Katniss POV

I am balancing somewhere along the border between the solitary confinement of my surreal imagination and consciousness when Peeta somehow manages to locate the part of my brain that harbors my conscience. Though I can openly recognize that I feel guilty about hurting him – no, killing him – I cannot quite fathom the drive behind my feelings of remorse.

It hasn't escaped him, knowing that our love was nothing but a ruse formulated by Haymitch and myself to gamble our survival through the Games. And yet he is still so adamant about maintaining our relationship, however simple it may be. This is what frustrates me the most. I assure myself every day that I am not obligated to him; I saved his life, multiple times I might add, and I owe him nothing, especially not something as trivial as offering my heart to him.

I tell myself this as I emerge from my state of restless slumber, but even as I stir and shift silently beneath the blankets, I can feel him. His armored chest is firm against my left shoulder, brushing against my skin every time the train experiences turbulence.

I have no memory of my night being punctuated by any particular nightmares, for they plague my subconscious every night, but I suppose sometime throughout the duration of the night, I succumbed to one of my dreams and disturbed Peeta, one door over. Like nearly every other night, he slipped into my room and silenced my screams, holding me in a tight hug until my spirit felt calm enough to drift away in the warmth and security of his embrace.

I close my eyes, trying to suppress the wave of self-disgust that threatens to overwhelm me once more. Lying here in the presence of someone so selfless, how could I possibly not feel obligated to him?

I let out a soft sigh, but to my surprise, my breath catches in my throat and I give a small cough, clearing my throat in an attempt to prevent my companion from waking. My efforts are in vain, however, as I am met with the brilliant blue eyes of the boy with the bread. He immediately begins to search my face without even a single thought toward his own well-being.

"You okay?" he asks in a slightly amused tone, still heavy with sleep.

I nod, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm fine, sorry," I whisper back, but in reality this is not the case.

The back of my throat burns sharply and I can already feel the pressure of congestion at the bridge of my nose stimulating a headache. But I don't relay this to Peeta.

His eyes linger on my face for a moment longer, then he offers his smallest, simplest smile that makes my skin crawl. "Okay."

Just then there's a knock on our door and Haymitch's muffled voice reaches our ears from the bed. "Hey, lovebirds, can we come in or would the scene meeting our eyes not be age-appropriate for present company?"

We can hear Effie trilling at our mentor in her high-pitched, disapproving tone from behind the door and Peeta and I exchange a bemused smirk before he softly calls out, "It's safe."

The automated doors slide open and Effie Trinket promenades into the room with her overly adept grace, closely followed by Cinna. Her eyes are bright with positivity as usual, but we can tell by her tightly pursed lips that our mentor has already considerably annoyed her this morning. A twinge of satisfaction and respect for Haymitch makes the corner of my mouth twitch just as he saunters into the room with his air of lassitude, a confident smirk displayed upon his sallow features.

"Oh good," he says in his most satirical tone. "I was hoping I had assumed correctly when you mentioned that there was 'safety' involved,"

He raises his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, causing Effie to let out a chirp of disgust and slap his shoulder with the pair of off-white gloves she clutches in her right hand. I catch Haymitch's eye and he flashes a wink at me.

"Children," Effie begins, clasping her hands together. "Today we—"

"Children?" I repeat angrily.

Dammit, Effie. Just when I start to like her, just when I start to think that she might just be a very inconsiderate woman with an irritating personality, she goes ahead and says things like this and then I'm pissed.

Then I remember: Effie is just another abomination from the Capitol.

Even though we're Victors, she still views Peeta and me as nothing more than silly children who happened to win a game show. No. Even if we weren't within a year of coming of age, the horrors we had to endure and experience were enough to craft us into two mature individuals, stripped of any traces of youthful innocence.

"Katniss and Peeta," Effie corrects herself, closing her eyes for a moment for patience. "Today we will be visiting District Two who, as you have heard many times throughout the duration of your short lives, specialize in masonry. Fun fact: they also produce most of Panem's forces of Peacekeepers."

But I am not listening to Effie's overly enthusiastic spiel about the district we are appearing before. My head has begun to pound incessantly, the uproars of the riots from the preceding districts fill my head, making it hard for me to concentrate. I lift a hand to my temple, cringing against the sharp cries of a nation so desperate for a revolution. A revolution that I can't lead because I'm only seventeen and President Snow has threatened to kill my family and friends and oh my head hurts and. . .

"Katniss,"

I blink in confusion. All pairs of eyes are staring at me, Peeta's especially, who sits beside me watching my face closely with a furrowed brow.

I drop my hand from my head and clear my raw throat once again. "Sorry," I rasp, my voice sounding hoarse. I flush with embarrassment.

"Katniss—" Effie begins.

"What," I retort, just a little too harshly. I then lower my voice to a much softer octave. "What?"

But it's Cinna who says it. "Katniss, are you feeling okay?"

I dare to meet Peeta's eyes, his features softened with concern, and I am only reminded once more of how much he genuinely cares for me and how little he invests in himself.

"I'm fine," I say, clearing my throat again. "My throat's just a little rough."

"We can tell," Effie says in a tone that suggests that my condition is somehow inconveniencing herself. "Your voice sounds rather hoarse." Her mind is visibly reeling as she attempts to grasp control of the little curveball I have just thrown at her.

The room is silent.

I, for one, can't stand attention and I especially dislike being fussed over. Not that it happens very often, if at all, but maybe that's what makes me so obstinate in the first place. Ever since my father died, I've had to pull my own weight and provide for my mother and Prim. There simply wasn't time to feel sorry for myself or ask others for help. The world we live in is a cruel place and there just isn't room for pity when you're fighting to survive. It just doesn't work that way.

I shrug at them. "It's really not a big deal, guys. I'll be fine," I glance around the room, feeling frustrated by their wild-eyed stares. "Look, you were saying something about District Two?" I say, hoping to deter them away from the topic.

"Well, maybe we can give her something that will make her sound less. . ." Haymitch trails off, gesturing toward me as he tries to come up with an appropriate adjective. "Unattractive."

I scowl at him as he throws a triumphant glance over my way.

"Perhaps if we get a couple of lemon lozenges or some honey and tea into her it will help soften her vocals a little before the cameras," Cinna suggests lightly.

I groan inwardly. The cameras! I had almost forgotten about my predetermined speech that I would have to give live before the entire country. Every minute on camera counts in terms of my deal with President Snow, but I can't see how I could possibly appear strong and hopelessly in love with Peeta when I sound like I have just recently gotten into a bar fight and someone has punched me in the throat.

On top of that, I greatly detest tea. I've never liked the taste, at least none that I've been given the opportunity to try, and for some reason every time I even catch the scent of tea, I would be hit with a wave of intense nausea.

I am vaguely aware that my team is discussing how to handle the less-than-satisfactory quality of my voice when a very powerful, demanding sensation strikes my sinuses and I find myself unable to suppress what is to come.

The group discussion gradually trails off and once again all four gazes have fallen upon me as I turn away from Peeta and let out a string of three heaving sneezes into the crook of my arm. I emerge, sniffling.

"Oh! Nooo," Effie trills in a distressed voice. "See, no, this isn't going to work. Katniss obviously isn't well and I can't see how she can possibly perform a speech in a front of a live audience on national television in this condition."

"Maybe we should just ask Katniss how she feels about all of this," Haymitch drawls, leaning against the doorframe.

Cinna crosses the room and squats in front of me, where Peeta and I sit on the edge of the bed, and closely examines my face. "Katniss," he says in his soft, suave voice. "Do you think you'll be okay to make an appearance today?"

I think back to previous Hunger Games. Has a Victor ever delayed their Victory Tour for any reason or were they not able to get away with it? Surely in seventy-three years, some unfortunate circumstance has led to a Tour being postponed a couple of days. I think of how alleviating it would feel if I could just roll back over and go to sleep. But then, as if I had summoned him, the image of Snow is conjured before my eyes and I know that I have to go on. How could I appear strong and independent if I was shamefully requesting a sick day? Besides, I don't think any of my familiar nightmares would have prevented themselves from interjecting into my much-needed sleep.

I clear my throat. "No, no. I'm alright," I assure him. "Let's just carry on as planned."

Cinna looks almost disappointed by my response, but after a few moments he nods once and says, "Okay." He places his hands on his thighs and pushes himself up into a stand, casting one last glance of unease down at me. "Alright, then." He turns away from me. "Portia is waiting for you in your room, Peeta."

Peeta hesitates, eying me warily as he slides from the bed, rising to his full height, his muscles rippling beneath his soft white shirt. I cannot help but feel attracted to the stocky build of the broad-shouldered blonde to some degree. He was athletic, handsome, witty, and compassionate. What was preventing me from genuinely sharing feelings of affection for him?

Oh yeah. Gale.

I watch him go, feeling torn. Why does everything always have to be so difficult? A year ago I thought of love as such a trivial matter that naïve adolescents like me always distorted into something more complex than it needed to be. Now here I am, presented with the ideal partner who loves me unconditionally and all I can think of is a rowdy, violent rebel who is far more engaged with the thought of inciting a mass uprising against the Capitol than he is establishing individual relationships with people he cares about.

"We'll see you soon, sweetheart," Haymitch says as he and Effie leave the room.

Now alone with Cinna, I find myself unable to stifle the rough coughs that fight their way through my damaged throat.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Cinna presses gently. "You don't need to feel pressured, you know."

I laugh half-heartedly. "It's not like we can just cancel the Victory Tour, Cinna," He frowns at me. "Honestly, I'm fine. It sounds worse than it is."

Cinna looks at me skeptically, but he drops it. After single-handedly dressing me in a simple, slimming black outfit with a soft and flexible material, Cinna guides me down to the dining car, where everyone else is already eating. Peeta is dressed in an identical outfit, albeit obvious gender technicalities. Very little makeup was applied. Our faces were gently erased with fair-colored foundation and redrawn with a fine-tipped pencil. Cinna and Portia preferred that the heavy makeup be suspended until tomorrow, since District One was known for supplying the Capitol with glamorous luxuries. Cinna, however, added a healthier glow to my cheeks because I guess I was looking rather pale.

"Katniss," Effie greeted jovially. "Sit. Eat."

I cross the room and claim the seat beside Peeta, who I could tell is trying hard not to acknowledge my symptoms, which I greatly appreciate. Everyone else, however, seemed to be assessing my level of appetite at various ranges of subtlety, so I carefully choose two slices of bread, a hard-boiled egg, and an apple. Satisfied, everyone turns back to their meals and continues to indulge on their conversations.

Despite my rather bold selection for breakfast, I'm really not feeling brave enough to try and finish my plate. I am hungry, yes, but not quite hungry enough to follow through with my commitment. Nevertheless, I carefully begin to spread strawberry jam on my toast. I figure if I eat slow enough, no one will notice whether or not I have actually finished my meal.

The usual conversations carries out casually throughout the duration of the meal with Effie handing us our 'infallible' set of index cards for us to recite during our speeches. She drones over proper manners and other useless information and soon enough, a Peacekeeper informs us that we will be arriving in District Two within ten minutes. Feeling my stomach give an unpleasant jolt, I turn my head and cough in the opposite direction as everyone else. Thankfully, no one focuses their attention on me anymore.

"Are you ready?" Peeta asks rather emotionlessly, his eyes blank with the dull hurt of having to pretend that our relationship is valid.

A lump forms in the back of my already irritated throat. "Yes," I say, our hands finding each other unconsciously as we stand behind the closed doors of the train where the cameras await. "Just. . ." I swallow, feeling obligated to say something, but not having the courage to follow through with it. "Remember to wash your hands afterwards, so you don't get sick."

I bite my lip, feeling utterly disgusted with myself. Beside me, Peeta suppresses a small grin. I wonder what's running through his mind as the automated doors slide open and we brace ourselves for the scrutinizing gazes of our entire nation.