Sea green eyes

8 - A Hanging Rope

The next day, I'm late to training. But honestly, by the time I actually get there, it doesn't look to be that much of a problem. There are a total of ten other tributes here, all quietly going about there business' per usual. I see the tributes from 1, 2, 3, 7 and 12, but there's no sign of the others. At least Johanna's here, she'll be some entertainment. As far as I can tell otherwise, Cashmere and Gloss are throwing knives, Beetee, Wiress and Katniss are trying to get their measly attempt at a fire started, Johanna's wrestling naked, Blight is climbing a rope, and Peeta's over by the camouflage station, looking hopelessly around for someone to talk to.

There's movement to my side and Dlain walks in, or more like staggers. We haven't spoken a single word to one another, and it's blatantly clear he's drunk off his ass. In fact, the first thing he does is collapse in some corner and vomit.

Great. So I really am the only chance District 5 has for any reasonable standing in these games. Ugh. I grab a dagger from the nearest stand and flip it in my hand. I'm already great with all the weapons in the room, excluding the trident and the axe, so what is there for me to do?

Well, I survey the room again and eventually find myself walking over to Peeta, who is absentmindedly painting his arm to look like a tree. And holy fuck is he good at it.

"What the hell?" I stutter, scanning the intricate details of the paint, the textured bark and every shadows of leaves. "How did you do that?"

"Oh, it's actually quite simple-" Peeta looks up at meets my eyes, straightening up. "Oh! You... You're Kasia, right? You won the 67th games?"

"Spot on," I grin.

"I'm Peeta," He extends the non painted hand and I take it.

"Oh trust me, I know who you are," I say. "You're certainly not easy to forget." Peeta blushes, embarrassed as I scan him. He looks strong, and clearly has a great eye.

"Your arena-" Peeta blurts out as if he can't stop himself then continues rather sheepishly. "It was the gladiator ring, right?"

I tense, but he just releases my hand and stands there, looking so damn young and innocent. His gaze drifts to the knife in my hand.

"Yes," I whisper, words getting caught in my throat. "Yes it was."

"I'm sorry." He says, and in that moment, in his genuine sorrow, I know I will join Plutarchs's rebellion. This Victor, this boy that offered me even a slip of human decency does not deserve to die the way Snow has planned. None of us do. So I smile at Peeta, my first genuine smile since the chariot ride, and look at his camouflaged hand.

"If you teach me how to do camouflage like that, I'll teach you how to throw knives," I say and he grins back.

"Deal."

---

Peeta, it turns out, is a very good teacher. I, it turns out, am not. Within less than an hour, I have painted my arm into a acceptance looking branch, something that, if seen from far away, you might think was a tree.

Looking up from my work, Peeta grins at me, holding up his painted hand next to mine.

"See! You can hardly tell the difference!" I smile. He's being generous, you can definitely tell, but all in all its not too bad of a job. Peeta moves to the sink, and rubs his hand, all the hard work and about a galleon of paint rushing down the drain. I wash it away too, but the paint I used was slightly darker so when it sinks down the drain, it almost looks like blood. I freeze, faces flashing before my eyes.

My mother. My six year old neighbor and her parents. Thren, my district partner. All six careers. Both tributes from ten. The girl from three, the boys from eight and twelve. The thirteen year old girl from nine who cried when I killed her. Every tribute I have ever mentored, excluding Sara.