Count to Five

There is no rush for people to head back to their rooms after the ceremony. The only expectation for the rest of the day is to watch it on the screens this evening and think about our first day of training. I had plenty else to consider, Johanna's offer, and Finnick. He said 'after this' so I knew I was meant to head straight to his floor rather than our own.

I dither, debating going over to speak to Cecelia, who is stood with Woof. He has less of a chance than Mags, doesn't even seem to know where he is, staring around like this is all utterly new to him. I don't go over, I should but I don't. I had only met Cecelia last year, in District eight they rotate who came to the Capitol as a mentor and it was her go. She was pregnant at the time but had agreed to it. We'd attempted an alliance, but we each lost a tribute at the cornucopia and that faded swiftly.

She smiles at me, but I'm called away by a surprising source. Haymitch. He smiles and looks far more with it than usual. He is another of Berg's drinking buddies but my district partner is nowhere to be seen. “You doing alright?” Haymitch asks me, no sign of his usual slur evident.

“Good thanks." I'm unsure how to speak to him so I go for polite, "You seem well.”

“Meh,” He grunts, “You can blame these two for that.” He's gesturing, and Katniss and Peeta are coming our way. “Good on them,” I counter, “I haven't done as well as I would like with Berg.”

“Good luck there.” He chuckles, reaching out to pat my shoulder in what is clearly meant to be a friendly action. “I best be off,” he misses, poor co-ordination giving me the chance to slip away, “Have a good evening.” I spin on my heel and catch it just as quickly on the train of my dress. Katniss and Peeta are close now, obviously aiming to go either side of me. I make sure I fall slightly to the right and Peeta catches me in a dramatic swoosh at my waist. “I'm so sorry.” I flutter, making sure my voice has that endearingly breathless edge. He stutters that it's fine, helping me upright. In these heels I'm practically level with him and make sure I have my best smile on. “Thank you, I didn't squash you did...”

“No, no course not. It's not a problem.” He has the slightest hint of pink high in his cheeks. Katniss has paused, and I can feel her glaring into my back. “Never get used to these ridiculous shoes, no matter how hard I try.” He responds but then meets Katniss' eyes over the top of my head. “Sorry,” I twist to include her now, “I'll let you both get on. Thanks again Peeta.” I make myself touch him, clutching his bicep very gently as I walk away, putting an extra swing in my hips.

Finnick and Mags are waiting by the elevators and I head for them, hearing a loud burst of laughter behind me. Chaff's haws boom through the large space. “Going up?” Finnick asks, giving me the option to duck out. I tell him I am, and Mags hobbles in first with her stick. Enobaria and Brutus just miss our elevator, the glass closing in front of them. Finnick makes an apologetic gesture but then we vanish upwards. I'm not sure if I should speak first or not, so keep my mouth shut. We're in silence until we reach the District Four apartment. “Coming?” I nod again and follow in behind him. It's empty at the moment, whoever else came with them must still be down at the ceremony.

“We're going to go in my room quickly Mags, alright?” She nods and says something I only half understand. I knew she'd had a stroke a few years back just from a passing comment Finnick had made. It must explain why half of her face seems lower than the other.

I follow, and as Finnick kicks his sandals off when his door closes I follow suit, leaving my heels next to them. “Give me a second.” He asks, vanishing into the bathroom and leaving me standing awkwardly. His room is much the same as mine, I had never been on another floor before. My view is nicer, I suppose I have that much. He returns in a loose t-shirt and some cotton trousers, looking as unlike himself as I think I've ever seen him. “Sorry, you probably want to get changed too, I should have thought.”

“It's fine,” I assure him, only moving when he indicates I sit on the large bed. “This is an odd way to do things.” Finnick sits a good six foot from me, an overly respectable distance.

“I know.” He stretches, fiddling with his hands. He looks nervous, which doesn't suit him. I have the same bubble of anxiety in my stomach. “I want us to go together in the arena.” I take each slow word separately, “Who is us?” I'm holding myself carefully, that well-learnt pose. When he says himself and Mags I fight back a frown, “And Berg, where does he fit into this?” I arrange a curl, allowing me a second away from his gaze to work out how I should be playing this. What the hell is Finnick planning to do with Mags? It seems crueller, dragging out what will inevitably happen.

“You don't have to do that.”

“I'm not doing anything?” He waves me off, before gesturing along my body.

“You don't need to do that with me.” He swallows, “I'm not one of them.”

I tread carefully, not needing to force any signs of confusion, I am lost, “What makes you think I'm doing anything? You asked me to come, we're having a conversation.”

“And you're pretending, wearing a mask, whatever you want to call it.” He cuts over me. “You don't need to. Not here, not to me.” I've been so careful with my own movements it's only now I realise how different he was being. He had sat far from me, he was speaking in a normal tone of voice, his posture was even different. “Is this you without a mask then?” He smiles, swift, closed lips. I think it's a real smile and relax a little. “Okay,” I don't try to keep my voice soft as I usually would, “Then what are we talking about?”

“Alliances.” He pulls his legs under him and turns on the cover to face me. I would do the same but my dress definitely wouldn't allow it. “I would like to ally with you.”

“Why?” It's the question I had originally wanted to ask. “Why don't you go with One and Two?” He pulls a face, ugly and so unlike him I bark a laugh. Finnick likes this and presents me with another real smile.I want to bite my lip but years of being told it makes me look like a rabbit have broken that habit so I take my nerves out on the inside of my cheek. “I'm not going with One and Two. I don't want to, it wouldn't work anyway.”

“Why not? Seems like a smart strategy.”

“Is it what you were thinking of doing?” He seems genuinely interested, head tilted slightly like my dog does when he gets excited. “No,” I say honestly, “I couldn't ever trust them.” I pause, is this opening myself up to something? “Johanna sort of offered...”

“Thought she might.” He muses, running his tongue over his lower lip in that way he does. He seems to go over a few bits in his mind but shrugs to himself and meets my eyes. “We're not being listened to in here.” I feel my brow furrow, “So I'm just going to be straight, that alright?” I murmur a yes and he reveals his true purpose, “It's important that Katniss wins.”

I do that disbelieving laugh again. When I realise he is serious it dies in my throat. “What, why?”

“You have to know the impact she and Peeta have had. How people look to them, her especially.” I had my suspicions, “Seneca Crane is dead.” He says bluntly, “For his mistake.” He doesn't need to say more, his mistake was letting them both live and making the Capitol, and therefore President Snow look foolish. “We're here because of them.” I echo the sentiment held by Johanna and myself.

He doesn't disagree. “And it's important she makes it out of this.”

Everything dawns on me quickly, there is something brewing, another rebellion? Would people be so foolish? “It wouldn't work.” I cut over him this time, hearing the panic in my words, “It'd be like before.”

“It would be a chance, and they need her.”

“You expect me to lay down my life for her?” This is the epitome of what he is asking me. If I need to, if the opportunity comes he wants me to die for Katniss Everdeen. That hard-faced girl from District Twelve. “Why would I do that?”

His voice has hardened when he speaks, “You don't have to do anything. You can treat it like another set of games if you want. I'm just asking you to think about it, to try. If it fails, we die anyway and Brutus or Enobaria become the victor of victors.” He gives me time, and I mull it over. I was expecting to die, he isn't changing that. But would Katniss surviving do more good or bad, the country had barely survived the last attempted rebellion. What made him think, anyone think, we could do it now? “This isn't your idea, you're not telling me everything,” I state. He doesn't deny this “If you're not telling me everything then how can I even start to-”

“The more you know the more danger you are in if something goes wrong.” His tone is final. “Look at it like this, we go in the games. We make an alliance with Twelve. We work as a team.”

“And when they turn you'd like me to let her shoot me with an arrow?”

“That won't happen.” I want to believe him. “I'm just putting forward a possible alliance.” I'm staring hard into his face, searching for some hint of a trick I know isn't there. He wants this, he believes this. He stands and makes his way to the bathroom, I hear water running and when he returns he goes to the hatch we all have in our room. A couple of moments later he's pressing a glass of chilled orange juice into my hand. “Your favourite right?” I take it, offer him a more sincere thanks than I probably ever had before. I do not question how he knows about my fondness for orange juice, it's probably a tidbit he'd picked up.

“You didn't answer my question.” I say after a few sips, his eyebrow lift and I know the answer already, “About Berg...”

“Berg can't stand me, you know that. But by all means, you put it forward as an alliance, just an alliance.” Finnick doesn't need to emphasise the last bit, I will not be telling Berg any of this, it won't help and I can't imagine it shifting his mindset. “Let me know what he says.” Again we fall into silence and over a few minutes I finish the glass. He leans forward to accept it from me, fingers grazing over mine. He apologises for this and then goes on to apologise for making me uncomfortable earlier on. I say he didn't. It's very clear that isn't bought.

I need time allow to try and make sense of the little I have just learnt. This is clearly one part of a much larger picture he is trying to protect me from. Finnick must be having this conversation with others and I can't work out why he has singled me out now. I ask him, half blurt it whilst scolding myself for doing so. He seems taken aback, and shifts, “I'm not speaking to anyone else.” He assures me. This does nothing to settle me and I decide now is the right time to leave, “I'll speak to you tomorrow. Let you know what Berg says.”

“I'm more interested in what you say.” He picks up my shoes for me on the way out. There's a small group of people in the sitting area, I spot his stylist and escort along with a couple of previous victors.

There would most definitely be gossip now and I'm not sure if it would work in my favour or not. He half comes into the elevator, blocking the door from closing. There's one thing I need to know the answer to before I make any decisions at all. I lean forward, using the same trick he had near the horses. “I need to know my family will be safe. That's all I care about.”

I watch his throat pulse, “They will be. There's no reason for...”

“Promise.” I implore. He hesitates but then does. I let this sink in and he says goodbye. There are bags forming under his eyes. How weird to see Finnick as a person, a human being with flaws. Not just a trophy on somebodies arm.

I rub under my own eyes, watch the black smudge the side of my hands. I need to think, so I get through the rabble as quickly as possible, taking Opa and Ari's compliments. Listening as Marc laments Berg's expression but brightens up when they discuss what wine to have with dinner. My excuses are made, my cheeks hurt again from smiling and I spill into my bathroom, tearing the dress off with little care for the fabric and getting into the shower.

I put on the longest program, washing my hair several times. I never feel truly clean in the Capitol. Finally, I fill the bath and pour in some strawberry smelling lotion I had received as a present from someone I could hardly remember. The bath is deep and I let myself lay on the bottom until I'm desperate for breath. I repeat this several times, keeping myself underwater a little longer each time so that the adrenaline is pumping and there's panic building. I come up, spluttering into my hand and settle against the porcelain. At least I was told it was porcelain, I wasn't even sure what baths were made out of. Ours had been rusting tin when I was small, we'd boil the water and go one after another.

It was easier when we were younger, the twins could be dumped in together as long as you watch so they didn't try to drown each other. Before my mother had died I enjoyed baths, she would sing, almost make the rough scourer painless. Afterwards, there was a period where my Father tried to take charge but he gave in. I didn't bathe for weeks, although the memories old now and hard to recall. I definitely remember Sian dunking me in finally though, she's only a couple of years older than me but must have been surprisingly strong at nine. Sian took charge after that since Dad was often drunk or working for a week at a time. I preferred it when he was working. I still prefer it when he isn't around me. That isn't how it should work, I'm well aware of that. He doesn't need to work anymore, not with the money I have so he doesn't. He spends his time sleeping or drinking, stumbling into the house at all times and disturbing the animals.

I hate him in a way. Not enough not to love him, but enough to detest him easily. He'd all but left Sian to deal with it all, three younger siblings and a baby born far too early whilst the other had died inside our mother and killed her in the process.

I've gotten some soap in my eyes and blame that for the way they are watering. For a while I try and swallow it down, throat sore but it breaks, I break. I hadn't let myself do it at home, not in front of the others. Now I do and I cry until my whole body hurts, my chest burns, my back aches from how I am curved. Several loud knocks on my bedroom door snap me out of it, and Opa sticks her head in, barely giving me time to look down and let my hair cover my swollen face. “Dinner in a few min- oh, Ophelia, still in the bath! Come on darling, you'll miss the first course.”

I swallow, clear my throat, “Be out in a minute.” Opa hovers for a moment, it is obvious I'm not at all okay. She struggles, she always struggles with anything other than the perfect bubble she has created for herself. “You take as much time as you need.” She manages, her voice low and soothing. “I know you don't really like prawns so I'll encourage the others to start.” She's gone before I can thank her but I rinse quickly, use the machine that instantly dries hair and dress. It's hard to find pyjamas that aren't revealing thanks to Thom but eventually I find what I imagine counts as a very short nightdress and wear it with some shorts.

I wait until my eyes don't look red before I join the group, and I only join in the conversation where necessary, claiming tiredness which Opa backs up. It's much the same during our re-watch of the Ceremony, I make the right comments, gasp over Katniss and Peeta as their outfits again appear to burn. I do what I need to do. It's necessary, not particularly in front of Opa, but Marc will be going out tonight, and I know full well he reports on us. Maybe not reports, not anything as clinical as that, but he speaks and word travels so quickly in the social circles of the Capitol. If I appear down and upset it will be said I have given up and won't be entertaining as a tribute. Sponsors, I feel like so much of my life comes down to sponsors lately, but it's true. I hate them as well, each and every one of them.

After what feels like an age it is an acceptable time for bed. Ari and Marc leave in a fluster, arguing about the outfits we should wear for our interviews with Caesar the day before the games begin. Opa is easier, she grabs another bowl full of the rich chocolate pudding and I excuse myself. Berg follows and actually bothers to trail all the way into my room. “You need me to stay for a bit?"

He surprises me like this sometimes, offers to do something so heartwarming. I give him the quick once over, “You really don't need to,” there's a flood of warmth towards him that appears rarely, “I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.” He clicks his tongue, “Not at all.” I go to argue again but he shakes his head and holds his hands out in surrender, “I'm not saying you have to be alright, look at me. I'm not alright.”

“We just need sleep,” I answer weakly, well aware that's not going to come easily. “Make sure we get a good breakfast tomorrow before training...”

“A good breakfast?” He mocks, familiar lines forming on his forehead. “So that's what you want to do. Pretend it's all good? Nothing to worry about.”

“Don't do this,” I grumble at him. He was drunk, that was the reason for his sudden goodwill towards me. He had his moments, they typically came thanks to clear spirits and wine. “We've had this argument.” I remind him, we had, several times after the Quarter Quell announcement when I had gone to his house. He lifts his shoulders dramatically, “I tried, don't say I didn't try Fee.”

The inside of my cheek starts to bleed again. “You need to go to bed.” This is no time to touch on what Finnick had said, or at least, the version I was going to give him. Berg swears in response.

Wonderful, we were at this stage of drunk. Whoever was around took the brunt of every nasty thing sober Berg clearly thought but held back. I was certainly not in the mood for that, I was sure any little comment would send me spiralling into tears and I was just so tired. “Fine.” I feel my voice became as edged as a blade, “I'm going to bed, you do whatever the hell you like.”

I take my time brushing my teeth and washing my face. My heart is thundering and tears keep threatening. I'm thankful that when I do eventually emerge he has left, the door still ajar. I go to it, catching a couple of voices and leaning around the frame very slightly. Opa is blocking my view, whoever she is with around the corner. It only takes a moment and I recognise the voice. Atticus Till. He liked to joke our names were similar. He made plenty of jokes, most at my expense that I had to pretend to enjoy.

I want to vanish.

There's only one reason he's here. There's only one reason I ever have anything to do with him. He scares me worse than Brutus ever could. He's vile in every sense of the word, a monster hides behind the charming smile. This shouldn't be happening, I was a tribute, I was training, I was going to die for them. They couldn't expect this of me.

It didn't happen like this, people wouldn't appear at my door. I'd receive a note, normally just a time and dress code, sometimes a name. The threat had been made once, in person. Once had been enough and I had followed every instruction sent my way since.

I'd have too if Atticus wanted. The threat didn't go away just because I would in a few days. My heart isn't fast now, it seems to have stopped, dead behind my sternum. The rest of me is pulsing instead, my hand's tremor, there are sparks in my calves. Fight or flight they call it. I want to run. I want to lock myself in my room and barricade the door. I won't do that, nothing Atticus could ever do to me would be as bad as losing my siblings. I had survived the things he had already done. The worst night of my life. Finnick was there, in another part of the mansion. He had never mentioned it, I never mentioned it.

Atticus and his friends liked to slip girls a certain type of pill, a tranquillizer he had called it. I wanted to die, dying would have been preferable. Torn apart by one of the mutt bears that had haunted the woods in the arena. My stomach lurches, and I have no choice but to slip from my hiding place, barely making it into the bathroom before I vomit.

The noise down the hallway increases. Opa is arguing with him. There's a storm in my ears but she lifts her voice and it snaps through. She's telling him to leave, that he has no place, that he knows there will be none of this. His own voice gains volume.

Berg opens his bedroom door and I force myself to my feet. Berg yells, Atticus shouts and Opa screams. I do not leave my room. I don't think I could if I wanted too, each breath is catching and making me dizzy. There's a sudden silence, and then it is just Berg and Opa. I lose their voices, too busy caught in my uneven breathing. I'm trying to count to five, five in, five out.

I'm half aware of Berg reappearing, snapping again at Opa and slamming the door. He helps me up, hands rougher than they need to be. The knuckles on his left hand are red. “You hit him?” I manage, the words creaking. He doesn't respond other than to tuck me into bed and sit behind me, my back against his chest. I know what he's doing, it worked once before, back on my victory tour. He wants me to match my breathing to his and I try. He's talking too, some nonsense about a storm at home that had knocked down half of the ranch he'd grown up on. By the time he's finishing I am with him breath for breath.

“You shouldn't have hit him.” I manage, my words still sound strangled.

“He deserves more.” Berg tries to agree, anger thick in his words, stretching his legs flat. One of his knees click. “No, but he's part of the committee, he works for Snow. He'll tell him!” I don't need to say the rest, and I cannot manage it, feeling my throat closing again. “It's my problem, I'm the one in trouble, not you. Fee, Fee, listen. He's not going to do anything to Sian or the boys, he has no reason to.”

“He.doesn't.need.a.reason.” I exhale, wanting to turn around and strike him myself. He had put them in danger, Berg didn't care. Berg had no-one at home he cared about, that was how it always seemed. He'd been stupid, said no to something that should not have been denied. Andressa had told me, he'd had a sister, he'd had a girlfriend. He shushes me instead, the same way I would do if one of our horses was spooked. My body gradually relaxes again, too exhausted to continue. “You're the one who said it would all be fine. So take your own advice.”

I don't respond. I have nothing to say. I will cling to his hope.

Eventually, I must fall asleep. When I wake up there's a weak light breaking through the window and painting patterns onto the wall. I'm pressed against Berg's knee, my shoulder stiff. He's still asleep, snoring a little.

They will engineer some way to make our deaths the most painful.