May The Odds

Chapter 4

A/N It's impossible to believe that people in Canada, the United Kingdom, across the world, are reading this little Everthorne angst fanfic?!

I love you guys. Thank you, thank you, and thank you.

I am crouched on the wooden floor of the Everdeens' house as the parade starts; Prim and her mother sharing the sofa.

"What do you think they'll wear?"

"I don't know." I shush Prim. "Can you be quiet? I want to see all the tributes."

She is silent at once, and I wonder whether that was too harsh. Stealing a glance in her mother's direction, it would seem so. Her cheeks are flushed a watered-down red, the way they always got when I became too stubborn or made a rude, insensitive remark. Like now. When I think about it, it's not that Prim told Katniss is to volunteer, to go to the Games in her place. It's not her fault that I'm tense about it, or even that I'd rather it was her in the Hunger Games.

So I shouldn't take the anger that is always a step behind me out on her. What's messing me up, is that I can still hope... Prim had no chance, whereas Katniss.. .

When you're resigned nothing hurts the same way it does when you're still hoping. It's amazing, the amount of valuable lessons hunting has taught me. This is one.

When you're expecting the arrow to miss, you don't kick yourself when it does. I stare dead ahead at the television screen, and do the best I can to think about something else. Like the costumes. I'll admit that was a good question. The District 10 tributes are now on the screen, and meanwhile I can still I wonder what Katniss will wear.

And then - then she steps out onto the stage next to Peeta, her braided dark hair in an attractive contrast to his light blond mop. It's the least bright part of him.

Because for our district, the district that produces coal, they have chosen not to focus on the dust, but on the flames.

She is wearing a fitted black unitard, which accentuates her curves and powerful athletic frame, along with a magnificent cape in all the shades of fire imaginable. Crimson and peach and gold and even a flash of royal blue in places. It's beautiful, there's no other word. That is, until the suits light up with fire.

Now it's stunning. There is a sharp intake of breath from Prim, and I look at her and grin. But the smile vanishes the moment Peeta takes Katniss's hand.

Bastard. I wish she'd disentangle hers and rub it on her suit, but no such luck. Keeping in mind that they have to stay conscious of appearances, I tell myself there's no other reason for this display. She's held mine, too. Hasn't she? All at once, I can't call to mind a particular time.

Katniss is now blowing kisses to the crowd, and all the people on the other side of the screen. I become even more jealous as this display continues.It's false, so cheap. She will kill him a few weeks from now, if no one else does! They can't go on being best friends like a couple of sixth grade girls. This is a game, a game of murder and deceit and betrayal. But they're acting like it's the damn tennis tournaments, instead of that. And I can't stand it for another second.

I get up, mumbling something to the others about having to go to the loo.

Once I get to the bathroom I slam the door closed, and collapse on the floor, despite the dirt. It's so unfair. It's so unfair.The bitter taste in my mouth rises, and I lean over the toilet seat and spit and cough, expecting to vomit as well. But nothing comes.

Sickening.

That's the word that's been evading me.

 ***

I hate Peeta Mellark.That idiotic, strange name, (could it not have been Peter?!) those round button-like eyes which just increases the resemblance between him and a flawless blond male doll, that soft and too-gentle voice that is so controlling and conniving nonetheless... his love for Katniss.

Which has to be mentioned the first time on a television interview in preparation for a time he will spend with Katniss, while there are miles and miles between us, so I can't even fight him? That is just too much. I can't stand him, can't stand this.

Most of the time television screens are just blank rectangles, but now, during the Hunger Games, replace our entire lives. But this is what I have learnt:

The shots they show can be edited.

The words said live can be censored.

 The people can be messed up. Because the real Katniss, the one I used to know would have ran onto stage and hit Peeta in his way-too-sweet face for saying that, even though she might have a crush on him. She wouldn't have scored an eleven in training without bragging about it the same way a guy would – and letting people know that she was a force to be reckoned with. But to gain sponsors, another approach must be taken.

And pairing Peeta and herself as the star-crossed lovers, making her look like a shallow but attractive teenage girl – that helps. It's just tearing me into pieces.

The pieces that still love her.

That always will.