Chapter Text
Edward's POV
The Remake Center was a palace of torture disguised as luxury.
I stood in the center of the room, arms outstretched, as my prep team, a trio of Capitol creatures whose names I'd already forgotten, plucked and scraped and polished me into a refurbished painting up for auction. The woman with violet skin and matching hair kept making clucking sounds whenever she ripped out a patch of hair.
"Such a shame," she cooed, "a boy with your bone structure hiding under all this."
I said nothing. I'd learned long ago that silence was usually best around capital citizens. My mother had taught me that staring down the Peacekeepers who came too close to our door was daring them to find something to charge you with.
"Don't you worry, sweetheart," the man with spiraling blue tattoos covering every inch of his face said, patting my cheek. "By the time Portia's through with you, you'll be… devastatingly handsome."
I didn't want to be devastating. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to be back in the hayloft with Peeta, the smell of horses and dust surrounding us, his heartbeat steady under my palm. I stared up at the fluorescent lights, forcing myself to stop thinking of him. Who knew if my thoughts were safe here. Besides, Peeta was why I was here. That boy was the reason—
No. That wasn't true. The Capitol and its endless hunger for control, for spectacle, for a blood bath dressed up as entertainment was the reason. I couldn’t even blame President Snow; he just gave the capital what it wanted, to consume the lives of those they deemed lesser than them, without it being technically considered cannibalism. Although I wouldn’t put it past them to do such a thing.
The door opened, and a woman entered with striking dark skin, close-cropped silver hair, and wearing a tailored suit of deep burgundy. She moved with purpose, her eyes assessing me for flaws and potential alike. She was about as unordinary-looking as I could imagine. Seeing her made me realize instantly how little I knew about style and fashion.
"Edward," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Portia. Your stylist."
I shook her hand, noting the firmness of her grip. "You drew District Twelve."
"I asked for District Twelve," she corrected. "Put this on."
She tossed me a robe, and I pulled it on, assessing her back as I followed her into an adjoining sitting room. The glass wall looked out over the Capitol, spires of gold and rose and electric blue, and buildings that seemed to defy gravity. It all seemed out of place amidst the dull gray sky.
"Your partner is Peeta Mellark," Portia smirked, settling onto a couch and gesturing for me to sit across from her. "Tell me about him."
The question caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, what is he to you?" Her gold eyes held mine, as if she was looking into rather than at me. "The Capitol has already decided you're a pair, but stories are more compelling when they're true. So, I need to know.” She crossed her arms. “Is it real?"
The words stuck in the back of my throat. I wanted to deny the whole thing; that would be the sensible thing to do. But Portia didn't seem like the other Capitol people. She didn’t come off as simpering or salacious.
"He's everything to me," I said finally. "And now I'm going to watch him die because of me."
"Or," she said quietly, "you're going to make the Capitol fall in love with both of you so deeply that killing either of you would cause a riot."
"That's impossible," I shrugged off. “And dangerous.”
"So is The Hunger Games. And yet people win it every year." She stood, smoothing her jacket. "Now, about your costume."
---
Bella's POV
The man pulling hair from my legs was named Flavius. He had orange hair that defied physics and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"You're so quiet," he said, not for the first time. "Most tributes are screaming or crying by now."
I didn't answer. What was there to say? That every strip of wax burned? That I couldn't stop thinking about Charlie's face when the Peacekeepers took me, how old he'd looked? That the only thing keeping me from falling apart was the thought of Katniss in the next room, enduring the same indignities?
Venia, aqua hair, and gold tattoos tilted my chin toward the light. "You have lovely bone structure, you know, very melancholic. The Capitol will eat it up."
Eat it up. I was a dish being prepared for their consumption. I suppose that wasn't far from the truth.
Octavia, whose pea-green skin glowed under the fluorescent lights, patted my shoulder. "Don't worry, darling. Cinna will make you stunning."
"Is Cinna my stylist?" I asked. I'd been told so little since arriving, but I figured that was just as well.
"He's doing the girl from your district as well. Portia's doing the boys. They're partners, you know. In work and life." Octavia waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Very scandalous, what with the new laws against capital employees fraternizing, but they're too talented to replace."
So even the stylists were living on borrowed time. The thought should have made me feel some form of solidarity. Instead, it made me nothing. I didn’t realize until then how little I cared about the capital citizens. Or maybe that was a new development, considering they wanted me and Katniss dead for their entertainment.
The door opened, and a young man entered with brown hair, simple black clothes, and gold eyeliner.
"Bella," he said, his voice almost gentle. "I'm Cinna. Your stylist."
He dismissed the prep team with a nod, and they scurried out. Cinna sat across from me, not speaking for a long moment, just looking at me with those gold-lined eyes.
"You're not what I expected," he said finally.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who'd already given up." He tilted his head. "You're scared. Anyone with sense would be. But you're not resigned. There's a difference."
I didn't know what to say to that. He was right, but I hadn't realized it until he said it. Some part of me was still fighting, still hoping to find some technicality that would send us all back home.
"Katniss," I said. "Is she—"
"She's fine. A few doors down, undergoing the same process." A hint of a smile touched his lips. "She asked about you. Several times."
The knot in my chest tightened. If anyone had a chance of winning, it was her.
"Now," Cinna said, pressing a button on the table. Roasted chicken, bright vegetables, and bread still warm from the oven appeared. "Eat. We have work to do, and you'll need your strength."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that will make the Capitol remember your name." He leaned back, watching me as I forced myself to take a bite. "Tell me about Katniss."
I nearly choked. "What?"
"The Capitol has decided you're a cautionary tale for the other districts. I think that’s rather wasteful of my talents."
I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone. "We were never all that close as kids, but Katniss is different from the other people in District 12.”
“What makes her so special?” He asked, his gaze unflinching.
“She can win and not just because she’s good at hunting,” I admitted. “If she thinks there’s any hope of us both going home, she’ll do whatever it takes.”
Cinna nodded slowly, as if I'd confirmed something he already suspected. "Good," he said. "That's what they'll see. Whether they want to or not."
---
Edward's POV
Portia's vision was simple: coal and fire.
"District Twelve is the mining district," she explained, sketching something on a tablet. "Everyone expects you to come out in miners' clothes. It's usually black, drab, and forgettable." She looked up, and her smile was sharp. "So we're going to burn that expectation."
"You want to burn me," I said flatly.
"Synthetic fire. You won't feel a thing." She turned the tablet toward me, and I saw the design. Black unitards, flowing capes of orange and yellow and red, headpieces that would frame our faces like halos of flame. "You and Peeta, together. The fire will symbolize your burning passion for one another."
"That's... that's not very subtle."
"Subtlety is for districts that can afford to be forgotten." Portia's expression softened, just slightly. "Look, Edward. I know what you're thinking. That we're using your pain as entertainment." She set down the tablet. "You're right, but here's the thing. That's going to happen whether you cooperate or not. The only question is whether you have any control over the narrative."
"I’m from District 12, I have no control."
"I'm giving you a platform. What you do with it is up to you."
I thought about Peeta, about the way he'd looked at me in the Justice Building. He looked at me, terrified but steady, crumbling but refusing to fall. I thought about his hand in mine on the train. I was not afraid of dying. I’d lay down my life and clear a path for him if it meant he survived.
I saw Peeta for the first time since the train when we were both led into the stable area beneath the Remake Center. He was already in his costume—black unitard, boots, the cape waiting to be ignited once the chariot moved. His hair had been styled back off his face. He looked like a different person, like someone I thought I was going to spend longer with if fate had other plans.
"Edward," he said. And just like that, he was Peeta again, the boy who'd kissed me in a dark alley like there were never any consequences.
I crossed to him without thinking, my hands reaching for his face before I could stop myself. His skin was warm under my palms, my pulse fluttering like a bird facing the inevitable.
"We're going to be on fire," he said, a hysterical edge to his voice.
"Apparently."
"And we're going to hold hands."
"Apparently."
A short, breathless, almost manic laugh escaped him. "This is insane."
I pressed my forehead to his, closing my eyes. "Crazier than you and me?"
"Same thing." His hands came up to grip my wrists, not pushing me away. He was holding on. "I keep thinking about what you said in the Justice Building, about it being your fault."
"It is my fault."
"It's not." He pulled back just enough to look at me, his blue eyes fierce. "We made choices, both of us. Every time I knocked on your door, every time you came to the bakery, every time we—" He stopped, swallowed. "I knew the risks. I just didn't care. I still don't care.”
"Peeta—". My throat closed. “Loving you could never be a mistake."
"Portia says we have to smile and wave to make them fall in love with us." His thumb traced my cheekbone, gentle despite everything. "That's not going to be hard for me."
"Because you're a natural performer?"
"Because I'm never scared knowing I have you."
---
Bella's POV
Katniss was already in the chariot when I arrived, her cape extinguished for now, her headpiece resting in her lap. She looked... busy in her thoughts. The costume, though the black unitard hugged her muscles in a way that made my mouth go dry, made her look every bit the ruthless hunter I knew she could be. But there was that look in her eyes, hardness and something calculating.
"Bella," she said, and reached down to pull me up beside her.
The chariot was narrow. We'd be pressed together for the entire ride. I should have been nervous about what that would look like or what the cameras would see. Instead, I just felt grateful that at least I’d have her by my side in the games. I’d be useless on my own without her.
"How are you?" she asked.
"Ask me after they set us on fire."
Katniss's hand found mine, hidden between our bodies. Her fingers were calloused, warm, familiar. I wanted to tell her to forget about me and win this for herself, for Prim, but I knew better than to ask.
Cinna appeared with a torch, and I watched as he ignited Katniss's cape first. The flames caught, blazing orange and yellow and red. There was no heat or smoke. The doors opened. The music swelled, and we rolled into the Capitol. I didn’t look back. I kept my gaze straight ahead, but I felt a surge of pride to be standing by her side.
---
Edward's POV
The crowd's reaction was immediate.
Chariots from Districts 1 through 11 had already passed, each one greeted with polite applause, the occasional cheer. But when our chariot emerged with our capes blazing and our faces illuminated by the flame, the sound changed to a roar.
"They're looking at us," Peeta said, his voice barely audible over the noise.
"They're looking at you," I corrected, because it was true. Peeta in firelight was something out of a painting, his blond hair catching the glow, and his bright blue eyes lighting up his smile. He was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the costume.
"No," he said, squeezing my hand. "They're looking at us."
I forced myself to look at the sea of painted faces, ridiculous wigs, and impossible fashions. They were screaming, reaching for us, throwing flowers that landed at the wheels of our chariot.
And somewhere in that crowd, I saw a girl with tears streaming down her face, clutching the arm of the person next to her. She wasn't cheering for some reason I could not fathom.
"Wave," Peeta murmured. "Smile. Come on, Edward."
I raised my free hand. I forced my lips into something that might pass for a smile, given the situation. I held onto Peeta like he was the thing saving me from drowning in the guilt.
---
Bella's POV
"Katniss! Katniss!"
The crowd was chanting her name, not mine. But I didn't mind. She looked at the crowd of leering faces with disgust and confusion. I squeezed her hand tight and raised both of our hands in the air.
The crowd exploded.
"Look at them!" someone shrieked from the sidelines. "The forbidden lovers of District Twelve!"
The Capitol's phrase, not mine. As the chariot rounded the City Circle and President Snow's mansion loomed ahead, I let myself pretend for a moment that we were just as they made us out to be, forbidden lovers in a soap opera, characters of ourselves and not entirely real.
---
Edward's POV
The chariot stopped, and through it all, Peeta's hand never left mine.
I watched the other tributes watching us. I watched the hate in their eyes, the fear, and the grudging admiration. They knew what we'd done. And they knew, just as surely as I did, that making an impression in the opening ceremonies didn't guarantee survival.
"Edward." Peeta's voice was soft, meant only for me. "Look at me."
I turned. His face was inches from mine, the firelight casting strange shadows across his cheekbones.
"Whatever happens in the arena," he said, "I need you to know—"
"Don't." The word came out harsher than I intended. "Don't say anything.”
His smile was sad. "I wasn't going to say goodbye. I was going to say thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me." He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. I was appalled at the public intimate gesture and its recklessness, but no more than I was by the crowd's whooping and cheering.
---
Bella's POV
They separated us after the chariot. I watched Katniss being led away, her head turning to find me one last time before the crowd swallowed her.
"Don't worry," said a voice beside me. I turned to see the small girl from District 8 with dark hair and large eyes. "If they're half as smart as they looked up there, they'll find you again."
"What do you mean?"
The girl shrugged, already moving toward her own escort. "My dad says that love is the only thing the Capitol can't control. That's why they're so afraid of it."
She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Maybe the girl was right. Maybe love was the only thing they couldn't control, but love didn’t create exceptions to the games where there was only ever one victor.