Ami-chan Writes

The mood is more upbeat climbing back on the train after dinner in nine. I think it helps, somewhat, that we had nothing at all to do with the deaths of their tributes. They were killed in the Cornucopia on the first day, something we avoided thanks to Haymitch's advice. Things to remember for the future trainees. Just grab a bag and go, don't be lured in to the shiny because it is full of sharp, pointy death. Maybe you'll last more than twenty minutes, like Cambria. That was her name. The girl from District 8. Her partner, Tanner, he died in the bloodbath though; but she survived, until she got too cold and started a fire and then they found her.

Effie had summoned pie from the dining car when we got on board and met back up with the rest of our team. Cinna even stayed on the train this time along with Portia and the rest of the stylists. We were sitting around chatting and playing cards, eating pie, drinking milk, and Effie started going on about outfits for tomorrow, “It's textiles, after all, we have to make sure to look good,” and that's when I remember Cambria, gagging and choking on her own blood, red flecks on her auburn hair and her jacket in the firelight behind her, eyes wild with fear as they laughed and hooted.

“Cinna and Portia always come up with wonderful things,” Katniss comments.

“I'm sure whatever is decided will be great,” I tell everyone, “but I'm tired all of a sudden. I think I'm just going to go to my room,” and I'm excused after Effie grabs my hand tightly. Haymitch gives me a half-nod I'm not sure he's fully paying attention. The look from Katniss is slightly annoyed but she has Cinna there to keep her company against any onslaught of ostentatiousness that might occur.

Thankfully there are bathrooms up and down the train because I'm only part way to my room when the recent pie, and the meal we ate with District 9's mayor and his family finally escapes despite my constant wishes against it. I sit there for a while breathing slowly and trying to keep the memory of it out, but that's the worst thing you can do really, because it just cycles around.

She'd lit a fire.

I remember Haymitch telling us early on how that was basically a big call for attention. How you had to find other ways to keep warm, layer yourself under things to keep the heat between the layers, find a hollow to hunker down in and bury yourself under leaves, something, anything other than light a fire, unless you knew you could do it in a way you were absolutely not going to be seen, like a cave because you light a fire and it's just a big HEY KILL ME NOW, and that's what it was and they swooped down on her, but it was a kindness. They were torturing her and then they just wanted to walk away and leave her there choking on blood.

When I leave the bathroom I find Portia waiting on the other side of the corridor. She's leaning against the wall, a splash of crushed magenta satin against the dark wood, holding a folder to her chest. She doesn't wear as ostentatious of wigs as Effie does, but neither is she as unobtrusive as Cinna. Her hair is in a tight blonde bob today, it has streaks of magenta through it matching the dress, “Need me to call someone?” she asks.

I shake my head, “I think that was a one time thing.”

“Ah,” she says, with a rueful smile, “Clothing decision has been made.”

“I'm sure it's fine.”

“Are you?” She asks, and I know she doesn't mean if I'm sure about the clothes.

“Yes.” I nod, “Things are a lot better now.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder, and then on my cheek. I wonder how much older than me she is. It's hard to tell how old any of the Capitol people on the train are. They don't age the way our families in the districts do given they have their skin peels, surgeries, and restructurings; but given she and Cinna are new on the fashion design scene I imagine they can't be that old. Cinna seems so different to them all though: muted, deliberate and somewhat calculating. All of our outfits so far have been muted compared to other years' tribute tours, where they've been fairly bright and gaudy. These are elegant but still as though we're in mourning, and nothing to attract too much attention. We're sorrowful along with you not we're celebrating the death of your children. If only there was some sort of outfit that could help us act more emotionally and romantically in sync with each other. I don't think anyone's believing anything. Of course it's hard to convey things in three minute speeches compared to days in a cave together.

“You don't look like things are fine,” she says.

“I'm not feeling sick any more.”

We start walking towards the area where everyone's sleeping quarter's are, “That's something,” she says, “I wish I could give you more advice—but I have no idea. I've never been through anything like this. I had no idea what I was getting into.”

“Well, 12 hadn't won in 24 years,” I point out, “No one knew what they were getting into.”

She hugs me at the door to her room, “I was supposed to be making you feel better.”

“You did.”

“Liar. I'll see you in the morning,” she waves the portfolio at me, “You want to see what you'll be wearing?”

“I'll take the surprise. I'm sure it'll be great as always.”

 

Once I'm back in my room things start to circle back to me and I try to find ways to distract myself given sleep proves to not be an option. We have access to books now, more books than ever before, but a lot of them are vapid and dull. Effie has a lot of history of fashion designers and things of that nature that she keeps dotted about, but there are others I've found that are much more interesting. I'm not sure if they're hers. Honestly they more likely belong to Haymitch, Portia but probably Cinna, but there's the one I've been reading, or trying to called “Losing the Power: Democracy's History and Failure,” there's no signed author to it because it's more a compilation of bits from various other books but it's hard to follow as tired as I am. It looks like it's saying at one time there might have been more than even thirteen districts, each of them had their own separate rights and ruler ship apart from the Capitol and there was a college people went to so they could vote in elections or something. I've read the same paragraph about four times and it's still not making any sense, but drawing was mostly just me drawing swirls on paper which is just a waste so I erased that, gave up and started reading.

Then there's screaming. I bolt up and wind up in a tumble on the floor thanks to trying to set off one-footed. So a cracking thud sees myself in a pile of covers, pillows and shoes. I disentangle myself, sit up, lock it on from it's position next to the bed, kick up, and out the door. We're still on the train and I don't think anyone would have attacked. I shouldn't say couldn't, because hover craft and they might be pissed at us, but surely “the Capitol's sweethearts” or whatever they're calling us now dying during the Victory Tour would do nothing for this precious peace he was on at Katniss about, would it? Hopefully. The screaming is from her room.

“Katniss?” I open the door to her room.

She's got her head on her knees and is sitting up on the bed hugging herself, blankets all around.

“Stupid. Just a stupid nightmare. I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to bed,” it's muffled, because her head is in her knees. She waves a hand in my general direction.

“I wasn't asleep.”

She looks up then and I can see the sheen of tears in the half light, “Then...would you sit with me? I'm an asshole for asking, I know...” She shifts on the bed slightly, trying to maneuver blankets from beneath her.

“No, that's fine. I will,” I clarify, realizing 'no, that's fine' might not come across as a yes. I come towards her as she pulls her way out of the blankets and nearly hits me in the face with the edge. I shield my face.

She falls back on the bed laughing, “I'm sorry.”

“No, that's fine. Just blind me, that's alright.”

“I am sorry,” she reaches for my hand and guides me to the bed as though I was actually blind.

“Imagine how much sympathy we'd get though. The poor blind amputee...”

“Oh, don't,” she says, “It's not funny,” but she is giggling.

She slides back on the bed and to the side so that I can get on to the bed myself.

“Do you want to tell me what the nightmare was about?” I ask offering her my shoulder. She accepts it and curls up against me. I feel my heart skipping slightly with the pressure of her head against my chest and the feeling of her breathing.

“It's stupid.”

“It's not stupid if it had you screaming.”

She sighs, “It was the muttations—the dog things at the end of the...” she trails off, waving her hand.

“I remember.”

“But they'd pulled us both down and...well, you can imagine,” she shudders against me.

“Yeah,” I partly regret that I asked but it's out of her head now, hopefully it's not trapped in mine but right now, at least, she's here, resting against my chest and I feel as though everything will be fine because of that, “we're safe. We're safe.”

“It was Rue. It was the one that was Rue.”

I rub my hand down her arm. There's a temptation to kiss the top of her forehead, but I pull it back. That is the cave talking, and we're not there. We lay there in silence for a while. She drums her fingers against my chest and I try to keep my thoughts more pure to avoid certain things but then she asks something that definitely kills any risk of that, “Were you okay earlier? You kinda left the game abruptly and you normally have Effie eating out of your hand about all the mundane things about the speeches and everything.”

I sigh.

“Honesty,” she says, patting my chest.

“I...was sick—sickened.”

“Ah,” she says, “Not the food?”

“No. I—I was remembering the poor girl from eight, Cambria, and what the careers did to her.”

She tightens her grip on me. She saw the recap at the closing ceremony, of course, “You did her a mercy.”

“I know.”

“She was suffering.”

“I know. They were monsters.”

“I know,” she whispers, “I...can I ask something?” she looks up at me.

“Of course.”

“Will you stay?” Is it my imagination that she's blushing at that?

“Of course.”  

Everything is tense after we've been drug back on the train by the Peacekeepers who were angry that we got away from them and hid to have our secret conversation. Katniss is still shaky and upset. Effie is seething—not only at our mistreatment but at the fact that our itinerary has been thrown to the wind. Haymitch, of course, goes straight to the liquor. He starts to pour a glass but then just drinks from the bottle. Katniss tuts at him.
“Don't start with me, sweetheart,” he retorts.
“I'm sorry,” she says, turning to me, “I really am.”
“This is exactly what I was talking about, or trying to talk about,” I point out, “If we could ever have talked.”
“I've told you talking isn't something I'm good at,” she retorts.
“Clearly!”
“Come on, come on,” Effie waves her hands between us, “Let's just all calm down.”
She is the unfortunate recipient of three different types of angry look.
She smooths herself down, “Obviously we're not going to get to eat the meal that was scheduled, maybe we should go to the dining car and sort out what we're going to do in ten tomorrow to prevent this happening again. Might I suggest just reading the cards?” She offers, “I mean it's not to say that wasn't a lovely thing that you said, Peeta, I just--”
“No, Effie, I know. Certain things have been made much clearer to me. I apologize for going off script.”
“It's alright,” she walks over, I've no idea how she manages to do this so well in the heels she wears, and takes my hands, “It was very eloquent, and you meant well.”
“Let's just drop it,” Haymitch says, “What's done is done.”
“I didn't mean for it to happen,” Katniss repeats. Her voice is damp.
“We've been over this already, sweetheart,” Haymitch says, but he has softer edges now, “Let's not hash it out again. Everyone knows what's at stake now. Effie's right, and you know how often I agree with her so make the most of it. We should get to the food.”
“I'm not hungry,” she mutters, and disappears towards her room.
Effie starts to say something but Haymitch waves his hand at her and she makes a “hum” noise and then messes with the back of her wig instead.
“It's okay, Effie,” I say, “Let's just give her a half hour or so then I'll take her something.”

I knock on her door with my head, given I'm holding a tray and trying to balance on one foot or the other proved tricky. It had taken long enough to argue against one of the attendants coming with me I don't need to show they were right and spill everything everywhere.
“What?” Katniss asks, it's confusion more than anything else—the noise must sound really odd.
“It's me,” I tell her, “I bring food.”
“I'm not hungry. I said that earlier.”
“It'll keep. Please?”
She opens the door and then steps to the side to let me in. She hasn't changed out of the outfit that she was wearing in eleven. Her hair is still loose about her shoulders but she looks more rumpled. She's thrown a few things about the room but it's more half-hearted than I would have expected from her. I set the tray down on the desk that's right by the door.
“It's mostly fruit,” I tell her, “Though there is a sandwich and some soup,” I point to the two items that are in covered bowls, “in case you are actually hungry and just being stubborn.”
She sits down on the edge of her bed, “I...just don't know if I can actually eat,” she says, looking at the wall on the opposite side of the room. Then she looks at the floor, “I keep seeing that man and there were those other shots, what if Rue's family..?”
“It's not our fault,” I tell her, trying to convince myself as I say the words, leaning against the desk, “The Peacekeepers are the ones who shot him and it doesn't do any good to wonder...”
“I'm so sorry I didn't tell you about Snow,” she says, leaning forward.
“And I'm sorry I've been so angry with you,” I tell her.
“You have every right,” she shakes her head, leaning back, “I'm despicable.”
I cross the room and sit down next to her, “No, you're not.”
“I am,” she looks away, “I can't...” she shakes her head again, “You were right about it all. That's what made it worse. You're right to be mad. You were right. I should talk. We do need to talk about things. I just...I don't know how. You're so nice and I've been so awful to you. I hate myself, but I just...I don't know how to do it. This is more than 'what's your favorite color?', Peeta. I know that. I just...” she sighs, “I'm repeating myself.”
“It's okay,” I tell her, “and I'm sorry if I've been pushing you in any way.”
“I need pushing,” she says, “I'm stubborn like you say. I know it. I...” she puts her hands to her head and runs them backwards and forwards across her scalp, “want to be...I don't know how this works.”
“It's okay,” I say again, “You can do this. You survived the Hunger Games you can survive making friends.”
She laughs, “So you say, but you have no proof. I mean it's started with questions about colors, what next foods?”
“That would be a start.”
She shakes her head, “I did like that lamb stew we got.”
“I knew that already.”
“I know...” she sighs. She gets up and goes to the desk pulls out the chair, sits down and starts examining the food that I brought. She dips the sandwich into the soup and takes a bite, “I told you I'm no good at this.”
“Well, then, ask me things,” I tell her, “I'll show you how painless it is.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyes glint then, “You shouldn't say things like that.”
“I said it earlier, Katniss. We need to know each other. We need to be able to be friends. At least if we're friends we'll have some sort of positive rapport on camera. It'll help, especially with what's at stake. I don't want to put your family at risk.”
“What about your family?” she asks.
“Of course, I don't want to put them at risk, either.” That's complicated though, some times...
“I thought you said this was painless,” she teases.
I pull myself back a little way onto the bed, “Then ask your questions, milady.”
She pops a grape into her mouth and muses for a moment, “When you talked about what your mother said--”
“You really are going for it, aren't you?”
“You brought this on yourself, Baker's Boy.”
“Fair point,” I bow to her slightly, “Do continue.”
She eats another grape, “What did you like most in school?”
“I thought you were aski--”
“I can change my mind. I'm the questioner,” she goes back to the sandwich and soup, “So, what did you like most in school?”
“Being outside,” I answer, “We could run around.”
She laughs, “Somehow I thought you would have liked school more.”
“I didn't say that I didn't like school as far as the work part. I just liked being outside more. There was so much more color than in the drab classrooms, and we were in the fresh air. We could run around.”
“But not the woods?”
“I don't know the woods the way you do. They've always been full of danger for me, and I think we've established it's not the place for me as far as being able to hunt, which is the main reason to go out there.”
“I was so terrible to you...”
“You're fleet of foot. I am not and it wasn't helping.”
“You were hurt!” she shakes her head, “You couldn't help it.”
“I don't think it would have mattered. I've never had reason to learn. You don't have to learn to be quiet hauling hundred pound sacks around a bakery, and now...now I don't know that I'll ever have the ability.”
“Well, you don't have to worry there,” she says, softly, “We don't have to sneak through any woods on the Victory Tour. Everything's out in the open,” then she comes back over and sits next to me on the bed. She puts her hand cautiously onto my left knee, “and...” she says, as though something might bite her, “this is the other reason I...I had such a hard time. I...I feel so guilty. I cost you, your leg. It's my fault.”
“Katniss...”
She looks away again.
“No, come on.” I can't help but laugh a little and that does make her turn back though she has an angry look on her face again.
“I'm being serious!”
“I know you are,” I point out, “I just...that's part of why I got so frustrated about the whole bread thing and things blew up on that day, because here you were constantly going on about the bread and me dropping food off and things like you owed me for the food and here I was bringing those things because they were some tiny, tiny way that I could possibly hope to repay you for the fact that I'm alive. I'm alive, Katniss. Like I said in that interview the leg is a small price to be alive. It has it's moments of frustration, but there is no way I could ever be angry about that, so please don't feel guilty, okay?”
She gets up abruptly, turning away and looking towards the window covered in shades, “Please go.”
“I...”
“Just go, okay? I'm tired. I want to sleep.”
I find it hard not to sigh at that. I thought things were going well and now she's effectively pushing me out of the room, I want to protest, to angrily point out that this is exactly the opposite of what we're supposed to be doing but as I close the door she turns towards the bed and I see that she's crying and I realize that's why she wants me to leave. So, I just say, “I'll see you at breakfast,” and close the door.
“Thanks,” she answers, “Good night.”

Knocking on Haymitch's door. I remember my hand shaking. I didn't expect him to come to the door. He was likely drinking. The news wasn't good. We had a 50/50 shot of being picked but I was determined to fix that. He was no good to us in the arena.
"S'open..."
I walked in.
He laughed, sarcastic, "Figured it was you. She wouldn't have knocked."
I stopped then, looking at him and him looking at me across the room. Doom closing in around us. It might be 50/50 between either of us getting selected but she was going. There was no one else, "How can I keep her alive?" I asked him.
"This again?" he said.
I walked towards his table and put my hands on it to keep steady, "Of course, this again. I only got out last time because of her..."
Last time, though...last time I was terrified. Last time. Last time I didn't think I could do anything except maybe help people like her enough to get sponsors and perhaps last a few days in the arena a week at most. There was no way I thought I would be here now.
Haymitch snorted.
"...well, that and whatever else you were doing, but no matter that you were not in there with us."
He took a long swig of whatever he was drinking, "Fair enough."
"You are more use to us out here than in there. You have contacts. You have all sorts of people. I have none of that. So, if I get called let it go. If you get called I'll volunteer for you."
"Peeta..."
"What?" I said, "You know that's how it has to go. You know that's what you were going to tell me, isn't it? Katniss has to live. She has to, and you can make that happen from out here. I can't."
"That's true." He said, "and you might be able to help stop the games from up there, and I sure as hell can't. I am not a pretty talker. I do not have a way with words."
"What do you mean?"
"Sit down, boy." He dropped onto the couch, "You're making me nervous."
I sat down in the chair at the table nearest the couch, facing him, right arm resting on the table.
"You know how pissed you feel right now? Imagine how pissed the other victors feel. They've been living off the Capitol for years now, some of them have even had it pretty good. They sure as hell don't want to go back into the arena and have to fight to the death." He paused, "Though I can think of a couple who might volunteer for much less noble reasons than you."
"Everything's upset already..." I tell him, "...it's a powder keg out there. The tour. Snow..."
"True." He says, "But I guarantee you. No-one else going up for tribute wants these games."
"But--"
"They might want to kill other people...but they don't want to die and there are some who'll get drawn who have just as much of a grudge against Snow as we do."