romantic. He knew she had too many soft spots – Prim, Peeta, her mother. Rue showed him everything he needed to know.

No, he feared the men like Gale who were ruthless and ready to do whatever was necessary. He just missed that there were too many Gales in that country by that time, too many who survived the reapings but didn't forget. He bred and raised them, but underestimated them until it was too late.

And now Paylor is afraid of such people. It's a fatal mistake to create an enemy who is too angry to be afraid. They confiscated a lot of property in these five years, so it's not surprising that she has seven bodyguards and – biggest irony – sleeps in a bunker that Snow used.

He listens to the music, but misses the words. It's very similar to the old one that played before the reapings, but of course no one cares. Or maybe it's his paranoia speaking. This place…

And suddenly, he sees it – a dark figure in the corner of the hall. Tall. Immobile. All black. Totally unrecognizable, unmistakably familiar. Gale.

He turns his head and looks at them both. No surprise in these dark shining eyes. Peeta can't decipher the emotion coming from him. It's like a glass separates them. Five years of glass.

Gale is looking at Katniss now. And still nothing. No muscle twitching. He doesn't even blink for the longest time, and then he is coming to them. Katniss takes a step back, then her back goes rigid and her chin is up. She doesn't know that she is preparing to fight. And Peeta wonders if it will happen like this, with all these people around, with lights on and cameras somewhere nearby ready to capture anything thrilling during the otherwise predictable evening. Will they dare to make it public? To show the world the real and sad truth about former friends and combatants? He imagines Katniss lifting her hand and a loud smack echoing across the room, accompanying the last accord of the pretentious hymn of the new country. He imagines the silence, shocked and confused, the whispers and the averted glances.

They never stepped out of that train.

Gale is almost here. But when he comes, nothing happens. They stoically ignore each other, looking on the stage. Hearing nothing apart from each other's breaths. A current of anticipation between them.

It's so like it used to be. Three figures, shoulder to shoulder. Two men and a woman between them. Always between them. Three people tied together by loyalty and fear. Three images of a world gone by.

Will we make it this time, Kat? Are we strong enough?

The music ends. The lights come on. They all applaud.

'Well, they didn't have to work hard on that one,' Gale says.

His voice is unexpected. Too much the same as it was before and still strange. Was he rehearsing it? Is he nervous?

'It's good to see you, Gale.' Someone has to say it, and Peeta is good with small talk.

Gale turns and looks at him. There is humor behind the gray calm of his eyes. Is it, really? they ask. And Peeta smiles, kindly, because for some reason it is.

Probably understanding the unsaid, Gale smiles back but only with his lips.

'Katniss.'

'We didn't know if you would come.' It's a strange thing to say because they never discussed whether he would or not. And the fact tells Peeta a lot.

'I decided it was worth my time. Usual mistake.' Gale looks again at the stage. 'But it doesn't change that I'm glad to meet you here.'

'How long are you staying?' Peeta asks.

'I leave in two days. Paylor wanted to talk to me, and she doesn't have time tomorrow. So, in two days'.

'You in 2?' That's from Katniss.

Something strange flashes in Gale's eyes, he turns away and then nods.

'How is 12?'

'They took down the fence.' Peeta feels like an odd third wheel in this conversation for some reason. His and Katniss' 12 are two different places – and hers will always be connected to her childhood friend and not her lover.

'So no more fun,' Gale chuckles.

'It wasn't much fun to risk your life for a squirrel,' she says, unmistakably hostile.

Gale tenses.

'No, it probably wasn't.' And Peeta feels more than he knows that Gale is lying. It was fun for him. It was the only youth they had. No matter how grim it seemed at the time, you can't stop missing it. He feels the same about his mother.

'Why don't we go and have a drink? There is a bar here and it shouldn't be crowded right now.'

Gale looks at Katniss and not him before he answers.

'That's a good idea, but I have to decline. I'm…' he looks across the hall and there is a woman in a gorgeous dress looking his way.

Peeta doesn't miss Katniss following his gaze with disgust.

'We'll probably see each other tomorrow. What time you leaving?'

'I don't think we will. See each other, I mean,' says Katniss abruptly.

'We leave at three,' Peeta adds to smooth her words.

They say goodbye, he leaves. It was so much better than Peeta expected, and it wasn't what he expected at all.

When they come back to their room after more dancing and drinking, Peeta is relaxed. He is in no mood to talk, the bed is inviting and they have all night.

Yes, he knows his answer now. Katniss is vulnerable and afraid of her feelings, she is jealous and possessive of a man who is not hers. But it's just a melancholy, a faint regret for something that was meant to be and didn't happen. It'll stay with her until the end. The possibility of a different life, different choice. But they both see now that the time has gone. You can't undo the past.

Melancholy is all there is.

Peeta wants to celebrate. Maybe it's mean, but he doesn't care. He got the girl. He really got the girl. It has nothing to do with luck or survival – she chose him. And Katniss never changes her mind.

Hell, it's so liberating. The worry leaves him, and he welcomes the reassuring revelation. Gale is the past. Their future is bright and endless, they are still young and strong, stronger than ever. They will never go back to this place, and someday she'll say yes, be his wife. If he waits long enough and is brave enough, he'll talk to her about kids. They are not ready now, but they will be.

He feels so alive and happy and free. To hell with Gale and childhood dreams, they are all adults now, and illusions tend to fade away with time.

He gave her so much, all that he had. And Katniss is not the person to stay out of gratitude. She must feel the same. The you-are-the-only-one sensation, the inevitability of fate.

Love is so many different things – and theirs is forgiveness and sacrifice, need and hope. Their love was tried by fire and now is tougher than stone.

'I fucking hate him.'

All his musings made him forget that Katniss is so close. She stays by the window, fingers playing on the window-sill.

'Gale?'

'Of course, Gale. I bet all his work is parties and girls, being charming and getting money for it.'

'He didn't look that way.'

'No? And how did he look to you? The world can crash and burn, but as long as his dick is working, he is perfectly ok with it!'

And just like this, he is furious. 'What do you care about his dick?'

Her eyes are huge. This harshness, it's not like him. She must have said aloud something she didn't mean to. But Katniss has a defense mechanism up to perfection, and it kicks in at the slightest provocation. It's obvious she wants to fight.

'This bastard killed my sister', that's her line. In the past it would have shut him up in a second, but now it's different.

'And what, you wanted him to cry and tear his hair out every time you meet? What do you want from him, Katniss? He left us alone. Isn't that what you wanted? I don't give a damn about his pastime and his career, his conscience or lack of it. It's his business whether he sleeps at night or wants to put a bullet in his head. We have a lot on our plate to think about him in addition.

'I believe he is miserable. Like we all. And he tries to cope the way he is used to. We all do it.

'Do you want him to burn in hell? I'm sure your wish is granted. No matter what form this hell has taken. If you wanted to see it, you just had to look at him and not the woman he chose for the evening.'

After this outburst, they are quiet. She comes and sits close to him on the bed, takes his hand.

'I'm sorry,' she finally says. And he only nods.

After the shower he reads a little, and she turns away from the light. They don't make love that night.

IV

She has a dream that night. She is following the familiar path in the woods, soon there will be the clearing where she used to meet with Gale. She hears voices and lurches ahead. When she reaches the place, there are Gale and Prim. Prim stands up and gets on his shoulders, Gale helps her. Then he turns around, and they both look at Katniss.

She runs, they are so close and it shouldn't be difficult to reach them. But something strange happens, and no matter how hard she runs, they don't get any closer. And they are still looking at her in silence. Gale and Prim. Her dead sister and her monstrous friend.

Then, without any word, Gale turns and starts going away. She cries, calls for Prim. She is desperate. Something in her knows that if they disappear in the trees, she won't see them ever again. Fear seizes her throat, and she really can't cry any harder. Soon she can't cry at all. And they are further and further away.

She doesn't understand the trick. Her legs are exhausted. Time stands still and concentrates inside her. She feels every step, every inch between them. Lungs full of despair. Pain felt with all your being.

They are gone.

Her eyes are open. She sees the ceiling of the hotel room. Peeta is sleeping calmly. Everything is completely silent, only her heart is beating wildly.

She feels how tense she is. Hands clutching the blanket. Lips tight. She swallows, feeling the dryness of her throat, and knows that it will be impossible to sleep now, though she is exhausted as if the running was real and went on for hours.

It has come to this. Peeta knows nothing about her nightmares, now it's her who doesn't thrash or scream. He believes that she is sleeping well these days, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. When the dreams come closer to dawn, it's better because she doesn't have to wait long to get up. She is always sleepy on such days, and naps in the afternoon.

It's unfair in some way. Before, she had Peeta to calm her and stay awake with her, but now she is alone with these nocturnal guests. They come to her without alerting anyone, slipping into her bedroom and her life when the closest person she has is beside her and still oblivious to their presence. They provoke, scar and leave, promising without words to come again, to meet her somewhere no one can help her.

She sees a lot of people. Snow is a frequent visitor. Sometimes he brings roses. They had tea one night, she remembers. They never talk, though, just look at each other. She knows him so well by now. Every wrinkle. Every shade of his eyes.

Forever bound.

It's not right to keep it from Peeta. They don't have secrets and she despises lies, but telling him would be like dragging them both back, and he's always wanted to move on. He chose the future and fights for it in small ways every day. If she wanted to be mean, she would say that it's naïve, but she understands that it's wise, it's the right thing to do.

Will she ever start moving towards this future? Haymitch would probably say that she already missed it. You'll never step off this train. And the train still exists, it's still running somewhere without stops.

She remembers the day she found Peeta in her garden, planting bushes of pale pink roses. It was hope. Unexpected. Undeserved. It was a chance to survive and start again. Her exhausted brain knew it instantly, and she stopped fighting the treacherous instincts that have kept her alive for so long despite everything else. Her biology won.

No, that's not so. It wasn't pure survival instinct, it was the love of this wonderful man who never gave up on her, never deserted her. It was seeing his strength and kindness, feeling his care and tenderness that saved her. A day at a time.

She learned from him to start small, not to try to get it all at once. She learned patience and objectivity. She started with brushing her hair in the morning and taking showers, and then it was possible to go downstairs every day and look around the house. It took her a month to clean up all the rooms, one corner a day. Small steps. In two months she opened a cook book left in the kitchen and started making something simple from the first page. And when she did it, it was logical to share with Peeta, so she invited him to dinner. The dish was suspicious and inedible, and when Peeta tried it and managed to keep a straight face, she smiled for the first time.

They moved together not long after that. He slept in a different room, but always stayed with her until she fell asleep. They went together through nightmares and physical pain, hand in hand. They invented dozens of chores around the house to always stay busy, to concentrate on something simple. They created their own routine.

He encouraged her to visit town, to see what was going on. At first she resisted – she had this house and the garden, she didn't need anything or anybody else. But he kept trying, and then she agreed to take a walk along the Victors' Village. She did it once, then again, and soon it became another habit – her walks became lengthier, she found new places she could like.

After three years she first went back to the woods. She found her old bow that miraculously survived, and would be useful if she decided to hunt. She knew immediately that she would never be able to hunt again, but couldn't destroy her old weapon. Her hands were different – clean and smooth, she suddenly realized that she wasn't seventeen anymore, and it seemed funny. Not that she was self-conscious about her age – she was barely twenty-one, not a grandmother by any means – but it felt like waking up and finding yourself with half of your life left behind, and you didn't notice how it happened.

She was twenty-one. Her childhood stopped almost ten years ago, and the hunger devoured her adolescence. Katniss was looking at her bow, and felt as if it belonged to another person. She tried to remember what it was like then, and became angry because the first thing that came to mind was freedom. Did she really think that she was free at 17? It was a cruel joke – she wasn't free at all at that time. She had to risk her life to feed three people, she had to wait to be chosen for slaughter every year, and a simple slice of bread seemed like a feast. What kind of freedom was it?

She left her bow where she found it, and went on following the path that would be impossible to find for a person who's never been in these woods. She was still angry, and cursed her foolish nostalgia for its tricks. It took her another half an hour to understand where she was going, when she looked at an old cedar and frowned. Something was strange, but Katniss couldn't decipher the feeling.

It hit her hard and squeezed her throat. She understood what she was looking for and didn't find, what was so strange about the old branch going almost parallel to the ground.

There was no knot.

No snare.

She was looking for a knot of the snare that often was here. Gale's snare.

She turned around and realized that she went along one of their hunting paths. And all the time she checked the usual places.

She cried and couldn't stop. The tears rolled down her cheeks like rain, though she didn't feel anything at all. Surely it wasn't grief. There was nothing. She was hollow and empty, irreversibly dead, beyond any help.

There was nothing.

Not even a knot on the branch.

'How could you?' she whispered. 'How could you leave me like this? Just fucking leave…'

These words helped her, because when she heard herself saying it, she became furious and finally managed to stop crying. She would never ever go this way again, she would find new places, her own. She would not be weak and pathetic. She would be free.

When she met Peeta that evening, she didn't waste time to go upstairs into the bedroom. They made love right in the hall. And though it took more time than usual, she didn't stop until she came.

V

He hears the noise of the running water. It's light already and he is used to waking before the dawn. He feels a bit dizzy. It's probably champagne – he doesn't drink often and always feels tired after a couple of glasses.

The light falls on his arm, and he folds his hand as if to grasp it. The veins of his wrist like pale rivers on an old faded map. Thousands of dust particles floating in a sun beam. He looks at them, and they remind him of snowflakes around a street lamp. In winter they often sit by the fireplace, talk, drink wine, make love. The winters make the sounds disappear. It's easier to feel safe then.

This morning is like any other. It's the innocent look that makes dangerous things deadly. The mornings of the reaping were usually sunny and cheerful, making the cruelty of it all even more unbearable. Nature ignored people, made them insignificant. When Peeta and Katniss arrived at the Capitol for the first time, everyone was so good at ignoring and forgetting. You watch a beautiful play, and don't want to know about the tears running down the actress' cheek. Ignorance lets you feel safe, it protects you until the knife goes in.

He will think a lot about this morning in the coming years, blaming himself, blaming her. Wishing sometimes to go back and believing that if he only had the chance he would have done it all differently. And only years later it will seem ironic that he thought about winters that day.

Winters. So dangerous and so beautiful, so good at covering up.

He tells her that he is going to see Paylor's secretary about the tickets back. The instant when he is almost out of the room, he turns and looks at Katniss. It's purely instinctive, and he doesn't dwell on it. She looks back, and there is a moment shorter than a breath when she is going to say something. But he doesn't linger and looks away, so she keeps her silence.

And then he is gone. She is standing alone in this room. Clothes packed. Stillness absolute. It's just her and the guilt. The loneliness of being responsible for a betrayal. The loneliness of having made a choice.

Suddenly, she doesn't want to stay here alone, to spend even a minute by herself. But when she runs to the door and opens it to call him back, the corridor is empty like she is the only person in this place. And she knows that's not true, she knows it because when Peeta was asleep, she went down to the reception and asked about something she shouldn't have.

Room 317.

A floor above them.

She didn't need to go far, and the steps were so deceptively easy. It was the end of a two-year journey. The journey that started with that forest walk she took alone. A journey that began with an absent knot on a tree branch.

She thought it would be easy to find out something about him. Any newspaper should have had his name here or there. She looked through all of them. All of the papers and magazines that Peeta used as kindling for the fireplace. Old editions, dating back almost to the first days of the new country. And there was nothing there. He wasn't mentioned once.

She thought it odd, but didn't really panic. The radio in the kitchen should have helped her. She listened to the afternoon news, but after three months it seemed like Gale Hawthorne had never existed.

She started to get anxious, and went to find Hazelle. She knew that their old house was destroyed, so she asked for Greasy Sae and found her in a shabby cabin on the outskirts of the district. The old woman was glad to see her. She lived alone and rarely went anywhere. The state gave her a meager pension, and a girl from a house nearby bought her groceries, but other than that she was left behind and forgotten.

They talked about old times, Greasy Sae reminiscing about Katniss' father and old authorities, the hardships of miner's work. Her own husband died from lung disease – usual end for a District 12 resident.

Katniss tried to be as subtle as she could, which meant that she wasn't successful at all, but Greasy Sae was oblivious or very tactful, and simply said that from what she knew, Hazelle and all Hawthorne kids had moved away almost four years ago. She didn't believe anyone knew their new address. The people from 12 never wrote letters, and the Revolution didn't change that.

So it was a choice between Paylor and Haymitch. But Katniss couldn't imagine herself contacting Paylor. And how would she do it? They didn't have a phone, and she didn't know the number anyway.

Haymitch. The problem with him was that he would see right through her. He didn't suffer from tactfulness and didn't care much about sparing Katniss' feelings. He would draw his conclusions before she even finished her question . And he would hit precisely where it hurt the most. He would ask if Peeta knew about her inquiries.

It took her another six months to finally go to him. He was sitting with a cigarette in one hand and a glass in the other, lazily watching her attempts to prettify his cave of a house. But when everything was done – and she did more than usual, even dusted the shelves – she came to him, lit a cigarette, and asked.

Haymitch wasn't surprised or amused. Bloodshot tired eyes looked at her with something like pity. 'Forget about Gale,' he said. And that was it.

She could visit him every day, bribe him or beg him, she knew she would get the same answer.

And she tried to forget. She stopped listening to the radio, threw out the old magazines. She stopped going to the woods for some time. The reconstruction of the Hob had started, and she went there every day to help, doing men's work, sawing logs and hammering nails, casing and painting. She learned a lot about construction, grew some muscles, got tanned. She couldn't forget.

It was like a pain that surfaces with the weather. It goes away, and you know it will come back next season no matter what. And sorry, there is no cure from old age.

She went to the woods again, took her bow and used up all the arrows trying to hit a tree across the ravine. Her aim was shitty. After the last arrow she tried to break the bow, slicing a finger in the process, then threw it away, crossed the ravine and picked up the arrows. The woods were indifferent. She was pissed.

When the announcement about the assembly was aired, she thought nothing of it. Only when a woman that sold her vegetables and honey talked about all the fancy Capitolites going at it again, Katniss saw her opportunity. She went to the magistrate under the pretext that she was curious about the possible rise of her pension, and in between mentioned that Paylor's secretary had called them, but she lost the number and could they be so kind…

Holding the note, she promised herself that it was the absolutely last time, that after the call she would drop the matter for good whether anything comes from it or not. She went to Haymitch's, cleaned up his house again, cooked, and then, as he was grumbling about her absent culinary talents, sneaked upstairs.

Paylor's secretary, Laura, was stunned to hear Katniss Everdeen greeting her from another side of the country. She probably thought it was a prank, but was afraid to mess up and so forwarded the call to Paylor. Paylor was not so surprised but nevertheless showed little enthusiasm when she recognized Katniss' voice.

'Is it about money? If there was a delay in payments, you should go to your magistrate…'

'It's not the money,' Katniss interrupted. 'I heard about the assembly.'

'Don't worry, there won't be any reporters at your door,' said Paylor, irritated.

'No, I wanted to know if we could come. Peeta and I. If it's possible'.

This made Paylor pause. Katniss wondered what the President was thinking about this sudden change of mind, or rather about how she could use it. But whatever Paylor thought, she just said that sure, she would tell to include Katniss in the guest list. They said goodbye, Katniss turned around ready to leave, and met Haymitch's stare.

'You never learn, do you?' He was angry and obviously disappointed. That irritated Katniss.

'Not your business.' She tried to pass, but he grasped her hand.

'I'm afraid it will be.'

They knew each other well, and she saw in his eyes that he didn't condemn her. He was cynical, misanthropic, and tragically wise. She remembered her father telling her how animals feel an earthquake long before the earth starts to tremble. Haymitch was probably the same, at least he was as powerless as a deer that feels the horror coming.

Haymitch felt the earth tremble, and so did Katniss when she was standing at the door of the room 317 at 4:21 that night in the Capitol.

VI

He feels strange, closing the door to his room. It's not sadness, and it's not surprise. More like the dead calm after a final shot. He is dead and calm.

He goes to the window, opens it and lights a cigarette.

She is alive.

The smoke in his lungs is bitter and heavy. And when it's difficult to swallow, he tries to tell himself that it's just smoking.

Everything here is so clean and it feels alien. He never got used to any luxury. His world is dirt and dust, coal and snow.

He tries the feeling of letting go, of losing the unimaginable 21 grams. He remembers reading about it in an old study, scientists still don't know what it means.

Three-quarters of an ounce. And it's nothing. Like smoke curling above his head and disappearing in the dark.

In the end it was worth it, coming here. Paylor certainly profited from his weakness. She is clever, others' weaknesses are really all she has. But no doubt she plays them well.

He almost likes her. There is an understanding between them that can only be achieved through a shared secret. One day this same secret will make them hunt each other, but for now it's safe. And he was a good hunter in his time.

Does Paylor have a lover? No, of course not. Love is a liability. A luxury and a disease.

She is alive.

Alive and still fits under his shoulder.

The cigarette burns his fingers, and he throws it away. Small orange spark scrapes the darkness and fades away. And his whole life is not much bigger than that butt, insignificant, used and forgettable.

This first moment when he saw her standing there with Peeta – tense, careful, impregnable – the pain was instantaneous and numbing. The memories so raw and sweet. If anyone had looked at him then, would they see all these shadows gliding through him like images on a screen? He saw her as a 12-year-old girl, scrawny and tired, a bit afraid and self-conscious. He saw every time when he got her to trust him. The first time he found out she was able to smile.

Does Peeta make her smile?

He takes another cigarette.

He shouldn't be here – in this city and in this room, but it was worth it. And tonight he'll let himself remember something that never happened. Drink again from the poison that has become a painful medicine.

An alternative. A shadow.

She didn't get into the Games, the war never took place, and one day, tired from the mines and not giving a damn, he just kissed her. Simply kissed her instead of saying goodbye on the porch of Mrs. Everdeen's house. And after the first time it came easier – her huge eyes not so scary but suddenly fragile and amazed, and it was not necessary to stop, because he knew that he got the girl and would never let her go.

He remembers the toasting and the congratulations, his mother and her mother, the small shabby house and the aroma of fresh bread, these huge eyes again – nervous but warm. Candle on the table that he blew out before going to the bedroom. And just standing there at the door, looking at her, feeling so peaceful and full. Just looking at her.

And winters, summers and rains, when no matter what I still have your back.

And his eyes on her children. And his smile in her eyes.

No matter what. No matter what…

What a beautiful life you never had, my friend.

It's like swallowing a blade. Though it's not blood in your mouth, just spit. You're smoking too much.

When he closes the window, the perfume is still in the room. These capitol ladies cherish their privileges, not knowing that whores use the same smells and colors now. He could have fucked her, it might have made him feel better. You never know, though. Sometimes he is quite sentimental about sex, even fucking.

Revolution didn't change women, there still were the ones you wanted to keep and the ones you wanted to kill. He had them all, didn't discriminate, but secretly preferred the latter group – they took less from you.

The brooch she left is valuable, however. Will it save her husband? Could that poor bastard have known all that time ago, buying this trinket and probably whining about the price, could he have known that one day his life would be cheaper than the smallest emerald there?

But it's quite touching and deserves respect – not many women stay when your money is gone. This woman stayed, and came here ready to pay the most humiliating price for getting medicine to her husband. That's why he didn't fuck her – desperation deserves respect. He never added to his prey's agony.

It's a blessing he couldn't get closer to Katniss, couldn't smell or touch or catch a flicker of the eye. He is not strong enough for this. Still not strong enough.

There are nights when he pictures himself making love to her. Exhausting, sweaty love. It makes him smile in the dark, makes him feel a bit human. He imagines kissing her stomach and thinking, there my kids could have been. Kissing places between her breasts and between her legs. Taking.

And in the morning, he finds himself a bit grayer.

He shouldn't have come. When you're walking to the gallows, there is no point in turning around one last time, and yet everyone does it. Fuck Paylor, he will leave at first light. She didn't want him here. There is a chance that right now she is signing an order to shoot him upon his arrival in Two. Good.

Death and Katniss – two things he couldn't catch, no matter how hard he tried. And one of them should be merciful enough to welcome him now. The thought makes him chuckle. Yes, good boy Gale who served them so well, they won't begrudge a bullet to him.

Laughter and then a howl.

He goes to the bathroom. He can still get a couple of hours of sleep before leaving. Just a couple is harmless. And on the train, he'll get drunk and arrive barely conscious.

Yes, that's a good plan. He doesn't dare to think about the second he'll step on the platform in Two again and see that cheerful sign – "We dream big here". Even if he tried, he couldn't have come up with a more ironic slogan for that place.

But yes, they do everything big there. Hiding dirt, especially.

Dirt like him.

He inhales deeply and cringes – shower is a must. A memory of Paylor comes and goes – no, he won't see her today. He doesn't need to see her at all, it was just bullshit he'd invented on the spot. Paylor will be grateful if he disappears as if he never was here. And if she really took some measures last night, well, it's her right and even responsibility. He would do the same in her place, get rid of the threat.

It's a pity he won't stay until morning. He could order breakfast and send the check back to Paylor. Gale smiles. No, it would be worth it only if he could see her face upon receiving it, and of course, knowing that she has to pay it herself, because the fewer people know he is still breathing the better.

In the bathroom mirror he finds nothing unexpected. No trace of movement behind the grey eyes, no trace of life, really. His face is still young if you look at it long and thoroughly enough. The grey hairs give him some peculiar attractiveness, the brows heavy, skin darker than before, shoulders wide. Yes, underneath it all Gale still can be considered young.

He rarely looks at himself, not for the lack of vanity but for lack of necessity. Probably it's a habit from his earlier life – the mirrors were scarce and small in District 12. Girls used to admire themselves in shop windows of the merchant streets. And he saw himself through girls' eyes, in the end they are man's best mirror.

He starts to shave and doesn't hear the knocking at first. When he does, he thinks it must be a mistake, then wonders whether Paylor sent someone. But a visitor from Paylor would have the key.

Did the woman come back? Changed her mind? Probably decided that her brooch is more valuable than her husband's rotting lungs.

Curiosity wins. You can't help opening the closed door, you can't help picking up the ringing phone. Simplicity and irony of fate. You miss the call, and your life changes without you even knowing. But then again, the truly fatal one you never miss, unfortunately.

He washes the soap off, and without looking in the mirror, goes to open the door.

You never miss it. You have to pick up.

She is standing almost in the middle of the hallway. Arms around herself. Eyes somewhere between his belt buckle and his chin. Silent.

He waits for her to look at him, he can't help himself. In this moment, he is absolutely sure he knew it would happen. He even believes that he knew it would happen like this.

And then she looks up. You have to know her absolutely to find a flicker of fear and uncertainty. He finds it.

'Come in.' Not waiting for her, just leaving the door ajar, he goes to his nightstand, picks the bottle and throws it in the wastebasket. When he turns around, she is here and the door is closed.

'Mixed up your room keys?' Where is this lightness coming from? Hunter's experience, likely. You face something deadly – you have to be calm.

'Um, no,' she says. 'I wanted to… see you.'

It's 4 a.m., time for the criminals like them. At any other hour this meeting would be unimaginable. If you know the night, that is the time you choose to kill. It's perfect.

'Where is Peeta?'

Oh, he likes it, the feeling of power – her eyes immediately going somewhere, tracing the contours of his boots. 'Sneaking around behind your husband's back?'

'First, Peeta is not your business. And second, don't talk like we are some buddies. We haven't…' She stops awkwardly. 'Do you want me to go?' she adds, still not looking at him.

He should. It's for the best.

He tells her to stay.

They sit facing each other, he in the armchair and she – surprisingly – on the bed. Their eyes are better than any mirror. No mirror could transport you several years back. They can.

She hardly notices the changes, because his old face was so familiar that she sees it even now. Everything about him is frighteningly familiar. She may not remember the shades in her kitchen where she spent the last five years, but the wrinkle on his neck when he leans slightly to the right is not surprising.

Maybe she can leave it like this? Just sit with him for ten minutes, not talking? Just breathe him in?

'I don't know what you do. In 2.'

'Construction.' The answer is instantaneous. Too easy.

She nods. 'Good.' After a pause, 'I help with reconstruction, too. A bit. I like it.'

He doesn't answer this time. There is something that bothers him, and it's difficult to say exactly what. Last time she was so close, it was agony and ice. Aftershock on both their faces and in their voices. They were hollow and mute. Words came only with difficulty. Two statues and a rain of ashes around them, saying final goodbyes. Already dead.

Her numbness.

His guilt.

And still at that moment he saw a mystery in her, the mystery that captivated him for so many years. Gale looks at her closely, and finds that there is no mystery now. She used to be like an ellipsis at the end of the book that made you read again, made you wonder. Here and now he finds a full stop.

Does happiness do that to you? he muses. Has ordinary life created an ordinary person?

She is like a bad painting of herself. Like the props Plutarch was furious about. Pretty and lifeless. You won't go to die for this girl. You won't even look at her twice in the street, he thinks.

'You look like shit,' he says bluntly. 'Sorry.'

It makes her smile, and she sees his puzzlement.

'I'm alright. I mean, I'm healthy.'

'I don't doubt it. Still, you look… I don't know. Some sun might help.' At this she almost laughs.

'You get a lot of sun, obviously. You look good.' Now they are able to keep their eyes steady.

This interlude is dangerous, he feels old longing rising up like smoke from ashes - you don't water it and soon there will be fire. There is no place for this fire in his life now. She will go back to that boy and what about Gale? What will he do with that burning?

Fuck it. His feelings are meaningless to her, but they are the only ones he has.

'Why are you here, Katniss?'

'Anniversary,' she says lightly, pleased with the easy conversation and not reading him at all. 'I was invited.'

'Cut it, you know what I mean. Again, why are you here?'

She rights her shoulders, inhales and says like some glorious declaration, at least he hears it that way:

'I wanted to tell you that I forgive you.' Pause. He is silent. 'For Prim.'

Anything he could imagine, but not this. He is literally stunned, and she misinterprets it again.

'I didn't know how to say it any other way, but I mean it. I thought about it a lot, and I don't want it to hang between us. We were friends. I know you loved her. Not like me, but… Gale, I am as responsible as you are. I know it. Last time…'

'Oh, shut up!' He stands up quickly, and Katniss starts from the slap of his loud words. Gale looks angry, this she gets, she's seen it many times.

'I'm just…' he seems lost for words. 'Do you think I need your forgiveness? You what, started a charity now and decided to include me? Or is it simply that you want to be a good person suddenly, and holding a grudge is not in the cards? Are you for real?'

She doesn't answer and he doesn't wait for it.

'You think I can't sleep because somewhere you may still be pissed at me?'

'I wanted…'

'I don't want your fucking forgiveness, Katniss! It's not yours to give, and the one who could give it to me never will now.'

This is the truth. And more – it's the pain he can use against her.

'I don't need your pity or your noble sacrifice, or whatever the fuck you wanted to achieve. The things I'd done, I can't erase them, but I've come to terms with that. It was horrible and it had to be done, and half of that people then were prudent enough and gutless enough not to take responsibility. I'm not proud of anything, but I won't stand in line to get a medal from you.'

She stands up too, even makes a step forward. Coming closer, making him look at her.

'Oh, of course!' she says angrily. 'Big man. What are you now - Captain Hawthorne, probably? Or General? So tough, so brave. Responsibility. You never thought about anyone but yourself in that war. Don't play martyr with me!' she shouts.

They are both surprised by this – they still have so much to tell each other. They both thought it would be ugly icy silence and bitter looks. But when they are so close, they are radioactive – brimming with hate and pain. Overwhelmed with lost black love.

'And you? Who did you care about besides that precious bread boy and your sister? Tell me one thing – if Peeta wasn't captured by the Capitol, would you still lead the rebellion?'

'I had to save him! You don't understand!'

'Yes, you had. And you didn't think about anything else. You didn't care how it was done, you didn't care if a hundred soldiers had to die in that rescue operation. Did you even know their names? Did you talk to them? Did you ask them if they wanted to go there for one boy, when they probably had families behind? No, you didn't. Like you didn't care about anything but your hate for Snow. To go to the Capitol with ten people was madness, it was suicide, but you had to get him…'

'I didn't ask you…' she is so cold inside.

'You didn't ask, exactly. You just decided, and you couldn't do it alone, so you accepted help and didn't look back.

'You hated Coin because she used you, but you gave her a perfect weapon – your stupid bravery. And they died because they followed your orders and believed in you. Annie's son has no father in part because of your actions, because Finnick was your responsibility. Admit it and live with it. But you just hid under a rock licking your wounds and trying to pretend that nothing happened.' His eyes are shining, he realizes that he needed this – exactly this, to say it to her. Tender things she never listened to – but savagery is a real path to her heart.

'Your precious baker, what does he tell you? "It's not your fault, honey"? Bullshit – a lot of it was.'

'You just hate him. You hate everyone,' she whispers.

'I hate what he's done to you,' he answers without thinking.

In all this they didn't notice when it happened, but now they are standing in front of each other. So close that someone would call it intimate. Though there is no warmth here, this energy is stormy. And there is no one else for the both of them who can make it this way. There is no one else who provokes emotions so strong and devastating. This cruelty is personal, others make love with such ferociousness.

It's uncomfortable, and they step back simultaneously. Smart kids, both of them.

Gale won't be surprised if now she coughs, says something dramatic, and leaves the room. This Katniss is probably designed that way – no need to upset yourself, honey.

He is mistaken. She looks at him thoughtfully, a bit more color in her cheeks, eyes livelier.

'You brought him back. You rescued him. You went with me to the Capitol. You didn't kill me later.' He literally feels the tables turning against him. No matter what happened to her, he shouldn't have forgotten that she's always been a better hunter. And heavens, he taught her himself.

'And what about it?'

She makes a step closer and he retreats. Katniss smirks malevolently.

'And you call me pathetic.'

No, she isn't lifeless at all. She played him well – followed soundlessly, and now is looking at a loose around his neck. The oldest strategy – let him think he is winning, let him be blind, wait. They used it hundreds of times, but never, it seems, against each other. Until now. Rules of friendship are no more. Respect, compassion, understanding – they are too blind and hurt to remember about them. He wanted to strike her with guilt – good choice, and still nothing compared to love.

Katniss who told him 'I know' wasn't mean, just really didn't get how it sounded, what it did to him. But now she does, and is eager to use it.

He is drowning. You won, leave me. What more can you take?

'I thought you were happy with him,' he says sadly. 'I wanted you to.'

The distance between them shrinks again. When they look at each other, it's almost with warmth.

'I wanted it too.'

'You chose right.'

'Yes.'

Her eyes are simply more than he can handle at the moment. His little girl lost in the woods in a blizzard. Girl shouting 'I volunteer!' and turning to him, not yet realizing what happened. You were supposed to keep me safe. What am I to do? His life breaking apart in five seconds, never to be whole again. For Panem it started with a handful of berries, for the two of them – with careless lips reading 'Primrose Everdeen' from a small card, impersonal and bleak.

And for him this was the beginning of hatred – he could live with everything they shoved at him – mines, reapings, hunger, poverty. He could live with it and survive, but they took her and destroyed him at once. Any gentleness that he managed to keep was obliterated.

Chilled silence, the square and the girl looking at him, her voice still hanging in the air – he remembered it every time he pulled the trigger, this last glance was in every line of his blueprints, in every building he burnt down, in every bomb he dropped.

And now she gives him the same look.

What am I to do?

'Don't,' is the only thing he can give her.

You run and run and run just to come back to the beginning. Silence is bitter and smells of rain.

'I love him,' she says calmly. 'No, I'm not, like, trying to rub it in your face. You're right, he is good for me. He is everything to me. But…'

Don't, don't, don't…

He sits and picks up a pack of cigarettes, lights one. The only thing he wants is for her to leave now, without all this. Words. Proclamations. Analysis. Digging. He hates himself for sitting and letting her talk.

'…and that is a problem,' she says distractedly, as if not to him. 'There is always doubt. After five years, I still have it, I still can't say he is everything to me. Period.'

He exhales and looks at her tiredly, then shakes his head.

'Look, I'm not your shrink, Katniss. I thought I understood you once, and I was wrong. The truth is, he knows something about you that I never could. He was there with you, not me. It ended the day you volunteered. Whatever illusions I had, I lost them now. For good.'

They look at each other, into each other. Unflinching and calm.

'Do you think it's just me wondering what might have been?' she asks.

'As I said…'

"Yes, I know. And I'm not asking a doctor. Don't you think sometimes… wonder...?'

'No,' he interrupts. Dangerous territory, he won't go there with her. The image from just an hour ago – huge grey eyes – flashes and dies, burning the same place inside.

'Why?' The audacity of this question, the selfishness of it. It's easier to dislike this Katniss who hits so knowingly. When she was seventeen, he thought this was innocence, now he doubts it.

Gale looks at her steadily, all hostility and hurt – deep, deep, so deep that it can only be felt, and feelings are beyond her, luckily.

'Why?' he repeats and smiles without humor. 'Because I grew up and changed, because one day I looked back and saw myself, hungry, desperate and angry boy who's never been outside his district, who never really lived. He was pathetic and his dreams too.'

She doesn't know why these words don't hit the mark that he clearly intended for them. She should feel humiliated, probably. But they are hollow and burst around her like bubbles. Bitter like nostalgia. She remembers his words from last night, the anger she felt when he dared to recall 'good old times'.

Fight.

She wants to see his fire again, it is the only reason she came here.

Fight me. Dare me. Destroy me.

'You are lying.'

That makes him stiffen, and she notices it. Grasps it.

'You are a coward and a liar.' He looks at her incredulously, but she doesn't stop. 'Of course you think about it, console yourself with it. I bet you still dream of fucking me. Drink because you can't.'

The cigarette crumbles in his hand and falls on the table listlessly. They breathe in and out simultaneously. Grey to grey. At once partners, liars, killers. Hands knowing what it's like to hit in the solar plexus, to bleed a friend to death. Skin vibrating with each other's proximity. Less than allies, more than lovers.

She feels sick excitement, thinking that he might hit her now. Or fuck. The thought disgusts and surprises him.

'Are you that desperate, Katniss? Cozy housewife life doesn't include some rough times after evening tea? Can't stand yourself, huh? Come to me? I killed your sister and you want to fuck me?'

Finally, she thinks. Finally.

They are good, their movements are precise and merciless. Zero sum game professionals. Soul hunters.

There is nothing beyond this room and them there. In the depths of this night, deadliness is the only life source left. This is why she didn't shoot him in the Capitol – you can't stop two hearts with one arrow, and she would miss spectacularly. But this – the double-blade piercing them both simultaneously with each step closer – this is the right choice.

This was what Haymitch foresaw, what he understood better than her. A man you kissed once is never again just your childhood friend, his lips are never again just lips. You bear dangerous knowledge inside, you can never shake off the awareness of him. It doesn't matter that you didn't want it to get complicated, it always does. The illusion of one shot and then I can quit. The I-had-to-do-it-at-least-once mistake.

Whatever she told herself back home, however she justified it, looking for him and thinking of him, it was all for this moment. Causes and outcomes intertwined.

The hunger.

The game.

The Seam and its laws will never be forgotten, never left behind. All the bread in the world will not sate this hunger for absolute freedom. Grey-to-grey freedom. And annihilation.

'Yes.'

VII

They pass the same deserted lands they saw on the way to the Capitol. Peeta is asleep and looks so young, looks barely twenty. Katniss is calm. No movement in her face, just eyes going from the window to him. On the armrest is a cup of coffee she asked for and never touched.

Her fingers and skin and lips are the same. But not really. They keep secrets now. They lie for her, they are partners in crime. It's difficult not to check them from time to time to see if they are conspicuous, if they failed.

She catches the reflection of her hand in the window. For a second she sees more – her fingers grasping soft dark hair streaked with gray. She flips it off.

Trying not to think at all is rather tricky, so she starts going through the to-do list at home. Her maintenance zeal is in full force – she has finished with the first floor and now is ready to clean up the second. Their bedroom comes to mind, and for some reason it's unnerving, so she skips to the attic. She has great plans for it. The whole last year she's been learning carpentry and has become quite good. The new window frames in the kitchen are her work.

Peeta doesn't take his painting skills or talent seriously enough, really. But ever since she saw the attic, she thought it would be an ideal studio. The crucial thing is a window, a huge window cut out in the roof. This is her goal. If she fails, what's the loss? Yes, she'll probably destroy the house, but Peeta will understand and they have a second one, they can move.

Oh, she has a lot of plans. She will start gardening, make up the flowerbeds, find seeds. Behind the house is an ideal place for vegetables. She will find books about everything, she will learn. And when there are carrots and potatoes and onion, she'll start cooking something fancy. Like blancmange. And what the hell is it? Doesn't matter. She will learn that too. If the space is used efficiently, it's possible to find a corner for several fruit trees. Apples. Peaches. Her mother used to conserve apples for winter, when Katniss brought some from the woods.

She will learn to sew and embroider. She'll embroider curtains and pillowcases. Probably Peeta's aprons too, with some flowery initials or the logo of his bakery.

Callused hand on her thigh going up and down…

She gasps and Peeta wakes up.

'Kat? What's the matter?' he looks concerned. Is she fucking blushing?

'Sewing!' she says before anything else comes to mind.

'Suing? Who?' This was the last thing he expected to hear.

'Um, no, sewing. Like… making clothes?'

This one is even more bizarre to him. Imagining Katniss suing someone is easier than her sewing a shirt.

'I want to make you a new apron. Myself,' she declares.

'That's… unexpected.' He frowns.

'I can learn. I will.' What the hell is wrong with her? This is the stupidest idea ever. And she just can't shut up. 'I'll start tomorrow.'

'Apron is good,' he replies lamely, and she glances suspiciously. 'I need a new one.'

She purses her lips.

'Desperately,' he adds for some reason.

This is a disaster. She is an idiot, and the kind trusting eyes of his are a low blow. Just to do something, she picks up the cup and swallows a big gulp of bitter coffee that makes her cringe.

'Katniss?' He leans forward and tries to touch her.

'I'm alright!' It wouldn't surprise her if people in the next car could hear this. Peeta is really worried now.

'I just want to do something nice for you.' She coughs and avoids his gaze. Absorbed with the view outside, she misses the suspicion clouding his face after these words.

'Ok,' he replies quietly. And she misses it too – the pain and hurt in Peeta's voice.

They arrive soon after, return home hand in hand, and life goes on. She really starts sewing, only to find out that Peeta is probably better with a bow than she is with a needle. Her fingers are literally bleeding, and the amount of cloth she spends on one miserable apron threatens to ruin them financially. But Peeta is understanding and cheerful, every evening he tries on some new invention that Katniss calls clothes, and encourages her to proceed.

She never visited Haymitch after their return, and is not planning to. In the kitchen and sitting room are piles of housekeeping books. Katniss is fierce in her willingness to learn, and it's like she is trying to read everything at once. Horticulture. Embroidery. Gardening. Even cattle breeding. Peeta is seriously afraid that she'll pursue this last one. He was able to show relative enthusiasm about everything else and only vetoed an electrician's manual that he spotted one morning. 'You can breed rhinoceros if you want,' he said, 'but don't even think about a wire. Any wire.' He chooses his battles wisely.

Life is good. She is cheerful and punch-deservingly cute. Peeta is elbows deep in flour, literally and figuratively. The vendor he'd found is on his way to Twelve with last year's leftovers which are reasonably good and cheap, and next year's contract is already drafted.

The house is the same, apart from some minor differences that are unnoticeable, as Katniss thinks – all the old magazines are burnt and the radio is silent. It's also clean as never before. Though not a sloven in general, Katniss has never been as efficient as these days. She is dusting, polishing, sweeping the floors, washing the windows, laundering. Always moving, fussing, starting or finishing something.

She is fucking perfect. Perfect in everything, except probably when it comes to… um, making love. They kiss, hug, make out with abandon, and turn away from each other every night without a word. Whatever they think about, they don't think about this. Katniss is pretty sure, because she doesn't. At least… She doesn't, ok?

The erosion is subtle, around the edges. They waltz around it carefully and tactfully. Touching as often as possible, talking as much as possible, smiling, laughing, ignoring. It's not yet here, the realization that something had ended, because the life without each other is beyond comprehension. Their small world is still enough, and its walls are impregnable and reassuring. The routine once accepted becomes your greatest friend that has your back and holds others outside.

It's not naivety on his part and not lies on hers. Their train is still running through darkness and clinging to one another is necessary. The stations go by, people welcome them and disappear, and their hands are linked, fingers entwined. They've carved up each other's habits and bodies to fit the other. The machine is still going strong, gear to gear, life and love.

We. Together. Future. These words are not meaningless yet, not yet the past. So in all this busyness, it's not surprising that they missed the announcement that somewhere there was a fork in the road. The rails were moved and a new route was laid while they kissed, laughed and played house. The changing landscape goes unnoticed, stays far, far behind seemingly unbreakable glass.

Katniss spends her mornings cleaning up the ruins of the Seam. It's not easy, emotionally and physically. She shovels the ashes, sorting out bricks and armature that is still usable, breaks down half destroyed house walls. The bombing transformed Seam into a wasteland, stone and concrete desert where objects lost its shape and meaning. Sometimes she has to think hard to recognize the house they are working on and to whom it belonged. There are no streets left, and she goes by a wall painting or a burnt tree left in the yard. Most difficult are personal things appearing from the dust. Old dirty toys, casseroles, brushes. Sometimes pictures.

She started as usual today. They woke up early, had breakfast, and she waved goodbye to Peeta when they went separate ways at the gates to the Victors' Village. She came up to Albus to find out where she should start, got her instructions and was ready to work.

Nothing special about that part. Ruins are their usual mess. She adjusts her working gloves and drags a cart behind, ready to look for whole bricks. Not many here, she sees. The house obviously was very old and bombs literally razed it to the ground. Six full carts is a generous bet, and she'll probably spend all four hours just looking for them, digging through shambles.

Mornings like this one are best for the job – no wind or rain, or mist. It's not chilly but actually cheerful. She starts automatically, not looking around, just keeping watch for some possible sharp edges. Last month a guy popped up a vein on a piece of corrugated rusty metal. These ruins are bloodthirsty, as if they haven't had enough.

She finds the corner of a window frame that seems pretty decent. Oak. It never rots, her father said to her often. Not many Seam houses had oak frames, only the oldest, from the time when the district authorities were even slightly concerned with living conditions and tried to provide durable houses. The bricks are still shit, though. It's her second cart only, and the ones she found are not so trustworthy, they will likely end up in street pavements. So the frames are good news.

She digs around, clearing up the shape, and is satisfied with what she sees. You can repaint this one and put it in a new house, it will serve well. She grabs the corner and manages to lift it. The thing is rather big and heavier than it looks. Big windows are not practical, to be honest, in winter they are a pain, but the folks who had them were proud. Windows in Katniss' old house only resembled a source of light.

She wipes the sweat from her forehead and stands for a second, just holding the frame. This thing reaches her shoulders. Katniss starts to doubt she will be able to move it by herself. When she tries, it leans to the side. Losing momentum, she bends along with it, only to let it go in the last moment. The window drops noisily, glass shards sparkling in the sun. Katniss swears and stubbornly tries again, but when she crouches, something catches her eye. She looks closer, and for a second it's just dirt in places where paint fell off. For some reason she touches the place and wipes the dust away.

Letters. VI. RY. O. EY. AL. Burnt into the wood. Some children trying to immortalize their names. Shipwreck survivors. She has seen plenty of it. Her gloved fingers glide over them, caressing and consoling. You did it. You remained.

Small victory for someone who is in all likelihood dead.

Her fingers clean up more space, and when she looks again, she freezes. The last in the chain, burnt and carved up in addition, and therefore clearer than those before – ATNISS.

No. It can't be.

She stands up quickly, but the letters are even clearer now. On this old window frame, remains of a life lost, of so long ago that she'd never have remembered it.

Vick. Rory. Posey. Gale. Katniss.

Evening in Gale's house. Hazelle in the kitchen. Smell of soup. Five of them in Gale and Rory's room. Gale, you promised! You promised! Gale looking tired and amused, giving up at last and glancing at Posey, telling her that Hazelle would give them hell if she sees it. His sister – cheeky little demon who even at five knows that men are defenseless facing girl's innocent eyes – looking at him earnestly and ready to fake heartbreak. Then a candle is lit and a nail found, and they are doing it. Each one writing their own name. Katniss resisting and trying to look sternly, it's not her house, she is not part of the family, it's foolishness. Him saying that he will write Catnip then, and that of course won't do because she doesn't want to be remembered by this stupid nickname.

Catnip.

It hurts. Fuck, it hurts.

He is so close. Following her movements, breathing in her ear. She feels that evening as if it was happening all over again. Unexpected blush when she turns and he doesn't lean back. Stupidest thought ever – the kids are watching! Something so intimate and palpable that it makes them swallow simultaneously.

Why now? It shouldn't be happening now.

Of all the houses she got to clean up his. Of all the windows, this one had to survive.

It does things to her.

She steps back, returns to her cart and starts for the dumping ground. Swearing under her breath, thinking how she's become so spacey that she didn't recognize the place at once. She always tries to do it. It's important not to treat these houses like nameless graves, to remember, to say these names once again. You're not forgotten. You're important. You existed.

What was she thinking about today? Peeta. Attic. Supper. Thinking so hard. She spends all her energy on thinking about Peeta these days.

She has to see him immediately. For no reason. Just see him. Because the other face is frightfully close. Katniss can almost feel strong hands grasping her and tugging away, away from Twelve, from her home, to that bland hotel room, to the whiskey smell and green carpeted floor. To guilt. And lies. And surrender.

But standing in front of the bakery, she changes her mind. Suddenly seeing Peeta is unthinkable. He will be able to tell. He will see all of it. Her treacherous hands and skin, glowing from other man's touch. No, she can't go there.

When Haymitch opens the door, she is slow to understand how she got there. She doesn't know what to say, only looks at him frantically.

He stares silently.

'You little fool,' Haymitch says sadly at last and goes inside, leaving her at the door. She follows him without thinking, closes the door. Next minute she is in the kitchen with a bottle in her hands, gulping down something revolting. No time to guess if it's a rat poison. Let it be.

'Whoa, there, sweetheart.' He pries the bottle from her and puts it aside. Her hands shaking, eyes watering. But it's not that, it's alcohol. Of course, it's alcohol. She feels his hands leading her, and then she is sitting in front of him.

Haymitch is furious. She knows it, because he is calm and because he takes time to wipe a glass with an old dirty napkin, only then pouring that rat poison there. Bourbon, she thinks distractedly. Good bourbon.

He tosses her a pack of cigarettes and then drinks. It takes some effort to get one from the pack, even more to light it. When she inhales weakly, he says deeper. She does, after the third drag, she is almost coherent.

'Thanks,' Katniss rasps. Waves at the bottle, 'I want more.'

'Then go and buy it.' She smiles, but he doesn't.

'You were right.'

Snort. Unkind.

'I'll make it right.'

'Good luck.' She got the same look from him when she said she didn't want alliances in the Games.

'I'll make it right!' she repeats.

'Then you'll leave him today, if you still know what's right.' No fooling around, no mercy. This is the man who taught her about hell. Katniss loves and hates him equally. With him – it's hard to say.

'You know I can't leave Peeta. I love him.'

'Poor guy.'

No, not equally – she hates him more.

'I didn't come for advice, ok? I will leave in a minute. Can't mess up your tight schedule.' Sneer.

'Was it worth it?' he asks, and there is no trace of irony. It's an honest question. Brutal as always. Bone shattering, actually. 'It cost you a good life. Was it worth it?'

He is so sure that her and Peeta are done. But how can it be? Katniss without her bread boy, it's blasphemy. She will fight with teeth and nails for what they have. She will use every dirty trick, she'll draw blood. She can't lose it.

But she already has. It's in Haymitch's eyes, in the slight tilt of his head. Her hands and skin shout their secrets here, expose her mercilessly.

Shame.

'It was nothing. Mistake, if you want. Yes, I went there to see him, I was curious, I guess. We talked…' She doesn't know the right words. She needs to find them. 'We've been through worse with Peeta. Each time it made us only stronger. We need each other, and we will fight for it. So don't tell me I should start packing, because I won't. I won't throw it away as if it's just an episode in my life, it isn't. We deserve happiness, and that was nothing.'

He knows she can fight. Diamond flesh and mercury blood. Two men who loved her are now a pitiful mess because of that demonic strength. He doesn't have to see either of them to know it. And of course she won't go gently, it's Peeta he has doubts about.

Peeta is strong too, but in a different way. He finds strength in simple things, beautiful things. It is compassion that gives him courage. Haymitch never lied when he told Katniss she didn't deserve Peeta, none of them does. He loves this boy dearly, he reminds Haymitch of the time when he himself used to seek goodness and cherish it, before he gave up and admitted that it became unreachable for someone who understands power. Peeta stood for himself and survived, but more than that, he managed to keep his innocence and ability to wonder.

Katniss is different, her strength comes from desperation. To make her fight, you should knock her down and bash her teeth, but then you're doomed, because she always gets up and there is no reservation to her fury. She is a perfect war goddess – above morals and without forgiveness, blind and fierce. She has conscience, but it switches off during a fight, and this is why Haymitch is slightly afraid for Peeta now.

He doesn't doubt that the boy will forgive her, can forgive her. But at what price to himself? Katniss will grovel and try to atone, give him anything he wants. She doesn't realize her own deadliness. He will forgive her because she wants it desperately, because she faced something in herself she didn't like and again can't survive it alone. But is it fair to the boy?

'And anyway,' she goes on, not seeing any reaction from her mentor, 'what am I to do, go back to…'

'Of course not!' He speaks so suddenly that she is taken aback. 'Out of the question.'

This mentor shit they burdened him with is so clever that even he was impressed when he found out. First they take your goodness, then slap you with the responsibility for corrupting others. In response, you drink or put a gun in your mouth. Haymitch knew many people who always carried a bullet as a consolation or a reminder that it can be solved easily and quickly. He saw the appeal, but at the same time found it slightly silly. Though it's not for an old alcoholic to judge.

What is Katniss' coping mechanism? Even a year ago he would have gone with Peeta, but now he sees other things. Katniss went to the Games already numbed as much as humanly possible. A girl who skinned squirrels at twelve was ready to challenge Snow at seventeen. In all her time before that fateful day in the square, there was just one person besides Prim who got her through and made her share a bit of herself. It's not Peeta's fault that when he arrived, she had already realized her mistake and the door was permanently closed.

She thinks herself so clever, he muses, but overlooks the obvious – that blood she once shared is still coursing through her. Dark dangerous blood. Each time it reaches the heart, she feels and ignores it. He is tempted to tell her that it's in vain, it will only stop with her own heartbeat. He keeps silent.

His only hope now is that she is afraid enough and, bless her, not very curious. Let her stay in Twelve, with Peeta who bit more than he can chew, let her dream and drink, keep numb and subdued by guilt. It's not fair, but to hell with fair. Life cures you from that longing pretty early.

'Go home. Get yourself together and live on. There is nothing outside of Twelve. You chose right.' These words irritate her for some reason, though they are the ones she came for. Haymitch is reasonable and careful, he makes sense. Then why?

This stupid window frame.

You chose right. He said the same thing.

'Yeah, I'll do that,' she says at last.

She truly believes it.

After she is gone, Haymitch stays at the table. Glass and bottle in front of him, but he seems not to notice. He is troubled. It's easy to say that he got too old and slow for this, but that's wrong. It's because he is old he should have seen it coming. He should have prevented her going. One talk with Peeta and they would never have gone to the Capitol. Why didn't he?

Well, in his defense, he could never imagine that Hawthorne would be there. How the fuck did he do it?

Hawthorne.

Haymitch thought they understood each other. And what's worse, they really did. Not as friends, but as two men who knew defeat while called victors. Haymitch lost his woman, Gale had to give up his. Old man would never admit it, but he grudgingly recognizes the unfairness of what has been done to the boy. Any other would have gone crazy. Is this the case? Is it a death wish?

After the war, when the reckoning began, Haymitch kept the original blueprints with all the signatures, and they couldn't execute Hawthorne. So they invented something better – made him a prison commandant. Because District 2 is a large prison, the work and reeducation camp where all the sinners went. All Snow's cronies are there, their wealth confiscated and wisely redistributed. And Hawthorne – a silent overseer, the dark king of the underworld, the manager of hell that exists under every regime. The only place where he is officially alive.

That day, after they gave him their verdict, Haymitch found him in his room, packing. There was no time, they wanted him gone as soon as possible. The car was waiting, with a couple of officers to take him to D2.

'I'll take her with me,' he said. 'I won't leave her here.'

'You must think…'

'I won't leave her here,' Gale repeats stubbornly.

Haymitch realizing, yes, he'll do it, he won't quit so easily.

'And take her where? To a prison camp?'

'She'll stay with my family. I'll visit. She'll get better. Later…'

'Hawthorne,' Haymitch interrupts. 'It's over. Stop it.'

This look Gale gave him, still not ready to accept, but already knowing, already seeing it.

'I can think of something.'

And Haymitch thought that it were moments like this that made him keep drinking, seeing people's lives crumbling and rearranging, seeing wings clipped and hands tied. How many has he seen? How many?

'You won't get out of there alive,' he says finally. 'You know it. In fifteen years, they'll invent something else. By that time you'll be even more dangerous, in too deep. You'll have seen too much, heard too many secrets.'

And almost gently.

'Do you want this life for her?'

Yes, they both understood, and Gale gave his word. He was keeping it as far as Haymitch knows. And now…

Why did Katniss suddenly decide to go? Did he find out she'll be in the Capitol?

No, that's crazy.

Simple coincidence? Haymitch doesn't believe in them. And besides, Hawthorne can't simply leave D2 - he lost his rights to travel and relocation. So he must have planned it, maybe bribed someone, falsified some documents. He must have wanted it desperately.

Is it you then, vengeful harpy? Fate?

Haymitch believes in it, alright. That bitch did a number on him, so he learned to treat her right. You listen to it and accept, try to raise a hand and you'll wake up in the dirt with broken limbs.

He glances at the phone, but can't make himself pick it up and dial.

You don't mess with these things.

Fate.

VIII

When she leaves Haymitch, she is angry, and that's good. It inspires her. All the things she's started remind her of the stability of this life she has, they demand her to go on, to finish them. So when she is at home, the unfinished apron is the first victim of that new ardor. She cuts and measures anew, the needle is still unfamiliar and brutal in her clumsy hands used to guns and hammers. But she perseveres. To hell with Haymitch.

Finishing the sewing for the day, she goes to the kitchen and cleans it furiously, even though it's hardly necessary. Then cooking. Something special. Tonight should be special, because suddenly she sees a solution. No doubts. She has waited too long and made Peeta wait with her. She doesn't think that he is insecure, but the only times they've talked about future it was him who started it, and Katniss knows that family plays the most important part in his plans.

She will give him family. She can't be afraid all her life. Those youthful oaths are a thing of the past. It was in that Panem that she swore she would never have kids and a husband, because that Panem was a country where such things were dangerous. She saw all these girls who married young, and then year after their smiles were scarcer, their skin paler. Miners' wives, what good did they see? Your husband was either weak and drank, or he was a cheating bastard who beat you from time to time. And amidst all this there were hungry kids, kids dying in infancy, kids being reaped and killed.

Yes, Katniss' family was different. She never saw her father drunk or abusive, and her mother seemed pretty and happy enough. If she thinks of that, others envied them. And how did it end? Her father dead, her mother crazy, and her and Prim terrified and heartbroken. But Katniss survived all by herself, hardened, with clenched teeth. No longer a child.

Her family taught her that love and affection are the deadliest things. Dying isn't difficult at all, you have nothing to do but surrender. Living through others' deaths is. After Prim, there was nothing for her to look forward to, because there was nothing but Prim, the center of her universe, her beacon and truth and strength. She'd staked everything on her sister, thinking that even in the world they had, she had a right for one small thing. It was so meaningless to the Capitol, so unnoticeable. Her little sister.

She thought she had hidden her heart so well, so wisely. She believed herself safe. She paid for her ignorance.

But everything is different now. She can finally let go of Prim and the past. Of everything that binds her to that past. She knows now that armoring herself against loss is futile. She accepts the risk and uncertainty, even sees certain beauty in the concept.

There is nothing outside of Twelve, Haymitch is right. And if there is, she doesn't care. Her future is here. She would be perfectly happy to know that all her life would be spent in this kitchen, cooking for her husband, that one day when she is sixty or seventy she would have a heavy family album with cute photos of them and their children. She has a right for this happiness.

Peeta will be surprised, probably, but he will be happy. He's been waiting for this day so long. She sees the trip to the Capitol as a test, and thinks she passed. It's hard to remember what was on her mind when she was planning it. She started doubting everything and she can't imagine why, when it's perfect – her life, her man, her house. She must have been bored, or the dreams used to come too often. She stops, realizing that there were no dreams since their return. She sleeps like a baby now.

Weird.

No, not weird. It's right, it's how it has to be. She is healing, for real now. And this damn window frame, it's a part of the process, next time something like this happens, she will be calmer. It's just memories, artifacts. They won't leave her speechless and trembling next time, they will hurt less and less. And one day she will be able to say, 'I had a childhood friend. Gale. We were very close.' And she will smile and not flinch.

She is proud of herself. It's just a matter of time. All their names – Gale, Snow, Prim – are parts of her story, but not the story itself. Days and mundane worries will desensitize her to them. And it won't be armor, because she is going to take it off, piece by piece, so that one day there is no need to have it.

She wants to start now, to think of something and make peace with a memory, to transform it into a beautiful souvenir. There is a cup in her hand, shining blindingly from all the efforts Katniss spent on it. And it comes without trying – Gale holding a cup for her so that she'd drink the medicine made by Prim.

It was winter, and Katniss was careless and became ill. But rather than stay at home and try to get better, she went to the woods again and barely had the strength to get back. She can't remember why she was alone that time, probably Gale had some mine practice or some task from Hazelle and couldn't go. They met later at the Hob, she brought some game for him too, they had an agreement about it – if you go, you hunt for two, no matter what. When he saw her, he understood immediately that something wasn't right. She tried to brush him off and fainted.

She woke up in his arms, he was carrying her home. She had never been carried by a man before. Her father used to lift her and even toss her up when she was little, but that was a different matter. She felt uncomfortable, too close to another human being. In all likelihood all the touching in her life was accidental, except of course Prim. It's funny that this touch seemed so intimate and intimidating. His hand was almost on her breast!

Of course, she started fighting and talking as soon as she realized all that. Was told to shut up and keep still. Heard anger and obeyed. At home, he put her in bed, fetched Prim, explained, found out that Prim was trying to make Katniss stay at home or at least drink herbs and was ignored and became even angrier. Prim helped her undress, and went to warm up the terrible concoction that was supposed to cure her but sometimes made death feel preferable. Katniss was sweating, but couldn't throw off the blanket, because she was undressed, in bed, with a boy sitting close by. She was mortified, and he was staring, and seemed amused at that stage.

When Prim got back with her revolting remedy, Katniss drank it mostly out of spite. You thought I won't do it, watch me!

'She will go back tomorrow,' Prim said, as if Katniss wasn't even there.

'Yeah, she'll try,' he answered and she saw a rope in his hands. Gale smirked. Prim laughed. Katniss saw red.

'You touch me, and I'll kick you where it hurts very bad,' she said coldly.

'You kick me, and I'll spread-eagle you here for a week. Deal?' Katniss blushed. Prim giggled, the dirty traitor. Gale winked. Bastard.

In the end she was spared, but had to give a solemn promise not to leave the bed until Prim allows it, or suffer consequences. Her dignity remained relatively preserved, and Gale got some cheese from Prim for his heroic efforts. Katniss also decided not to speak to Prim for a week, at least – that's what you get for betraying your sister. And Gale – she was certain she would shoot him at the first opportunity.

Spread-eagle. She blushed again.

She was so lost in the memory that approaching steps startled her. Turning, she catches a glance of Peeta, crossing the hall and evidently going to the shower. In a hurry, she tries to decide what she can cook quickly so that it may be sophisticated enough to seem like a romantic dinner planned in advance. The fridge used to be a cold desert in their house until Peeta took it on him to fill it properly, then Katniss felt too guilty about her inadequacy and for some time now has been bravely managing the task. She finds cans of corn and peas, then remembers that there is turkey meat in the freezer meant for cutlets.

This will do. Not fancy, but with wine it will seem so. Anyway, it's much better than the horrible stuff she made during her first visits to the kitchen.

In half an hour she still hasn't blown up the house, the cutlets are doing great, and she's even had time to peel and boil some carrots for garnish.

'Sorry, I didn't see you here.' Peeta is standing, leaning on the door frame. Warm smile. Bright blue eyes.

'I'm almost finished. Can you get the dishes? Glasses too.' She checks the cutlets and finds them pretty. The thought makes her giggle. 'I make pretty cutlets.' She laughs openly.

'Yeah, who could have thought? Mockingjay with a spatula. We topple empires.'

He watches her smile, mashing the carrots.

Happiness is simple. Give me your hand, and I'll show you the way to the sun. Trust me, and I'll paint your world in rainbow colors. Stay with me, we can invent love anew, we'll decipher the mysteries of time. We are bigger than the sky, my dear. We, so fragile and transient, we are stronger than death.

Tell me it's forever. Tell me we have endless tomorrows. Tell me it's real.

'Sarcasm suits you. Very sexy.' She winks.

She thinks that they need candles, but doesn't have the patience to look for them. As if she has to hurry, to make it in time before some doors close and the opportunity is gone. The words are bubbling inside her, dozens at a time, not connecting into sentences. She is all anticipation, realization, wonder. On the threshold of ever after and us. More beautiful to him than ever.

At the table, with plates full and wine ready, she looks at him expectantly, already composing her future memory – remember how it was? Remember what I said, and how you finally realized what was going on? Remember the feeling?

And he will. For the rest of his life.

'To us,' she says proudly, and lifts her glass.

'To us,' he responds.

They drink and start eating, and she doesn't know how it's done, what she has to do. Somehow in front of the cameras it was less frightening, probably because it was fake.

'I need to tell you something.' Not very original. 'I'm nervous,' she confesses.

'Well, judging by the setting, it's something good,' he smiles. 'Go on. I can take it. We are going to build the third floor, aren't we? You spend awfully long hours in the attic, I saw it coming.'

'No, the attic… the attic is a surprise.' She chuckles. 'Not today's surprise.'

'Should I guess, then?'

That could take a lot of time, she thinks. And guessing games sometimes end in a disaster.

'I want you to marry me,' she blurts, and he looks up quickly. 'I mean, we should get married. I'm ready. I mean, we are. No need to wait. It's not like we've known each other for a week. And we have the house, and you work. And there is no war.' She gains momentum with every word. 'Haymitch can be our best man. It will be something simple, and I have the dress. And… we'll celebrate in the bakery. It will be good. Nothing fancy. I mean, the bakery is good. And fancy. I like the building. And…' she finally pauses. 'Don't you think?'

They stare at each other silently, and then he pours himself more wine. This is not how she pictured it. He is calmer than he is supposed to be.

'Oh, Kat.' He smiles, but something shakes in his eyes. 'You can really do surprises.' There are imperceptible changes in the air. The first thing that's obvious to Katniss is that she is disappointed. She realizes that she was expecting an euphoric hooray from him or something in that manner. His reaction is very subdued, not exactly negative, but not encouraging either.

'And kids?' he asks, finally looking at her.

'Of course.'

'How many?' Still looking.

'Doesn't matter. As many as we want, I guess.'

'Twelve.' Eyebrow lifted up. Challenge?

'What, in homage to every district?' she laughs.

'Six then. And three dogs.'

'Kids, dogs, cats. Everything!' she exclaims, impatient. 'Anything. We deserve it. We've earned it.'

He looks at her, and tries to embrace it, this feeling of quiet sadness. He knows now, and realizes that doubts were better. Knowledge is permanent.

Yes, he thinks. Beautiful house with a terrace, a lawn in front and an orchard at the back. And I will come home covered in flour from head to toe, and you will grumble about the mess. Every morning a noisy breakfast and every night a peaceful supper. We'll try to be strict and responsible parents and fail miserably. You will still cook Seam specialties, and I will try to get you out of the kitchen for long enough to make something actually tasty. And the kids laughing at our antics. Dogs lounging in front of the fire. Your garden and my pictures. Years going by.

And from time to time, you will invent excuses – you need to go buy a new dress, or there is some exciting project in the neighboring district. You won't be long. You'll miss us all terribly. You really don't want to go.

And still you will. From time to time you'll become too full of light and remember that hidden part, that secret part of yourself I'm never to enter.

And you'll go. Just for a couple of days. To return with slight scratches from another man's stubble on your neck and between your thighs. Because it will never end, and you know it. Because you love him, you never stopped. But this love is too heavy, still too bitter to drink all at once, and you need some sweetness added to it, and even then can only sip carefully.

He glances at the table, touches the surface surreptitiously – oh, the irony – he'd bled here, and now it's Peeta's turn.

'Kat, I…' he looks at her, and she is suddenly deathly afraid. 'Of course I'll marry you.'

Of course.

She starts crying, and he knows that she doesn't understand why.

'Kat.' He gets up and goes to her, takes her in his arms. The embrace is fierce and familiar. She is trembling so hard her teeth are chanting.

Peeta makes some shushing noises, his words are loving, gentle, reassuring. It amplifies her pain tenfold. This kindness is unbearable.

When she is a bit calmer, he lifts her easily and goes upstairs. In their bedroom, he undresses her gently while she is standing helpless as a child and follows his every move with her eyes.

She is still clueless. She can't stop trembling for no reason. It's happiness, she says over and over in her head. This is happiness. I just love him so much that I am hysterical.

Peeta feels a profound sense of loss. His old dreams. His protective blindness. His small world that never went past District 12. He says goodbye to them all. To his idea of the future, to his after the war, to his Katniss.

When at last she is asleep, Peeta allows himself to relax. He watches the ceiling, not thinking in words but in shapes and colors. Rose bushes in front of their house. Flour dusting the table in the bakery. Sunlight trapped in the curtain. Her hair streaming through his fingers, so soft and dark. Every single shade of it he knows by heart. Even now when she can't feel it, he continues to stroke her head gently, protectively.

The most surprising part is that he doesn't feel the crushing paralyzing pain that seemed unavoidable. Yes, it was crippling that day in the Capitol, when she returned in the morning and he pretended to be asleep, listening to her in the shower, trying to prepare for the end that didn't come after all.

He took three pain-killers and massaged his leg. Not thinking, not thinking, not thinking.

And on their way home, when he saw every little detail that she tried so hard to conceal, every slight difference, it was more like beating the old bruised place again and again. Not pleasant, but you get used to it. And these six weeks after their return – her panic and agitation, nervous activity and the way she was checking herself all the time as if trying to see that she does everything right. Him watching and waiting for what happened tonight, knowing that something will happen and she will snap, collecting the strength not to break with her.

Since the day he came back five years ago and saw her on the porch of this house – desolate and resigned – he subconsciously knew that it couldn't last. That somehow he was temporary here, they were temporary. The time with her borrowed or stolen.

He remembers the times when first thing in the morning he would look in the window surreptitiously, not admitting even to himself why – and expecting to see a shadow by the fence. Expecting to find another man who came to collect his debt, to take back something extorted from him. Every time Peeta would swallow nervously, and be thankful that the street was empty. And every time he felt shame.

But damn it, he tried, he fought for so long – most of the time with himself and his paranoia. These last weeks he kissed her with new ardor, memorizing the taste and form of her lips, touching her more than usual, letting go bit by bit, preparing for her departure. But in their world it's never that easy – when you think you are ready, bring it on, Panem always manages to surprise you.

Now, looking into the darkness, he acknowledges the saddest part of their story – you can't live without me and I can't live without you. And there is Gale.

IX

Two weeks after their wedding, Katniss is in the attic. The window she planned is almost ready. It's a huge square of glass in the roof. The attic is warm and light. She always knew it would be perfect for an artist. Peeta was forbidden to come up here. It's a wedding gift. He understands.

She lies on the floor in the square of sunlight and closes her eyes. This is peace.

She smiles.

She remembers the day – a quiet afternoon in their garden. Several friends from the bakery, the guys from her reparation crew. Drinks and gentle music. A lot of sun like today.

Then her memory finds a figure standing silently under an old apple tree. Glass in hand, wise secretive eyes.

Haymitch.

They look at each other – and finally he smiles slightly. Good girl, you made it.

And a second later – in spite of himself – what have you done?

What have you done?

She flinches now, like she did then.

You don't understand. I wanted to save us all.

So you asked him to eat the berries, he asks silently, and she turns away.

You don't understand.

He doesn't.

He wasn't in that room that night. He can't know what it's like.

It's like…

She squeezes her eyes and remembers it again. She will allow it just for today, like she allowed it yesterday. But no, today is the last time she thinks about it. The absolute last time she will go back to that room.

The last time…

She really just wanted to see him, to see that part of her old world, ruined but not forgotten. It could have gone smoothly, it did for some time, and then he started yelling at her, accusing her, right in front of her eyes he transformed into the Gale she knew – the Gale of the forest meetings, shouting about the unfairness of it all, full of impotent rage and bitterness, but so alive, so brilliant and strong. And she saw not the boy of her youth but a man, for the first time she really saw a man in him. Powerful and feral. Everything she suspected but couldn't really grasp, emotions scattered across the years and rare kisses were blown away by the new feeling, terrifying and uncontrollable. He was a man and she wanted him.

This sudden realization left her defenseless, like a kick in the stomach. She never felt this before, sex was pleasant and fun, continuation of love and tenderness. And this… this was primal and absolute. She looked at him with wonder, at his broad shoulders and strong hands, stormy eyes and powerful neck, and absorbed the force in him, masculine and brutal. The words he used didn't offend, his disdain and contempt didn't matter, when she said yes, she said it with conviction and excitement.

She wanted him. She wanted everything he did with her that day.

And it was glorious.

The sun on her skin transforms into someone's hands and lips. Someone's breath and hunger. She starts feeling that carpet under her feet, and smelling tobacco in the air.

She is there. And there is no sun, because it's 4 a.m. The sky is grey and bloodless. They are hot and desperate.

'Don't think it's love,' she says. 'It's not love. Never been.'

His hands moving from her shoulders, gliding down her arms, strong frightening presence of a familiar touch of the stranger he has become. He is holding her wrists, gently, thumbs recognizing and following the pulse, eyes closed, tip of his nose kissing her forehead, he says:

'Oh, Catnip,' and smiles, lips find her hair, 'your love is all compassion. Leave it all to him. I've had enough.'

His shirt, black waves sliced by thin olive fingers. Her blind palms exploring the contours of the chest they are never to touch again, soaking the heat never to be forgotten. She doesn't look up.

'Do anything you want. Everything you want.' Standing on tiptoes, she kisses the triangle of his skin below the neck. 'It's a gift.'

'It's a vivisection, Catnip. Clever, clever Catnip,' he murmurs and squeezes her ribcage. 'What's worse, to always wonder what might have been or to know, right? Clever, such a clever killer you are, Seam girl.'

'Whatever you want,' she repeats. 'I'll give you whatever you want.' And she breathes him in, not finding a trace of the woods or oranges, but still sure that even in the dark, even decades later, she would know him. With her open mouth, not quite a smile or moan, she touches the skin again and then a tongue steals a taste. His fingers pierce her ribs.

When he kisses her, it's not slow or tentative. It's a desert kiss, their lips and mouths dry. He licks her lips and doesn't let her pull away, finally looking into grey eyes.

They find District 12 there, all that's left of it, in each other's eyes.

'One day,' she says, 'he'll ask me about children. And I'll give him the children you wanted.' She kisses his chin, his neck, moves to his ear. 'Give him everything you fought for… killed for.'

She can't know the horror of her words. She never sees it, his pain has always been an internal bleeding. He imagines capillaries bursting inside him, but only blinks and kisses her in return, hands slipping under her shirt, finding the riverbed of her spine.

'Not if I break your neck, Catnip,' he says gently. 'Or his.' He sighs and she shivers. 'So easy, so temptingly easy.'

'They'll shoot you.'

'Yes. They will, bless them. PTSD, they'll say. So sad.' He laughs mirthlessly. 'So ridiculous you can't put it in schoolbooks.'

'I don't have dreams about you,' she lies. 'Ever. I wish I could.'

'Shut up.'

She bites his lower lip.

'I hate you…'

'I said, shut up,' but his voice is still soft.

Her hands in his hair, she tugs his head down, makes him listen.

'I hate you for losing you.'

She starts unbuttoning his shirt, hurriedly, because suddenly she needs to feel it. She is so urgent she practically rips the last button off, and then proceeds to peel it off from him. Her kisses are now everywhere, fleeting and burning. When she finds his nipple she can't not bite it.

He finds her mouth again. Tobacco kiss, as intimate as a disgraceful secret, unalterable. She leans to him with all her body, she needs so much more. Foreplay is for lovers, gentleness and caring – for the boy sleeping one story below. She needs more, she needs Gale as she knew him then, in the woods and later on the battlefield.

She wants to be taken apart, devastated, bruised, infected with him. Last time she felt so much was when she was shooting Coin, the second her fingers let the arrow fly was most comparable to orgasm, she realizes.

He takes her face – palms like a shell embracing the black pearl.

'Unbraid your hair,' he whispers.

What? Her hair?

But he steps further away and waits. Whatever you want, she said. Let it be. He wants it given then, knowingly and irrevocably.

It's not a plea, Katniss. It's not about love, remember?

She hesitates only briefly after that. Her hair loose, she doesn't stop there and undresses in front of him. There is no shame, but no challenge either, when she looks up. She is faultless, a statue that survived the burning of the city and the death of her creator, a statue carved from someone's dreams, outliving even them. She is the first thing he is really stealing, poaching doesn't count, she is what makes him a thief. The Capitol is dead, but like trees growing through walls remain disfigured and bent when the walls are torn down, so are they. They could have been friends and lovers, spouses and parents. What have they become? A criminal and a whore.

He stretches his hand and she takes it. Eyes knowing and accepting, eyes without a soul meet eyes devoid of fire. He easily picks her up and her legs catch him around the waist, his belt buckle burning her inner thigh. Gale passes the bed and brings her to a small sofa. She understands – beds mean comfort, beds are for making love, and they are mating. Whatever is their names' anagram, it will never be 'redemption'. She understands.

If deflowering is supposed to mean the loss of innocence, how to name this? What word will you choose to explain this room and her shaking lips? To show his fingers quickly working the belt, his body covering hers? To describe the second she feels him inside?

Catharsis.

Cataclysm.

Catastrophe.

Catnip.

He completely stops thinking. He is all energy, movement, aggression. The scream torn from heretical stubborn lips. He wants it to go on forever, he wants it to never happen. He was sure he knew what desperation means, he was sure that after everything he can take anything. He was sure there is only one kind of death.

'Love me' can be said to a stranger met in the night, 'shoot me' you reserve for the chosen few. The chosen one, probably.

Katniss… Catnip… Kat… Do I have enough blood to satisfy you?

Spent, he falls on her, covering her completely. Her hair smells of hotel shampoo, he breathes in gulps. It seems impossible even to blink, but finally he finds the strength to pull back, sitting up, one of her legs across his lap. He sits, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling, not feeling anything, as though his body is not fully his, staring until he sees bright shadows moving along the grey ceiling.

'Enough?' he says at last.

She doesn't answer, but instead moves to straddle him. They are looking at each other with complete recognition. The road they've gone – from 'anything else but us is unthinkable' to 'we are unthinkable' – it's all there with the woods, the mines, the war. There is no need for jealousy, they both understand, the precious and the best was given and taken long before the others came. And it is still there somewhere, sewn into the fabric of time, immune to bombs and love. Unreachable but incorruptible.

'Shoot me' you reserve for the one. They've chosen wisely.

She smiles, and he smiles back.

Katniss traces the lines of his shoulders. She leans forward and kisses him quickly, rubs her cheek on his, slides down, her hair tickling his chest and stomach. He doesn't have time to realize what she is going to do before she takes him in her mouth. Would he have stopped her, if he knew? She makes him hard again. She is still able to make him anything she wants him to be.

Gale Hawthorne, her deadliest arrow.

Hurricane bearing her name.

He grabs her head and thrusts.

Later, she crawls up, triumphant, conquering. The warrior princess entering the fortress she promised to storm and did. She takes him slowly, surely, moving in her own rhythm, not letting him look away, not giving him a chance to think it's anything but surrender. It crosses his mind that a second before a heart attack feels like this, only this second seems infinite. Unbearable buildup, spiral staircase to nowhere.

He remembers a conversation with the coroner from Two. A body was found behind the barracks. Twenty-three stab wounds. The man said only one was fatal. Only one in 23 really killed the guy, and it wasn't the first or the last. But he must have felt them all. Did he know when that blow came, that it was fatal? Did the killer know? Was it easier after that? Did it make any difference?

He doesn't understand why he is suddenly thinking about that conversation now, why it seems relevant.

She is faster, faster, faster. Head thrown back, hands gripping his shoulders. To her it's like flying to unimaginable height, when speed is such that it creates sparks, until her whole body is burning, and she is ready to shout and cry. Until all is color and warmth, and she thinks that colors are really emanating from her. Until it's bliss, and everything explodes, and her vision goes black for a split second.

Until her gasps are almost tears.

Gale, Gale, Gale…

Darling, my darling.

In that moment her eyes are screaming what her lips never will – ask me and I will leave everything for you. This country, Peeta, revolution, future. Because I am not myself without you. Because everything else is meaningless and false, if it's not about us, then they told the wrong story, and I want you for every day of my life and beyond. Because you're mine, mine, mine. Because…

He closes his eyes, and she falls on his chest, exhausted.

She is so soft, almost liquid, she covers him like a blanket. Warm breathing caresses his neck. He can't distinguish her sweat from his, and with his eyes closed it's impossible to define the shape of her body, wherever they touch they merge. Her damp hair splashes over his hands and shoulders like seaweed. They breathe in and out in sync. Absentmindedly, he starts stroking her head, then softly kisses her temple.

The hearts are breaking, falling and shattering like crystal on marble. It's so quiet, the agony is unnaturally soundless. Open veins dripping, cells giving up one by one. Adios, it couldn't be any other way. Adios, if there is an afterlife, then maybe, maybe in the place reserved for those who couldn't or refused to be saved, we'll meet again, in the sunless woods where dew is mercury and berries are stones. In the place for unforgiven ones, we'll probably walk hand in hand, not leaving a trace, looking for the light that is extinct.

Adios.

Last time is gentle like hemlock and dreams. Like love and goodbye, placed in one sentence. A duel without seconds and doctors, a duel where no one misses. Each thrust is a heartbeat, the aftermath of the battle fought and lost. It grows, grows, grows, slows down, stops.

The heart stops.

The hearts stop.

'Shoot me' is a promise you keep.