Chapter Text
Prologue
“Thirsty?”
Katniss looks over her shoulder at the proffered bottle of water and smiles gratefully at the crew member, Thom, who holds it out to her.
“Thanks,” she says as she takes it from him, cracking the cap open so she can take a greedy gulp of the cool liquid. It does the trick, alleviating the dryness in her mouth and throat as her nerves continue to rage.
She always gets nervous before a show, no matter how many times she gets up to sing in front of a crowd.
Not Peeta, however. Peeta is always calm and steady. Nothing ever gets to him, not even when they play the larger venues, packed with 5,000 people or more.
She watches him from her spot offstage now, peering around the curtains as she downs another third of the water bottle. He props his guitar against his stool so he can adjust their microphones, lowering hers a few more inches. Some of the girls in the front, practically flattened against the stage to get as close to him as they can, call out to him, tittering and squealing when he acknowledges them with a wave and a wink. He drops down to his knees at the edge of the stage, taking one of the girls’ phones to hold it up and snap a selfie with the fans. He doesn’t even lose his cool when one of them wraps her arms around his neck in an unsolicited hug.
Katniss knows she owes a lot of this to him; maybe eventually she would have done just fine on her own, but she probably wouldn’t have landed gigs as big as this. She likely wouldn’t have signed with a big record company, and she certainly wouldn’t pull in the number of fangirls he does now.
Fangirls are what drive the music industry, she’s realized. And blue eyes, blond hair, a dimpled smile, and large, callused hands that can expertly strum an acoustic guitar are what drive the fangirls wild.
Gulping down the rest of the water, Katniss crushes the plastic bottle in her fist and tosses it into a nearby recycling bin. Then she squares her shoulders, tosses her hair back and strolls out onto the stage. She smiles at the smattering of applause that greets her even in the dim lighting on stage, meeting Peeta’s eyes as he struts back to his stool.
“Ready?” he murmurs, and she nods her head, making a point to adjust her microphone even though it’s already at the perfect height. He knows her too well.
Peeta hitches himself on the edge of his stool as she does the same and pops his feet up on the bottom rung so he can rest his guitar on his lap. Katniss licks her lips and waits, keeping her eyes focused on the stage floor so she can’t see the size of the crowd. It’s only going to make her anxiety worse.
The lights come up a moment later, illuminating the duo on stage in soft blues and reds, and she smiles again when the crowd starts clapping and cheering, louder this time. Then the first chords of Peeta’s guitar reverberate in the speakers, commanding deferential silence throughout the room.
Closing her eyes, Katniss takes a deep breath, lifts her head up and looks at the crowd.
Then she sings.
“You strike a match, I light the flame
I’d die for you
Falling on my weak and willing
Knees to the ground
Hands to my chest, you showed me how
The rumbling in my heart goes pound for pound, oh…”
The mic carries her melody out across the crowd, and she keeps her voice soft and husky. The nerves from before are long gone, lost to the music and the attentive reverence of the fans. She’s always felt at home behind a microphone, whether it’s in front of thousands or just her sister, Prim. It’s easy to forget herself once she starts singing.
Peeta’s voice joining hers for backing vocals on the chorus shakes her out of her self-reflection, and her eyes slide to her right to meet his. Which are watching her, always.
“My body, my bones
You got me by the spine
My body, my bones
Head to my heart to my waist to my thighs...”
His blue eyes are dark and hooded, boring into her soul, stripping her naked. If she weren’t so familiar with that look by now, she might’ve forgotten the words to the song. She doesn’t look away, almost daring him to do the same.
He doesn’t, his fingers picking the strings effortlessly, his voice rising and falling in sync with hers to finish out the song.
“I was helpless, helpless
Singing in your choir
Helpless
Dancing till it bleeds
Helpless
Lay me on your fire
Burn, burn, burn...”*
She holds the last note long after the last strum of the guitar fades, and the crowd has already erupted in applause and wolf whistles before she’s even closed her mouth. She finally releases Peeta’s gaze, her lips pressing in a shy smile as she looks out over the crowd. She gives a small nod of acknowledgment and gratitude, but Peeta hops to his feet and reaches for her hand.
His palm is warm, slightly damp with sweat, but it’s steady and firm, and she lets him pull her out of her seat too. Then she finds herself tucked against his chest, his arms anchoring her in a tight hug. He presses his lips to her forehead, a lingering kiss right above her brow, and the crowd screams louder, just like she expects. Like she knows he intends. When she steps back, a strained smile still plastered in place, she meets his eyes one more time. An understanding passes between them.
But then they face the audience and bow. Katniss grabs her mic so she can speak into it. “Thank you, guys,” she says sincerely, and Peeta ducks down to speak into it too.
“Thank you so much,” he echoes, his mouth dangerously close to hers. “We’re The Victors. We’ll be up front signing autographs, so come keep us company!”
With a final wave, Katniss exits stage left, Peeta right on her heels. She grabs the water bottle in Thom’s outstretched hand before Peeta can, and she hears him sigh behind her even as he stops to chat with the crew members swarming to congratulate him and high five him. He gets along with everybody he meets. Katniss just moves off to the side to suck down the bottle of water and swipe at the sweat stippling her forehead.
Their booking agent, Effie Trinket, finds her immediately, tottering toward her in impossibly high heels. “Katniss! Great show, dear,” she singsongs, even as she types away on her phone. Her eyes never once leave the screen. “You should get out front to greet the fans and sign the merch ASAP. They paid big, big, big money to see you two!”
Actually, most of them paid big money to see the headliner of this show, The Peacekeepers. But Katniss doesn’t quibble this point, rolling her eyes instead.
“I know,” she mutters, wondering why Effie always insists on reminding her but never Peeta. But she knows why; Peeta’s always so good and reliable, he never has to be reminded of their obligations. Katniss rather just retreat to their hotel room and unwind in front of the TV after a show. But duty calls.
Glancing briefly at Peeta, Katniss sees he’s offering his help to the crew as they jump on stage to break down the set and get the equipment set up for The Peacekeepers, so she heads toward the front, weaving through the workers and stagehands scrambling around her. She slips through a door to find herself in the front near the merchandise tables and the bar. Spotting Rue, the girl manning The Victors’ table, she heads in that direction, rather invisible to the crowd until she takes her spot next to Rue.
“Hey, thanks for helping,” she tells her, raising her voice over the crowd. Rue flashes her a sweet, bashful smile before a few of the fans loitering around the front finally catch sight of Katniss and flock to the table.
“Katniss! Katniss!” They call out for her, hands outstretched with markers and posters and shirts.
She shakes a few of the empty hands, making sure to make eye contact when she smiles—just as Effie’s stressed to her a hundred times—thanking them for coming, asking for names as she scribbles her signature on the items shoved at her across the table. Poor Rue can barely keep up, taking money and doling out change as fast as she can while fans grab for shirts and copies of The Victors’ EP.
Suddenly, the cries get louder. Katniss knows why, before she even sees him. It’s not even that they start screaming out his name, per se; it’s just a palpable shift in the intensity of the crowd.
She feels hands slide across her shoulders from behind, a solid body pressing up against her back. And then his hot breath fans across her ear as he lowers his mouth to whisper to her. Chills crimp her spine reflexively as his lips move, and she can’t stifle the delicious, involuntary shudder, even when she hears his words.
“You were completely flat on the last song, sweetheart.”
A perfunctory smile flits across her lips, even as her teeth grind together. She glances quickly at their fans, who are watching them raptly, and she angles her head back so she can aim her smile at Peeta. It’s a sweet, cloying smile, but her eyes are tight at the corners. His blue eyes watch her attentively, anticipating her next move, and he smiles back at her. Challenging her.
Lifting her mouth to his ear, she deliberately grazes her lips across the shell as they form her response. “Maybe you should just concentrate on learning how to keep time,” she murmurs back, not even bothering to keep the bite out of her tone. No one can hear them. She feels his cheek twitch in an amused smirk, and he just squeezes her shoulders—a little too tightly—his fingers inadvertently blazing a light trail down her back as he drops his hands and steps forward to greet the fans.
The fans, who stare adoringly at them and sigh wistfully and whisper to each other, enraptured by the chemistry simmering between the two singers of The Victors. It’s part of what drives the rabid interest in their band—the “are they, aren’t they?” nature of their intense on-stage relationship. Though Katniss and Peeta play demure when asked directly, the media and the fans are convinced they’re carrying on a torrid love affair behind the scenes. On the advice of their manager, Haymitch Abernathy, and their record company District Thirteen, she and Peeta play into the speculations, with calculated looks and longing touches and questionably platonic kisses—on foreheads, on cheeks, on the backs of hands.
If they only knew how fake it all is.
If they only knew how much she hates Peeta Mellark.