@encharms
it's late. i didn't look at the clock when i stumbled out of bed in a cold sweat. the sun outside the kitchen window hasn't even started streaking the sky with pink and orange yet, and an unsteady glance at the moon gives me the impression that it's somewhere between two and three in the morning. my traitor hands won't stop shaking around the handle of the kettle that i half-heartedly filled before realizing the whistling will wake either mom or prim. i don't want either of them to worry more than they already do. "stop staring at me like that." i hiss at prim's damned cat as i open the door and close it as quietly as i can. my boots - only half-tied before i gave up on them - sound too loud as i pad across the lane of the victor's village. it's dead quiet; one of the lights is still on in haymitch's house, but i doubt he's concious. that's not where i'm going anyway, despite the sick feeling of shame and discomfort that coils in my stomach as i step up to peeta's door and swallow hard. when i knock i'm half hoping he doesn't answer. it's not fair to do this; i've been avoiding him, and now here i am in the dead of his night in my robe and half-done boots, tears still drying on my cheeks. but i don't care about fair right now. not with the victory tour looming.