The Hunger Games: Retold

Chapter 22

Katniss is eyeing the feast like a wild dog with a rabbit run to ground. "We better take it slow on that stew," I laugh, a hand on her shoulder. It would be heartbreaking to bring it all right back up. "Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then."

"You're right," she moans wretchedly. "And I could just inhale the whole thing!"

We take sensible portions, eating carefully and allowing ourselves to relish each bite. When we're finished, Katniss looks yearningly at her empty plate. "I want more," she admits.

I can't even start to argue. The stew is hot and rich and comforting and the bread soft and fresh. I worry I may drool on my shirt. "Me, too. Tell you what," I compromise. "We wait an hour. If it stays down, then we get another serving." Completely reasonable.

"Agreed," she concedes. She eyes the tureen of stew. "It's going to be a long hour."

"Maybe not that long," I say, watching her snuggle up in the sleeping bag. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me...no competition...best thing that ever happened to you..." and bubbles of light rush through my veins to see her smile and blush at the words.

"I don't remember that last part," she demurs.

"Oh, that's right," I admit. "That's what I was thinking." I shiver, both from the chilly damp and the elation of flirting like this with her. "Scoot over, I'm freezing," I say, teeth chattering.

Rearranging so we're both tucked in, I wrap my arms around her and she rests her head on my shoulder. I stroke her arm as I tip my head back against the cave wall and close my eyes contentedly.

"So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" she asks doubtfully.

"No," I correct her with a grin, "I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you." I kiss the top of her head, practically hearing the wheels spinning.

"I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," she says darkly. She's right about my mother, who would have been unbearable. But my father knew, and approved, and we agreed my mother wouldn't be hurt by what she didn't know.

"Hardly," I agree, thinking of her reaction when we come home together. "But I couldn't care less." I hate to upset my mother, but honestly, this one is non-negotiable. "Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village," I remind her.

She considers this for a moment, before gasping in dismay. "But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!" she wails.

I chuckle. "Ah, that'll be nice," I concede. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy." I paint a picture for her. "Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales." I had been teasing her, but as the image forms in my imagination I find myself getting choked up thinking about it. Katniss and me, together at home, building a life together, is more than I'd ever dreamed possible and now it's in my grasp. I rest my chin on her head and drink in the feeling of my arms tight around her.

"I told you, he hates me," she snorts.

"Only sometimes," I soothe her, delighted in this frivolous game about a future together. "When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," I tell her comfortingly.

"He's never sober," she points out.

I bite my lip, "That's right," I concur, "Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you," I nod. "But," I add skeptically, "that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire. On the other hand, Haymitch...well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you," I trace her jawline with a fingertip.