Catching Fire (Katniss loves Peeta)

Chapter 22

"No, Katniss, I'd rather," says Finnick. I look in his eyes, at his face, and realize he's barely holding back tears. Mags. The least I can do is give him the privacy to mourn her.

"All right, Finnick, thanks," I say. I lie down on the sand with Peeta, who drifts off at once. I stare into the night, thinking of what a difference a day makes. How yesterday morning, Finnick was on my kill list, and now I'm willing to sleep with him as my guard. He saved Peeta and let Mags die and I don't know why. Only that I can never settle the balance owed between us. All I can do at the moment is go to sleep and let him grieve in peace.

It's midmorning when I open my eyes again. Peeta's still out beside me. Above us, a mat of grass suspended on branches shields our faces from the sunlight. Finnick made several mats and bowls out of the grass. Finnick sits on the sand, cracking them open with a stone. 

"They're better fresh," he says, ripping a chunk of flesh from a shell and popping it into his mouth. His eyes are still puffy but I pretend not to notice.

My stomach begins to growl at the smell of food and I reach for one. The sight of my fingernails, caked with blood, stops me. I've been scratching my skin raw in my sleep.

You know, if you scratch you'll bring on infection," says Finnick.

"That's what I've heard," I say. I go into the saltwater and wash off the blood, trying to decide which I hate more, pain or itching. Fed up, I stomp back onto the beach, turn my face upward, and snap, "Hey, Haymitch, if you're not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin."

It's almost funny how quickly the parachute appears above me. I reach up and the tube lands squarely in my open hand. "About time," I say, but I can't keep the scowl on my face. Haymitch. What I wouldn't give for five minutes of conversation with him.

I plunk down on the sand next to Finnick and screw the lid off the tube. Inside is a thick, dark ointment, I squeeze a glob of the medicine onto my palm and begin to massage it into my leg. It stains my scabby skin a ghastly gray-green. As I start on the second leg I toss the tube to Finnick, who eyes me doubtfully.

"It's like you're decomposing," says Finnick. But I guess the itching wins out, because after a minute Finnick begins to treat his own skin. I can't help enjoying his distress.

"Poor Finnick. Is this the first time in your life you haven't looked pretty?" I say.

"It must be. The sensation's completely new. How have you managed it all these years?" he asks.

"Avoid mirrors. You'll forget about it," I say.

"Not if I keep looking at you," he says.

We slather ourselves down with the ointment. "I'm going to wake Peeta," I say.

"No, wait," says Finnick. "Let's do it together. Put our faces right in front of his."

Well, there's so little opportunity for fun left in my life, so I agree. We position ourselves on either side of Peeta, lean over until our faces are inches from his nose, and give him a shake. 

"Peeta. Peeta, wake up," I say in a soft, singsong voice. His eyelids flutter open and then he jumps like we've stabbed him. 

Finnick and I fall back in the sand, laughing our heads off. Every time we try to stop, we look at Peeta's attempt to maintain a disdainful expression and it sets us off again. By the time we pull ourselves together, I'm thinking that maybe Finnick Odair is all right. 

At least not as vain or self-important as I'd thought. And just as I've come to this conclusion, a parachute lands next to us with a fresh loaf of bread. Remembering from last year how Haymitch's gifts are often timed to send a message, I make a note to myself. Be friends with Finnick. You'll get food.