"I doubt they'll ask for details. They saw it [District 12] burn. They'll mostly be worried about how you're handling it." Gale touches my cheek. "Like I am."
I press my face against his hand for a moment. "I'll survive." (2.12-13)
[…] the Capitol has not killed or even punished him [Peeta]. For right now, that exceeds my wildest hopes. I drink in his wholeness, the soundness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks. (2.26)
"You're alive," I whisper, pressing my palms against my cheeks, feeling the smile that's so wide it must look like a grimace. Peeta's alive. And a traitor. But at the moment, I don't care. Not what he says, or who he says it for, only that he is still capable of speech. (2.65)